Turning Angel

sight. The serene face watches my approach, as though waiting only for me. Of course, the angel only seems to be watching me; I know it’s actually facing away from the road and the river. Nevertheless, I drive slowly as I pass the monument, trying absurdly to catch the angel in the act of turning.

I can’t do it. Only when I pass and look back over my shoulder do I see the ageless visage staring after me again. Stepping on the brake, I make a three-point turn and pull alongside the cemetery wall. The Turning Angel is trying to tell me something. Not with words, perhaps, but there’s a message here. What? What is the message of the marble angel? What you see isn’t always the reality. We look at one thing but see another. Why? With a marble statue, because of a change in perspective or a trick of light. But with human beings, the reasons are more complex. People project only what they want others to see, or at least they try to. And even when unintended clues to the being behind the mask are exposed, we often refuse to see them. Our perception of others is always distorted by our own prejudices, hopes, and fears. And sometimes, as Quentin Avery suggested, we look at others and see ourselves.

”Appearance versus reality,“ I say softly. That sounds like the title of an essay I was forced to write in high school English class.

As I stare over the gravestones at the angel’s androgynous features, several faces seem to project themselves onto the white stone, slowly morphing from one into another like the faces in the classic Sinead O’Connor video. Mia first. The angel most resembles her, with its oval face and Madonna-like serenity. Yet as I stare, Mia somehow becomes Drew-not Drew as I know him now, but as the beautiful boy he was when he scorched across the firmament at St. Stephen’s more than twenty years ago. I blink my eyes and Drew becomes Ellen, and then Ellen, Kate, until I lose my sense of balance though I’m sitting in my own car on terra firma. Throwing the Saab into gear, I spin onto Cemetery Road and race toward town. But one glance in the rearview mirror tells me what I already know: the Turning Angel is watching me go.

Chapter 28

Caitlin and I are sitting in a small private dining room in the Castle, the finest restaurant in Natchez. The building is a restored carriage house behind Dunleith, the city’s premier antebellum mansion. One of more than eighty such mansions, Dunleith is a colossal Greek Revival palace that dwarfs even the mythic mansions from Gone With the Wind. Sited on forty pristine acres in the middle of the city, Dunleith functions as a high-end bed-and-breakfast, while the Castle, named for two Gothic outbuildings on the grounds, exists to feed the guests and, incidentally, the people of the town.

Caitlin and I didn’t drive over together; we met here. She came from the newspaper office, while I left Annie with Mia at my house. We still haven’t spoken face-to-face since she left my house last night.

I was surprised to find the main room of the restaurant crowded when we arrived, so I asked the maitre’d to seat us in the private dining room. The owner of Dunleith is a fan of my novels, so my request was granted.

”Do you get that kind of treatment in New York?“ Caitlin asks with a smile.

”Not a chance. They’d seat me by the bathroom.“

We order crab cakes as an appetizer, then set aside our menus and simply look at each other for a while. Just as they did last night, her luminous green eyes exert a hypnotic effect on me. Set in her pale face framed by night black hair, they seem almost independently alive.

”Small talk or big issues?“ she asks.

”I think we owe it to ourselves and Annie to go ahead and deal with some things.“

Caitlin nods in agreement. ”Annie called me when she got out of school today. She asked if I’d watch a movie with her tonight.“

”She told me you said yes.“

”I’ve missed her.“

Then why haven’t you called her?”Why don’t we lay some ground rules for this conversation?“

Caitlin looks puzzled.

”Absolute honesty,“ I tell her. ”No sugarcoating anything.“

”We’ve always been good at that.“

”Have we?“

”I think so.“

The waiter appears and pours two glasses of chilled white wine. I wait for him to depart. ”We’ve been together for five years now,“ I reflect. ”It seems unbelievable, but we have.“

”It seems more like two.“

”I know. It’s easy to let time slip past. Too easy. I guess the question I want to ask you first is, do you still want to spend the rest of your life with me?“

She looks incredulous. ”Of course I do. I can’t imagine being with anyone else.“

”If that’s true, it’s hard for me to understand why you’ve been spending so much time away.“

”Is it?“

”Well, you’ve basically been like a mother to Annie for the past five years-when you’re here, at least. But she’s getting older now, Caitlin. She’s nine. She needs more than you’ve been giving her. And I honestly don’t know if you’re ready to give her more.“

I see traces of moisture in Caitlin’s eyes, but she doesn’t speak.

”I’m not saying it’s your duty to give more. I know you want to. But there’s a difference between wanting to do something and actually committing the time and effort to do it.“ God, I sound like my parents. Caitlin is watching me intently, but still she doesn’t speak. ”I mean, you’re actually getting to the age where if you want to have kids of your own, it’s time to get started.“

She closes her eyes, and a tear slides down her left cheek.

”Am I crazy?“ I ask her. ”Tell me. How do you feel about all this?“

She opens her eyes, then reaches across the table and takes my hand. ”I love you, Penn. And I love Annie.“ She looks as though she’s about to continue, but then she stops. I’ve never known Caitlin to be at a loss for words.

”I know you love us,“ I say softly. ”But you’re gone for very long periods. I mean, you’re the publisher of the Examiner, but you’re working as a reporter fifteen hundred miles away. And not even for your father’s chain. I don’t understand it.“

”I’m not sure I do either. I never really thought about it, but maybe it’s because I’m not working for my father that I enjoy these assignments so much.“

The waiter sets an exquisitely browned crab cake before her, and another before me.

Caitlin looks up at him. ”Thank you.“

”Are you ready to order?“ he asks.

We haven’t even glanced at the menus.

”I’ll have the blackened catfish,“ Caitlin says, withdrawing her hand from mine.

”The duck,“ I tell him.

”Very good. Anything special on the side?“

”Surprise us,“ Caitlin says with a smile.

”Yes, ma’am.“

When the waiter leaves, she says, ”Penn, I’m taking these assignments because it’s what I love to do. It’s the rush, it’s where it’s happening. It’s a big story and they want me. And I like it that they want me.“

”I understand that need. When I worked as a prosecutor, even though I was in a big city, only a few people really knew what I did. What I was accomplishing. But after I became an author, I started getting feedback from hundreds of people, then thousands. That kind of affirmation is a powerful thing.“

She nods as though I’m getting it.

”But you won your Pulitzer for a series of stories you wrote right here in Natchez, about events that happened right here.“

”I know. During weeks like this one, Natchez is a great place to do what I do, as cold as that may sound. But