DAVD SOUL
...Trilogy...
Author, Artist, Poet
Short Soul Stories The topics will portray "slice of life" scenarios that focus on specific historical, political, artistic & social dilemmas, often suggesting practical as well as moral, ethical, religious issues we all face in our daily lives.
An Angel Named Happy Feet
Anthony was a 28-year old lawyer on his way to the federal courthouse in downtown Chicago to try a case on this sunny summer afternoon. Nothing said this day would be “different.” He was practicing on his own as always. The shingle still over his door in a small town north of Chicago proved it. So did the rusting, 10-year old car he drove and had parked in a nearby city garage; that is, when the “yellow money pit” wasn’t being worked on in the repair shop. As did his modest office in the low-rent business district furnished with second hand odds and ends, but featuring a big, if beaten up, oak desk.
After looking both ways for oncoming traffic, Anthony carefully stepped off the curb and began walking across the boulevard to approach the courthouse entrance a football field’s 100 yards away. He was pretty damn happy, a guy who thought himself to be rich in a number of ways. Anthony had several clients that needed his help – he thought that alone had justified enduring through 7 years of college to get his juris doctorate and licensed by the state bar. And, Anthony had a couple of cases an Abraham Lincoln, his idol, would have found challenging. Today’s court hearing was one of them dealing with police corruption. Most importantly, Anthony believed in his future as well as in miracles. After all, his mom had named him after that Saint in Italy’s Padua, known for the many inexplicable events witnessed during his lifetime. And, didn’t Abe, The Rail Splitter, some how rise from struggling country lawyer in Illinois to President of the United States ruling the Free World from Washington, D.C.? Maybe I’ll never live in the White House, Anthony would often tell himself while trudging to this or that local courthouse, but there’s no reason I can’t win this case in court today…
With a “glass half filled” mindset like that, maybe it wasn’t surprising that Anthony would again sense the presence of something bigger than himself. Not that the spiritual world had ever treated him differently than anyone else, you see. Walking on scuffed leather boots with a hole in the sole was a reality check enough. But, he’d be damned if his hair didn’t again stand on end for no other reason than thinking a good, kindly thought or just realizing he was not alone. More than once he had wondered when that tingling sensation suddenly made him shudder and those goose bumps suddenly appeared: Am I being told there’s some kind of connection between me and I dare not say what?
Adding to this other worldly bridge idea Anthony had, now and at other times, were recurring dreams he had since his mostly quiet childhood. There was the “tornado chasing me” dream. Either God’s not pleased with me now, he would muse, or I’m deadly afraid of this adult poverty I seem to be trapped in.
But, harder to fathom was the “speeding car running me over” nightmare. It had replayed itself for years now, more than a decade he’d reckoned; several times or more a day, and in daydreams as well as during sleep. Every vision played out exactly the same as it flashed before his eyes now. Anthony’d be walking across the middle of a wide boulevard on a sunny day like this one. Yet, half-way through the street he’d look up to suddenly see a car coming directly at him; Anthony would always retreat a step and the car would veer his way so as to be on a dead-center collision course; he’d retreat a second time and the car veered equally again, only it would have sped up. Soon, it became obvious there was no escape. It was as if the grill of the car closing in was mocking him and ready to swallow him whole. Yet, each and every time, at the very last second, something told Anthony to curl up, jump up, and TAKE the blow like a running back about to be tackled in football. Every time, there’d be a nuclear white explosion upon impact with that grill he was starring down, but no pain. Having bounced off the steel like a rubber ball, Anthony would see himself floating gently through the air, end over end until he gently landed 100 feet away.
What the hell could THAT mean? Anthony would often ask himself as he did now. Sure, I would like to win the lottery and buy a new Cadillac like most shrinks would suggest was the underlying “life’s crisis” I was surely undergoing, but my life’s pretty good otherwise, thank you. After so many years of replaying the day dream or nightmare, he couldn’t decide which it was, was almost taken for granted, just another thought in a lawyer’s thought-filled day.
