Lisa Miscione - Angel Fire

The room was dark now except for the moon streaming in through the window and glinting off the metal table. He sat in the corner, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other. This morning the ghost of his son had visited him. He had been just waking up when he heard his son’s sweet voice.

“Daddy?’’

A halo of light glowed over the child’s strawberry-blond curls; he looked thin and pale but at peace and smiling. He wore baggy Baby Gap jeans and a crisp blue-and-white-striped T-shirt, odd attire for an angel.

“Daddy, you’re so brave. God loves you.’’

He jumped up to take his son in his arms, smell his hair and little-boy skin so soft and sweet, to embrace that tiny little life again. But by the time he reached him, he was gone. He fell on the floor where the boy had stood and sobbed into the dirty carpet.

It was a sign, he knew. He was doing the right thing, he was sure.

In the cool, quiet bathroom, Maria Lopez applied her makeup in the mirror. Tapping her foot to the Muzak that filtered in through the speakers, she smeared on foundation and powder, trying to cover her flawed skin. The fluorescent light was unflattering but she didn’t much care. She knew it would be dark in the bar.

She teased her black curls with a hot-pink plastic comb, closing her eyes as she spritzed it with hairspray. When she was done, she stood on her tiptoes to see more of herself in the mirror over the sink. The tight, black cotton knit dress clung to her small body. She wore gold hoop earrings and a small gold cross hung around her neck. She blew a kiss at her reflection.

She didn’t consider herself a prostitute, only someone who took money when it was offered for something she likely would have done for free. Why should they get what they wanted while she was left with nothing but an empty feeling in her stomach and a fake telephone number? At least she could pay her bills and have a little left over. Everybody knew minimum wage didn’t cut it anymore.

One day her life would be different. She would meet someone, she knew that; have a family and leave this place behind her. Maybe it would be Mike, the man she met last week. He had called her and even brought flowers to her job. She was meeting him at the bar tonight. Who knows?

“You look good, girl’’ she said to herself in the mirror. She waved good-bye to her boss as she walked out the door in the cool night air. She did not see the minivan following behind her as she strode up the street, hopeful for what that evening would hold.

The Albuquerque airport was never crowded like O’Hare or JFK; it was smaller and yet more spacious. Today it seemed like a ghost town, inhabited only by the echoes of greetings and farewells. As she walked briskly down the long corridor, her footfalls echoed loudly. She passed by empty gate after empty gate. Her stomach fluttered with nerves, with the excitement of seeing him, and she braced herself against the wave of happiness and relief she always felt the first moment she saw him. When she arrived, he was waiting for her, sitting on the window ledge, his back against the glass, his arms folded across his chest.

“How is it that I always find myself waiting somewhere for you?’’ he asked with a half-smile.

He was unshaven, his thick, dark brown hair tousled. His muscular chest and arms pressed against his navy-blue T-shirt. Slightly wrinkled gray chinos hung elegantly from his narrow hips and tight stomach. His face was strong and angular around his nose and mouth but soft and laughing around his sweet blue eyes. “You have my favorite face,’’ she said as she slipped her arms around his waist. She could just faintly smell his cologne, lightly sweet and musky. He kissed her on her forehead and pulled her to him gently, until he could feel almost every inch of her body on his. Lydia felt the seductive wash of safety and comfort.

“I’ve missed you, Jeffrey,’’ she whispered, though there was no one to overhear her. “I have so much to tell you.’’

As they walked through the parking lot to the car, Jeffrey noticed that Lydia looked thin. She had always been on the lean side, but with solid muscle tone, full hips and breasts, as well as a pink fullness to her face. But she was beginning to look a bit gaunt around the cheeks, and her jeans bagged a little around her thighs, and sagged at her backside. Under her eyes there was the slightest hint of blue fatigue. He put a protective arm around her shoulder and she felt small and fragile. Generally, touching Lydia was like grabbing a live wire; you could feel the energy pulsing through her, feel the strength of her body and her mind.

She could feel him assessing her like a parent would, trying to gauge her physical and mental wellbeing by how much weight she may have lost. She knew she didn’t look well, that she looked drawn and tired.

“It’s getting harder,’’ she said, answering the question he hadn’t asked, as they reached her car.

“What is?’’

“The anniversary of my mother’s death. It seems to weigh on me more every year.’’ Her voice was a sliver, almost carried away on the wind.

“We’ve talked about this. You need to see someone.’’

“I’ve talked to plenty of doctors about this. No one has helped me.’’

“They haven’t helped you because you don’t let anybody in. You go once, you decide the doctor is an idiot, and then you leave and never go back. That’s not therapy. It’s like some kind of psychiatric hit-and-run.’’

Lydia sighed and he could feel his blood pressure rise. He hated it when something hurt her that he couldn’t fix; and her way of acknowledging her flaws but refusing to change was exasperating. But he kissed the top of her head and put a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t look up at him, kept her eyes level with his chest.

“What can I do, Lyd?’’

“You’re already doing it. You’re here.’’

“So that’s what you wanted me to look into?’’ he asked as he took the keys from her hand, threw his bag into the trunk of her Mercedes, and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Your twisted psyche?’’

“Possibly,’’ she answered, smiling. “Possibly something a lot more twisted than that. Why do you always have to drive?’’

“I don’t know. I just like it.’’

“You just like being in control,’’ she said, fastening her seat belt.

“And you only mind because you like to be in control.’’

“Whatever.’’

As they drove, heavy cumulus clouds gathered above them and the sky darkened. Lydia recounted for Jeffrey the events she’d come across in the paper, her conversation with Chief Morrow, and Juno’s history. She omitted her dream and the strange end to her encounter with Juno. “The way I see it, there’s potentially a serial killer roaming around.’’

“Whoa, wait a minute. That’s an awfully big jump. No one’s even been killed.’’

“Look, we’ve got three missing persons. Not to mention the animal mutilation and the arson.’’

“Yeah, but it sounds to me like those people were flight risks to begin with. And the whole triad thing, the arson, animal mutilation, and bed-wetting, are childhood signs of a future violent offender. People don’t generally leap from that straight into murders.’’

“I just have that feeling,’’ she said, looking out the window.

He had to admit that in all the years he had known Lydia, rarely had her instincts been off.

Lydia was so young when they first met, just fifteen years old. Even so, there had been a bond between them from the first night. It would have been inappropriate then for him to have a friendship with her, but he kept in touch with her through her grandparents. Lydia’s grandfather, especially, had taken a liking to Jeffrey and was impressed by his concern for Lydia. And Jeffrey made a point to head up to Sleepy Hollow to see Lydia and what remained of her family whenever he was in New York City on business.