Crying Angel

Bobby Forrestor stood in the frozen air, his breath cold, white steam. He was standing there, a few feet from his truck, back arched slightly, his head tilted-up and cocked to the side, like he was trying to smell something. He had been standing like that, just sniffing the air or whatever it was he was doing, for almost fifteen minutes now. There was no question anymore, Joel thought. Bobby was getting weird.

“Mmmmmmh,” he hummed, a long, low, pained sound–even the littlest things about him were now seeming very weird to Joel. For the first time in what seemed way too long to Joel, Bobby changed positions, letting his body relax a little as he shook a cigarette out of its pack. “It’s coming,” he said suddenly, his voice dreamy and far away, the way it had been all night. “I feel it.”

Joel sucked at a bottle of Southern Comfort he had lifted from his dad’s liquor cabinet that afternoon. He hated the stuff but enough of it got him drunk and that was what was important. Joel shook his head at the bottle, rubbing his forehead. He was sweating. It was twenty degrees outside now, and getting colder–but he was sweating. I’m getting sick, he thought. I’m gonna die. And Bobby’s getting weird.

“Bobby,” Joel said after the silence had grown too long to stand much longer. His voice sounded cracked and strained in the cold, so he started over again, trying to make his voice a little more steady. “Bobby,” he said. “I’ve had enough of this shit. Come on.”

“Hmmm?” Bobby hummed back at him–he had done that almost every time Joel had asked him something during the past two hours, and it was driving Joel nuts. Bobby never hummed when anybody asked him anything. “What the fuck you want?” That was Bobby. “You fucking talking to me?” That was Bobby, that was the way he talked to everybody, even his mom. “Hmmm?” Yhat wasn’t Bobby. That weird, dreamy voice wasn’t Bobby. Sitting out in the freezing cold for two hours for no goddamned reason wasn’t Bobby, either. It was just bullshit, and Joel was getting sick of it.

“We’ve been here two fucking hours,” Joel said. “That’s enough. Let’s get out of here.”

“No,” Bobby said, leaning back against the side of his pick-up. He pulled an old, stainless steel cigarette lighter out of his front pocket, flipping it open. “Not yet. I haven’t seen her move.”

“And you’re not gonna,” Joel said. His tone was a lot sharper than he meant it to be, but he couldn’t help it–he was getting pissed. “It’s a fucking piece of rock. Rock don’t move. It just sits there–like that goddamned piece of rock has been sittin’ there for the last two hours and will keep sitting no matter how long we look at it. Come on, man. I’m freezing my ass off. Let’s rock ‘n’ roll.”

“She cries,” Bobby said, looking seriously up at Joel. He was lighting his cigarette. “I’ve heard her.”

Joel put the bottle of Southern Comfort to his lips and took a few swallows, wiping his forehead with his hand. He didn’t know what to say. Bobby was getting weird. Deeply weird.

“She’ll move,” he said, drawing deeply on his cigarette. “For us–for me, she’ll move. You understand?”

Joel drank some more. “Let’s just go, okay?”

Bobby didn’t answer that time. Joel thought he could see everything he said going in one ear and right out the other–nothing was hitting home with Bobby now. Not the cold, not how much time they had wasted and were still wasting, not how late they had been up, not how stupid–and how weird–what Bobby was doing was in the first place–none of it was getting through. He just turned away, looking back to the angel.

“Come on, man,” Joel persisted. Lack of sleep, too much alcohol, and having wasted the best part of the weekend sitting and staring at a fucking statue–it was all really pissing him off. “Grave yards weird me out, man. I mean, it’s fun if you want to come, get drunk, spray paint some shit, lift a headstone or two, maybe bust up some junk–but sitting for two hours looking at some stupid decoration is fucking ridiculous–”

“Shut up,” Bobby said. “You don’t understand. I didn’t think you would.”

