Kate Wilhelm - And the Angels Sing

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And the Angels Sing

First published in Omni, April 1990

Eddie never left the office until one or even two in the morning on Sundays, Tuesdays, and

Thursdays. The -North Coast News- came out three times a week, and it seemed to him that no one

could publish a paper unless someone in charge was on hand until the press run. He knew that the

publisher, Stuart Winkle, didn't care particularly, as long as the advertising was in place, but

it wasn't right, Eddie thought. What if something came up, something went wrong? Even out here at

the end of the world there could be a late-breaking story that required someone to write it, to

see that it got placed. Actually, Eddie's hopes for that event, high six years ago, had diminished

to the point of needing conscious effort to recall them even. In fact, he liked to see his

editorials before he packed it in.

This night, Thursday, he read his own words and then bellowed, "Where is she?"

-She- was Ruthie Jenson, and -she- had spelled frequency with one -e- and an -a-. Eddie stormed

through the deserted outer office looking for her, and caught her at the door just as she was

wrapping her vampire cloak about her thin shoulders. She was thin, her hair was cut too short, too

close to her head, and she was too frightened of him. And, he thought with bitterness, she was

crazy, or she would not wait around three nights a week for him to catch her at the door and give

her hell.

"Why don't you use the goddamn dictionary? Why do you correct my copy? I told you I'd wring your

neck if you touched my copy again!"

She made a whimpering noise and looked past him in terror, down the hallway, into the office.

"I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean..." Fast as quicksilver then, she fled out into the storm that was

still howling. He hoped the goddamn wind would carry her to Australia or beyond.

The wind screamed as it poured through the outer office, scattering a few papers, setting a light

adance on a chain. Eddie slammed the door against it and surveyed the space around him, detesting

every inch of it at the moment. Three desks, the fluttering papers that Mrs. Rondale would heave

out because anything on the floor got heaved out. Except dirt; she seemed never to see quite all

of it. Next door, the presses were running; people were doing things, but the staff that put the

paper together had left now. Ruthie was always next to last to go, and then Eddie. He kicked a

chair on his way back to his own cubicle, clutching the ink-wet paper in his hand, well aware that

the ink was smearing onto his skin.

He knew that the door to the press room had opened and softly closed again. In there they would be

saying Fat Eddie was in a rage. He knew they called him Fat Eddie, or even worse, behind his back,

and he knew that no one on earth cared if the -North Coast News- was a mess except him. He sat at

his desk scowling at the editorial, one of his better ones, he thought, and the word -frequency-

leaped off the page at him; nothing else registered. What he had written was "At this time of year

the storms bear down on shore with such regularity, such frequency, that it's as if the sea and

air are engaged in the final battle." It got better, but he put it aside and listened to the wind.

All evening he had listened to reports from up and down the coast, expecting storm damage, light

outages, wrecks, something. At midnight, he had decided it was just another Pacific storm and had

wrapped up the paper. Just the usual: Highway 101 under water here and there, a tree down here and

there, a head-on, no deaths...

The wind screamed and let up, caught its breath and screamed again. Like a kid having a tantrum.

And up and down the coast the people were like parents who had seen too many kids having too many

tantrums. Ignore it until it goes away and then get on about your business, that was their

attitude. Eddie was from Indianapolis where a storm with eighty-mile-an-hour winds made news. Six

years on the coast had not changed that. A storm like this, by God, should make news!

Still scowling, he pulled on his own raincoat, a great, black waterproof garment that covered him

to the floor. He added his black, wide-brimmed hat, and was ready for the weather. He knew that

behind his back they called him Mountain Man, when they weren't calling him Fat Eddie. He secretly

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thought he looked more like The Shadow than not.

He drove to Connally's Tavern and had a couple of drinks, sitting alone in glum silence, and then

offered to drive Truman Cox home when the bar closed at two.

The town of Lewisburg was south of Astoria, north of Cannon Beach, population nine hundred eighty-

four. And at two in the morning they were all sleeping, the town blackened out by rain. There were

the flickering night lights at the drug store, and the lights from the newspaper building, and two

traffic lights, although no other traffic moved. Rain pelted the windshield and made a river

through Main Street, cascaded down the side streets on the left, came pouring off the mountain on

the right. Eddie made the turn onto Third and hit the brakes hard when a figure darted across the

street.

"Jesus!" he grunted as the car skidded, then caught and righted itself. "Who was that?"

Truman was peering out into the darkness, nodding. The figure had vanished down the alley behind

Sal's Restaurant. "Bet it was the Boland girl, the young one. Not Norma. Following her sister's

footsteps."

His tone was not condemnatory, even though everyone knew exactly where those footsteps would lead

the kid.

