Angel

“What?” He looked around the room, checking to be sure he was where he thought he was. “No, it’s here. In the church. I remember.”

“They come on Wednesday. It’s Thursday today.”

“It’s Thursday?”

“Thursday.”

Ian rubbed the back of his neck. “Thursday. Oh.”

“Maybe… maybe I can help you. If you need to talk.”

“No, I’m fine. It was really just an idea.” He put a hand on Paul’s shoulder to raise himself to his feet. He stumbled.

Paul stood, then offered Ian a hand to help him up. It took Ian a moment to find his balance. Then he reached into his pocket and produced a set of car keys.

“Wait,” Paul said. “You drove here?”

“No. I came off the wagon.” As Ian laughed at his own joke, a small tear escaped from the corner of his eye. “There was a wagon, and I came off of it.”

“You’re too drunk to drive.”

“I’m fine.”

“Ian,” he said with his practiced firm voice, “you’re too drunk to drive. I’m going to take you home, and tomorrow you can call me and we’ll come get your car. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” Ian started walking slowly and deliberately. It was a miracle he’d made it to the church in one piece.

Paul believed he understood now. His visions weren’t

about an artistic appreciation of beauty after all. God had sent Ian to his church in angelic form so that Paul could help him turn his life around. God had let him see his true angelic nature. Paul had simply confused the profound feelings for something more base and common.

As Paul drove, Ian played with the loose threads around a frayed spot in his jeans. They were the kind of jeans that kids bought pre-tattered for effect. He was very young.

“You ever think about that expression ‘on the wagon’?” Ian asked. “They never tell you where the wagon is going. Why should you just jump on a wagon if you don’t know where it’s going?”

“You may not know where the wagon is going, but you know what it’s like where you are now,” Paul said. “That’s probably why you get on.”

“It’s got to be better, right?” Ian turned and looked out the window.

“How old are you, Ian?”

“Twenty-four.”

Twenty-four. If his life had been a bit different, Paul could conceivably have a son Ian’s age. He would have been a young father, just eighteen, but it was certainly within the realm of possibility. He had friends with children almost that old.

“Why were you drinking today?” Paul asked.

Ian turned to Paul and squinted, as though he were thinking about it. He finally answered, “Do I need a reason?”

“You must want to stop. That’s why you were here today.”

Ian went back to playing with the threads on his jeans.

“My dad was an alcoholic too,” Ian said. “‘Worthless drunk’. That’s what my mom called him.”

“Was he abusive?”

“I don’t know. He left when I was three.”