Jonathan Carroll - From The Teeth Of Angels

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FROM THE TEETH OF ANGELS

by Jonathan Carroll

flyleaf:

"Mr. Carroll's staccato style, flair for invention, and urgent voice

demand our attention."

-- _New York Times Book Review_

Jonathan Carroll is no longer just a cult author. His previous novel,

_After Silence_, placed this gifted and award-winning writer squarely in the

mainstream. The _San Francisco Chronicle_ raved, "_After Silence_ is filled

with people who feel as real as one's closest friends, observed with a

penetrating, and sometimes brutally chilling, clarity . . . a taught, original

work whose excellence fulfills the promises made by this remarkable author

over the last dozen years." In _From the Teeth of Angels_, Jonathan Carroll

returns to that unique literary landscape that he paves with magic and wonder.

While vacationing in Sardinia, Ian McGann meets Death in a dream. Death

promises to answer any of McGann's questions, but if he fails to understand

the answers, he will have to pay with his life.

In Los Angeles, successful film actress Arlen Ford is no longer happy

living in the Hollywood fast lane. She gives up everything -- her career, her

house, her glamorous lifestyle -- and moves to Austria, where she meets a

passionate war correspondent. From the start, their relationship is

all-consuming. Arlen realizes she has been waiting for this man all her life.

And in Vienna, the terminally ill Wyatt Leonard suddenly discovers that

he has the ability to raise the dead.

How all three of these extraordinary fates converge is at the heart of

Jonathan Carroll's most daring and provocative novel, in which he dares to ask

-- and answer -- the ultimate question: What is Death?

JONATHAN CARROLL is the author of eight novels and one short story

collection, including _The Land of Laughs_, _Outside the Dog Museum_, and

_After Silence_. He lives in Vienna.

Jacket design by Honi Werner

PUBLISHED BY DOUBLEDAY

a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing

Group, Inc.

1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036

DOUBLEDAY and the portrayal of an anchor with a dolphin are trademarks

of Doubleday, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.

All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance

to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to

reprint previously published material:

Epigraph from "Godfather Death." _Transformations_ by Anne Sexton.

by permission of Random House, Inc.

Excerpt from "Evening Talk" in _The Book of Gods and Devils_, copyright

Company.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Carroll, Jonathan, 1949-

From the teeth of angels / Jonathan Carroll. -- 1st ed. in the U.S.A.

p. cm. I. Title.

PS3553.A7646F76 1993

813'.54 -- dc20 93-22997

CIP

ISBN 0-385-46841-5

Printed in the United States of America

May 1994

First Edition in the United States of America

10 987654321

For Bunny & Charlie --

hands on our faces forever

and for

Richard & Judy Carroll

Rita Wainer

Herb Kornfeld

Hurry, Godfather death,

Mister tyranny,

each message you give

has a dance to it,

a fish twitch,

a little crotch dance.

"Godfather Death," by Anne Sexton

The Gods only know how to compete or echo.

_Gilgamesh_

Part One

WYATT

Sophie,

Just returned from Sardinia, where we'd planned to stay two weeks but

ended up driving away after only five days because it is one HIDEOUS island,

dahling, let me tell you. I'm always suckered by books like _The Sea and

Sardinia_ or _The Colossus of Maroussi_, where famous writers describe how

wonderful it was to be on wild and woolly islands forty years ago when the

native women went golden topless and meals cost less than a pack of

cigarettes. So, fool that I am, I read those books, pack my bag, and flea

(intended) south. Only to see topless women, all right -- two-hundred-pound

German frau-tanks from Bielefeld with bazooms so enormous they could windsurf

on them if they only hoisted a sail, meals that cost more than my new car, and

accommodations the likes of which you'd wish on your worst enemy. And then,

because I have a limp memory, I always forget the sun in those southern climes

is so deceptively hot that it fries you helpless in a quick few hours. Please

witness my volcanic red face, thanks.

