Angel

Paul nodded. “Then I’ll help you.”

Ian chewed on the nail of his left index finger. Paul noticed for the first time that his nails had already been gnawed almost to the nub. Paul described his plan. He would bail Ian out of jail and be a character witness for him with the judge if he would agree to go to a rehabilitation center. Paul would help him with the expense if Ian could not afford it. He would recommend to the court that Ian be given community service at the church as soon as he got out of treatment. As a local minister, his word carried a lot of weight.

So that Ian would not have a chance to change his mind or find an excuse not to go, they would go back to Ian’s apartment, pack up whatever things he would need, and then go to Paul’s house. Ian’s car would not be an immediate problem. The police had impounded it and would not release it until after the case came to court. First thing in the morning, Paul would make some calls and find a center that could take the young man. Ian was in no position to argue.

Paul paid Ian’s bail and drove him back to the brick-block dwelling. As it happened, it was rather conveniently located to the jail, only a couple of blocks away, in the same ugly section of town. Paul parked this time and got out. He made a point to lock the car, something he didn’t bother doing in his own driveway.

Ian fiddled with his keys. “It’s a little tricky,” he said. He turned the handle of the heavy gray door to the left and to the right. He jiggled the key, turned it again, and finally it swung open. “Oh, if you ever come here, the buzzer doesn’t work,” he said. “My window’s in the front, you have to knock on it. Most people just call with a cell phone.”

Inside was a dark, narrow corridor. Ian produced a second key and opened the door to his unit. “Home sweet home,” he said.

The apartment was just about the smallest Paul had ever seen. It was laid out like two walk-in closets in an inverted L shape. The living room portion had a fold-out sofa—which was apparently Ian’s bed—a small folding table, and an old television, which rested on the floor. There was only one decoration. Taped to the back of the door was a picture of a mountain, which had been ripped out of a 1998 calendar. The second part of the L was the kitchen, which doubled as the entryway. Tacked onto the end of the kitchen was a bathroom small enough that you’d have to walk sideways. Sitting on the edge of the counter, which was barely wider than the sink and stove, was a bottle of Jack Daniels with about a fourth remaining.

“Did you drink all of that yourself?” Paul asked.

“Who else?” Ian shrugged.

“You drank it all tonight?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” Ian said. He opened the bottle and poured the remaining contents into the sink and dumped the bottle into the brown paper bag that contained the trash. He turned and saw Paul’s expression of triumph at the gesture.

Ian gave a half smile. “Don’t get too excited,” he said. “I’ve done this before.”

“Well, hopefully you won’t have to do it again,” Paul said.

Ian grabbed a green backpack from the sofa, reached underneath, and pulled out a cardboard box that contained his clothing. As he was throwing underwear and shirts into the bag, Paul looked in Ian’s cabinets. There were three packets of ramen noodles, a box of macaroni and cheese, and a can of tomato soup. In the refrigerator was half a bottle of orange juice and a bottle of ketchup.

Ian seemed to know what Paul was looking for. “You’re looking for more booze?” he asked.

“Sorry,” Paul said, “I just wanted….”

“It’s okay,” Ian said. “I wouldn’t trust me either. It’s hidden in the water tank in the back of the toilet.”

Paul went into the miniature bathroom, lifted the top off the tank, and discovered a bottle of rum hidden there. Paul brought it back to the kitchen so Ian could dump it out too.

“Is that all of it now?” Paul asked.

“Yeah,” Ian said as he opened the bottle and dumped its contents in the sink.

On the ride to Paul’s apartment, Ian sat in the passenger seat with the green backpack on his lap. He clutched it to him like a child might hold a stuffed toy. It fascinated Paul that Ian, who lived in such a terrible environment, would be so trusting. He had just put his fate entirely into the hands of a near stranger. Then again, he hadn’t been given a lot of choice. The alternative was to stay in jail. As if sensing Paul’s thoughts, Ian broke the silence.

“Why are you helping me like this?” he asked.

“I suppose it’s part of my faith.”

“Oh.”

“What?”

“No, that’s cool.”

“I remember. You said you and the church were divorced.”

“I said that?”

“Yeah. The first time I drove you home. I know you don’t remember it.”

“I don’t know. I’ve just met a lot of Christians who were pretty ugly. My mom was a ‘good Christian’. She threw me out of the house.”