The Angel
Deedee had called the physicians, and they were perfectly polite, hiding their disdain under a surface of reassurances. Nothing to worry about, nothing all, just painter’s hand-you know how it gets, they clucked away, glancing at one another. Was my lord’s business especially pressing?
And then Deedee would frown and say, I called for you. I sent a telegram, and you couldn’t come until tonight?
Claude brushed past them all, waving the doctors away, and giving Deedee a glare. The boy backed away, but the mutiny was still there, hovering somewhere under the surface-why aren’t I good enough, then?
And there was Lalo, still sitting on his little lion-foot stool, half lost in a wash of canvas and brushes, behind him the lit up bust of an angel, the electric lights positioned just so.
The half dabbed beginning of an angel, the paints still glittering and wet and shining like diamonds in the expensive yellow light.
It glowed off Lalo’s wiry red hair, and highlighted it orange and platinum.
“Something is wrong with your hands?” Claude demanded, in the doorway still.
Lalo shrugged, nursing them in his lap.
“I can’t feel my fingers,” he said.
That was the beginning.
Lalo had never liked the theatre, had never liked the noise, or even people, so it was no surprise he wanted to stay home on Deedee’s opening night. He glared at the intrusion, and fluttered his stiff, white hands; go away, I’m working. The angel was painted in now, a blocky white shape on a smooth curve of silk curtain. If he hesitated a bit in the dipping and the brushing, he didn’t comment and Claude didn’t like to interrupt. Deedee was in rapture, his name on a playbill, and it was unthinkable to simply not go, to lock oneself up in the studio and watch the white block become a shape.
Besides, Deedee deserved a bit of style, and style he must have, so off to the theatre, leaving the studio door cracked, and the light leaking out into the dark hallway.
It was still there, hours later, when they returned.
Near dawn, and the electric lights glimmered.
Claude made some discreet inquiries, but nothing was to be feared. One and all were a flutter of reassurances, smiles, and flatteries, enquire, and bills.
Nothing to worry about, one said. Too many late nights; it affected the pallor of the skin. And hadn’t your young artist always been pale? Ah well, it was to be expected of an artist, a poet, an effete. That was to be fifty dollars, a mere courtesy, of course, one had to pay the bills, didn’t one?
Another said that it was a common thing, that many shut-ins had it. Someone whispered of the influenza, but rather than collapsing, Lalo worked on, tireless, eyes hollowed.
Under his fingers, the angel smiled, but when Claude kissed him, he didn’t blink.
In some parts of town, there were the few undesirables; immigrants, still huddled in the shadow of liberty and justice for all. In the alleys they squatted, in cheap boarding houses they lived off garlic and hope and tumble down dreams in a land as cruel and practical as any other.
Claude didn’t know this part of town well, but it didn’t take much effort to explore them, the slums. Fine ladies flocked there, to squeal and flutter and hand out cookies to orphans who needed rather more meat and rather less sugar.
Claude bypassed them all, ignored the pleading of the sick and the dying, and went searching.
This was where the mediums congregated; the wise-women, the witches, the tarot cards and their greasy, creased Oujia boards. Most were false, he knew that perfectly well, but he inquired all the same, and endured palm readings and the searching of lamb innards.
They persisted on telling his fortune, no matter what he said to the contrary. He needed help, he said. Someone needed help.
Every now and then, one was a true mystic. Someone could read the cards right, or a friendly spirit floated, and sometimes they knew him for what he was.
The few that would treat with him offered old remedies and new, spices from homelands, and spells written on tatty papers and strings of cowbells and peppers.
It didn’t matter, because Lalo’s eyes were locked, and the angel was beginning to shake.
Claude wasn’t there, that day, and he would never forgive himself.
He was underground, safe, far from humans and rodents alike, locked in his coffin and dreaming somewhere, of burning streets and red X’s upon doors.
When he woke up, Deedee was in tears.
A heart attack, they said, shaking their heads and whispering to each other, when he again failed to arrive before the fall of night. He seized up. Nothing was to be done. He bit his tongue in half. The heart stopped beating, then started again, too fast.
Someone said grand mal, and something in Claude died, that he hadn’t known had been living.
The worst was that he wasn’t dead; he was still living, lying on the bed, that brilliant copper hair in ruins around his locked and staring face. Food couldn’t be forced past his lips; his grip was vise-like, and his nails left dents in Claude’s smooth, hard skin.
He spoke, once, deep in the night when even the doctors had fallen asleep.
“Claude,” he whispered, his voice unrecognizable, “Claude, I saw it. I saw Him.”
“Go to sleep,” Claude said, in reply, “You’ll feel better in the morning.”
It was a relief, six weeks later, when he died.
The angel was mostly finished.
