Chris Adrian - A Better Angel

“I’m going to a party,” I told my mother.

“Good for you, honey,” she said. “You don’t get out enough. Did we show you this?” She turned down to the dog. He is part poodle but mostly mutt and the fancy haircut my mother gets for him every month always looks like borrowed finery to me. “Channel up!” she shouted at him, and he ran toward the television and turned it off with a bump of his nose. “Well, we’re working on it,” she said. “But go, go! You have a good time! Don’t worry about these.” She indicated the dishes with a sweep of her hand. “Puppy and I will take care of everything.” But she went to her room not very much longer after that, the dog trailing after her, and closed her door. So I cleaned up myself before I went down the hill to Cindy’s house.

We live in the same big neighborhood, one of those places on the Severn where people pay a lot of money for big woods and the feeling that they are miles away from their neighbors. On the curving roads it would be two miles to Cindy’s house, but cutting down the hill through the woods it wasn’t even one. She lived on Beach Road, right on the river, on a little house-sized peninsula. The drive down to the house was full of cars, but the woods covered the light and the noise of the party until I came around a bend in the drive and saw the place, every window bright. She was sitting alone on her front porch with a glass of wine in either hand, one red and one white, taking sips off each one while I watched her. I don’t know why I stood watching like that but it wasn’t long before she looked up at me. “I knew you’d come,” she said.

“I feel like shit,” Cindy said, “but I want everybody else to have a good time.” That was the point of the party — the next best thing to feeling happy herself was seeing other people happy. So she floated from group to group in her house, exhorting them to drink more or laugh more or sing more or join her for a game of strip poker upstairs in her big attic bedroom. “Come on,” she said to me, when I hesitated to accept a drink. “It’s for charity.”

I followed her upstairs and sat between her and Paul Ricker at the poker game. Paul has big eyes and a very open face, and was in his underwear within twenty minutes. Most everybody had at least taken off their shirt, but I was only barefoot, and Cindy was still fully clothed. She was in and out of the game, running off to dance downstairs, or to bring more players upstairs, or to replenish the drinks, mixing vodka and gin and ginger ale and grapefruit juice in a big bowl in the middle of her bedroom floor and then dipping out servings with a ladle.

“Hey,” Paul said. “Stick on stick! Body on body!” We were on the lacrosse team together, and he liked to imitate our coach.

“Right,” I said, trying not to look at his hairy belly. I had seen it before in the showers but it was different here, in a darkened room full of drunk kids, at least a fourth of whom had given up on the game to make out in front of everyone. Even drunk-droopy, his eyes were huge, and they seemed to shine in the dark. He scooted over so our legs were touching, and I moved. He put his hand out and rubbed between my shoulder blades, circles around and around.

“Did I ever tell you,” he asked, “that you have a nice back?”

“No,” I said, and moved away again.

“Dude,” he said. “I’m kidding!”

“I know,” I said. He smiled, and seemed all eyes and teeth.

“You know,” he said. “I know. We both know!” And then he leaned into and started kissing my neck. He had hardly attached himself to me before Cindy pulled him off.

“We have a winner!” she said, and announced that Paul was the drunkest person at the party. Everyone applauded, and Paul bowed, then turned around and pulled down his underwear to show us all his ass.

“You may address me,” he said, “as Mr. Winterbottom!”

“Mr. Winterbottom!” somebody called out. “Tell us a story!”

“Once upon a time,” Paul said, shaking his ass back and forth with every word, “there was a boy named Paul.”

“New game!” Cindy said, pushing Paul aside, so he fell next to her bed and nearly missed splitting his head on her night table. He rolled on the carpet and laughed hysterically. “Everybody!” Cindy was shouting over the music. “Everybody come upstairs!” Only three or four people came up, but it seemed to be enough for her. She distributed the candles that were burning on her dresser and windowsill to the people on the floor, and drew us all into a circle. The she reached under her bed and drew out a Ouija board. “This is a game,” she said, “called Talk to My Dad.”

Paul laughed for a moment, but even drunk as he was he noticed that everyone else had become totally quiet.

“Cindy,” said a girl on the other side of the room. It was too dark to see who. “That’s. . that’s just. .”

“It’s okay!” Cindy said. “It’s not what you think. It’s not really him. I know that. Of course I know. I’m not crazy. It’s just some fucked-up spirit that pretends to be him. They can’t fool me.” She put the board down in the middle of the circle we’d made and started drawing people into it, pulling at their shirts if they were wearing one, or giving people hugs and then pulling on their arms, saying all the while, “Come on, come on.” Soon she had us gathered close around the board. “Hands on,” she said, guiding fingers to the planchette, until at least a dozen people were touching it. I just held a candle. “Quiet now,” Cindy said, though no one was talking. She had closed her door but we could all still hear the music from downstairs. “Quiet and still. All the smart people, empty out your heads. All the drunk people, get serious for a second.” This made Paul laugh again.

“Serious!” Cindy said. After a few moments of heavy-breathing silence, she started to hum in a low tone, as if she were setting a tone for herself, because when she called out for her dad, she pitched her voice lower than mine. “Papa,” she said. “Father. We are calling for you. Come back across the river and speak to us. We are ignorant and wish to learn the secrets of the dead.”

“You’re ignorant,” said Paul. “I’m not ignorant. I’m just fine.” He snorted but didn’t take his finger away from the planchette, and Cindy ignored him.

“Papa! Are you there?” The planchette moved right away, swinging in three quick arcs to spell, Yes .

“How have you been?” she asked, still in that deep, goofy voice.

As well as can be expected , the board answered. Given the circumstances . Malcolm Walker wrote down the letters as they came and then read the words out loud.

“Well,” Cindy said. “It’s not exactly all parades and puppy shows up here, either.”

“Up?” said Paul. Cindy held up a finger to her lips.

“Will you answer our questions?” she asked.

Of course, as always. I am your servant .

“That must be nice,” said Sonia Chu. “I wish I could order my dad around.”

“Careful what you wish for,” said Cindy. “Questions? Questions?”

“Are any of our teachers gay?” asked Malcolm.

Mrs. Lambert is a lesbian , was the reply. Sonia said we hardly needed a spirit to tell us that.

“Are the terrorists there in hell?” asked Paul, “Are they roasting on a spit?”

Hell is a heaven to the innocent eye and the unspoiled imagination .

“What kind of answer is that?” Paul asked.

Answers are questions. Questions are answers .

“Who in this room is going to die?” Cindy asked. “Give us a name!”

“Cindy!” said Sonia. “Gross!”

All to die, but one. All to suffer, but one . “Now this is getting creepy,” said Malcolm.