Angels Unaware

you tell him, I promise never to take in any strangers again.”
I knew she was lying through her teeth and she knew I knew because she avoided my gaze and said, “But you know I’m no good at this kind of thing.”
I folded my arms. “Neither am I. And isn’t it you who’s always said that death isn’t nothing to be afraid of? That it’s no more than just passing through a door? Well, go tell that boy upstairs that his father just took himself through the door.”
It never really did any good to try to resist Jewel. She had a peculiar magnetism that could always charm you into doing what she wanted, and the few times that didn’t work, she had no aversion to begging. A little later, I was knocking at the boy’s door, trying to think of a kind way to say, “Your father’s dead, so don’t look for him in this lifetime ever again.”
He opened the door sleepily, rubbing his eyes. He was bare-chested and wore the pants he’d had on the night before. He turned clear and questioning blue eyes on me.
“Here’s your breakfast,” I told him, placing the plate on his bedside table. “You hardly ate anything last night. You must be hungry. Go ahead and eat. I’ll wait to take the tray back.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, looking suspiciously at the food, then at me, as if I’d poisoned his breakfast. I watched him taste the oatmeal and even though his expression didn’t change, I could tell he didn’t like it. But he ate everything while I tried to gather my thoughts. He looked haggard and weary, as if he’d scarcely slept. He had a long straight nose and a delicate mouth, and if not for his square chin, he’d have looked feminine. But even the chin couldn’t make up for the long black eyelashes and the dimples. There was no getting away from it—he was almost as pretty as Caroline, and I thought he looked like a right sissy.
My eyes dropped down to the rest of him. Not the body of a man, nor that of a boy, but somewhere in between. “Your father’s pretty old, isn’t he?” I said abruptly.
“Old?” he asked with a frown. “Not so old. Perhaps fifty years or so. Hard work has made him seem older than he is.”
I opened my mouth to speak when I realized that I didn’t know his name. “What’s your name?”
“I am called Luca,” he answered patiently. “Luca D’Angeli.”
“Luca,” I repeated. “That’s a funny name. And you’re from Italy. Is that anywhere near Kathmandu?”
“No.”
“Oh,” I said, disappointed. “We’ve never had any Eye-talian people around here before. How old are you?”
“Sixteen. How old are you?”
“Seventeen,” I said and watched his eyes widen.
“Seventeen? But your hair—?”
Suddenly aware of the gray in my hair, I stammered, “How come you speak English so good?”
He swelled up some when I said that. “My father and I always knew that one day we would come to America, and knowing this, I studied very hard to prepare myself. But when we get to New York, a doctor says we must go back because my father is sick. He makes an X on my father’s coat and says that sick people cannot come to America.”
“What did you do?”
“I tell him that my father is not sick, only tired. The doctor looks in his eyes and ears and mouth and then says it is all right. We can leave the boat. He is not so sick.”
“Hmmm. Maybe they were right the first time.”
Luca looked at me blankly.
“Look,” I said, “I don’t know how to tell you this except straight out. Your father died during the night.” I couldn’t help feeling a little annoyed that he hadn’t guessed and spared me the awkwardness of having to tell him.
For a moment, Luca just stared at me, expressionless. Then he covered his face with his hands and started to cry.
I had never seen a man cry before, and I was embarrassed for both of us. Watching him, I felt a little sad, too, but reminded myself that it was his father and not mine who had died—and that the dead old man and his crying boy were both strangers to me. Like our other boarders, they would come and go, bringing nothing with them when they came and leaving nothing behind when they went (except for Leon, who’d left the truck, the Rubaiyat, and the gun; and Duncan, who’d left Caroline and Jolene). Just the same, it was uncomfortable to see him carry on like this, and I hoped he’d stop soon. I reached out to touch his shoulders that shuddered with his sobbing, but at the last minute changed my mind.
“It isn’t like he got hit by a truck,” I said, trying to comfort him. “He lived, grew old—fifty is old—and died in his sleep. It was real natural. I should be so lucky.”
Luca didn’t answer me and when finally, he had calmed himself enough to speak, it was more to himself than to me. “My father must have been sick all along,” he said, wiping his eyes. “He must have held on just long enough to see that I got here safely.”
“I s’pose,” I said, trying to be agreeable. “What do you want to do with the body?”
“The body?” he repeated dully. “Yes, his body. I must go and prepare him.” With that he stood up and went into the adjoining room, closing the door behind him. With my ear to the thin wood, I could hear the sound of running water and the creaking of bed springs. He was washing his father’s body, though I couldn’t for the life of me imagine why. Once you were dead, what difference did it make if you were dirty or clean? Why get spiffed up for kingdom come?
Jewel came up with Old Sam at her heels. The dog sniffed the door frame, and I wondered if dogs could smell death