Damn, it’s hot as hell, Anthony thought half way across what he though was still an empty street. Yet, suddenly looking to his right, he saw a car coming directly at him; Anthony retreated a step, then, two, but the car veered his way so as to be on a dead-center collision course; he retreated a second time, but the car veered even more squarely toward him. The sucker is speeding up; it’s as if the car sees me and is purposely running me down. Anthony now clearly saw the grill of the car bearing down on him. Soon, it became obvious there was no escape. Oh, my God. I’m going to be hit.
Instead of terror, however, Anthony felt a strange calm overcome him. At the very last second, something told him to curl up, jump up, and TAKE the blow like a running back about to be tackled in football rather than being run over. He saw the grinning grill smash into his offered shoulder. He next saw that nuclear white explosion upon impact, but felt no pain. Having bounced off the steel like a rubber ball, Anthony could see himself float gently through the air, end over end; he could hear people screaming in horror as the surrounding skyscrapers rotating with him, until he gently landed 100 feet away from the stopped car.
Anthony would never know exactly how long he lay unconscious on the pavement. But, the police and firemen on the scene would later tell him it was about 30 minutes. He would vividly recall years later waking as a firefighter was covering his prostrate body with his warm coat to prevent shock. Looking at the car that had hit him, Anthony could see his scuffed boots still sitting neatly side by side underneath – he had been knocked clean out of them. When the paramedics got Anthony to the hospital, a battery of nurses cut away his clothing looking for signs of external and internal bleeding and other injuries. The police report would say “probable broken collarbone, arm and leg from pedestrian collision with speeding car.” Yet, a full battery of X-rays showed NOTHING wrong. A physician, thinking there had to be a mistake ordered a second full batter of X-rays. But, still no sign of a single fracture.
For several days, Anthony would feel like his entire body had been dipped in hell fire. But, while Anthony had occasional temporary memory loss and a little difficulty keeping his train of thought on his clients and cases, he was 100 percent by year’s end.
It would eventually come to light that the driver of the runaway car had had a liquid lunch with several colleagues and was returning to his downtown office; he had panicked upon seeing Anthony jaywalking in the middle of the boulevard. While swerving to avoid Anthony only to hone in on him, the intoxicated driver had also stepped on the accelerator instead of the brake.
Anthony would become convinced that his happy feet on the day of his ordeal, but so often described in that recurring dream saved his life.
Daniel & Juliet
Funny, ain’t it, how much of history never gets recorded. That is, if folks don’t write it down. And, even when they do, the darn letter or whatever telling the story can get lost. On the other hand, highly underrated is the ‘ol Native American way of passing history along by word of mouth to each succeeding generation. Works for me. Take, for instance, the little known Revolutionary War story my great grandfather told me after having heard it from his great grandfather:
Ahem. As we were told, from his Mount Vernon plantation home ten miles away, Commander George Washington was making frequent trips on horseback to the Fairfax County seat at Alexandria. Often, he’d be accompanied on these trips to the bustling port on the Potomac by what could be called an “aide de camp”, 17-year-old Daniel Danbury, a handsomely blond, blue-eyed son of a wealthy tobacco farmer, Jacob. The eager to serve Daniel veritably worshipped the already famous man and was a regular guest at George’s and wife Martha’s table at Mount Vernon. It was a good fit in these volatile times that promised to pit neighbor against neighbor. Washington was already readying himself to command troops again. And, a young but bright buck like Daniel had quickly become irreplaceable for running errands and exchanging messages with fence straddlers as well as committed allies.
Indeed, a veteran of the French & Indian wars 20 years earlier, the tall, lanky Washington was rapidly recruiting his first citizen soldiers and drilling them in the town’s Market Square so’s to one day be able to stand up to the mighty British battalions now threatening all 13 colonies. First the damn Stamp Act that taxed every document exchanged and newspaper printed infuriated Washington; then, came the Intolerable Acts that punished the colonies in various ways for speaking their minds. And, now, British ships with thousands of troops were apparently on their way to Boston Harbor to enforce Parliament’s odious laws. For the first time, the words “organized resistance” and even “rebellion” were gaining acceptance in polite Alexandrian society and a peaceful settlement of the “peculiar gentlemen’s” disagreement behind the British policy of “taxation without representation” seemed increasingly unlikely.