No, I am past forty and consequently have every right to "just say no"

to things like these trips from now on. When we were driving back, I said to

Caitlin, "Let's just go to the mountains on our next vacation." Then, lo and

behold, we came to an inn below the mountains near Graz, next to a small

flickering brook, with the smell of wood smoke and slight dung,

red-and-white-checked tablecloths, a bed upstairs that looked down on the

brook through swaying chestnut trees, and there were chocolates wrapped in

silver foil on our pillows. There's no place like home, Toto.

While we were in Sardinia, we spent a lot of time in a café-bar that was

the only nice thing about the place. It was called the Spin Out Bar, and when

the owners found out we were American they treated us like heroes. One of them

had been to New York years ago and kept pinned on the wall a map of Manhattan

with red marks all over it to show anyone who came in where he'd been there.

At night the joint filled up and could be pretty rowdy, but besides the

Nordic windsurfers and an overdose of fat people in floral prints, we met a

number of interesting characters. Our favorites were a Dutchwoman named Miep

who worked in a sunglasses factory in Maastricht. Her companion was an

Englishman named McGann and there, my friend, sits this story.

We couldn't figure out why Miep was in Sardinia in the first place,

because she said she didn't like a lot of sun and never went in the water. She

was happy to leave it at that, but McGann thought it germane to add, "She

reads a lot, you know." What does she read about? "Bees. She loves to study

bees. Thinks we should study them because _they_ know how to make a society

work properly." Unfortunately, neither Caitlin's knowledge of bees nor mine

extends beyond stings and various kinds of honey we have tasted, but Miep

rarely said anything about her books or her bees. In the beginning Miep rarely

said anything about anything, leaving it up to her friend to carry the

conversation ball. Which he did with alarming gusto.

God knows, the English are good conversationalists and when they're

funny they can have you on the floor every five minutes, but McGann talked too

much. McGann never _stopped_ talking. You got to the point where you'd just

tune him out and look at his pretty, silent girlfriend. The sad part was, in

between all his words lived an interesting man. He was a travel agent in

London and had been to fascinating places -- Bhutan, Patagonia, North Yemen.

He also told half-good stories, but inevitably in the middle of one about the

Silk Road or being trapped by a snowstorm in a Buddhist monastery, you'd

realize he'd already spewed out so many extraneous, _bo-ring_ details that

you'd stopped paying attention six sentences back and were off in your own

dream image of a snowbound monastery.

One day we went to the beach and stayed too long -- both of us came home

with wicked sunburns and bad moods. We complained and snapped at each other

until Caitlin had the good idea of going to the bar for dinner because they

were having a grill party and had been talking about it since we'd arrived.

Grill parties are not my idea of nirvana, especially among strangers, but I

knew if we stayed in our barren bungalow another hour we'd fight, so I agreed

to go."Hello! There you two are. Miep thought you'd be coming, so we saved you

places. The food is really quite good. Try the chicken. Lord, look at your

sunburns! Were you out all day? I remember the worst sunburn I ever had . . ."

was only part of McGann's greeting from across the room when we came in and

walked over. We loaded up plates and went to sit with them.

As both the evening and McGann went on, my mood plunged. I didn't want

to listen to him, didn't want to be on this burned island, didn't relish the

twenty-hour trip back home. Did I mention that when we returned to the

mainland on the overnight ferry, there were no more cabins available, so we

had to sleep on benches? We did.

Anyway, I could feel myself winding up for one hell of a temper tantrum.

When I was three seconds away from throwing it all onto McGann and telling him

he was the biggest bore I'd ever met and would he shut up, Miep turned to me

and asked, "What was the strangest dream you ever had?" Taken aback both by

the question, which was utterly out of left field, and because her boyfriend

was in the middle of a ramble about suntan cream, I thought about it. I rarely

remember my dreams. When I do, they are either boring or unimaginatively sexy.

The only strange one that came to mind was of playing guitar naked in the back

seat of a Dodge with Jimi Hendrix. Jimi was naked too and we must have played

"Hey Joe" ten times before I woke up with a smile on my face and a real

sadness that Hendrix was dead and I would never meet him. I relayed this to

Miep, who listened with head cupped in her hands. Then she asked Caitlin. She

told that great dream about making the giant omelette for God and going all

over the world trying to find enough eggs. Remember how we laughed at that?

