THE ANGEL’S SHARE
BY MORGAN HUNT
Betty Lou Thomas from Muncie, Indiana, complained as though the pot at the end of the rainbow had a flush valve. Thick-bodied, flat-chested, 5'2”, with brown eyes, coarse features, and hair the color of stone-ground mustard, she was the sort of woman you didn’t notice. And she carried a twenty-carat diamond chip on her shoulder about that.
She resented being short. (“In Indiana we lived for basketball. What chance did I have on the women’s team at five-two?”) Being female. (“Why don’t men have periods and cramps?”) Being a lesbian. (“Still waiting for
She was currently issuing a whine-a-thon into the phone about the lack of cleaning power in modern laundry detergents. Jesus.
I lay on rumpled sheets in my bungalow near Front and Spruce streets. San Diego’s “June gloom,” otherwise known as the marine layer, had finally burned off and sun now warmed my bedroom. Next to me in all of her considerable glory lay Caterina, a thirty-nine-year-old self-styled mixed-media artist and boutique owner whom I’d known for exactly twelve days.
On Caterina’s index finger, a crimson nail sharp enough to serve as Occam’s Razor traced its way from my ankle, along my calf, to the tender flesh of my inner thigh. There she dug in and drew blood. I would have screamed, but she covered my mouth with her other hand.
This latest maneuver made the phone conversation more difficult than before, precisely Caterina’s intention.
Betty was droning on, something about a neighbor in her condo building who kept taking her assigned parking space in the garage.
I twisted my mouth free of Caterina’s hand. “Why don’t you report him to the building manager?” I asked, knowing she’d reject any practical suggestions that might lead to a resolution.
“Oh, he’s just an asshole,” Betty sighed. “What are you having for dinner tonight? I never know what to cook. Last night I tried meat loaf with salsa …”
“Betty, I’m in the middle of something right now; I really have to go.”
“I need to change the settings on my satellite dish tomorrow and I could use some help …”
“What time?”
“I’d like to get it done first thing. Could you come over around seven-thirty a.m.?”
“Betty, I have to work tomorrow. If it can wait a few days, I’ll—”
“No, I’ve got my whole day planned. Your work schedule’s flexible; go to work later. I need to get this done early.”
The talon enameled with Heavenly Heartache now circled a very sensitive part of me. Never answer the phone when you’re lying naked in bed.
“I’ve got a major work project pending and a staff meeting tomorrow. Find someone else to help this time. I’ve got to go.”
“But we haven’t talked in over a week. And I—”
“Sorry, talk to you again soon.” The snap of my cell felt harsh, but I’d spared myself a clitorectomy.
“I thought Betty was an ex from ages ago,” Caterina probed. “I thought you said she was boring.”
“True and truer.”
“Then why do you still talk to her?”
Why, indeed. Because she reminded me of an underdog boxer who struggles up from the mat on the count of nine repeatedly until she finally wins the bout. Because when she wasn’t complaining, she cracked corny jokes. Because for the sixteen months we were together, she tried her damnedest and it was my fault it didn’t work out. Because when I broke my ankle years after we split up, Betty walked my dog and made me dinner every day for six weeks. Because I could feel her heart from across a room.
These were not things I would be able to easily explain to Caterina, who had forgotten her own question and was now gliding around the house nude in search of asparagus stalks and cellophane. I like that in a woman.
I got up early the next day to brainstorm a new marketing campaign for my employer, Sciortino’s Winery, in the San Pasqual Valley. To save gas, they allowed me to telecommute most of the time. Caterina had, as usual, slipped out and returned to her home in the dark of night. I sipped Brazilian coffee and concentrated on strategies that would inspire critics to hyperbolize about our new Tempranillo.
The first call came at 7:48 a.m.
“I’m so sorry, Nikki,” a friend’s voice said.
“About what?”
“About Betty. You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Turn on channel 39.”
For the next few minutes I ignored twelve more calls while I watched reporters second-guess the situation pertaining to the body lying on the sidewalk. They were calling it a suicide. They were calling her a jumper.
Traffic being what it is, I knew it would be faster to walk the mile or so from my house to Betty’s. I grabbed my
