It's certainly been awhile since I've posted anything, but that's okay. Sometimes life gets in the way of writing, which used to bother me, but not so much anymore.
I have been writing, too, but seem to have hit a brick wall with a story. Any feedback would be appreciated (especially along the lines of where the story could go next).
Iris Watkins had ordinary days, which was exactly how she liked it, and planned on having an equally ordinary nights. Her best friend of thirty years, Dora Day—it was never just Dora, but always Dora Day—had been reading a book lately had completely changed her outlook on life, prompting her to declare that she would never had an ordinary day or night again.
"You've got to read it," Dora Day had told Iris over their weekly coffee get-together at Carver's Coffee Spot, a quaint little place on the corner of Juniper and Henry street, just two blocks down from the Christ Evangelical Church where Iris worked as Reverend Preston's secretary. "It's all about doing things that scare you."
That was enough to cool Iris on further conversation on the book, but Dora Day went on about Noelle Hancock's My Year with Eleanor, in which she fully fleshed out the former first lady's maxim of "Do one thing every day that scares you" by skydiving, swimming with sharks, mountain climbing. It all sounded perfectly dreadful to Iris, and really, it should have sounded awful to Dora Day, too. But Dora Day had changed every since she began keeping company with Miles Palmer some months ago. Iris didn't fault her the need for company; Dora Day's husband Dale had spent the last ten years in a grave behind Christ Evangelical, and Dora Day was still relatively young at fifty-seven. Certainly young enough to catch the attention of Miles, retired at sixty-eight from RTI ( Rasmussen Industrial and Technology, for those unacquainted with Sparke's largest employer). Still, Iris had the feeling the two love birds were up to more than just getting acquainted. Even though Dora Day was her best friend, Iris just couldn't bring herself to ask the ultimate, soul-damning question: were Dora Day and Miles Palmer know each other in the Biblical sense?
"So you'll read it when I'm done?" Dora Day said. "Shoot, you can't. Dale's going to read it, but you can have it after that, okay?"
Iris smiled congenially and said, "I've really got to get back to work."
Dora Day glanced at her watch; Iris noted it was new, encrusted in diamonds, and fancier than anything she'd seen Dora Day wear before. "It's only 12:45,"she said, pretending to pout. "We've got fifteen more minutes. How long does it take you to walk back to the church?"
"Avery needs my help on a project," Iris said and immediately bit the inside of her cheek for lying. Avery Preston didn't need her for much of anything these days except typing up the bulletin and fielding sporadic phone calls from needy souls wishing to be added to the prayer list, or from the increasingly irritating mothers of pre-schoolers (MOPS, indeed! Iris thought, biting the inside of her cheek again) wondering why the date of the annual MOPS picnic had been changed. Why, it's been changed due to a scheduling error, she said as sweetly as possible, but the truth was she had overbooked both the picnic and the Lady's Auxiliary Luncheon. The two groups were mutually exclusive, the younger women who chased after two and three-year-olds having virtually nothing in common with the older Ladies of the Auxiliary, and booking both events could have had dire effects. At least, dire in the eyes of Avery Preston, who's tolerance of women's' role in the church ran thin, at best.
"All right, then," Dora Day said breezily, stuffing the Eleanor Roosevelt book into new, giant purse. "I'll walk you back."
"No, that's quite all right," Iris said and did her best to ignore her friend's hurt expression. She quickly paid for her coffee and scone and hurried out the door.
Once out in the dazzling sunlight—78 degrees in the town of Sparke, while the rest of the country suffered under a giant electric blanket of soaring temps and humidity—Iris felt badly for how she had treated Dora Day. She should
have let her walk her back to the church and continue chatting about how this book was changing her life. Even if she was having illicit (but hopefully not unprotected!) sex, Dora Day certainly wasn't cashing in her chips. She and Miles were having fun, and perhaps that was the take-away, as the young pastors on TV liked to say. Not Avery Preston, though. There were no take-aways, no flashy mutli-media presentations, no praise choir. It was nuts and bolts Christianity, , and if every knee didn't bend to the name of Christ, the knee and the person to which it was attached was on Hell-bound express train with a one-way ticket stamped by Satan himself.
