Walking In the Midst of Fire

If war was on the horizon, he needed to know exactly how close it was, and what could be done, if anything, to prevent it from overflowing onto the world of man.

Remy pulled back on Marlowe’s leash, standing on the corner of Boylston and Dartmouth, preventing the overeager beast from heading out into the street. Traffic was light, but all it would take was one taxi driver or delivery truck not paying attention.

“You really need to be more careful,” Remy told the dog.

Marlowe looked up at him, his dark eyes dark filled with adoration.

“You careful for me.”

The coast clear, the two crossed, passing by an entrance to the Copley Square T station, Remy tugging Marlowe past several early commuters, their eyes bleary as they headed for work. They stopped near an unobtrusive door in a darkened corner of the Old South Church, one of the last places of worship that Remy had been in.

He was about to take Marlowe into his arms and wrap his wings about them to take them inside, when something moving in a patch of shadow caught his eye. Remy shifted the configuration of his eyes to see that it was one of the many homeless people who slept on Boston’s streets. An old woman’s head popped up from a filthy sleeping bag to stare at them.

“No need to be scared, fella,” she said, addressing Marlowe.

It took everything that Remy had to keep the dog, tail wagging, from pulling himself over to her.

“Marlowe, no,” Remy ordered.

“It’s all right,” she said, her hands coming out from within the sleeping bag to eagerly clap. “C’mon over and see old Dottie.”

Remy let up on the leash, letting him go to the old woman. It wasn’t long before he was licking her weather-worn face, and she was scratching him behind his velvet soft ears, cooing affectionately to him.

“You’re a sweet one, aren’t ya?” she said as Marlowe administered some of his patented affection, licking every inch of her face, neck, and ears.

“Marlowe, go easy on the poor woman,” Remy said.

“Marlowe?” the woman asked. “Is that your name? Marlowe?”

If the dog could have crawled into the sleeping bag with her, he would have.

“‘Why should you love him whom the world hates so?’” old Dottie quoted, glancing at Remy to see if he was listening. “‘Because he love me more than all the world.’”

Remy realized that she was reciting from Elizabethan dramatist and poet Christopher Marlowe.

He smiled at her and nodded. “Nice,” he said. “But not that Marlowe, I’m afraid. He’s more Philip Marlowe.”

The woman laughed as the dog continued to lick her face.

“Ah!” she exclaimed. “Raymond Chandler.”

“That’s it,” Remy agreed.

“‘Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid,’” Dottie said, quoting Remy’s favorite author. “‘He is the hero, he is everything. He must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man.’”

The woman stopped, smiling a toothless grin.

“Pretty good, right?”

He gave her the thumbs-up. “Awesome.”

“I read a lot,” she told him, scratching roughly behind Marlowe’s ears, but the dog didn’t seem to mind. Not one little bit. “And stuff just seems to get stuck up there.” She stopped scratching Marlowe to point to her head, upon which sat a floppy, knitted hat. “Can’t forget the stuff even if I tried—especially if I like it.”

“Not so bad of a curse as far as curses go,” Remy told her.

“I guess.”

Marlowe had plopped down beside the woman, shimmying as close to her as he was able. He was a good judge of character; if Marlowe liked her, this woman was probably special.

They were silent for a bit, as old Dottie continued to stroke Marlowe’s ebony fur.

“He likes that,” she said, looking deeply into the dog’s dark eyes.

“That he does,” Remy said.

Dottie let her eyes leave Marlowe’s and fixed her gaze on Remy. He could see that she was staring really hard, squinting her watery eyes as if she was having some difficulty focusing her sight.

“What is it, Dottie?” Remy asked. “Something wrong with your eyes?”

“No,” she said, with a shake of her head. “No problem . . . just that I see things a little differently from most.”

Remy continued to listen to her, sure that she was about to say more.

“I see things about folks that they can’t see themselves,” she said.

“That another curse?” Remy asked her. He had moved closer to them, squatting down so that he, too, could pat his dog.

“All depends on how you look at it,” she said. “Makes it kinda tough to have a normal life . . . to keep a job and stuff.”

She was staring at him again, old eyes squinting.

“Do you see something with me?” he asked.

“Yeah, I do,” she said. “You’re not like everybody else, are you?”

Remy smiled. It wasn’t entirely unusual, but it was rare. There were a select few people out there in the world with the ability to see things—those who could peer into the shadows and see what was actually lurking there behind the veil.

Those who could see things as they truly were.

“No, I’m not,” Remy said, looking away from the intensity of her gaze.

“So, what’s your story?” she asked him, her face now very serious. “Haven’t come to take me, have you?”

Remy laughed as he patted Marlowe’s head. The dog was in heaven with all this attention.

“Not my job,” he told her with a shake of his head. “So no worries there.”

“Good,” Dottie said, happy that he wasn’t the Angel of Death. “Been seeing a lot of your types walking around recently, and have gotten a little nervous.”

Dottie’s words hit him hard, her observations worrying.

“You’ve seen a lot like me around?” he asked her to be sure.

The old woman nodded. “Oh yeah, just strolling around.” She waved a hand around in the air. “Like they were checking the place out or something.”

Or something, Remy thought, certain that the angels she had seen were doing reconnaissance . . . but for which side? Perhaps both? It was truly bothersome, but it made what he had come to the Old South Church for all the more pertinent.

“Was that what they were doing?” Dottie asked him, interrupting his train of thought.

“Yeah, it probably was.”

“Something up?”

“That’s something I need to find out,” Remy answered, rising to his feet and looking at the church before him.

He needed to get himself inside to do what he had to do. He had been planning on taking Marlowe in with him, but now maybe he wouldn’t.

“Hey Dottie, want to do me a favor?” he asked the old woman.

“Sure, if I can,” she said, stroking Marlowe’s side.

“Want to keep an eye on Marlowe while I take care of some business?” he asked her.

She smiled warmly, looking to the dog.

“What do you think, pal?” she asked him. “Can you stand to hang around here with Dottie for a little while longer?”

Marlowe panted heavily, his tail wagging happily in response.

“Will you be okay, buddy?” Remy asked the Labrador.