Page 15 of Price of Angels

She’d told him to run, though. And he wanted to do what she’d asked. He wanted to make her happy.

But she wasn’t happy now. She was shrieking. And there were at least two masculine voices, maybe three.

Help her, he should help her. He should throw himself in front of her and defend her.

He hadn’t helped her back at home, though, had he? He’d crawled beneath the bed, like she’d told him to do, and he’d listened to his father come into the room, had listened to the sound of Mama being slapped, the sharp strike of Daddy’s palm against her face. He’d heard the arguing, the cursing, the awful names his father called his mother. And then, as Mama sobbed, the mattress flexed and creaked above his head, and his father panted like a dog and cursed some more.

He hadn’t helped her when Daddy dumped his dinner over her head, because she’d made something he didn’t like. Artichoke hearts in the pasta. Fuck that, Daddy said, and poured the whole plate over Mama’s head. Michael ducked down under the table, at his mother’s urging, and listened to her face take slap after slap.

How many times had John McCall beat his wife? And how many times had Michael hidden and done nothing? Too many times to count.

As he stood at the top of the stairs, Michael felt the beginnings of an awful anger. An anger unlike anything he’d ever felt before. Schoolyard fights, unfair teachers – none of it could touch this, the black rage that started somewhere in the region of his heart and spread outward in cold, staggering flushes. It felt like if he looked at his hands, he’d seen the anger blooming beneath his skin, like bruises. And not just anger, there was hate there too. Blistering hate.

John wasn’t a big man, but Camilla was so very little. “Like a little fairy,” Uncle Wynn had said of her, smile brimming with affection, as his little sister danced across the living room of the main house last night. She was tiny and fragile and soft, and she helped Michael find cool bugs to put in Mason jars for show-and-tell, and she trimmed his hair at a kitchen chair, pads of her fingers light as snowflakes on his scalp. She cooked for him and read him stories and said, “I love you more than anything,” every night when she tucked him into bed.

And John had beat her. Over and over. Her own husband, the father of her child.

Michael didn’t care what kind of sin it was: hehatedhis father. And he wasn’t going to hide one more time.

He turned and started back down the stairs, toward the tumultuous din of voices below.

Just as his mother started up them.

Mama stumbled into view, clutching for the rail, big-eyed and breathless, pale white with nerves. Her hair had fallen, waving dark sheets across her shoulders, strands clinging to the perspiration on her forehead, the silver cross around her neck swinging.

“Michael!” Her voice was high, frightened, desperate. There were sounds and shouts behind her. She’d escaped, but they were coming after her. “Go, baby, run! Your room, your room!” She ran toward him, stumbling up the steps, flailing for the rail as she came.

The sight of her like that burned into his mind. It terrified him. And so he let the anger and hate shrivel down, and he obeyed her, spinning and running for his room.

There were two tiny bedrooms in the guest cabin, one on either side of the stairs. Michael darted into his, the little closet-sized space with its single bed and writing desk pressed up against the window. He had a view of the farm from up here, all bathed in moonlight, rimmed in frost. Just outside his window was the shingled roof of the front porch. He’d climbed out onto it three days before, and shimmied down the drain pipe to the grass below, just to see if he could.

Mama came in behind him, slammed the door, locked it, and dragged the desk chair over to wedge beneath the knob.

Feet thundered up the stairs. The men were coming.

Mama turned to him, caught him by the narrow shoulders, and leaned down so their faces were level. She had tears in her pretty eyes. Her lips trembled as she spoke. “Michael, listen to me, and listen to me good, okay?”

He nodded, even though her fingers were biting into him, wanting to do anything to please her, give her even that fractional peace.

“I named you after Saint Michael. Do you know what that means? I named you after the archangel. The angel who put the devil in the pit.” Her voice was hurried, the words snapping lightning fast. “I wanted you to have a good, strong name. A name for protecting people. A name against evil.”

Evil – that was John McCall.

“I want you to remember that,” Mama said. “I want you to remember what are you, always. Don’t ever forget it.”

“I won’t, Mama, but–”

“Here.” She let go of him and fumbled at the clasp of her silver cross, finally getting it open. “I want you to take this.” She picked up one of his hands, pressed the cross – warm from her skin – into his palm, closed his fingers around it and squeezed. “I want you to wear it every day, and remember that you’re my archangel. Will you do that for me, baby? Promise me.”

“I promise.” He felt the burn of tears in his eyes and throat. “Mama, why are you saying this?”

“Because your daddy’s coming.”

There was a tremendous bang on the other side of the door. “Camilla!” someone roared. “Open this goddamned door!”

“Michael.” Mama caught him by the face, her smooth hands gentle against his cheeks. Her eyes bored into his. “I love you more than anything. You are the best thing that ever happened to me.”

He didn’t want her to say this. Didn’t want her to seem so final, as the men tried to beat down the door.

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