Not that Washington or many other landowners in and about town weren’t of a like mind, like Colonel William Fairfax and George Mason; still they considered themselves British and loyal to King George… if only he and Parliament would listen to reason. Truth be told, more than a few Alexandrians were dead set against taking up arms of any sort and would one day be dubbed “Tories” who would be ripe for tarring and feathering as they were carted through the streets. One of them was Logan Auspere, Alexandria’s prosperous shipping agent who pretty much brokered…and controlled…all tobacco trade between the Motherland and the colonists like Washington and Danbury. No small thing for our story was Logan’s also being a leader in its Anglican church who was convinced King George was God’s anointed one on earth; to resist his will was to challenge the Almighty Himself.
Where the twain meets in this story is this: Young Daniel Danbury had met 16-year old Juliet Auspere on one of these visits to Alexandria. The petit, dark haired Juliet was a looker, too, with an angelical sweet disposition to boot. If ever there was a mutual, instantaneous and volcanic “love at first sight” this was it. Every night while staying with Washington in his Alexandria town home, Daniel would make one excuse or another to visit Juliet in a garden park on the outskirts of town, away from gossiping eyes. The same rendezvous would happen whenever Washington went to the tavern down the street to politic with its customers. Never had two soul mates seemed to have more dreams in common. Happy talk was followed by hand holding was followed by sweet embraces was followed by gentle kisses.
“I will love you until the day I die,” vowed Daniel one blue moon night.
“And, I promise never to love another,” sighed Juliet with tears of joy in her eyes.
Talk of marriage was perhaps inevitable.
“Did you talk to your father about us?” Daniel wondered.
“I have,” Juliet nodded. “He would hear none of it. And, you?”
“My father was livid, too.”
Unfortunately, you see, Daniel’s father, Jacob Danbury, hated Juliet’s father, Logan Auspere, for cheating the tobacco farmers like him with one-sided deals that always favored the British traders. (Actually, Washington felt the same and for that reason had eased out of tobacco farming and slowly converted his lands to grain production.) And, Logan Auspere detested Jacob Danbury for hating him over exchange rates set in London and over which he had no control. A marriage between young Daniel and Juliet would never be permitted by either family or law. It was at that impasse that the grand idea of a young, idealistic marriage rested, but for only a day.
“I have talked to a Roman Catholic priest in town from Maryland who is visiting family,” an exuberant Daniel told Juliet the next night at their usual meeting place. “I told him everything and asked him to marry us.”
“And, what did he say?” Juliet breathlessly wanted to know.
“At first, he was hesitant. But, then, he saw how much I loved you. He understood how much we loved each other.”
“And?”
“He’ll join us as husband and wife,” Daniel exclaimed as he took Juliet into his arms and held on tightly, as if for dear life.
“But, when?”
“Tonight. Now!”
Meanwhile, as emotions ratcheted up everywhere, some even crazier thinking had surfaced amongst most folks in Alexandria. Already mentioned were those tar and feather episodes to be visited upon those Virginians accused by patriots of being “Tories.” Well, on the other end of the stick, some loyalists like Logan Auspere got wind of patriot Washington’s lobbying other colonial leaders for command of what would become the Continental Army. Learning of his daughter’s desire to marry a Danbury, one so close to the soldier who would be so bold as to challenge the king, did not help his frame of mind.
“We have reason to believe open warfare will break out soon and Washington will be heading up the colonists’ resistance,” Auspere wrote to the crown’s Fairfax County and Virginia governors. “We need help.”
And, help is what Auspere got, or, thought he would get. Out of that furtive missive was hatched the crown’s plot to kidnap Washington on one of his Mount Vernon to Alexandria sojourns. After all, did not Auspere guarantee that the Mount Vernon man rode alone, except for a boy he calls an “aide-de-camp”?