After we answered, there was a big silence. Even McGann said nothing. I

noticed he was looking at his girlfriend with an anxious, childlike

expression. As if he were waiting for her to begin whatever game was to

follow.

"Dreams are how Ian and I met. I was in Heathrow waiting to fly back to

Holland. He was sitting next to me and saw that I was reading an article on

this 'lucid dreaming.' Do you know about it? You teach yourself to be

conscious in your night dreams so you can manipulate and use them. We started

talking about this idea and he made me very bored. Ian can be very boring. It

is something you must get used to if you are going to be with him. I still

have trouble, but it is a week now and I am better."

"A week? What do you mean? You've only been together that long?"

"Miep was coming back from a beekeepers' convention in Devon. After our

conversation in the airport, she said she would come with me."

"Just like that? You came here with him instead of going home?" Caitlin

not only believed this, she was enchanted. She believes fully in chance

encounters, splendid accidents, and loving someone so much right off the bat

you can learn to live with their glaring faults. I was more astonished that

Miep had come with him yet said openly what a bore he was. Was that how you

sealed the bond of love at first sight? Yes, let's fly off together, darling,

I love you madly and'll try to get used to how boring you are.

"Yes. After Ian told me about his dreams, I asked if I could come. It

was necessary for me."

I said to McGann, "Must have been some kind of powerful dream you had."

He looked plain, pleasant, and capable but only in a small way -- like an

efficient postman who delivers your mail early, or the salesman in a liquor

store who can rattle off the names of thirty different brands of beer. I

assumed he was a good travel agent, up on his prices and brochures, and a man

who could choose a good vacation for someone who didn't have much money. But

he wasn't impressive and he talked forever. What kind of dream _had_ he had to

convince this attractive and nicely mysterious Dutchwoman to drop everything

and accompany him to Sardinia?

"It wasn't much really. I dreamed I was working in an office, not where

I do work -- some other place -- but nowhere special. A man walked in I'd

known a long time ago who had died. He died of cancer maybe five years before.

I saw him and knew for sure that he had come back from the dead to see me. His

name was Larry Birmingham. I never really liked this fellow. He was loud and

much too sure of himself. But there he was in my dream. I looked up from my

desk and said, 'Larry. It's you! You're back from the dead!' He was very calm

and said yes, he'd come to see me. I asked if I could ask him questions about

it. About Death that is, of course. He smiled, a little too amusedly I realize

now, and said yes. About this time in the dream, I think I knew I was

dreaming. You know how that happens? But I thought, Go on, see what you can

find out. So I asked him questions. What _is_ Death like? Should we be afraid?

Is it anything like we expect? . . . That sort of thing. He answered, but many

of the answers were vague and confusing. I'd ask again and he'd answer in a

different way, which at first I thought was clearer, but in the end it wasn't

-- he had only stated the muddle differently. It wasn't much help, I'll tell

you." "Did you learn anything?"

Ian looked at Miep. Despite her aloofness and his dialogue ten miles

long, it was obvious that there was great closeness and regard between these

two remarkably dissimilar people. It was a look of love to be sure, but a

great deal more than that. More, a look that clearly said there were things

they knew about each other already that went to the locus of their beings.

Whether they'd known each other a short week or twenty years, the look

contained everything we all hope for in our lives with others. She nodded her

approval, but after another moment he said, gently, "I . . . I'm afraid I

can't tell you."

"Oh, Ian --" She reached across the table and touched her hand to his

face. Imagine a beam light going directly across that table, excluding

everything but those two. That's what both Caitlin and I felt, watching them.

What was most surprising to me was that it was the first time Miep had talked

of or shown real feeling for her man. Now, there was suddenly so much feeling

that it was embarrassing.

"Ian, you're right. I'm sorry. You're so right." She slipped back into

her chair but continued looking at him. He turned to me and said, "I'm sorry

to be rude, but you'll understand why I can't tell you anything when I'm

finished.

"Excuse me, but before I go on -- it's hard for me to tell this, so I'm

going to have another drink. Would anyone like a refill?"

None of us did, so he got up and went to the bar. The table was silent

while he was gone. Miep never stopped looking at him. Caitlin and I didn't

know where to look until he returned.