“Shit,” Joel said. “I’ll tell you what I understand. I understand that we’re in a fucking graveyard at two in the morning when we could’ve been out–out doing something. I understand that if one of our friendly state troopers happens by and sees us with a fucking truck in the middle of a private cemetery we’re gonna be spendin’ the rest of the weekend looking at the world from behind bars–”

“Joel,” Bobby said.

“–and I understand that you’re being fucking weird. A cemetery, man? Staring at a statue? What the hell’s wrong with you, man?”

“She cries,” Bobby said.

“Uh huh,” Joel said, gulping down the rest of his Southern Comfort and then climbing out of the truck bed. “Watch your fucking angel. I’m going home and getting some sleep.” Joel turned around, starting for the gate.

“Joel,” Bobby said.

“What?” Joel asked back, heading away.

“She’s moving,” he said.

“Goddammit,” Joel swore, stopping and turning around with a jerk. “Goddammit, Bobby, it’s a fucking statue!” He heard a quiver in his voice that he didn’t like–it was almost a squeak. He had been drinking too much. “Statues don’t move! I don’t know where in hell you’re getting this shit–”

“From her,” he said, looking up at the angel. “I told you.”

“Yeah,” he said, blinking back. “Shit. Statue. Piece of rock.”

“She’s crying,” Bobby said, no longer smoking his cigarette, just squeezing it between his fingers and letting it smolder away. “She always cries. She’s so sad.”

Joel continued standing where he was, almost swaying on his feet, a sudden feeling of nausea wrapping itself around his stomach and squeezing tight. He had sucked down that Southern Comfort too fast and had started moving too much too soon–he was getting sick. “Bobby,” he said. “Come on. I’m getting sick. I’m really getting sick now. And it’s so fucking cold. Let’s go. You’ve watched your goddamned statue long enough.”

“No,” Bobby said. He stabbed out his cigarette against the heel of his boot. “It’s not time.”

“Time?” Joel asked. “Shit. You want me to puke all over your fucking angel? Time? It’s past fucking time. Let’s go. I’m getting sick, man. I’ve got to get home–”

Joel was shaking his head, looking down for a moment, as if studying his boots. “She’s sad,” he said. “She’s so sad.”

“And I’m sick!” Joel began to advance on the truck, suddenly screaming that fact with a drunken, nausea-born righteousness. “I’m sick! I’m sick! I need to fucking puke! I’ve spent the whole goddamned night sitting in the back of your stupid fucking truck looking at a piece of rock for some goddamned brain game and then you start weirding out on me like some fucking psycho out of some cheap-ass movie–”

“She moved,” Joel said. “For me.” He shook his head. “I can’t leave now.”

Joel involuntarily let his gaze move to the statue and then immediately pulled it back. Rock was rock, and rock didn’t move. But Bobby did, and Joel wasn’t so sure now that Bobby wasn’t getting dangerous. “Shit,” he said, shambling forward. “What do I keep telling you? Man, this is so much fucking–”

“You don’t understand,” Joel started saying again. What was this bullshit? “You don’t understand.” What was that? What had happened to “Fuck off, dickless”? Where was “I don’t have to listen to this fucking shit, man”? What the hell was going on?

“Man,” Joel started, still ambling clumsily back towards the truck. “Would you fucking listen to yourself, man? Would you listen to what you’re saying? Do you have any idea how weird you’re being–” Joel tripped over his shoelaces, thudding hard against the packed earth. “Ow, shit,” Joel said from the ground. “I’m sick, man. My stomach’s broken. Let’s get out.”

“Not yet,” Bobby repeated. He made no move to help Joel. It seemed to Joel that Bobby hadn’t even noticed that he had fallen. “It’s not time,” he said. “But soon. But soon.”

“Aw, shit, man,” Joel said, but he couldn’t make himself say anymore. The vacuum in his gut suddenly got too strong. The burgeoning nausea returned with a vengeance, and Joel seriously thought he was about to puke all over himself. Shit, he thought. Puking up Southern Comfort in a fucking graveyard, when there’s all those cute blondes down at Ed’s Bar. He sighed, just barely, his gut aching emptily with the effort. Life’s so much fucking bullshit.