Assigned to do the dirty deed against Washington were two cutthroats for hire and a strapping, ambitious British Captain named Robert Cushing. The plan was simple. The trio would lay hidden in wait along an isolated glen in the heavily forested Mount Vernon trail leading to Alexandria. They’d pounce on their quarry at gunpoint. Sabres and knives would be available to encourage a bloodless surrender. But, little resistance was anticipated.
As it happened a fortnight later, Washington and Daniel were riding side by side as usual, chatting while basking in the glorious sunlight that penetrated through the familiar tree-lined pathway.
“Daniel, you seem quiet,” Washington noted, “as if you have the weight of the world resting on your shoulders.”
“Oh, you have so much more to worry about, General,” Daniel shook his head.
“Come now. Let’s have it. What’s bothering you?”
Daniel hesitated, but wanted to spill to the man who had become somewhat of a father figure to him. “Can I have your blessing?”
Washington was taken aback. “Blessing?”
“I’ve been wed. To Juliet Aupere.”
Washington grew ashen, but he forced a smile in saying, “Of course, Daniel, of course. I hear she’s a lovely young woman.”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know how we’ll make it.”
“And, your father? Juliet’s father?”
Daniel’s downcast eyes were answer enough.
Suddenly, out of nowhere sprang Captain Cushing and his two cohorts. Warning shots were fired in the air as planned and sabers were wielded above heads to merely threaten. But, while Washington calmly pulled in his reins and his horse backwards out of immediate reach, the young Daniel panicked.
“I will save you, General,” he shouted.
Daniel leapt from his horse upon Cushing who reflexively ran him through with his sword. It was a mortally wounded Daniel who fell to the ground while embracing the weapon that had killed him. The shocking interlude yielded enough time for Washington to pull his own saber from its scabbard and urge his stallion toward the now exposed Captain. With a mighty thrust it was Washington’s turn to kill. Seeing their leader fall next to Daniel, the two cutthroats turned tail and ran.
Upon Washington’s entering Alexandria’s market place hours later with Daniel and the Captain draped lifelessly over their horses, a crowd quickly gathered. Some surmised what had happened and shed tears, while others vowed revenge. A few retreated to their homes with pangs of guilt as well as dread. Seeing her young husband upon pushing her way through the throng, Juliet yelped a haunting “No.” Her father who also had arrived could not console her.
Washington surveyed the scene and sadly commented as if the Bard himself: “In troubled times such as these, we can expect love and violence to manifest with equal passion. But, I promise one and all, it is love that will conquer hate.”
Elaine's Migraine Pit
After suffering through the ordeal of another “classic” migraine headache, 30-year-old and single Elaine had finally fallen asleep. Resting next to her on the bed was the book she had been trying to read, Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Pit and the Pendulum.” It was a small irony perhaps in that the editor of a prestigious New York publishing company in this modern era year of 1991 had come to fear the good old fashioned mega-headaches. Like Poe’s damnable chamber and slow descent of the pendulum upon a helpless victim, Elaine’s migraines now induced a certain mortal terror of a drawn out, yet inevitable … death.
Elaine’s dreaded boogeyman was, in fact, an irrepressible eight-hour “process” that, in the end, left her spiritually, emotionally and physically drained. They were especially frightening in that they were not only increasing in frequency since childhood, but being “triggered” now four, sometimes five times, every week. “I can’t go on like this much longer,” she’d tell a succession of doctors, none of whom could really ascertain the underlying cause.
Yet, Elaine’s “ritualistic” migraines were understandable enough. Upon awakening in the morning, she would feel the “aura” or whiff of pain commence; a blurring in the right eye, then, a slight tightening in the back of the neck, followed by a twinge of nausea. On rare occasions, the early pain would subside. But, once the aura took up permanent residency in Elaine’s head, its pain would not only slowly but surely increase from that blurred right eye, but spread throughout her entire body. By the second hour, a sense of desperation would dominate her thoughts, breathing became harder, both eyes were even harder to focus, and the stomach began to churn. Hour three would bring that nearly unbearable headache that made Elaine feel her head was going to explode. The “retching stage” was her way of describing the fourth and worst of all hours, the hour when laying down only made every pain worse, so much so, that she felt she had literally lost all control of her body, lost her humanity. The next four hours, Elaine grew to realize, were to be spent as motionless as possible, often, with head held between her legs as she sat on a chair, a couch … or, the toilet.