"Right-o. Tanked up and ready to go. You know what I was just thinking,

up there at the bar? That I once drove through Austria and got a case of the

giggles when I passed a sign for the town of Mooskirchen. I remember so well

thinking to myself that a bonkers translation of that would be Moose Church.

Then I thought, Well, why the hell not -- people worship all kinds of things

on this earth. Why couldn't there be a church to moose? Or rather, a religion

to them. You know?

"I'm rattling on here, aren't I? It's because this is a terribly

difficult story for me to tell. The funny thing is, when I'm finished you'll

think I'm just as bonkers as my imagined worshippers at the Moose Church, eh,

Miep? Won't they think I don't have all my bulbs screwed in?"

"If they understand, they will know you are a hero."

"Yes, well, folks, don't take Miep too seriously. She's quiet but very

emotional about things sometimes. Let me go on and you can judge for yourself

whether I'm crazy or, ha-ha, a hero.

"The morning after that first dream, I walked to the bathroom and

started taking my pajamas off so I could wash up. I was shocked when I saw --"

"Don't tell them, Ian, show them! Show them so they will see for

themselves!"

Slowly, shyly, he began to pull his T-shirt over his head. Caitlin saw

it first and gasped. When I saw, I guess I gasped too. From his left shoulder

down to above his left nipple was a monstrously deep scar. It looked exactly

like what my father had down the middle of his chest after open heart surgery.

One giant scar wide and obscenely shiny pink. His body's way of saying it

would never forgive him for hurting it like that.

"Oh, Ian, what happened?" Sweet Caitlin, the heart of the world,

involuntarily reached out to touch him, comfort him. Realizing what she was

doing, she pulled her hand back, but the look of sympathy framed her face.

"Nothing happened, Caitlin. I have never been hurt in my life. Never

been in the hospital, never had an operation. I asked Death some questions,

and when I woke the next morning this was here." He didn't wait for us to

examine the scar more closely. The shirt was quickly over his head and down.

"I'm telling you, Ian, maybe it is a kind of gift."

"It's no gift, Miep, if it hurts terribly and I can't move my left arm

well anymore! The same with my foot _and_ my hand."

"What are you talking about?"

Ian closed his eyes and tried once to continue but couldn't. Instead, he

rocked back and forth, his eyes closed.

Miep spoke. "The night before we met, he had another dream and the same

thing happened. This Larry came back and Ian asked him more questions about

Death. But this time the answers were clearer, although not all of them. He

woke up and he says he had begun to understand things that he didn't before.

He believes that's why the scar on the inside of his hand is smaller -- the

more he understands of the dream, the more it leaves him alone. A few nights

ago he had another, but he woke with a big cut on his leg. Much bigger than

the one on his hand."

Ian spoke again, but his voice was less. Softer and . . . deflated. "It

will tell you anything you want to know, but you have to understand it. If you

don't . . . it does _this_ to you so you'll be careful with your questions.

The trouble is, once you've started, you can't stop asking. In the middle of

my second dream I told Birmingham I wanted to stop; I was afraid. He said I

couldn't.

"The ultimate game of Twenty Questions, eh? Thank God Miep's here. Thank

God she believed me! See, it makes me so much _weaker_. Maybe that's the worst

part. After the dreams there are the scars, but even worse than that is I'm

much weaker and can't do anything about it. I can barely get out of the bed.

Most of the time I'm better as the day goes on . . . but I know it's getting

worse. And one day I won't . . . I know if Miep weren't here . . . Thank God

for you, Miep."

I later convinced him to show us the scar on his hand, which was utterly

unlike the one on his chest. This one was white and thin and looked years old.

It went diagonally across his palm, and I remember thinking from the first

time we'd met how strangely he moved that hand, how much slower and clumsier

it was. Now I knew why.

There's more to this, Sis. But what do you do in a situation like that?

When half your brain thinks this is mad, but the other half is shaking because

maybe it's real? They asked us for nothing, although I doubt there was

anything we could do. But after that night whenever I saw or thought of

McGann, I liked him enormously. Whatever was wrong with the man, he was

afflicted by something terrible. Either insanity or death dreams were clearly

out to get him, and he was a goner. But the man remained a bore. A

good-natured, good-humored bore who, in the midst of his agony or whatever it

was, remained wholly himself, as I assume he'd always been. That's the only

real courage. I mean, few of us go into burning buildings to save others. But

watching a person face the worst with grace, uncomplainingly, grateful even

for the love and help of others . . . That's it, as far as I'm concerned.