Iris walked a bit straighter, thinking about Reverend Preston in the pulpit, sweating as he delivered his message of sanctity, purity, and devotion. He was right, Dora Day was wrong. Why on Earth would someone want to do something that scares her? Life itself was scary enough on it's own terms, wasn't it? As her heels clicked along the pavement, Iris had to admit that life hadn't been scary for her at all. She had been born and raised in Sparke, went through school with a minimal amount of fuss and drama, attended a two-year college in nearby Ableton to get her degree in business support. She began working at Christ Evangelical at the age of twenty-six, fifteen years before Avery Preston rose to the ranks. Back then, it had been the decidedly lukewarm Louis Cunningham leading the church, who actually seemed more content getting to know his flock and providing comfort rather than reminding them of what awaited wayward sinners who didn't repent. Iris had rather liked Reverend Cunningham, but now she couldn't imagine anyone on Sunday except for t Avery Preston.
As Iris entered through the small door marked "Office" in the back of the building, her purse vibrated, making her jump. She clamped her jaw shut from saying something she shouldn't as he fished her cell phone out and flipped it open; why she had allowed Dora Day to talk her into getting a cell phone, she would never know. Iris saw that she had a text message—her fifth, so far, so she didn't have to worry about paying for them yet. The message read going w Miles 2 Flint River 2morow for canoe fun! Eek! Water, especially deep water, terrified Dora Day, so here was another example of Eleanor whispering courage to Iris' best friend from beyond the grave.
By the time Iris settled back behind her desk, her mood had shifted from irritable to downright black, fueled by what Iris had to admit was jealously for Dora Day's new lease on life. Dora Day attended church, but not regularly; she believed in God and Christ, but didn't seem to struggle to prove her faith, as Iris did. And she was having sex with Miles Palmer, and was now going canoeing with him tomorrow. They'd probably have a grand time on the water defeating Dora Day's hydrophobia, and then beach the canoe, sneak away into the woods, shed their clothes as quickly as humanly possible, and—
The ringing phone broke Iris' thought, and she snatched up the receiver, barking, "Christ Evangelical Church, how may I help you!"
On the other end, Avery cleared his throat. "Iris, are you all right?"
Iris felt her face redden. Avery was away on a retreat for pastors; would be gone, in fact, through next Saturday. There would be no Wednesday night service, and Sunday's service would be led by Brother Cleo Lester, an octogenarian with a stiff right leg and a booming basso profundo voice. Cleo Lester was always Avery's go-to when he was out of town, which seemed to be more and more lately.
"I'm sorry, Avery," Iris said. She had long since quit calling him Reverend Preston, though she clung stubbornly to the habit for the first five years, despite Avery's protests. He could be nice like that, but could also turn right around and remind her of women's relatively low place in the church's pecking order.
"Is everything all right?"
"Yes. I just feel a headache coming on."
"Well, you could shutter up early," Avery said. He sounded distracted, and he had never told her shutter up early, that being one of Avery's favorite expressions. He had many, mostly folksy sayings he'd picked up from his father who had spent his youth as an itinerant preacher.
"You mean leave the church unattended?"
Avery laughed, but it wasn't his normal, restrained laugh; it was deep, coming from deep within in belly. Good heavens, was he drunk? Then Iris heard another muffled voice, and Avery saying, "Shhh!"
"It's fine, Iris, just set the phone to voicemail and lock the doors," Avery said hesitantly. Someone was distracting him.
"I'm not comfortable doing that, Avery."
"Well, suit yourself. I was just checking in. Any pressing messages?"
Iris pressed her lips firmly together. "No, nothing pressing."
"All right, then!" Avery sounded positively giddy and at least ten years younger. "Have a good night, Iris!"
"Good night, Avery," Iris said and hung up. What on Earth
had that been about? Avery's wife of twenty-five years, Julia, hadn't gone with her husband on this particular trip. Iris grabbed the phone, her fingers poised to dial Julia's number, but she stopped herself. Avery was probably just having a good time with his fellow pastors and there was one nearby who had…
…but it had been a woman's voice. A rather giggly one. Flirtatious, even.