But, ah, then came the blessed relief as Mr. Migraine slowly began to subside. For the rest of the day, Elaine might even be able to resume a modicum of normal living, perhaps even read a good book to fall asleep with, as she had done this night. Best of all? She could count on waking up with that heavenly feeling any migraine sufferer will tell you comes from “a total absence of ungodly pain.”
“Today’s Friday,” Elaine reminded herself, “and NO AURA!” She jumped out of bed and threw open her bedroom curtains to let in an eye-opening sunlight. “And, this means I get to go with the editorial team to do lunch at “Chow’s”, the best Chinese Restaurant in town.”
After showering, making herself up and donning a bright blue dress, Elaine downed a coffee and her feel good toasted waffles, boxes of which were stored in the freezer. “Get a good breakfast in you, girl,” she reminded herself, “to nip any migraine in the bud.” In fact, Elaine had long since tried to fight off her increasing headaches, if unsuccessfully, my eating as many “comfort foods” as possible throughout the work day – hot dogs, deli sandwiches, gourmet cheeses, and healthy salads soaked with dressings you “make up from scratch” by adding oil and vinegar to packaged spices. Night-time was similarly marked by easy to make but healthy frozen dinners, the kind that helped Elaine keep her figure. An occasional chocolate and glass of red wine was her modest concession to the “wild side of life.”
Buoyed by her renewed spirits, Elaine thought about cancelling her doctor’s appointment at 10 a.m. to talk yet again about a new experimental drug to ameliorate or even prevent her migraines.
“For 15 years, nothing’s worked,” she complained out loud to herself. “At least, the doctors now concede I’m getting migraines.”
The lack of a proper diagnosis had been almost as frustrating as the increasing number of bouts with the pain.
“What bull shit,” Elaine said to the one invisible ex-doctor she particularly held a grudge with. “Sinus headache? Some people just have a bad nose?”
Nor did she have much respect for the several “headache specialists” who had insisted she was experiencing “tension headaches” and just needed to “learn how to relax.”
It wasn’t until her current doctor, John Siena, MD of 7th Avenue, had actually listened to Elaine describe in detail the exact patter of her migraine that he identified it for what it really was. “Yep, you have what we call the ‘classic’ migraine,” he had assured nearly a year ago.
The revelation had made Elaine feel a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “At least, I’m not crazy,” she thought at the time … but, only until the next aura and migraine ensued.
It was the memory of her most recent “episode” that made Elaine keep her appointment with Dr. Siena.
“Doctor, I have to tell you the Cafergot you prescribed for me isn’t doing the job in stopping my headaches once they really rev up,” Elaine said with a worried look that bordered on alarm. “In fact, the number as well as severity keeps going up, not down … and, I’m starting to feel like …”
“Like what?” Siena wanted to know.
“Like things are closing in on me. Like … the migraines are sucking the life out of me.”
Dr. Siena paused thoughtfully, taking Elaine’s dire prognosis seriously. “You haven’t thoughts of suicide, have you?” he finally bluntly asked.
“Of course not. But, I’ve felt like banging my head into the nearest wall. And, I can see why someone with these headaches might think of putting an end to it all the hard way. And, that’s no joke.”
Dr. Siena smiled an empathetic smile. “Well, I can tell you, you ain’t going to die any time soon and will probably outlive me.”
“Do you have anything besides the Cafergot like we discussed the last time I was here”?
“We tried valium and that worked … too well. No, we won’t go the narcotics route.”
“I heard of a new pill you take every day …”
“I have, too. There’s a number of new drugs coming to market. Let me consult with a colleague of mine doing research for a leading headache. We’ll ID the most promising and prescribe it for you.”
“I can’t thank you enough, doctor.”
“Listen. What’s causing your migraines, Elaine, may still be as much of a mystery as the Sphinx,” Dr. Siena admitted. “But, we won’t stop until we get to the bottom of this. I promise.”
“Hmph. Another pendulum that won’t stop,” Elaine muttered to herself.
