WINGLESS ANGEL

The alarm clock shattered my interesting dream. The pillow over my head, I laid there locked in the story that left me only flecks of where I had been , what I had seen. Closing my eyes did not help. I didn’t get a chance to use the pen and notepad I keep on the nite table for these rare occasions. Frank pushed his cold foot against my back, grumbled, ‘Get up, Sleepyhead. ‘ ’Jump in the next lake you see, Mister. Just don’t push me. I’ll get up when I’m ready.’ He pushes harder and I fall on the cold wooden floor between the bed and the scatter rug, recover and ram him with my pillow. We laugh and cuddle.

The November sun is almost high enough to blind us. Frank tells me to close the Venetian blinds. I glance outside, start to pull the shade and let out a scream probably heard in China. I jump in the air, then in my nitegown run down the stairs, yelling all the way,’Frank, Frank, what is that in front of our house?’

The latch on the front door sticks for what seems forever, but opens. The coldness of the morning doesn’t exist. My bedroom slippers and sheer gown are enough. There in front of me is a clean, shiny 2001 white four door Ford, a huge red bow on its roof. ‘Oh, my god.’ Wearing a smile as wide as a six lane turnpike, Frank saunters out of the house. He looks so comfy in his faded blue warm-up suit. ‘Happy birthday, Honey.’ Windows open almost in unison. Neighbors wave and wish me well. I haven’t yet realized I’m almost naked and when I do, I cover my boobs with both arms and run into the house. Instead of Frank giving me a jacket to warm up, he removes my nitegown and warms me on the living room floor. I thank him for both surprise gifts.

After I have read and done my best to understand most of the car manual, I’m ready to put a little mileage on my white car. It’s November but I don’t care. I take out of the closet a white wool dress that has seen too many winters, a white bulky knit coat sweater and find white summer ear rings in my junk jewelry drawer. I fly on gossamer tires to my Mom’s. The few miles are smooth. I have set the radio to FM. There is no static and Frankie and I walk the beach at Ipenema. I am warm without the heater being on.

My side window is open ½ way. I bear right, reach the E xpressway on ramp and enter the line of traffic. Wham, bam. I am struck, struck so hard in my left eye that I almost lose consciousness. The shock, the pain is unbearable. With my right hand I grab at my face, cup my left eye and pull off the road. In my hand I mentally see and feel my eyeball. It has to be there, squashed and bloody. I sit still, shaking, scared to look. Cars innocently race past me. Those entering the Expressway ignore me. I just sit, afraid to do anything, afraid to do nothing. A deep breath and I try to pull myself together, begin to wave out the ½ open window, using my left arm. A few people most likely think I’m being friendly and wave back. Idiots.

One car slows down and I motion to him to park in front of me, help me. After my brief, stuttering explanation I ask if he is strong enough to look in my hand and maybe see —I cannot even say the words of what I expect to be there. He nods and tells me to do it slowly. ‘Miss, your eye is in place. There is no blood, no gore. Can you drive?’ I don’t want to shake my head. Maybe I will loosen a nerve and the eye will fall out. ‘Take the first exit ramp and go home.’ A double thank you, a warm touch of his hand, and he is gone. Some measure of relief overcomes me. I sit there, can’t seem to start my car. Tears fall from both eyes.

At home I foolishly lie down, don’t call Frank, don’t call my opthamologist, don’t think that the hit in the eye could be forming a blood clot. What does come to mind is ‘what hit me. Where is it?’ I go out to my new white car and start to feel the carpet, reach under the passenger seat and find something. I take it into the kitchen, put on the bright light over the table. Looking at it, I still don’t know what this strange object is. It is about 2 inches long and rectangular, made of stone. There are brown small markings all around it, reminding me of American Indian patterns. A hole goes thru the center. It could not have been thrown through my car window. It was not shot from a rifle. The only possibility I can figure out is it fell from a passing car or truck and was then propelled with great force by a speeder, richocheting into my open window.

Twenty five years have passed. With the slightest imagination, perhaps thru a dream. I still feel that shock, sometimes realize what would have happened if a bullet got me. The reefer holder stays in a small wooden bowl on display on my etegere–

But the good Samaritan who stopped to help me is gone, except in my mind–and I have no name for him.