If Angels Fall

SEVENTEEN

On good days, warm memories of his wife yielded Sydowski sufficient will topropel his life another twenty-four hours. On bad days, like this one, when hefelt alone and could not accept the fact that she was gone, he contemplated hisGlock.

Take the eternal sleep and find her. Be with her.

What time was it back east? The luminescent hands ofhis watch glowed 1:29 A.M. Three hours later where his daughters lived. Toolate to call. Wearily he found his way through the darkness. He knew his house,every tick and creak of it. In the kitchen, he snapped on the light and heatedsome milk for cocoa.

It had been six years since he saw the monitor aboveBasha’s hospital bed flitter, then flat line. The young doctor and nurserushing in, telling him to leave. Battling against a killer no one couldstop-not even him.

The beast slowly ravaged Basha’s nervous system withmuscular rigidity, condemning uncontrollable tremoring upon a gentle woman whohad dance at her daughters’ weddings. It consumed her by degrees, devouring apiece at a time. She could not feed herself, she could not have intelligibleconversations, she could not go to the bathroom without help. Ultimately shewore diapers. The final insult: she could not be trusted to hold her infantgrandchildren. She watched through her tears and he cared for her. A couple oftimes he swore her bed was empty, she barely visible under the rumpled sheets.Carrying her emaciated body, her fragility terrified him. She weighed nothing.She was dying in his arms.

Waiting in the hospital hallway the night they triedto save her, a strange thing happened. Sydowski heard her call his name. Once.Her voice was young, strong, wondrous. He was amazed. No one else heard her.How could it be? He remembered his daughters beside him, wailing. Then theyoung doctor, the one with an earring in his left lobe, appeared from Basha’sroom and was standing before him.

“I’m very sorry, sir. She’s gone. We did everything wecould.”

Something was indestructible cleaved inside, forcinghim to hold his girls to keep them from coming apart. The young doctor touchedSydowski’s arm and those of his daughter.

The milk for his cocoa had come to a boil.

They would sit in the living room. She would beembroidering something for the babies. He’d be reading. Often he would discussa case with her and she’d make a suggestion about an aspect he overlooked. Herespected her insights. For he had one true partner, it was she.

Since she died, he felt uneasy being home alone. Thegirls’ rooms were empty reminders of happier days. He shuffled around theplace, chasing after her scent. It was still in the house, the fragrance oflilacs. Once he found a strand of her hair in her vacant side of their closet.His immediate reflex was to put it in an evidence bag, as if he could solve thecrime of her death. Instead, held it in his palm and wept.

He pursued death for a living: tracked it, waded intoit, bagged its aftermath, and arrested the guilty. Professionally and mentally,he was prepared for every case, but nothing, not the course work, not thestreet time, not the scenes, prepared him for Basha. Death had turned on himand raked its claw across the web of his existence, leaving it in tatters. Hecould not reconnect. He had fallen into a black hole and feared he would neverfind his way out. Maybe he was dead too? Maybe this was his hell? Deathhaunting him with the memory of his wife in the faces of corpses. The murdershe could not clear. Tanita Donner. The slash across her little neck. The flies.The maggots. Her eyes. Her tiny, lifeless eyes. Open. Staring at him. Pleading.What had she seen in the last moments of her life?

Enough of this.

Get past it. He was alive. Among the living. And hewas hungry. He went to the refrigerator and pulled out some egg bread, sweetbutter, onion, and fresh kielbasa he bought at the Polack deli in the mission.He’d pay dearly with heartburn later, he told himself, biting into his sandwichand sifting through the Chronicle’s sports section. The Giants weredoing well, sitting atop the division with a.651. Outperforming the A’s. He’dtease the old man.

He’d never understand Johnny Sydowski’s Polishstubbornness. Eighty-seven-years old, living alone by the sea in Pacifica. Whydid he refuse to move in with him here? It would be easier to get to the ballgames at the Polish Hall. They could share a beer and enjoy each other’scompany. The old man liked it where he was, so what the hell? Sydowski foldedthe paper, finished his sandwich, and his cocoa, put the empty plate and mug inthe sink before leaving to check on his birds.

His love for breeding and showing canaries blossomedafter a friend gave Basha a singing finch as a gift twenty years ago. He likedits song. It made him tranquil. He bought more birds. His collection thrived.He joined bird fanciers’ societies, entered competitions, and built an aviaryunder the oak tree in his backyard.Basha made curtains for the windows and itlooked like a tiny cottage from a fairytale. Inside, the paneled walls wereadorned with ribbons, trophies, and mementos. Would he make the Seattle shownext month? He pleasantly accepted the drive up the coast. It depended. If theyfound Tanita Marie Donner’s killer. Or Danny Becker’s body.

The velvety cooing of sixty canaries soothed as heinspected their seed and water supply. Tenderly, he picked up a nest of fourfledglings, fife fancies. Seven days old and looking good. No bigger than atoddler’s finger. Delicately Sydowski placed one in his hand, caressing it withhis pinky knuckle while its wee beak yawned for food. He felt its warmth, itsmicroscopic heart quivering and he thought of Tanita Marie Donner and hermurderer.

Did he feel the warmth of her delicate neck, her heartpulsating?

Sydowski was exhausted, could barely keep his eyesopen. He returned the fledglings, locked up the aviary, returned to the house,trudged upstairs, and went to bed, hoping to fall into a sound sleep before hisheartburn started.