Elaine got to her publishing company’s offices on 5th Avenue just in time to catch the editorial team meeting in the skyscraper’s lobby so’s to head to that Chinese restaurant for lunch.
“Hey, Elaine, glad you could make it,” said Terry Lauletta, the editor in chief. “Hope you’re feeling better.”
“I am, I am,” chortled Elaine. “And, I’m really looking forward to this team luncheon. I heard the Cashew Chicken at “Chow’s” is out of this world.”
“It is,” agreed Nancy Wang. “The beef broccoli is my favorite.”
“I see the gang’s all here,” noted the boss. “Besides you guys, Bill, Harry, Sammy, Jena, Alice, Lori, June … Let’s go three cabs, company treat.”
And, pig out on their favorite Chinese favorites Elaine and her colleagues did. Yet, on the cab ride back to the office, Elaine felt the dreaded aura and by the time she had returned to the office, a full-blown migraine was erupting. Holding her stomach on the ride up the elevators to the publishing firm’s 25th floor, Elaine thought of calling Dr. Siena. Walking gingerly to her desk, however, she noticed Jena and Alice nearby, holding their heads in obvious discomfort. Meanwhile, she saw Bill leaning wobbily against the wall next to the office water cooler.
“Terry, most of the guys are feeling terrible. What gives”? Elaine asked upon unsteadily entering the boss’s office.
“My head’s pounding, too,” Lauletta admitted. “Seems everyone except Nancy Wang got what they call an “MSG Buzz.”
“What’s that?”
“Monosodium glutamate. It’s what soy sauce is largely made of. And, it’s in a lot of processed or frozen foods these days.”
“I think I’ll make a call to my doctor after all,” Elaine replied and returned to her desk, if with some difficulty, with an epiphany to share.
After describing the editorial team’s reaction to the Chinese food, she asked Dr. Siena if there could be a tie in to her migraines.
“Funny you should ask,” said the doctor. “I just got off the phone with my research colleague who’s been working with the Diamond Headache Clinic in Chicago. Seems they’ve identified a number of foods they’re calling migraine ‘triggers.’ MSG in soy sauce and used as a preservative in frozen foods is one of them.”
“What are some of the others?”
“Coffee, chocolates, anything fermented like cheese, anything aged like cold cuts or hot dogs …”
“Salad dressings, too?”
“Yes. That’s on the Diamond list.”
“I’ve been eating all those foods, doc.”
“Looks like you may have been slowly poisoning yourself.”
​
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My Guardian Angel Gabriel
Let me begin at the beginning … it’s always best to do so in any story, but especially true when talking about one’s Guardian Angel who’s been with you since … the beginning.
My name is Jonathan. I was baptized as, and raised in, a devout Catholic family of seven. And, although my old man's mind can sometimes wander about now, I am sure of still being of the same faith. I can clearly recall as if it were yesterday my first remembrances of being proud to have been named after a Biblical hero. Sharing a name with David’s best friend and help-mate to boot was all the more inspiring. And, as it turns out, my Guardian Angel told me that’s the way it should be.
Let me explain. I ALWAYS had a sense that I was never alone in this world. And, while I might not have been able to name the Angel that always tagged along and pretty much took him for granted, it didn’t change my being sure "he" was with me. I knew it when, as a toddler, I road my tricycle or played in the backyard sand box. I knew he was with me taking the first swing with the big neighborhood boys on the car-lined street that passed as a ball field and used a sewer covering as home plate and second base. And, my Guardian Angel’s presence was surely felt during that mind-bending first day of kindergarten – I was one of the few kids that didn’t start balling when mom turned and left me standing there alone in a sea of, well, balling kids. I suspected the kids still with a grip on themselves had good Guardian Angels, too.
