His hands rested on the edge of the board, and he peered intently into the theater. Hunched over the panel like that, he looked like a director – anxious, but controlled – watching every move of the actors on opening night.
My peripheral vision caught movement in the theater. Malachim in armored suits were hauling flat cardboard boxes to center stage. Though I couldn't see their faces, they moved with a sad, slow precision. Watching their work, I suddenly knew that the theater would be where the memorial service would be held.
Michael was close enough to touch. The smell of him drifted in the space between us. I breathed in deeply the aroma of leather, and something else, like heavy incense, frankincense, perhaps. The smell reminded me of church ... and sex.
"Michael, what about the baby?"
His gray eyes stayed riveted to the action on the stage, as if he were afraid to look at me as he spoke. – "I love you."
"You're an angel Michael. You have to love everybody."
"No, I don't." He grimaced at the Malachim in the theater. Then, he swung his gaze to mine. Our faces were inches apart, close enough to kiss. "I'm not talking about godly love, platonic love, or anything like that. I love you in the romantic sexual sense, Deidre, like a man loves a woman."
"You love me; I see." Despite my earlier talk, I had to keep reminding myself that Michael was an angel. When I wasn't touching him, there was nothing about him that seemed supernatural – no nimbus of light or billowing wings. Instead, he stood there in his leather and denim like any man. The light from the theater fell across the lines of his face, illuminating shapes and contours. Yet, his solidity was an illusion, and I had no idea what really lay beneath the airy shell he carried with him: was it something I could love, or was it a monster with six feathered limbs and a voice like thunder?
"Michael," I said, "show me your real face."
His gaze, which had been focused ahead, dropped to his chest. "I can't."
I nodded. "Because I couldn't handle it?"
"Because I don't have one."
"I don't understand."
"When I'm not here, I'm nothing ... everything. I'm in stasis, yet not. I'm not even a distinct me, but part of a bigger thing." As he searched for words, he scratched the back of his neck. The gesture seemed distinctly human. "It's hard to explain because it's nothing like here: there's no physical body to anchor the spirit to place and time."
"And yet you think you could love me like 'a man loves a woman'? Michael, we can't. We're not even the same species."
His eyes found mine. His dark eyebrows twitched as he searched for the right words. Finally, he said, "I haven't been back."
"Back where? Heaven?" He nodded. Though I didn't understand what he meant, the ashen cast to his face told me he was confessing to something serious. "Why not?"
"I'm afraid."
"Of what?" I tightened my grip on his arm. "Of God?"
He looked back over my shoulder at the Malachim. "I'm afraid of losing what I've gained here: a sense of self, apartness – and all that worldly life entails: having friends, enemies, lovers ... a family."
I let go of his arm, and backed away. " 'A family'?"
He smiled. "It was just a thought."
"Well, forget it. Michael, you're an angel. I'm not."
"Deidre" – his eyes pleaded with mine – "I could stay."
"Stay? What does that mean 'stay'? For me? That's a sweet sentiment, Michael. Really." I patted his arm gently. "But, I'm not sure I want to go down in history as the woman that Saint Michael the Archangel, Defender of the Catholic Faith, Host of Heaven, and God Incarnate quit his job for."
"I'm not God. Others can take my place."
I shook my head. "But you're the best."
He frowned, turning back to watch the Malachim preparing the theater. "That gives me less solace than it once did. The best; the best at what? Vengeance? Now you tell me I may have helped create life. Creation ... 'Who is like God?' indeed."
Michael's gaze returned to mine, and his eye glowed like a proud papa. My stomach soured. "Michael, I don't want this baby."
"You're not ready to be a mother?"
I hugged my knees. "I don't want to be the mother of a new messiah."
Michael turned around and propped himself up on the control booth. He watched me with concern, as I rocked back and forth. Finally, he said, "Okay."
"Okay? You said that before: okay what?" I stopped the rhythmical movement and unfurled my legs.
"I told you, messiahs are tricky things. My parentage doesn't guarantee anything."
"Uh-huh. I see." I tugged at the short hairs at my forehead in exasperation. "Michael, doesn't it seem a tad coincidental that I should become pregnant now, when Letourneau is claiming to be the Second Coming?" I hopped off the control panel and started pacing. My stomach felt like a spring unwinding. "When you first came into my office, you said you had proof Letourneau wasn't the new messiah, but I've never seen of heard a word of it. That's because this baby is the proof, isn't it? You said I would be revered for my role in all this when things were done. No wonder you could promise me that: I'm going to be worshiped as the holy mother."
"Sex was your idea, Deidre."
His voice was calm and almost emotionless, but the impact of his words burned me like a sword of flame. I stopped pacing to stare at him. The whole thing was my fault, just like with Daniel. When I could speak, my voice sounded like a little girl's. "I thought you said sex wasn't a sin."
"It's not." Michael leaned back against the console. "I'm just saying, it's impossible for me to have planned this pregnancy. I never intended to go to bed with you."
He smiled up at me. "I don't regret it ... I just never intended it."
"You really believe this is just a happy accident?"
He shrugged. "Deus volent."
I let out a short, exasperated huff. " 'God willing,' Michael?" My head hurt. "Shit."
Michael stared innocently at me. I couldn't even begin to formulate words for my feeling. So, I resorted to my favorite trick during emotional crises – I turned on my heels and fled.
The wood door made a satisfying slam against its frame. I could almost pretend my action had solved everything. I started walking. It felt good to be moving, doing something. I didn't really care where my feet took me, as long as it was away. I focused on movement. The feeling of my weight shifting from foot to foot, the hardwood floors under my boots, my breath coming and going – all served to center me.
"Deidre, wait!" Michael's voice followed me down the hallway.
I stopped and let him catch up. As Michael continually proved, I couldn't run away from an angel of God.
"I'm sorry," he said. To my surprise, Michael took my hand in his. It was an intimate, loving gesture, and the first touch between us that I remembered him initiating. "I'm still learning how to ... be with people."
I stared at his cool, dry hand. Squeezing firmly, I wondered if I could alter the sense of emptiness that surrounded my palms. The feeling was like clutching a hollowed-out eggshell – tough yet fragile.
"I need more than this," I said, as I let go of his hand.
"Michael?" A young man in uniform had approached us. He stood just close enough to be seen, but far enough away not to intrude. "Is that you?"
Michael clearly wanted to continue our conversation. His eyes danced back and forth between us, then finally settled on the Malach. "Matthew. Good to see you again."
Matthew looked me up and down, measuring. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."
"Actually ..." Michael started.