_________________
A little drabble about a little family in New York City, and my inability to write happy things. But then, vampires shouldn't be happy, no?
-Irene V
And then Deedee would frown and say, I called for you. I sent a telegram, and you couldn’t come until tonight?
Claude brushed past them all, waving the doctors away, and giving Deedee a glare. The boy backed away, but the mutiny was still there, hovering somewhere under the surface-why aren’t I good enough, then?
And there was Lalo, still sitting on his little lion-foot stool, half lost in a wash of canvas and brushes, behind him the lit up bust of an angel, the electric lights positioned just so.
The half dabbed beginning of an angel, the paints still glittering and wet and shining like diamonds in the expensive yellow light.
It glowed off Lalo’s wiry red hair, and highlighted it orange and platinum.
“Something is wrong with your hands?” Claude demanded, in the doorway still.
Lalo shrugged, nursing them in his lap.
“I can’t feel my fingers,” he said.
That was the beginning.
Lalo had never liked the theatre, had never liked the noise, or even people, so it was no surprise he wanted to stay home on Deedee’s opening night. He glared at the intrusion, and fluttered his stiff, white hands; go away, I’m working. The angel was painted in now, a blocky white shape on a smooth curve of silk curtain. If he hesitated a bit in the dipping and the brushing, he didn’t comment and Claude didn’t like to interrupt. Deedee was in rapture, his name on a playbill, and it was unthinkable to simply not go, to lock oneself up in the studio and watch the white block become a shape.
Besides, Deedee deserved a bit of style, and style he must have, so off to the theatre, leaving the studio door cracked, and the light leaking out into the dark hallway.
It was still there, hours later, when they returned.
Near dawn, and the electric lights glimmered.
Claude made some discreet inquiries, but nothing was to be feared. One and all were a flutter of reassurances, smiles, and flatteries, enquire, and bills.
Nothing to worry about, one said. Too many late nights; it affected the pallor of the skin. And hadn’t your young artist always been pale? Ah well, it was to be expected of an artist, a poet, an effete. That was to be fifty dollars, a mere courtesy, of course, one had to pay the bills, didn’t one?
Another said that it was a common thing, that many shut-ins had it. Someone whispered of the influenza, but rather than collapsing, Lalo worked on, tireless, eyes hollowed.
Under his fingers, the angel smiled, but when Claude kissed him, he didn’t blink.
In some parts of town, there were the few undesirables; immigrants, still huddled in the shadow of liberty and justice for all. In the alleys they squatted, in cheap boarding houses they lived off garlic and hope and tumble down dreams in a land as cruel and practical as any other.
Claude didn’t know this part of town well, but it didn’t take much effort to explore them, the slums. Fine ladies flocked there, to squeal and flutter and hand out cookies to orphans who needed rather more meat and rather less sugar.
Claude bypassed them all, ignored the pleading of the sick and the dying, and went searching.
This was where the mediums congregated; the wise-women, the witches, the tarot cards and their greasy, creased Oujia boards. Most were false, he knew that perfectly well, but he inquired all the same, and endured palm readings and the searching of lamb innards.
They persisted on telling his fortune, no matter what he said to the contrary. He needed help, he said. Someone needed help.
Every now and then, one was a true mystic. Someone could read the cards right, or a friendly spirit floated, and sometimes they knew him for what he was.
The few that would treat with him offered old remedies and new, spices from homelands, and spells written on tatty papers and strings of cowbells and peppers.
It didn’t matter, because Lalo’s eyes were locked, and the angel was beginning to shake.
Claude wasn’t there, that day, and he would never forgive himself.
He was underground, safe, far from humans and rodents alike, locked in his coffin and dreaming somewhere, of burning streets and red X’s upon doors.
When he woke up, Deedee was in tears.
A heart attack, they said, shaking their heads and whispering to each other, when he again failed to arrive before the fall of night. He seized up. Nothing was to be done. He bit his tongue in half. The heart stopped beating, then started again, too fast.
Someone said grand mal, and something in Claude died, that he hadn’t known had been living.
The worst was that he wasn’t dead; he was still living, lying on the bed, that brilliant copper hair in ruins around his locked and staring face. Food couldn’t be forced past his lips; his grip was vise-like, and his nails left dents in Claude’s smooth, hard skin.
He spoke, once, deep in the night when even the doctors had fallen asleep.
“Claude,” he whispered, his voice unrecognizable, “Claude, I saw it. I saw Him.”
“Go to sleep,” Claude said, in reply, “You’ll feel better in the morning.”
It was a relief, six weeks later, when he died.
The angel was mostly finished.
_________________
A little drabble about a little family in New York City, and my inability to write happy things. But then, vampires shouldn't be happy, no?
-Irene V