Two days later, Caitlin and I decided more or less on the spur of the

moment to leave. We'd had enough and weren't getting any pleasure at all from

the place. Our bags were packed and the bill was paid within hour and a half.

Neither of us likes saying goodbye to people and, as you can imagine, we were

spooked by McGann's story. It's not something anyone would be quick to

believe, but if you'd been there that night and seen their faces, heard their

voices and the conviction in them, you'd know why both of us were

uncomfortable in their presence. Then it happened that as we were walking out

to the car, we ran right into Miep, who was coming toward the office in a

hurry.Something was clearly wrong. "Miep, are you all right?"

"All right? Oh, well, no. Ian is . . . Ian is not well." She was totally

preoccupied and her eyes were going everywhere but to us. A light of memory

came on in them, and her whole being slowed. She remembered, I guess, what her

man had told us the other night.

"He had another dream today, after he came home from the beach. He lay

down and it was only a few minutes, but when he woke --" Instead of

continuing, she drew a slow line across the lower part of her stomach. Both

Caitlin and I jumped at that and asked what could we do. I think we both also

started toward their bungalow, but Miep shouted, really shouted, "No!" and

there was nothing we could do to convince her to let us help. If that was

possible. More than that though, the thing that struck me hardest was her

face. When she realized we weren't going to try to interfere, she looked over

our shoulders toward their place, where Ian was, and the expression was both

fear and radiance. Was it true? Was he really back there, scarred again by

death, scarred again because he hadn't understood its answers to his

questions? Who knows?

On the boat back to the mainland, I remembered what he had said that

night about the Moose Church and how people should be allowed to worship

whatever they want. _That_ was the look on his girlfriend's face -- the look

of one in the presence of what they believe is both the truth and the answer

to life. Or death.

Our thoughts,

Jesse

Putting the letter down, I closed my eyes and waited for her to speak.

"Well, what do you think, Wyatt?"

I looked over, but the morning sun sat right on top of her head like a

hot yellow crown. I had to squint even to make out the shape of her face.

"I think it's intriguing."

"Whaddya mean, 'intriguing'? Don't you believe it?"

"Sure I do. That's been my problem for years -- believing. Sometimes I

think it's not leukemia that's killing me, but terminal believing. Terminal

hope.""Wyatt, don't be facetious. This could be _it_; the thing that could

save you. Why aren't you more --"

"More what? More excited? Sophie, I have cancer. They've assured me I'm

going to die. That I don't have much longer to live. God's doing me a big

favor by letting me even be here today. Can you imagine what it's like living

with that in your head every minute of the day?

"In the beginning, when I first knew I was sick, there were all kinds of

things in me that simply aren't anymore. I woke up every morning and cried. I

went through a period where I looked at the world twice as hard because I

never knew if I'd see any of it again. Life became a three-D movie; I made

everything stand out, stand at attention. But even that goes away after a

while, strangely enough.

"I read about a woman in New York who had her purse snatched. That's

lousy, right? But know what else the thief did? Started sending things back

piece by piece on special occasions in her life. She had a Filofax in her bag

where she'd marked her anniversary and kids' birthdays, things like that. So

on her first birthday after the purse was stolen, she got her driver's license

back in the mail. Along with a greeting card from the guy. Next, he sent back

her birth certificate. It went on and on. Such a perverse story, but clever

too, you know? The man was into dread. He figured out a perfect way to torment

her for years. He didn't want to steal a bag -- he wanted to burrow into her

life like a tick."

Sophie nodded but smiled too, as if she knew something I didn't. She

kept smiling when she spoke. "At the same time, it's almost sexy when you

think about it: all that attention and the time he spent at it. How many

creeps would go to the trouble of stealing your purse and then sending you a

birthday card?"

I knew I could count on my friend to understand. "That's exactly my

point. Death is like the purse snatcher and that's what's so goddamned mean.