"No," Iris said and slammed the phone back down. She was down with that particular line of thought. She busied herself with making changes to the church bulletin, inputting the recent tithes into Quickbooks (summer was always pretty low, which angered her), and emailing her sister in Ohio.
Iris didn't communicate with her sister Dolly much, even though she was her last living family member. Their parents had passed away within a year of each other back in '98. Dolly had packed up and lit out for Ohio directly after high school after taking up with a fiberglass salesman named Kermit Rutledge, a spicy little man with a bristly moustache and a seemingly unending supply of off-color jokes. Irish hadn't been impressed with Kermit; neither had her parents. But Dolly was in love, and like Dora Day lately, Dolly was going to get what Dolly wanted. She'd been back to Sparke once a year for Christmas and for her parents' funerals, and that was it.
Iris emailed Dolly that she was just thinking of her (another lie, another cheek-bite). In truth, Iris was still feeling sorry for herself and hoped and that somehow Dolly would email her back eventually and write something like, You won't believe it! Kermit has been seeing another woman and I caught them screwing in his car in the driveway, if you can believe it! I'm packing up and getting out of here!! Sparke, here I come!!!!
Iris had moved on to editing a spreadsheet when her computer dinged, and she noticed Dolly had already written back. Probably from her phone, Iris thought darkly. Hey, sis! the email read. Just a quick word or two. Kermit and I are off to celebrate our twentieth anniversary, can you believe it?! He says he has a BIG surprise, too! Can't wait to see what it is! Hope your good and having fun at the church!!
Having fun at the church. It was Dolly's way of saying that Iris didn't have a real job; instead, she just showed up and laughed and carried on from eight o'clock until five, reliving the hysterical moments in the Gospels and bantering back and forth with witty church members and Reverend Preston, who at this very moment might be in bed with a woman who wasn't Julia. Iris angrily deleted the email and shut off the computer. It was four-thirty, and her head was pounding. She was indeed going to shutter up.
Walking to her car, Iris wondered what she would do for dinner. Even though it far from scared her, she could break the monotony of Stouffer's Choice and go out to eat, maybe treat herself to a fat, juicy hamburger like she and Dolly would get sometimes after school. The burgers would ruin their dinner, but their mother's dinner could stand to be ruined. They barely ate what she put before them, anyway. Their father would scowl and tell them they were too skinny; neither Iris or Dolly had the nerve to say that they would happily eat if their mother could cook something that resembled edible food.
Iris ran through old memories as she drove down the streets of Sparke and out County Road 117, where her small house lay nestled amongst pine trees just before you reached Carson's Bridge. She drove on auto-pilot, running through old conversations with Dolly, talks she had her father before the cancer worsened and spread like weeds through his lymph nodes. As she pulled into her driveway, she didn't notice the glow coming from her backyard, since it was still daylight. It wasn't until well after she was inside—dinner made and consumed, a glass of unsweetened ice tea in her hand, reading lamp on with a copy of her Tending the Soul devotional on her lap—that she glanced at the French doors still covered by drapes. It looked brighter outside than normal, like lightening had flashed but decided to hang around. Frowning, she rose from the sofa and walked to the French doors, casting the curtains aside before a little voice said, What if someone's out there? Someone who wants to get in?
Someone was out there. In the tree, setting off such a fierce light that Iris shaded her eyes. Squinting, she looked again, and the form in the tree shifted, made a piercing noise that rocked through Iris brain before landing on the ground with a deafening thud.
Iris couldn't look away. No more than twenty feet from her lay what appeared to be an angel, it's brilliant right contorted under its body. She opened her mouth to speak, but instead her knees buckled and she gently fainted on the carpet, as practiced as any stage actress.
When she opened her eyes moments later, she gazed back through the window. The glowing creature was still there, it's form rising and falling with steady, rhythmic breath. Did angels breathe?
She watched the thing in the yard for a few more minutes, waiting for it to disappear. When it didn't, Iris got to her feet, still feeling dizzy. "Steady, Miss Watkins," Iris told herself, "steady, now."