"She sure earned whatever she got tonight," Eddie said with a grunt, and pulled up into the

driveway of Truman's house. "See you around."

"Yep. Probably will. Thanks for the lift." He gathered himself together and made a dash for his

porch.

But he would be soaked anyway, Eddie knew. All it took was a second out in that driving rain. That

poor, stupid kid, he thought again, as he backed out of the drive, retraced his trail for a block

or two, and headed toward his own little house. On impulse he turned back and went down Second

Street to see if the kid was still scurrying around; at least he could offer her a lift home. He

knew where the Bolands lived, the two sisters, their mother, all in the trade now, apparently.

But, God, he thought, the little one couldn't be more than twelve.

The numbered streets were parallel to the coast line; the cross streets had become wind tunnels

that rocked his car every time he came to one. Second Street was empty, black. He breathed a sigh

of relief. He had not wanted to get involved anyway, in any manner, and now he could go on home,

listen to music for an hour or two, have a drink or two, a sandwich, and get some sleep. If the

wind ever let up. He slept very poorly when the wind blew this hard. What he most likely would do

was finish the book he was reading, possibly start another one. The wind was good for another four

or five hours.

Thinking this way, he made another turn or two, and then saw the kid again, this time sprawled on

the side of the road.

If he had not already seen her once, if he had not been thinking about her, about her sister and

mother, if he had been driving faster than five miles an hour, probably he would have missed her.

She lay just off the road, face down. As soon as he stopped and got out of the car, the rain hit

his face, streamed from his glasses, blinding him almost. He got his hands on the child and hauled

her to the car, yanked open the back door and deposited her inside. Only then he got a glimpse of

her face. Not the Boland girl. No one he had ever seen before. And as light as a shadow. He

hurried around to the driver's side and got in, but he could no longer see her now from the front

seat. Just the lumpish black raincoat that gleamed with water and covered her entirely. He wiped

his face, cleaned his glasses, and twisted in the seat; he couldn't reach her, and she did not

respond to his voice.

He cursed bitterly and considered his next move. She could be dead, or dying. Through the rain-

streaked windshield the town appeared uninhabited. They didn't have a police station, a clinic or

hospital, nothing. The nearest doctor was ten or twelve miles away, and in this weather... Finally

he started the engine and headed for home. He would call the state police from there, he decided.

Let them come and collect her.

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He drove up Hammer Hill to his own house and parked in the driveway at the walk that led to the

front door. He would open the door first, he had decided, then come back and get the kid; either

way he would get soaked, but there was little he could do about that. He moved fairly fast for a

large man, but his fastest was not good enough to keep the rain off his face again. If it would

come straight down, the way God meant rain to fall, he thought, fumbling with the key in the lock,

he would be able to see something. He got the door open, flicked on the light switch, and went

back to the car to collect the girl. She was as limp as before, and seemed to weigh nothing at

all. The slicker she wore was hard to grasp, and he did not want her head to loll about, for her

to brain herself on the porch rail or the door frame, but she was not easy to carry, and he

grunted although her weight was insignificant. Finally he got her inside and kicked the door shut

and made his way to the bedroom where he dumped her on the bed. Then he took off his hat that had

been useless, and his glasses that had blinded him with running water, and the streaming raincoat

that was leaving a trail of water with every step. He backed off the Navajo rug and out to the

kitchen to put the wet coat on a chair, let it drip on the linoleum. He grabbed a handful of paper

toweling and wiped his glasses, then returned to the bedroom.

He reached down to remove the kid's raincoat and jerked his hand away again.

"Jesus Christ!" he whispered, and backed away from her. He heard himself saying it again, and then

again, and stopped. He had backed up to the wall, was pressed hard against it. Even from there he

could see her clearly. Her face was smooth, without eyebrows, without eyelashes, her nose too

small, her lips too narrow, hardly lips at all. What he had thought was a coat was part of her. It

started on her head, where hair should have been, down the sides of her head where ears should

have been, down her narrow shoulders, the backs of her arms that seemed too long and thin, almost

boneless.

She was on her side, one long leg stretched out, the other doubled up under her. Where there

should have been genitalia, there was too much skin, folds of skin.

Eddie felt his stomach spasm, a shudder passed over him. Before, he had wanted to shake her, wake

her up, ask questions; now he thought that if she opened her eyes, he might pass out. And he was

shivering with cold. Moving very cautiously, making no noise, he edged his way around the room to

the door, then out, back to the kitchen where he pulled a bottle of bourbon from a cabinet and

poured half a glass that he drank as fast as he could. He stared at his hand. It was shaking.