The nameless relationship between me and what’s-his-name pretty much remained that way throughout my life … even though my faith naturally had its struggles, if not ups and downs. One especially troubling moment was when, as a 6-year old, I shop-lifted a candy bar from a drug store and immediately had a feeling I had done something terribly wrong; the chocolate never tasted so bad to my conscience. Another time was when I was nine years old. You guessed it. That’s the age at which many Catholic boys and girls are asked to “name” their sponsoring Saint, who would, in addition to the Guardian Angel, keep you strong and holy. Catholics have a lot of such Heavenly help, you know. My parents had already given me Saint Anthony as my spiritual guide at baptism. Now considered an adult by the Church, it was my turn to confirm that early consecration into the faith and, in doing so, name that third special Saint who'd help keep me on the Road Less Travelled.
“Who would you like your confirmation saint to be?" my mom asked as if I’d really had sole say in the decision.
I thought long and hard about it as confirmation day neared. Maybe for a whole month. And, I don’t know why, but “Gabriel” kept coming into mind. After all, the name sounded cool to me. And, Gabriel the Archangel was the one announcing the birth of baby Jesus and I had always LOVED the nativity story as much as Saint Nicholas’ kind visitation every Christmas morning.
“Gabriel,” I blurted one morning at the breakfast table.
“What’s that?” mom asked with a surprised look on her face (although I knew she had clairvoyant powers and was never surprised at anything I said or did).
“I want to have ‘Gabriel’ as my confirmation name,” I clarified.
“No, that’s not a good name,” she replied without explaining.
“Why?” I protested as much as asked. “Gabriel is a great Archangel.”
“Your confirmation name should be ‘Michael’” my mom countered. “Michael is an Archangel, too.”
“But, why can’t I have ‘Gabriel.’” I retorted.
“Because,” she insisted.
That’s when I knew my confirmation name was going to be ‘Gabriel’ because “because” was the final word when dealing with my mom.
I was disappointed and hurt, of course. Not that “Michael” wasn’t a grand Archangel and cool sounding name, too. I looked him up. Michael was the Patron Saint of soldiers and my dad certainly looked up to him for having kept him safe when he fought in the great World War. So, yeah, I slowly came to realize I couldn’t go wrong with a Saint who wielded a mighty sword while slaying any devil who tried to tempt me like the one who had tempted Jesus in the desert.
But, I never forgot the moment or having a fondness for “Gabriel.” In fact, the memory and name kept popping up in my mind through my schooling, becoming a fire fighter (whose patron saint was “Michael”), getting married, then, raising a family of four of my own. Gabriel certainly kept coming up and playing a central role every Christmas we recited the Christmas Story as a family. But, I’d also often and inexplicably think of “Gabriel” when simply walking through a forest on a sunny, cloudless day; seeing a homeless person begging for “change, or, teaching one of my kids about the Saints and Angels in Heaven.
“Your Guardian Angel will watch over you tonight,” I’d often tell each of my own young children while tucking them in bed every night.
“What’s my Guardian Angel’s name?” they’d often ask.
“Well, we don’t know his or her name, but they’re always there to keep us safe,” I’d typically try to reassure.
“But, why don’t we know my Guardian Angel’s name?” the kids would rejoin.
“Well, isn't ‘Guardian Angel’ enough?” I’d feebly say, thereby avoiding the use of my mom’s standby “because.”
“They MUST have a name,” I’d be reminded. "Everyone knows all angels have names."
“You’re right,” I’d finally concede. “And, maybe one day your Guardian Angel will reveal it to you.”
Maybe it wasn’t so strange, then, that on my 50th birthday I recalled these night-time talks with the kids. And, I finally asked myself: “Doesn’t my own Guardian Angel have a name? And, more to the point, why haven’t I been curious about it?”
More years passed by, but the whole idea of a Guardian Angel, just like the idea of choosing “Gabriel” as my confirmation sponsor when nine, never stop popping into my head. And, not just at Christmas. Stores I visited at the mall began to be filled with angelic paraphernalia, especially the Guardian kind. Many songs would bring the subject up, while movies made about this, that or the other Angel coming to earth to help mankind. Books were written on it, too. And, with the advent of the Internet, researching our Guardian Angels, any Angel, came to one’s fingertip.
