But as far as I know, nobody’s written a story about making a deal with an angel.
So here’s a story about a man making a deal with one of the heavenly host. He has to give up all his worldly wealth and power in order to save his soul. I believe that this story explains the seemingly inexplicable fall of a former President of the United States.
Sort of.
THE ANGEL’S GIFT
He stood at his bedroom window, gazing happily out at the well-kept grounds and manicured park beyond them. The evening was warm and lovely. Dinner with the guests from overseas had been perfect; the deal was going smoothly, and he would get all the credit for it. As well as the benefits.
He was at the top of the world now, master of it all, king of the hill. The old dark days of fear and failure were behind him now. Everything was going his way at last. He loved it.
His wife swept into the bedroom, just slightly tipsy from the champagne. Beaming at him, she said, “You were magnificent this evening, darling.”
He turned from the window, surprised beyond words. Praise from her was so rare that he treasured it, savored it like expensive wine, just as he had always felt a special glow within his breast on those extraordinary occasions when his mother had vouchsafed him a kind word.
“Uh . . . thank you,” he said.
“Magnificent, my darling,” she repeated. “I am so proud of you!”
His face went red with embarrassed happiness.
“And these people are so much nicer than those Latin types,” she added.
“You . . . you know, you were . . . you are . . . the most beautiful woman in this city,” he stammered. He meant it. In her gown of gold lamé, and with her hair coiffed that way, she looked positively regal. His heart filled with joy.
She kissed him lightly on the cheek, whispering into his ear, “I shall be waiting for you in my boudoir, my prince.”
The breath gushed out of him. She pirouetted daintily, then waltzed to the door that connected to her own bedroom. Opening the door, she turned back toward him and blew him a kiss.
As she closed the door behind her, he took a deep, sighing, shuddering breath. Brimming with excited expectation, he went directly to his closet, unbuttoning his tuxedo jacket as he strode purposefully across the thickly carpeted floor.
He yanked open the closet door. A man was standing there, directly under the light set into the ceiling.
Smiling, the man made a slight bow. “Please do not be alarmed, sir. And don’t bother to call your security guards. They won’t hear you.”
Still fumbling with his jacket buttons, he stumbled back from the closet door, a thousand wild thoughts racing through his mind. An assassin. A kidnapper. A newspaper columnist!
The stranger stepped as far as the closet door. “May I enter your room, sir? Am I to take your silence for assent? In that case, thank you very much.”
The stranger was tall but quite slender. He was perfectly tailored in a sky-blue Brooks Brothers three-piece suit. He had the youthful, innocent, golden-curled look of a European terrorist. His smile revealed perfect, dazzling teeth. Yet his eyes seemed infinitely sad, as though filled with knowledge of all human failings. Those icy-blue eyes pierced right through the man in the tuxedo.
“Wh . . . what do you want? Who are you?”
“I’m terribly sorry to intrude this way. I realize it must be a considerable shock to you. But you’re always so busy. It’s difficult to fit an appointment into your schedule.”
His voice was a sweet, mild tenor, but the accent was strange. East coast, surely. Harvard, no doubt.
“How did you get in here? My security . . .”
The stranger gave a slightly guilty grin and hiked one thumb ceilingward. “You might say I came in through the roof.”
“The roof? Impossible!”
“Not for me. You see, I am an angel.”
“An . . . angel?”
With a self-assured nod, the stranger replied, “Yes. One of the heavenly host. Your very own guardian angel, to be precise.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t believe in angels?” The stranger cocked a golden eyebrow at him. “Come now. I can see into your soul. You do believe.”
“My church doesn’t go in for that sort of thing,” he said, trying to pull himself together.
“No matter. You do believe. And you do well to believe, because it is all true. Angels, devils, the entire system. It is as real and true as this fine house you live in.” The angel heaved a small sigh. “You know, back in medieval times people had a much firmer grasp on the realities of life. Today . . .” He shook his head.
Eyes narrowing craftily, the man asked, “If you’re an angel, where are your wings? Your halo? You don’t look anything like a real angel.”
“Oh.” The angel seemed genuinely alarmed. “Does that bother you? I thought it would be easier on your nervous system to see me in a form that you’re accustomed to dealing with every day. But if you want . . .”
The room was flooded with a blinding golden light. Heavenly voices sang. The stranger stood before the man robed in radiance, huge white wings outspread, filling the room.
The man sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands. “Have mercy on me! Have mercy on me!”
He felt strong yet gentle hands pull him tenderly to his feet. The angel was back in his Brooks Brothers suit. The searing light and ethereal chorus were gone.
“It is not in my power to show you either mercy or justice,” he said, his sweetly youthful face utterly grave. “Only the creator can dispense such things.”
“But why . . . how . . .” he babbled.
Calming him, the angel explained, “My duty as your guardian angel is to protect your soul from damnation. But you must cooperate, you know. I cannot force you to be saved.”
“My soul is in danger?”
“In danger?” The angel rolled his eyes heavenward. “You’ve just about handed it over to the enemy, gift wrapped. Most of the millionaires you dined with tonight have a
