The Fallen

“You know you can call me if you want,” she blurted out, as she played with the zipper on her bookbag. “If you wanted to, you know, talk about stuff? Like the Emerson thing—or our paper—I could help you with yours.”

Aaron looked at her—really looked at her. Suddenly any nervousness he had been feeling—any lack of self-confidence—was not an issue. In that instant, he decided that not only was Vilma the most beautiful young woman he had ever seen, but also the most real. There were no games with her. She said exactly what was on her mind and he liked that. A lot.

“Now why would you want me to do that?” he asked, looking back to the steering wheel. “I’m sure you have a lot more interesting things to do with your time than talking to me.”

She seemed to think about it for a moment and then began to nod her head slowly. “You’re probably right. Cleaning up after my cousins, doing laundry, my homework—yeah, you are right—I’d much rather do those things than talk with a cute guy on the phone.”

He was a bit taken aback, and reached up to nervously scratch the back of his head. “Are you saying that you think I’m cute, or is there some other guy you’re going to call?”

Vilma laughed and rolled her beautiful almond-colored eyes. “I thought you were supposed to be the dark, brooding guy—not the big doofus.” She shook her head in mock disbelief.

Vilma was laughing at him, but Aaron didn’t care. The sound was one of the coolest things he had ever heard, and he began to laugh as well.

“I’ve never been called a doofus before,” he said. He again looked at her. “Thanks.”

She reached out to squeeze his arm. “I like you, Aaron,” she said.

He had never wanted to kiss a girl so badly. Yeah, there had been that time with Je

He started to lean his head toward her, his lips being pulled to hers by some irresistible force that he couldn’t negate—that he didn’t want to negate. Aaron was relieved to see that she seemed to be having the same difficulty, leaning toward him as well.

There came a sudden knock at the passenger-side window, and the spell that was drawing them inexorably closer was abruptly broken.

A little girl, looking like how he imagined Vilma must have looked when she was around seven or eight, peered into the car, smiling. There was an open gap in her comical grin where her front baby teeth used to be.

Vilma shook her fist at the child and she ran off laughing.

“My cousin,” she said, looking a bit embarrassed.

The moment was gone, lightning in a bottle—now free to be captured again some other time. But that was all right. Kissing Vilma could wait—but hopefully, not for too long.

“I like you too,” he said, and briefly touched her hand. It felt remarkably warm.

Vilma unzipped the side pocket of her bookbag. She took out a tiny pink pencil and small pad of paper and began to write.

“Here’s my phone number and e-mail address,” she said as she tore the paper from the notepad and handed it to him. “Call between six and nine, my aunt and uncle kind of freak when anybody calls too late. You can e-mail me anytime and I’ll get back to you soon as I can.”

He looked down at the phone number. It was as if he had been given the wi

“You can give me yours later,” she said as she got out of the car, lugging her bag behind her. “I gotta get inside and kill my cousin.” She turned and leaned back in. “Maybe you can give it to me when we talk tonight,” she suggested with another wi

He was about to tell her that it was a deal when he remembered he had to work. “I can’t call tonight—gotta work and probably won’t get in until after nine.”

“Ahh, blowing me off already,” Vilma said in mock disappointment.

“Give me that pencil,” he ordered.

She handed it to him, smiling all the time, and watched as he began to write at the bottom of the piece of paper she had given him.

“I’ll give it to you now,” he said as he finished. He folded the paper and tore away his number. “This way there’ll be no mistaking my intentions,” he said as he handed her the slip of paper.

“And what exactly are your intentions, Mr. Corbet?” she asked as she slipped the paper into her back pocket.

“In time, Ms. Santiago,” he said with a devilish grin. “All in due time.”

“Thanks for the ride,” he heard her say as she laughed and slammed the door closed.

He watched her walk up to the front porch. She opened the white screen door and turned to wave before she vanished inside.

The clock on the dashboard said that it was close to three o’clock. He had less then five minutes to get across town to work, but it didn’t really bother him. As he struggled to back out of the tiny, dead-end street, he realized he wasn’t really worried about much of anything right then. Everything was going to work out just fine.

He didn’t remember ever before feeling this way.

But it was something he could get used to.

Ezekiel drank from a bottle of cheap whiskey and pondered the question of redemption.

He shifted upon his bed to get comfortable and leaned his head back against the cool plaster wall. He took a long, thoughtful pull off his cigarette.

Redemption. Strangely enough, it was something he thought of quite a bit these days, since meeting the boy.

Zeke reached down to the floor again for the bottle of spirits and brought it to his mouth. Cigarette smoke streamed from his nostrils as the whiskey poured down his throat. It burned, but still he drank.

It was a kind of punishment, he thought as he brought the bottle away from his thirsty mouth and replaced it with the cigarette, a punishment for all that he had wrought.

It’s odd thinking about this after so long, he thought, staring at the wall across from him. A cockroach had started to climb the vertical expanse and he silently wished it luck. He could have told the insect directly but the communication skills of a bug were so primitive.

Forgiveness—is it even possible? After the Grigori were exiled, they had tried to make the best of it. Earth became their home. They knew they would never see Heaven again. The idea that they might be forgiven had never even entered his mind—until the day he first saw the boy at the common.

He took another drag from his cigarette and held the smoke in his lungs. There he was, minding his own business, looking through the trash for redeemable cans, when he sensed him—clear across the common he could feel the kid’s presence. He’d encountered others over the centuries, but none ever had that kind of effect on him. Aaron was special. He was different.

Zeke released the smoke from his lungs in a billowy cloud. The cigarette was finished and he threw the filter to the floor. He wanted another and considered asking a neighbor to spot him one until he remembered that he already owed cigarettes to several people in the building. He would need to drown the urge to smoke.

What would I say to Him—to the Creator? he wondered as he picked up the bottle. “I’m sorry for messing things up,” he muttered, and had some whiskey.

He let the bottle rest against his stomach and gazed up at the ceiling, concentrating on a water stain that reminded him of Italy.

Was saying he was sorry even enough?

Zeke dug through the thick haze of memory to find what it was like to be in His presence. He closed his eyes and felt the warmth of his recollection flood over him. If only there was a way to feel that again—to stand before the Father of all things and beg His forgiveness.

He opened his eyes and brought his fingers to his face. His cheeks were wet with tears.