Very quietly he took off his shoes, sodden, and placed them at the back door next to his

waterproof boots that he invariably forgot to wear. As soundlessly as possible he crept to the

bedroom door and looked at her again. She had moved under, was now drawn up in a huddle, as if she

was as cold as he was. He took a deep breath and began to inch around the wall of the room toward

the closet where he pulled out his slippers with one foot, and eased them on, and then tugged on a

blanket on a shelf. He had to let his breath out then; it sounded explosive to his ears. The girl

shuddered and made herself into a tighter ball. He moved toward her slowly, ready to turn and run,

and finally was close enough to lay the blanket over her. She was shivering hard.

He backed away from her again and this time went to the living room, leaving the door open so that

he could see her, just in case. He turned up the thermostat, retrieved his drink from the kitchen,

and again and again went to the door to peer inside.

He should call the state police, he knew, and made no motion toward the phone. A doctor? He nearly

laughed. He wished he had a camera. If they took her away, and they would, there would be nothing

to show, nothing to prove she had existed. He thought of her picture on the front page of the -

North Coast News-, and snorted. -The National Enquirer-? This time he muttered a curse. But she

was news. She certainly was news.

Mary Beth, he decided. He had to call someone with a camera, someone who could write a decent

story. He dialed Mary Beth's number, got her answering machine and hung up, dialed it again. At

the fifth call her voice came on.

"Who the hell is this, and do you know that it's three in the fucking morning?"

"Eddie Delacort. Mary Beth, get up, get over here, my place, and bring your camera."

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"Fat Eddie? What the hell -- "

"Right now, and bring plenty of film." He hung up.

A few seconds later his phone rang; he took it off the receiver and laid it down on the table.

While he waited for Mary Beth he surveyed the room. The house was small, with two bedrooms, one

that he used for an office, on the far side of the living room. In the living room there were two

easy chairs covered with fine, dark green leather, no couch, a couple of tables, and many

bookshelves, all filled. A long cabinet held his sound equipment, a stereo, hundreds of albums.

Everything was neat, arranged for a large man to move about easily, nothing extraneous anywhere.

Underfoot was another Navajo rug. He knew the back door was securely locked; the bedroom windows

were closed, screens in place. Through the living room was the only way the kid on his bed could

get out, and he knew she would not get past him if she woke up and tried to make a run. He nodded,

then moved his two easy chairs so that they faced the bedroom; he pulled an end table between

them, got another glass, and brought the bottle of bourbon. He sat down to wait for Mary Beth,

brooding over the girl in his bed. From time to time the blanket shook hard; a slight movement

that was nearly constant suggested that she had not yet warmed up. His other blanket was under her

and he had no intention of touching her again in order to get to it.

Mary Beth arrived as furious as he had expected. She was his age, about forty, graying, with

suspicious blue eyes, and no makeup. He had never seen her with lipstick on, or jewelry of any

kind except for a watch, or in a skirt or dress. That night she was in jeans and a sweatshirt, and

a bright red hooded raincoat that brought the rainstorm inside as she entered, cursing him. He

noted with satisfaction that she had her camera gear.

She cursed him expertly as she yanked off her raincoat, and was still calling him names when he

finally put his hand over her mouth and took her by the shoulder, propelled her toward the bedroom

door.

"Shut up and look," he muttered. She was stronger than he had realized, and now twisted out of his

grasp and swung a fist at him. Then she faced the bedroom.

She looked, then turned back to him red faced and sputtering. "You... you got me out... a floozy

in your bed... So you really do know what that thing you've got is used for! And you want

pictures! Jesus God!"

"Shut up!"

This time she did. She peered at his face for a second, turned and looked again, took a step

forward, then another. He knew her reaction was to his expression, not the lump on the bed.

Nothing of that girl was visible, just the unquiet blanket, and a bit of darkness that was not

hair but should have been. He stayed at Mary Beth's side, and his caution was communicated to her;

she was as quiet now as he was.

At the bed he reached out and gently pulled back the blanket. One of -her- hands clutched it

spasmodically. The hand had four apparently boneless fingers, long and tapered, very pale. Mary

Beth exhaled too long and neither of them moved for what seemed minutes. Finally she reached out

and touched the darkness at the girl's shoulder, touched her arm, then her face. Abruptly she

pulled back her hand. The girl on the bed was shivering harder than ever, in a tighter ball that

hid the many folds of skin at her groin.

"It's cold," Mary Beth whispered.

"Yeah." He put the blanket back over the girl.

Mary Beth went to the other side of the bed, squeezed between it and the wall and carefully pulled

the bedspread and blanket free, and put them over the girl also. Eddie took Mary Beth's arm and

they backed out of the bedroom. She sank into one of the chairs he had arranged and automatically

held out her hand for the drink he was pouring.

"My God," Mary Beth said softly after taking a large swallow, "what is it? Where did it come

from?"

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Kate Wilhelm - And the Angels Sing

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