At the door, she paused, and turned. “Well?” she demanded.
Higher knowledge seemed at a loss.
“Get over here and open the door.”
“But I thought…”
“And while you were thinking, did you think about how a woman of my age could manage a big heavy suitcase and a door?”
“Uh…”
“No. You didn’t. The world has gone to hell in a handcart since they canceled Bowling for Dollars.”
Propelled by her glare, he ran for the door and hauled it open. Then, a bit at a loss, he followed her inside.
She shifted her grip on her purse. “Now where are you going?”
He didn’t know. “With you?”
“Try again.” She squinted up at the board. “Only other bus leaving this morning’s going to Toronto.”
“I should go to Toronto?”
“Why should I care where you go?” Grabbing her suitcase, she began backing across the room, keeping him locked in a suspicious glare.
“Fine.” Edna Grey might not need his help, but in a city of three million, someone would. He’d go there and he’d help people and he’d finally figure out just what he was supposed to be doing, and when he’d done it he’d go back to the light and demand to know just what they thought they were doing sending him into the world without instructions. Well, maybe not demand. Ask.
Politely.
But for now…
The bus station flickered twice, then came back into focus.
Why wasn’t he in Toronto? Wanting to be in Toronto should have put him there, but something seemed to be holding him in place. It felt as though he was trying to drag an enormous weight…
And then he realized.
“Oh, come on, that’s a couple of ounces, tops!” A little embarrassed by the way his voice echoed against six different types of tile, Samuel looked up to see Edna Grey staring at him, wide-eyed, one mittened hand clutching her chest. While he watched, she toppled slowly to the ground.
“Mrs. Grey?” He landed on his knees beside her. “Mrs. Grey, what’s wrong?”
“Heart…” Her voice sounded like crinkling tissue paper.
“Hey, don’t do this, you’re not supposed to die now!” Reaching out, he spread the fingers of his right hand an inch above the apex of her bosom, spent a moment stopping his mind from repeating the word bosom over and over for no good reason, then asked himself just what exactly he thought he was doing.
I’m helping. It’s her heart.
Were hearts supposed to flutter like a gas pump straining at an empty tank?
He laid his left hand against his own chest.
Apparently not.
So?
Was this the message he was here to deliver?
A pulse of light moved from his hand to her heart and he felt an inexplicable urge to yell, “Clear!” Somehow, he resisted. Her heart stopped fluttering, paused, found a new rhythm, and began beating strongly once again.
“Mrs. Grey?” Feeling a little dizzy, Samuel leaned forward and peered into her face. “Can you hear me?”
“What? I’m old, so I’m deaf?”
“Uh, no.” Maybe he should loosen her clothing.
She smacked his hand away. “What happened?”
“You had a heart attack.”
Planting both palms against the floor, she pushed herself into a sitting position. “Well, are you surprised? You were there, then you weren’t there, then you were there again.”
“You saw that?”
“What? I’m old, so I’m blind?”
“Uh, no.”
“And why does the whole room smell of pine?”
“I think that’s the stuff they use on the floor.”
“Or some cat’s been pissing in the corner.” Spotting the startled face of the bus station attendant peering over the ticket counter, her eyes narrowed. “And just what are you looking at, Missy? Good thing I didn’t have to wait for her help,” she muttered, “I’d be lying here until New Year’s.”
“Mrs. Grey? Do you want to stand up?”
“No. I’d rather sit here in a puddle of slush.”
About to take her hand, Samuel sat back on his heels. “Uh, okay.”
Muttering under her breath, she grabbed his shoulder and hauled herself to her feet. “So, what were you doing?” she demanded as he stood. “Here you are, here you aren’t—I have a weak heart, you know.”
“Had,” he corrected helpfully. “I fixed it.”
“You fixed it all right. Now answer the question: What were you doing?”
“I was trying to go to Toronto. But nothing happened.” His shoulders slumped.
“You really are an angel?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“So, what’s the message?”
“Well, uh, you see, it’s like this, I uh…”
One foot tapped impatiently. “Angels are the messengers of God. So, what’s the message? Is it Armageddon?”
He checked his pockets. Still no messages. “I’m pretty sure it’s not Armageddon.”
“Pretty sure?” She seemed disappointed.
“Actually, I’m beginning to think I’m, you know, not that kind of an angel.”
“Oh. Then what kind of an angel are you?”
“Just, uh, the kind that…”
“The kind that pops in and out any where they want? Giving poor, helpless grandmothers heart attacks?”
“I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“Don’t take that tone with me, young man. You can show a little respect for my age.”
“What? You’re old, so I should respect you?” It slipped out before he could stop it. For some weird reason his mouth seemed to have functioned without his brain being involved.
But Edna Grey only straightened her hat. “Yes,” she said, “that’s it exactly. So why couldn’t you pop?”
“It’s this form. It has…” Mouth open to explain about the genitalia, Samuel met a rheumy gaze, looked deep, and decided he didn’t want to go there. Or anywhere near there actually. “It’s not…I mean, it doesn’t…It’s sort of defining me. It’s keeping me from doing things, and I can’t get rid of it.”
“Tell me about it.”
His constant low level of confusion geared up a notch. “About what?”
“Be old, boy, if you want to be defined by your form.” She sighed, a short, sharp, angry sound. “Old bones, old blood, old body, they keep you from doing most things, and you sure as hell can’t get rid of them. But you know what’s worse?” A mittened finger poked his chest. “The way other people think you can’t do what you’ve always done ’cause you’re old—whether you can or not.” Her hand dropped back to her side. “Don’t get old, boy. And don’t let other people tell you what you can or cannot do.”
“I can’t get old,” he told her. “And I can’t get to Toronto either.”
“Oh, yeah, can’t get old, can’t get to Toronto; that’s a real similar comparison, that is.” Bending, she scooped her purse up off the floor. “Apples and oranges as my sainted mother used to say.”
“Actually she wasn’t.”
Edna Grey shot him an irritated glare as she straightened. “Wasn’t what?”
“Sainted.”
“I certainly hope not.”
“But you said…”
“Never mind what I said. And if you want to get to Toronto so badly, buy a bus ticket.”
“I need a bus ticket to go to Toronto?”
“If you’re going by bus, you do.”
A quick rummage through his pockets produced a cardboard square. “One of these?”
Her brows drew in. “Where did you get that?”
He shrugged. “Need provides.”
“Because you’re an angel?”
“I guess.”
The intercom sputtered to life and spat incomprehensible wordage into the station.
“Your bus is boarding on platform 3.” Samuel pushed her suitcase toward her, carefully, making no sudden moves. His elbow still hurt from the first assault.
“You understand that?”
He nodded again.
“Well, if I didn’t believe you were an angel before, I sure would now. Understanding the gooblety goop that comes out of those speakers would take nothing less than direct intervention from God. Just wait until I tell that Elsa I met a real angel. Her and the way she’s always talking about how she once met Don Ho.”