Stanwood raised himself up to his elbows, hands
clasped, and wailed, “Oh, angel, you’re right. I’ve done bad things. But I repent. I swear it. I’ll mend my ways.”
“The liar finds no home in heaven,” Sammy trilled.
“Ooooh.”
A dark cloud moved over the sun, extinguishing the birch’s ethereal light and plunging the woods into an autumnal gloom.
Stanwood shivered and peered up, searching for
another glimpse of his vision.
Sammy hugged the trunk, willed himself not to sneeze, and prayed mightily that Stanwood wouldn’t have the gumption to circle around to the other side of the tree.
Silently, he prayed, “Lord, make him go away.”
But Stanwood stayed where he was, his pants around his ankles, openmouthed and pop-eyed. He wasn’t so sure that he wanted the angel to return. Perhaps it would be best if this vision were just one more phantasm of drink, like the flying pigs and ghastly green faces of past sprees.
But another part of him wished for it to be true. He’d never heard voices before and the angel’s words had been thrilling. Perhaps this messenger was sent to save him from the pit, and wouldn’t that just be a poke in the nose to the high-and-mighty nobs that stepped off the curb when they saw him approach. A personal visitation would be quite an impressive proof of his worth, wouldn’t it?
Stanwood got to his knees and drew up his pants, woozily unsure whether to stay or run. For nearly an hour he kneeled, craning his neck upward. “Angel? Are you still
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there? I heard your warning and I’m repenting. I swear it.
Do you hear me, angel? God save ye.”
The clouds thickened and a steady drizzle began to fall, but it took a thunderclap to finally convince Stanwood to leave.
Sammy waited a long while before he climbed down.
Tucking the soaked apron under his shirt and tying back his wet hair, he decided he didn’t want to be there if Stanwood stopped in to tell Mrs. Stanley about his “vision.” He’d better spend the night with one of the widow ladies for whom he often did chores.
The farther Stanwood walked, the more convinced he was that he’d seen an angel, and while he couldn’t recall them precisely, the angel’s words seemed increasingly sub-lime, her voice a whole blessed choir. Stanwood’s amazement grew as he began to sober up. He stopped in the middle of the path, clasped his hands and whispered, “Our Father Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done in earth as it is in heaven.
“Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.” As the words came to him, he recited the prayer faster and louder until he bellowed, “For Thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory. Forever and ever, Amen.”
Stanwood shook his head and blurted, “Goddamn it to hell and why the blazes couldn’t I have remembered it back there and shown her. Or was it a him?”
A gust of wind sent a cold shower down on his head and Stanwood looked skyward in horror. Maybe the angel was still near enough to overhear that fresh blasphemy. Frightened, he put his head down and barreled
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straight home, not even glancing at Mrs. Stanley’s door as he passed.
Stanwood knew that he was a lucky sod. For all the times he’d been drunk and fallen, he’d never broken a bone.
As much as he drank, he rarely paid for a round and even so, the fellows in the pubs always greeted him warmly. He was their local scamp, a bandy-legged rascal who got away with things they’d never dare. He’d been a handsome youth, and his flashing black eyes and thick black hair had survived the years of hard drinking, which had stamped his face with a craggy map of worldliness—or depravity, depending on the light.