Can You Kill an Angel?

An oaken cabinet with swirling edges sat in the corner of the room surrounded by half packed boxes and stacks of old newspapers. The thin glass slits that covered the front wobbled loosely in place. On each of the three shelves, hundreds of small knick-knacks waited to be wrapped up and packed into faceless brown boxes. Maria looked at the top shelf, littered with porcelain angels feeding geese and picking apples.

“Do you remember when you broke this one,” she said. Facing John, she picked up the figurine with the angel watering tulips. A thin, dark line cut across the pink flower, scarring the small antique.

“I thought Mom would kill me, when she pushed me down on the couch. I honestly tripped.” His dark lips twisted into a silent grin. The scruffy beard that had grown over the past few days dully etched the edge of his face. “Then she sat me down at the table and made me glue it back together. I felt bad enough just for breaking the thing, but then she had to sit and watch me with those eyes of hers.”

“What do we do with them?” Maria looked over the fifteen angels, in perfect condition besides the single repair. “They’re probably worth money, but then again.”

“Dad got these for her when he was away with the ministry. We can’t just get rid of them to make a little money.” John picked up the apple picking angel and fondled it between his fingers. “These were some of the last things he ever sent her.”

Maria stared helplessly at the shelf.

“Then we leave them for now.”

“What do we do with all of these things?” John glanced up and down the stuffed cabinet. “Do we just sell it off to strangers now? Does the highest bidder get each little piece of her? Why can’t we just leave the house as it is?”

“John, calm down.” Maria noticed his eyes begin to droop, as his fingers almost let the apple-picking angel fall to the ground.

“I can’t do this Maria. You were always better at these things. I’m not like you.” John set the angel on the shelf. “Keep the money, everything. Just don’t make me do this.”

Maria put her hand lightly on John’s shoulder and led him over to the worn, gray couch. He slumped down with his head between his knees.

“Why are you so worried? It’s not like these things are actually Mom.”

“What are we, anyway? Just the piles of things we collect. Come on, Maria. I know this isn’t her, but she spent so much time collecting.”

“And someone else wants to collect these. It’s a cycle, John. Just breathe,” she muttered, pulling his head into her shoulder. He could smell a light, flowery scent come from her black sleeves.

“John,” Maria whispered, rocking gently in place. “Do you remember when Dad died and mom asked you to not look at her? In the kitchen when you were asking about going to school that morning?”

“Of course.”

“She didn’t mean it. You just look like him, is all.” She stopped rocking and lifted his face. “This will be fine.”

Standing, she grabbed wrapping sheets from the top piles of the newspapers. Wrapping each angel, she packed them in a single box. Using her feet, she slid the box towards the sliding glass door that led to the back yard.

“Take this home with you. It will make you feel better.” Returning to the shelf, Maria wrapped up the rest of the small figurines in twenty minutes. John sat on the couch, staring at the box. Outside, birds flew into the few small trees that stood scattered in the yard. A small rabbit hopped right up to the glass front, looking in at the two of them. John had an urge to get up and chase it, but instead he let it stay. He considered it his act of mercy.

“I’ll take some home and look it up tonight. Later I’ll bring my computer and see what I can do with it all.”

“But,” John started, standing from the couch. “Shouldn’t we, I mean, have a real person come and look at everything?” Maria smiled, taking a brown box underneath her arm and resting it against her hip.

“Don’t you worry. I can take care of everything. Besides, do you want some stranger rummaging through everything?”

“No, but—”

“Please, John. For you, getting away makes it better. I prefer dealing with the issue. It’s how I’m coping.” Maria smiled up at him, a light glaze over her eyes. John had only seen glimmers of emotion from his sister.

“How about I take that for you,” he reached for the box.

“It’s heavy.” He lifted it easily and began walking towards the front of the house, Maria close behind.