It steals things from you, and then slowly gives some of them back so you

start getting confused but hopeful at the same time. If it's going to steal my

purse, then just take it and get the hell out of my life. Don't send back old

credit cards or a license I've already replaced.

"I read a letter like this, or an article in the paper, saying some

doctor in Osaka claims to have found the cure for cancer in a derivative from

plum pits . . . I don't _want_ to have any more hope. I don't want to believe

somewhere in the world is a cure or an answer or a guru who'll be able to take

away my fear. I would like to learn how to die now."

She looked at me disgustedly. " 'Your job is to find out what the world

is trying to be.' Whatever happened to that, Wyatt? You were the one who gave

me that poem. Does learning how to die also mean learning how to stop living?"

"Maybe."

"Then maybe you're full of shit. I don't think that's how God wants us

to do it, and I'm not talking about going gently into some good night. I'm not

experiencing what you are, granted, so maybe I have no right to talk about it

at all, but I'm going to anyway. The only way to defeat the purse snatcher is

go find him. Find him, show him your face, and say, 'I've found you and you

can't scare me anymore.' If Death keeps torturing you by sending back stuff

you thought was gone, then go find Him and tell Him to stop. I think you learn

how to die by . . . Oh, shit!"

I hadn't been looking at her as she angrily spoke so I didn't realize

she was crying till I looked up at that last word. Her face was wet with tears

but her eyes were furious. "The minute I finished reading this letter I called

you, I was so excited. If you can find this Ian guy, he could have the answer!

But it doesn't interest you?"

"Sure it does, but maybe finding the answer doesn't mean finding a cure

for my illness." I picked up the glass of orange juice and took a long, cold

drink. Sophie always squeezed her own juice, and it was a delicious treat.

Fresh orange juice, tart and full of stringy pulp that burst with its own

taste when you nibbled it.

"Wyatt?"

"Hmm?"

"What _is_ it like?" From the tone of her voice, it was clear what she

meant.Rolling the glass between my hands, I looked down into its orange swirl.

"I met a young woman when I was taking my last treatment. She couldn't have

been more than twenty-five. Cancer of the throat that had spread down into her

chest . . . the works. She would have fooled me if I hadn't known what to look

for, because she'd done a good job of disguising herself. Had all her hair, or

at least a very good wig, and lots of natural color in her cheeks. But that's

another thing you learn to recognize -- what's real and what's makeup, wigs,

tanning studios . . . This girl told me the only thing she could do now was

wait for the results of her treatments and try to figure out ways of fooling

the world into thinking she was one of them. Healthy, whole; a real human

being. Because that's one of the things you learn when you get sick.

"What's it like? Get cancer or start to die and you quickly see how

people work. It's very different from what you thought all your life, believe

me. Anyway, this woman told me something chilling. Said she'd just received

her last radiation treatment. There's only so much you can be given before it

stops helping and starts to destroy you. They give you so-and-so many doses

and then that's it -- if all those rads or whatever they're called don't work,

you're out of luck. But know what else they told her? Not to get near babies.

And certainly don't _touch_ any, because she was so full of radiation that she

would be dangerous to them."

"No!"

"That's the truth. As if dying's not bad enough, huh? It's that kind of

humiliation too. The worry you might throw up in the restaurant if you don't

take your medicine at the right time. Or suddenly not being able to lift

yourself out of a chair. Or when pain becomes so unbearable that you have to

ask a stranger in a voice that won't scare them to call you an ambulance.

What's it like? It's like being the radioactive woman. Except you're

radioactive to the whole healthy world. Everyone looks at you as if there's

something wrong with you. As if you glow, or are infectious, and no matter how

many times they're told that's not true, they secretly think it is. But there

isn't anything wrong with _you_ -- it's what entered you that's wrong. There's

. . . I'm going in circles. What's it like? It's like being the radioactive

girl. You're not living anymore; you're juggling. It's such a mistake to think

you can escape."

"This makes me so depressed, I have to eat something. I'm going to the

kitchen. Do you want some more orange juice?"

"Yes, that would be very nice."