“She hurts,” Bobby said after a while. “She hurts so bad. That’s why she cries. Because she hurts.”

Joel felt hard, cold ground against his back, and wondered if he was going to pass out. “Enough,” he said, but it was a whisper, and he knew Bobby hadn’t heard. Just lately, Bobby didn’t seem to be hearing even when he screamed.

“She’s so alone,” Bobby went on, apparently oblivious to the fact that Joel was lying on the ground and freezing his ass off. “She’s so, so alone. And it’s funny, because there are so many people around her. Everywhere you look, there are people. Mostly old people–but there are younger people here, too. Even babies. But still, she’s so lonely. Even with so many people all around her, she’s lonely. You know why she’s lonely, Joel, even with all these people? It’s because they’re dead. All the people are dead.” Bobby sighed, and it sounded crazy–a stage sigh, over-done, dramatic. “And so she’s lonely,” he continued solemnly after a moment. “She hurts. She cries. She’s so sad.”

“Enough,” Joel repeated, and this time it was louder. He pulled himself up. He didn’t feel any pain. He felt cold, though–he was freezing and sweat was dripping down his forehead. “Enough,” he said again, louder still. The air was coming back, and the vacuum in his gut started filling up with rage. He was really, really pissed. “I’m sick of this bullshit,” he said, and then he was standing. “I’m sick of all this.” He felt nausea tickling the back of his throat. “I’m just sick, period.”

“Joel–”

“I’m sick, I’m tired, I’m drunk, I’m freezing, and I’m really, really pissed,” Joel paused a second, looking seriously at Bobby. “We’re leaving, Bobby. Right now.”

“It’s not time.”

“‘It’s not time, it’s not time,'” Joel mimicked. “‘You don’t understand.'” He was at the truck now, holding onto the side for support. “Fuck you, man. Fuck you and your fucking ‘It’s not time, I don’t fucking understand,’ man–I’m sick of it.” He moved over to the rear of the truck, walking up to Bobby. “Keys, man,” he said, holding out his hand. “Now.”

“It’s not time,” Bobby started again. “Soon–very soon–but not–”

“Give me the fucking keys!” Joel shouted, grabbing Bobby by the collar of his jacket and swinging him against the truck. The move was clumsy and weak, but had its effect all the same. Bobby was paying attention to him now–a lot more than he had any other time over the past few hours. “I’ve explained about rocks and why they don’t move,” Joel said. He was breathing fast now and he could feel the oxygen hitting his brain. It felt good. “Now let me tell you something else–if you don’t get your fucking act together real quick and give me the goddamned keys I’m gonna break your fucking skull.”

“Joel–”

“Give me the goddamned keys!”

“Joel,” Bobby repeated forcefully, suddenly slapping Joel hard across the face with the backside of his hand. “We can’t go. It’s not time–”

Joel shook his head, feeling the sting on his cheek even through the veil of numbness the Southern Comfort had bought him. “You hit me,” Joel said, staring wide-eyed at Bobby. “You hit me.”

“It’s for your own good,” Bobby said slowly. Like a patient parent, carefully correcting an errant child. “You don’t understand–”

“You hit me,” Joel repeated, and swung his elbow up into Bobby’s face. He heard the sound it made, like a two-by-four splitting in half. The sleeve of his coat came back red. “Shit. You think I’m joking?” he asked, and then did it again, harder. “Think I’m kidding with you? I’m fucking sick of this, man.” He looked at Bobby’s suddenly scarlet-smeared face. His nose was already swelling with an ugly, discolored bruise and blood spilled down across his lips. But there was no look of pain on his face, no expression of shock. His eyes were as hard and bright as ever–clear and cold and calm, like his voice when he spoke.

“That wasn’t necessary,” Bobby said. “That really wasn’t. I’m just trying to–show you something. That’s all I’m trying to do. To help.”

