“He smells like strawberry ice cream.”
“Does not!”
“Does too!”
“Why can’t I smell like both?”
Celeste leaned around him. “You’re right,” she told her sister. “He is stupid.”
Then they started singing.
“There was a farmer had a dog…”
At first it was cute.
“Let’s all sing,” Samuel suggested, leaning forward as far as the seat belt allowed. Singing was a good thing; he had a vague idea that angels did a lot of it. “The family that sings together…uh…” Wings together? Pings together? Then he realized that no once could hear him over the high-pitched little voices filling the enclosed vehicle with sound.
“B ;I ;N ;G ;O, ;B ;I ;N ;G ;O, ;B ;I ;N ;G ;O…”
It went on and on and on, just below the threshold of pain.
“Make it stop,” moaned their father, beating his forehead against the steering wheel as the SUV began to pick up speed.
Short of gagging them, Samuel couldn’t figure out how to stop them. Nothing he said from well reasoned argument to childish pleas made any impression. After the fourth verse, gagging them was beginning to seem like a valid option. Finally, ears ringing in the sudden silence, he forced the corners of his mouth up into a smile and swept it over both girls. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we do something that doesn’t make any noise?”
They exchanged a suspicious glance.
“Like what?” asked Selinka.
“It had better be fun,” added Celeste.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He could number the hairs on both girls’ heads (three billion two hundred and twelve and three billion two hundred and fourteen) but when it came down to it, that wasn’t even remotely useful. Unless…“I don’t suppose you’d want to count each other’s hair?”
Which was about when he discovered that a nonviolent, geared to age level, designed to promote social development electronic game could raise one heck of a bump when thrown at close range.
“I’m feeling guilty about this,” Brian Pearson murmured to his wife. “Are you sure he’s going to be all right?”
“He offered to help.”
“Actually, hon, he said he had a message for us.”
“Same thing.”
“Not quite.”
“Well, it’s a moving car,” she pointed out philosophically, gnawing on her last fingernail. “He can’t get out.”
“We’re going to London to see our Granny,” announced Selinka.
“Do you have a Granny?” asked Celeste.
Good question. He ran through the order of angels above him; archangels, principalities, powers, dominions, thrones, cherubim, seraphim…“No, I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“I guess it’s because I’m an angel.”
The twin on the right narrowed her eyes and stared up at him. “Lemme see your wings.”
“What?”
“If you’re supposed to be an angel, lemme see your wings.”
Samuel spread his hands and tried an ingratiating smile. “I don’t have wings.”
“Why?”
“I’m not that kind of an angel.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m the kind of angel that doesn’t have wings.”
“Why?”
“If you’re an angel, you’re supposed to have wings.” Her voice began to rise in both volume and pitch. “Big, white, fluffy wings!”
The smile slipped. “Well, I don’t.”
“Why?”
Why? He had no idea. But going back for that long talk with Lena was beginning to seem like a plan. “I have running shoes,” he offered.
Small heads bent forward to have a look.
“They’re not brand name,” said the twin who seemed to be running this part of the interrogation. “No swatches.”
“Does that matter?” Was he wearing the wrong stuff? “What’s a swatch?”
She folded her arms. “Dork.”
“Wouldn’t you girls like to have a nap?” Over the sound of their laughter, he thought he heard their mother whimper. “You know, if you were quiet, your parents would be really happy.”
“They would?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The twin on the left, taking her turn, poked him imperiously in the side. “Light up your head.”
“What?”
“Light up your head! Like on TV.”
“I don’t…”
“Then you’re not an angel.”
“Yes, I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.” Just barely resisting the urge to grab her and shake her, he let a little of the light show.
“Ha, ha, made you light!”
An ethnically diverse, anatomically correct baby doll swung in from the other side by one foot, the molded plastic head completing its downswing in just the wrong spot.
The light went out.
His eyes were still watering when the SUV stopped at the corner of York and Talbot Streets and he stumbled out into a snowbank. Maybe Brian Pearson did need to know his kids weren’t deliberately driving him crazy, but as the twins had survived for seven whole years, he could only conclude that both parents already had the patience of a saint. Each. He’d been with the twins for just over an hour and against all predisposition, he wanted to strangle them. He couldn’t imagine what seven years would be like. And he was no longer entirely certain that Brian Pearson wasn’t right.
The girls, not at all upset by the yelling he’d done, crowded to the window, and blew him kisses.
“Aren’t they angelic,” sighed their mother without much conviction.
“Not exactly,” Samuel told her, clinging to the door until he could get his balance. “But if it helps, I don’t think they’re actually demonic.”
She turned her head enough to meet his gaze. “You’re not sure?”
“Uh.” He took another look and heard the voice of memory say, Because if an angel can be here, then so can a devil. Or two. “No. Sorry.”
“Well, you’ve been a lot of help.”
He’d have been more reassured if she hadn’t sounded so sarcastic. Shoving his hands in his pockets as the SUV drove away, he sighed and muttered, “That could’ve gone better.”
Pushing through the narrow break in the knee-high snowbank that bracketed the street, he stumbled onto the sidewalk and took a moment to try and dig snow out of his shoes with his finger. Apparently, it was a well-known fact that angels left no footprints. Twisting around, he checked and, sure enough, he’d left no mark in the snow. Although there had to be a reason for it, he’d have happily traded footprints for dry feet. Were angels even supposed to have wet feet? At least he wasn’t cold. At least that was working.
Nothing else seemed to be.
Maybe he just needed practice.
Straightening, he
