Free Angels of Detroit by Christopher Hebert Page B

upholstery.
    She dreaded the thought of making another call. So many times she’d dialed these numbers, and almost nothing ever came of it. A couple of sound bites on the lowest-rated local news. Or a blog where the comments got hijacked by raving lunatics. She wondered sometimes if this was how actors felt—they spoke a line so many times, they no longer had any heart for the role. But an actor could always move on to playing a different part. If McGee tried that, there’d be no one to take her place.
    She patted her pockets, searching for her lighter. Through the hazy windshield, she spotted a man hovering beside a light post only a few yards from the van. He wore a ratty peacoat with an upturned collar, curly red hair flattened by the rain. Above his head he held a newspaper.
    The guy looked over as McGee stepped out of the van. Had she not known they were strangers, she might have thought he looked happy to see her. She handed him one of the flyers.
    “This’ll explain why we’re here.”
    Across the street, in the otherwise empty plaza, the group had formed a semicircle around Myles, who was shouting into the wind and rain, shrouded in a gray mist, fist pumping the air. When he chose to be, he could be as passionate as anyone.
    She wished just then she were at his side, her fingers laced with his.
    The guy in the peacoat tipped his newspaper umbrella, letting the rain dribble down. “Looks like he’s waiting for someone to capture his likeness in bronze.”
    There it was, tucked away in the inside pocket of her jacket. Despite the rain, the lighter came to life with a single flick. The end of her cigarette burned.
    McGee had stayed up all night, finishing the now illegible signs, making last-minute preparations. She’d been planning this day for weeks.
    “Fuck you,” she said.
    They were the most gratifying words she’d spoken all day.
    §
    “I don’t think it went that bad,” Myles said.
    It was late. The demonstration had been over for hours. On the way home they’d stopped for mushy bean soup and soggy french fries. Now he and McGee were lying in bed together, too tired even to remove their coats. The lights of the electrical substation outside the window pulsed along the ceiling.
    “It was pretty bad.”
    Myles’s fingers walked across the blanket until they found McGee’s hand. “It was just small.”
    She rolled onto her side, and her hand disappeared from under his. “They’re always small.”
    “I know what’ll make you feel better.” Myles pulled himself upright.
    McGee flopped facedown onto her pillow. “Not that video again.”
    “Just once,” he said. “I made it for you.”
    McGee rolled over and pulled the covers up to her chin. “Would you turn out the light?”
    “It’ll just take a minute,” he said. “It’ll make you feel better.”
    “I don’t want to feel better.”
    He crossed the floor as slowly as he could. But it was pointless to wait for her to change her mind. And anyway, looking around the room now, he couldn’t seem to find the disk he’d made. He could’ve sworn he’d left it on the desk, but it seemed to have disappeared.
    In the dark, the substation lights above their heads shuddered like empty frames through a movie projector.
    She moved over as he settled down on the mattress.
    “What do you want?” he said.
    “Your video,” she said. “It would just make me cry.”
    He could feel her shivering, and he wanted to wrap his arms around her. “It’s hopeful,” he said, “not sad.”
    In the dark, McGee inched closer. It had been so long since they’d allowed themselves to have a quiet moment like this, just the two of them, like they’d used to have, back in the beginning. Myles wanted to tell her how much warmer it would be without all these layers between them.
    “Just once,” she said, “I want to win.”
    “Who says we’re not?”
    He wished he could see her face; he wished she could see his. There were simple ways to communicate