Thomas Sniegoski: Where Angels Fear to Tread

Although as time passed, it was becoming less and less likely.

Francis had been obsessed with Linda Somerset, even though she knew nothing of his interest. Remy had spoken to the attractive waitress at Newbury Street’s Piazza restaurant a few times since Francis’ disappearance, and he could understand his friend’s fixation.

There was definitely something about Linda Somerset.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” Remy said, hoping, but doubting, that would be the end of the discussion.

Their waiter approached the table. “Are you gentlemen finished?” he asked, reaching for their plates.

“Could you wrap that last piece of burger in some foil for me?” Remy asked the well-groomed Hispanic man who had introduced himself as Harry.

Harry smiled. “You must have a dog?” he asked, lifting the plate from the table.

“No, he’s gonna have that as a snack later,” Mulvehill offered. “He’s really cheap.”

“Will you shut up,” Remy snarled. “Yes, I do, and if I don’t bring him something, I’m going to be in trouble.”

“No problem,” Harry said. “Any coffee or dessert?”

They both declined, Mulvehill sticking out his belly and patting it as a sign that he was sated.

The waiter said he’d be back with Remy’s food, and the check, excusing himself as he left with their dirty plates.

“So, why not?” Mulvehill started up again

“I said I don’t want to talk about it,” Remy said, trying not to become upset with his friend. He did not want to even think about burning his best friend alive. “It’s far too early for me to even be thinking about things like this; Madeline hasn’t even been gone six months.”

“Stop right there,” Mulvehill said. “I don’t mean to be cold or heartless, but you just said the magic words.”

Remy tilted his head inquisitively to one side, as he’d so often seen Marlowe, his four-year-old Labrador retriever, do.

“Madeline’s gone, Remy,” the detective said. “I know how you felt about her—I loved her too—but if her being gone and your being lonely mean you’re going to start losing your shit and frying people every time you get annoyed, maybe you should think about the benefits of some female companionship.”

Mulvehill’s words were like a kick to the teeth, and Remy really didn’t know how to react.

“You’re not pissed that I said that, right?” Mulvehill asked cautiously as Harry returned to the table with their check and Remy’s leftovers wrapped in foil.

“No,” Remy lied.

“You’re not gonna cook my ass?” he asked, pulling the wrinkled gift certificate from the inside pocket of his sports jacket and placing it in the leather folder with the check and an equally wrinkled twenty-dollar bill.

At first Remy didn’t answer.

“You heard what I said about the dangerous levels of alcohol in your body.”

“Screw you. Are you mad at me or not?”

“I’m not mad. I just don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Remy said, slowly getting up from his seat.

“You said Maddie’s been gone for less than six months, and I bet it’s been the longest almost six months of your life, hasn’t it?” the normally unemotional man said, gripping Remy’s elbow. “I hate to see you like this and then to hear you say things about losing control. It just gets me thinking that. .”

“I’m all right, Steven,” Remy said, forcing a smile. “Really, I’m all right. I think this case just brought out my bad side, but it’s done now, and I can get back to my naturally cheerful self.”

He felt his friend studying him, searching for a sign, a crack in the armor. Remy started for the door so Mulvehill couldn’t look closer.

“Hey, Chandler,” his friend called.

Remy turned slowly.

The homicide detective was holding the piece of foil-wrapped hamburger.

“You taking this or do you want to be on your dog’s shit list?”

Remy returned to take the package from Mulvehill.

If there was one shit list he couldn’t bear to be on, it was Marlowe’s.

Marlowe paced excitedly in the backseat of Remy’s Corolla.

“Rabbits.” Remy heard the dog muttering beneath his breath in the guttural language of his breed. “Rabbits, rabbits, rabbits.”

“And maybe squirrels,” Remy contributed, looking at the dog’s reaction in his rearview mirror.

“ Maybe squirrels ,” Marlowe repeated. “Rabbits; maybe squirrels.”

Remy had returned to his Pinckney Street home, strangely agitated after his dinner with Steven Mulvehill. His friend had definitely touched on a particularly sensitive nerve.

Putting his signal on, Remy took a right into the parking lot of Mount Auburn Cemetery. He had the pick of the lot and eased into a space in a nice patch of shade thrown by an oak tree.

His wife had been gone for nearly six months and he still felt the magnitude of her passing each and every day. The idea that he could push aside her memory, and the love he still felt for her, was unthinkable.

So why was it that deep down, he knew his friend was probably right?

Marlowe was panting like a runaway freight train as he turned off the car’s engine and opened the door to a blast of August heat.

“All right, all right,” Remy said, opening the passenger-side rear door.

Marlowe leapt out, immediately placing his nose to the ground and beginning to track his prey.

“Anything?” Remy asked.

“ Rabbits; maybe squirrels ,” Marlowe reported quite seriously.

“Thought so,” Remy answered.

There was no one in sight, so he let Marlowe roam. He followed his dog through the metal gateway onto the winding path that led through one of the prettiest cemeteries in the Greater Boston area. Marlowe continued the hunt, nose moving along the ground, and off the path to the grassy areas around the trees and grave markers.

“Hey!” Remy called.

The Labrador stopped and lifted his head.

“No peeing on the headstones,” Remy reminded him.

“ No pee ,” Marlowe grumbled.

It was certainly hot, but there was a hint of a cooling breeze from the north, a harbinger of less-stifling weather, and perhaps even some much-needed rain, the angel thought.

The vast lawns surrounding the grave sites were dappled with dried, brown patches of grass, and even the trees had that parched, withered look with branches hanging low.

But things couldn’t have been more different at Madeline’s plot.

The green around her grave site was lush, dark, and healthy, with wildflowers more vibrant than all the colors of the rainbow surrounding her concrete marker as if in celebration. This was how it was year-round, a special gift to her memory—a thank-you from the Angel of Death, Israfil, to Remy, for his help in preventing the angel from triggering the Apocalypse.

Remy approached the grave as he normally did, feeling the same pangs of sadness then that he’d had during his very first visit.

“Hey, beautiful,” he said, reading her name on the stone, while admiring some of the more unusual blooms that flourished there. He was pretty sure that most of the flowers weren’t even native to this hemisphere, but here they were, growing just for her.

“How’re things?” he asked, kneeling upon the grave. There were some weeds growing up amongst the flowers, and he reached down, plucking them from the always-fertile ground.

Remy knew his wife wasn’t actually there anymore.

He knew full well that when she had passed, her remaining life energies had immediately left her body and returned to the source of power in the universe that made all things. The stuff of creation; Madeline was in the sun and the stars, the trees and the grass; a part of everything that flew, crawled, swam, slithered, ran, and walked upon the surface of the earth.