Iris walked over to her purse on the kitchen table and retrieved her phone. She wasn't sure if she should call Dora Day or Avery. Avery made more sense, especially if the thing in her backyard was really an angel…and then Iris laughed. Even if Avery hadn't been snoggled deep in the covers with some strange woman, what on Earth would he have to say about the situation? "Keep him there, Iris," she could hear him saying, "until I get back from this retreat. I've got some questions."
Before she could stop herself, she opened the French doors and took a tentative step outside. The creature didn't stir except for its inhale and exhale of breath. "Hello there?" she said softly and continued taking small steps forward. She had closed the gap to five feet, and she said more loudly, "My name is Iris, and—"
The creature shot up, ablaze with sudden, blinding light, and emitted another cry that Iris was sure would split her head clean in half. She fell to the ground for the second time that night. The thing's penetrating, brain-shredding cry finally ended, and Iris thought, This is what the shepherd were sore afraid.
When Iris dared to open her eyes again, she found that the thing's luminescence—angel, she told herself, just accept that it's an angel, Iris—had dimmed to a tolerable level. She could actually look at is face, and when Iris did, she couldn't stop staring. The angel's features were neither masculine nor feminine; they were just purely beautiful. It's eyes were endless, and Iris had the feeling that days and weeks could pass with her simply sitting in the wet grass beholding the magnificent creation before her. The angel's hair was pure white and fell to the middle of its back, and it's wings…oh, the wings….
"Your right wing is damaged," Iris murmured. The angel didn't break its gaze with her, even when Iris got up and walked slowly toward it. "May I?" she asked, holding out her hand.
The angel glanced down at Iris hand reaching toward its wing, but said nothing (luckily, because Iris wasn't sure if she could take another sound blast from its mouth). She caressed the right wing, which hung lower than the left. When she touched it, Iris felt something like electricity pass deliciously through her body, starting at her fingertips and washing through her completely, down to the roots of her hair. "Oh, my," she whispered.
The angel finally rose from the ground, and Iris gasped. The angel stood at least eight feet tall and stared down at her, expressionless. It folded its wings as best it could, but the right wing still stuck out slightly.
"You're hurt," Iris said. "Do you understand? Do you want to help you?"
The angel looked up into the dark sky, back at Iris, and sighed; the sigh emerged from its golden lips like a silken cloth and covered Iris in sweet softness. She closed her eyes and bathed herself in the cool breathe until it disappeared.
"Can you understand me?" Iris said.
The angel nodded and opened its mouth to reply, and Iris said, "No, wait! Quietly, please! My ears can't—"
"We are not used to speaking the human tongue," the angel said, and even though it had significantly lowered its voice, it still reverberated through Iris' bones and nerves. It wasn't an entirely unpleasant feeling, but it would take some getting used to.
"What happened? Why are you here?"
"We fell," the angel said simply.
"We…you mean you fell?" Was there another angel around. And if angels could fall—and not like the Fall, when Satan defied God and God kicked out the host of rebel angels—what did that mean? That they weren't immune, they didn't have God's complete protection?
"Our wing will heal, but it will take some time," the angel said. "Then we will depart."
"Is there another one of you that I just don't see?" Iris asked, scanning the tree tops.
"No, there is just us."
Iris think she understood; the angel didn't have any identity apart from its brethren, if brethren was even the right word? "Do you have a name?"
"We do not."
"Do you want to come inside with me?"
"We do."
So Iris Watkins opened her French doors and allowed the angel to stoop and enter her small house. Dora Day could go canoeing with Milers Palmer and Avery could cheat on his wife, but neither of them would ever top the sight of the eight foot tall winged messenger of God settling on her sofa and regarding her with its eternal eyes.
"I don't suppose you want any tea," Iris said, feeling suddenly helpless and a bit foolish.
"We do not require it. We need to rest."
"I see. Well, there's a spare bedroom I can offer you." Or should she offer it her own bed, which was larger? Her room was a wreck, though. Eeek! as Dora Day would say.
"Here is fine." And the angel closed its eyes and didn't move again. As Iris sat there, her eyes began to sag, and she snapped them open. You can't go to sleep now! There's an ANGEL in your house! Sleep can wait!
But despite her best attempts at staying awake, Iris' head began to nod. I'll just take a quick nap, she thought before finally giving into sleep.