Joel hefted his elbow back up into Bobby’s face again. The blow was hard and fast, and Joel had to wince–he felt it that time. But Bobby didn’t do anything–he just stood there, his back against the truck, staring at Joel. “Come on, man,” Joel said, looking back into his friend’s bloody face. “Come on–you started this. You started all of this. If you wanna have it out, then let’s have it out–if you don’t, then just give me the goddamned keys.”

Joel drew back his elbow again, more as a threat than anything else–the idea that he might actually be doing Bobby some serious–maybe permanent–damage was beginning to slowly work it’s way through the anger and the alcohol. There was a whole lot of blood now, and Bobby didn’t look so hot. Still, his voice carried over to Joel, lucid and dreamy in the darkness of the graveyard. “There’s nothing to be so upset about,” Bobby said through a mouthful of blood. It dribbled down his chin. “It’ll be okay. It’s almost time.”

“Just give me the keys,” Joel ordered again. He jammed his hand down into Bobby’s jacket pocket, and came out with an empty matchbook, some quarters, and a three-pack of generic condoms. He threw it all on the ground. “Keys,” he repeated.

“She’s moving,” Bobby said, and smiled. “I told you.”

“It’s a fucking piece of rock,” Joel said, shoving his hand down into the other jacket pocket. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, some gum, and a broken pencil, all of which he immediately tossed aside. He looked seriously into Bobby’s face. “Keys,” he said again. “Or I’m gonna walk over there and turn your fucking angel into gravel.”

“You can’t,” Bobby said, still smiling his bloody smile. “It’s time. It’s now.”

“Shit,” Joel said, his anger suddenly peaking again. He grabbed Bobby’s head and slammed it down against the side of the truck, watching as his body went limp, sliding down the rest of the way, his face leaving a bloody smear down the side of the truck. Joel bent over him, and started going through his pants pockets. A comb–that stupid butterfly knife he had always been cutting his thumb on–some loose change and spent disposable lighter–Joel had a lot of stuff on him, but there were no keys.

“Shit,” Joel said, his gaze briefly, involuntarily, raising up to the statue. It was still as it had been for the last two-and-a-half hours. The way it would always be. Still. It was just a piece of rock, and no matter how weird Bobby wanted to get, he wasn’t going to change that. It was what it was, and that was all. Joel went through Bobby’s pockets two more times before it occurred to him to look in the truck’s ignition.

The keys were there.

Joel shoveled Bobby roughly into the back of the truck. He was feeling sore and cold and nauseous and didn’t want to worry about it–Bobby could ride in the back. He wouldn’t mind the cold.

The truck took some coaxing, but it started, crankily coming to life. Joel looked back briefly to where Bobby lay, still unconscious, and then threw the truck into reverse. He groped aimlessly beside the steering column for a moment until he found the headlights, and then turned them on. The gray marble of the angel and the ornate pedestal she was perched on suddenly turned white in the light of the truck’s highbeams. And the angel looked up.

Joel felt something cold thud in the pit of his stomach–something cold and terrible. He shook his head, looking away and then back, his mouth suddenly going dry.

The angel was holding her arm across her eyes, shielding them from the light. Joel shook his head again, blinking. The nausea was coming up again, so powerfully that he could smell it, that he could feel it filling up his nose and tickling the back of his mouth. He blinked, shaking his head, as the angel lowered her arm, looking at him. He could see the icy tears sliding down her hard, white cheeks, her sad, pupiless eyes leaking frozen drops. Her wings stretched, extending to their full span, as her arms reached out to him.

“Shit,” Joel said, slamming his foot down on the accelerator. The truck shot backwards, knocking over two headstones and sideswiping the gate. “Shit,” he repeated as he pulled out with the gas-pedal down to the floor. “No fucking way am I going nuts over a fucking piece of rock. No fucking way.”

Not even thinking about looking back, Joel turned, put the truck in forward, and pulled out onto the highway, leaving the angel alone and crying.