She got up and jingled her way across the patio, followed by Lulu. Lulu,

the black French bulldog who, halfway through her comfy life, grew cataracts

on her eyes and went blind. Sophie bought a small tinkly bell which she wore

on one of her slippers so that the dog always knew where to find her in the

house.Sophie and Lulu. The three of us spent a great deal of time together.

Sophie's late husband, Dick, had owned a rare bookstore in downtown L.A. that

was one of my favorite hangouts. He was a man who loved books and taught you

how to love them too. I never could figure out which of the two I liked more.

When Dick passed away, Sophie and I became close. We talked on the phone

almost every day and ate dinner together three or four times a month. She was

only in her mid forties when he died and left her both a healthy business and

inheritance. But she showed no interest in getting involved with another man.

For a while I thought she had fallen in love with a woman who worked in her

store, but I was wrong. I asked her about that side of her life one day. She

said I was the only other man she had ever really loved, but since I'm gay . .

. I said tell the truth. She said that _was_ the truth.

"Wyatt! Come in here, you've got to see this!"

"What?"

"Just come in here. Fast!"

I quick-stepped from the baking sunlight into the shade of the eaves.

Swung open the screen door and walked up the two steps to her kitchen. First

thing I saw was Sophie with her hands on her hips, shaking her head. Then I

heard before I saw the frantic clitter of Lulu's toenails on the linoleum.

Clickety-stickety-click she spun in panting, snuffling circles, then jumped up

against the counters all in a mad rush because she knew something wonderful

besides her mistress was in the room.

Something wonderful was a small calico cat sitting on the windowsill

above the kitchen sink. It was cleaning its head by licking a paw and then

wiping it over its face. I'd not seen the cat before, but it acted with the

calm and deliberation of an animal completely at home in its surroundings.

"You gotta see this. It's our daily ritual. That's Roy, the neighbor's

cat. He climbs in through the window and sits there, waiting for Lulu to smell

that he's here. Since she went blind, her nose has gotten extrasensitive. Once

she catches a whiff of him, she proceeds to go nuts and hunt for him as if

he's the golden fleece. But she's so stupid because he always does the same

thing. In through the window, sit over the sink, wait. Now watch what

happens."

The dog became more frantic the closer she got to the cat. Roy seemed

bored by her scrabbling and twitching. Perhaps he only saw it as his due for

deigning to be there. He kept cleaning his head, with an occasional frozen

pause to check on the whereabouts of his fan.

"Every day this happens?"

"Every day. It's like a Noh play -- each goes through exactly the same

moves, same roles, everything. Wait, though; part two is about to begin. First

Lulu has to get tired and give up."

We waited for that to happen and it did a few minutes later. She

collapsed in a gasping, exhausted heap on the floor, her head held up high so

that she could pull in more air. Roy, finished washing, stared like an

indifferent god at her. Lulu had definitely given up.

Slowly His Majesty dropped down from the windowsill to the sink to the

floor with nary a sound. But the dog heard; she perked right up again. Roy

walked over to her and swatted at her rear end, just barely touching it. She

turned, but he was already in front, swatting at her face. Now she went crazy.

Like a skilled boxer, the cat leaped and parried and pranced and was wonderful

the way he stayed out of harm's way. Sophie and I started laughing because the

two of them really got in the most extraordinary workout. After a few more

seconds of this leaping and lunging, Lulu now thoroughly out of her mind with

excitement and frustration, Roy sprang back up on the sink and right out the

window.

"The phantom strikes again."

"And it happens every day?"

"More or less."

"Fabulous. But I think she likes it."

"She loves it! Once by accident she got hold of his paw and was so

startled that she didn't know what to do. And you know, I was just thinking.

Know what it reminds me of, Wyatt?"

"What?"

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FROMTHETEETHOFANGELSbyJonathanCarrollflyleaf:"Mr.Carroll'sstaccatostyle,flairforinvention,andurgentvoicedemandourattention."--_NewYorkTimesBookReview_JonathanCarrollisnolongerjustacultauthor.Hispreviousnovel,_AfterSilence_,placedthisgiftedandaward-winningwritersquarelyinthemainstream.The_SanFrancisc...

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Jonathan Carroll - From The Teeth Of Angels

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