That’s when I began reading authors arguing Guardian Angels do have names and that we can come to know them, if open to the possibility. Not that I bought into the ideas hook, line and sinker. But, some things made sense if in an unproveable way … as in all matters of faith. Certainly, if God communicates with us, not only through the inspired Word, but also through thoughts, feelings, sensations, intuitions, and the like, why would not the Angels do so as well?
That’s when I began recalling the thousands of times I had thought of the Archangel Gabriel, often for no particular reason. Especially striking was the memory of that episode with my mom over naming my confirmation sponsor decades earlier, how disappointed I had been in NOT taking “Gabriel” as my adult patron saint. It was then that the epiphany hit me. Could it be “Michael” was chosen for me when 9-years old because “Gabriel” had already been taken at my inception?
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The Bitch & The Bastard
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Dr. Alexander Sharpe was being looked at warily by Chicago PD Detective, Joe Riley, and Assistant Cook County State’s Attorney, Pamela Barrett. The tall, dark and handsome yet brainy clinical psychiatrist at Chicago Medical Center was world-renown for his research; and, he was the best selling author of “Evil Exists” to boot. But, Dr. Sharpe had just fantastically suggested his ex-client, 23-year-old orphan and only child Terrence Pulaski, had been murdered by his well-respected aunt and uncle, Betty and Bill Pulaski.
“Come again?” the veteran Riley said with an involuntary twitch in one eye housed in a round, ruddy face that seemed too big for his stout body. “The deceased left a suicide note and used his uncle’s pistol to kill himself.”
Dr. Sharpe was adamant. “Looks can be deceiving,” he assured with an unmistakable air of certainty from behind his office desk. “I asked you and Ms. Barrett here this afternoon to hear me out.”
“And, we appreciate this opportunity,” said the young and petite prosecutor as she blew back a strand of her blonde bangs that hung neatly, if in sharp contrast to the buzzed hair at the very back of her head. “Yet, the Pulaskis served as Terry’s guardians and conservators of his large estate since his wealthy parents, both medical doctors, were killed in a car crash 20 years ago. Mr. Pulaski, himself, owns a highly-profitable real estate brokerage firm and the couple live in a tony Gold Coast neighborhood. They are leaders in their Evangelical Church. Childless, they’ve dedicated their whole lives to raising Terry.”
“And, there’s never been so much as a reported instance of physical abuse in all that time,” added Riley with a raised eyebrow, his nervous tic finally under control.
“Nevertheless …” countered Dr. Sharpe, “… I was Terry’s court-appointed psychiatrist when he attempted suicide three years ago…”
“That’s when he was found unconscious in the family garage,” noted the detective. “But with due respect, doctor, the evidence at the scene backed up the family’s story that the event was accidental … just a case of a young kid having too much to drink before passing out before turning the car engine off … and your appointment was more of the judge’s way of being sure of that.”
“Yes. But, it was in my long talks with Terry … before the Pulaskis convinced the court to end my counseling a year ago … that I became aware he was being assaulted to such a degree, his life was again in danger.”
“Didn’t several other psychiatrists discount your theory,” Barrett reminded, “and testify that your client was adjusted well enough to be engage to be married even?”
“Nevertheless,” Dr. Sharpe reiterated, this time, as he tossed a thick blue file on the desk for his visitors to peruse.
“What is this?” Barrett wanted to know.
“Before I tell you,” Dr. Sharpe countered, “there is a back story I need to explain.”
“Which is?” asked Riley.
The doctor’s eyes lit up, then, narrowed. “As I wrote in my book, the psychiatric community has long been puzzled by seemingly very good people doing very bad things to another for no apparent reason; in fact, the very bad things they’ve done to their victims seem to the average onlooker as good or justified rather than bad. Genetics could never entirely explain the phenomenon. Nor could upbringing or circumstances. In my own practice and research, I’ve come across many such instances. No, the harm that has come to the evil do-gooders’ victims can only be explained if we recognize the possibility that evil exists, pure and simple.”
The detective shook his head. “You’re saying the devil made both of the Pulaskis kill their nephew?” he wondered with a smirk. “They operate as a tag team?”
“Sort of,” Dr. Sharpe nodded. “Look, the medical literature is now full of examples, don’t just take my word for it. Read M. