Free Bereavements by Richard Lortz Page B

a frightening disappointment, truly a shock. And why not? No one, not even God sitting here, a blinding radiance, would do, or have done. Only Jamie: perfect, whole, resurrected, un -dead, never -died, was what she wanted. This, her deepest, most-irrational, hopelessly insane heart had devised. And would pursue.
    It wasn’t his size—which was more or less right. Or his build, which was finely boyish, promisingly manly. Or his hair, so unlike Jamie’s, but nevermind that: it was wonderfully, humorously wild and beautiful in its carefully shaped and pick-combed “Afro.”
    The skin was perfect; not a single mark, blemish or freckle, and darkly, richly mellow in color. Of course, the face wasn’t remotely like Jamie’s, but nevermind that too. It was a fine face, the nose slightly, handsomely flared, the mouth beautiful, sensuous, “full,” and soon enough ripe for the countless women it would please.
    The trouble was, he wasn’t, for all her dark dreaming Jamie.
    She had a long way to go yet before she reached that psychic alchemy of desire, fantasy, passion, power, my -will-not-Thine, that would change lead into gold.

    He rose when she entered, not out of courtesy or good breeding, but only in surprise, in no way expecting what he first heard, and then saw: the rustle of her dress, the jangle of jewelry, a quick young step across a glass-bright floor, and then the woman herself!
    Old? Yes; if what the chauffeur had said was true. “Forty or so”—ancient to a child Angel’s age, but not at all looking it, hiding it in some beautiful way; slender, with a dress made of gold! and hair that almost matched, smoothed tight against her head like hammered metal. And rings, all shiny green; bracelets—ten or twelve—bright and tinkly as tamborines.
    She stood very still staring at him, and while he grinned, chipped tooth and all, feeling as if the corners of his mouth were touching the lobe of each ear, she took a very long time to smile. He thought she never would, but then, there it was: as shiny and warm as the gold of her dress, broadly, deeply generous, like sometimes his father’s, the eyes crinkling so much they almost disappeared.
    “Angel,” she said. And that was all. Then his small sweaty hand was clasped in hers, and a cool, smooth cheek, smelling faintly like the altar lilies at Easter mass, gently touched his own.
    A vision of a reeking black skeleton in bed, a bony hand waving him away, as it had all his life, almost felled him. He staggered, half-fainting while simultaneously he relived the memory of an orgasm, the frantic, arched spasm of his hips, the wild, jerking cough of his coming against the bold questioning touch of his father’s hand.
    Mrs. Evans caught him, steadied him, if not understanding, at least accepting—as she would the sudden dizzying flush of an attack of malaria—this curious, inexplicable moment of passion and trauma.
    Concerned but smiling, she pushed him into a cushioned chair as if he were foolishly, disarmingly drunk on too much beer, or had merely stumbled, having caught his foot under the edge of a throw rug.
    So, of course, Angel’s surrender to Mrs. Evans was over in one blinding, fractured second: he had given her his heart. It was broken, old before its youth, worthless perhaps, but hers.
    Instantly. Without pause. Without hesitation. Without doubt. Eternally. Forever.

    Before Angel’s arrival, Mrs. Evans had questioned Rose about the garden. Would it be too cool to sit outdoors? Had it been swept and hosed down—cleared of the first light fall of autumn leaves? Had anyone dusted the furniture (which was white wrought iron) to make sure it wasn’t coated with its usual daily share of the city’s abominable grime?
    Nothing had been done to the garden; no one had been out there for days. And with time so short, Mrs. Evans decided not only not to express any anger, but not even feel it.
    “Well, look at the morning room,” she instructed Rose, with only a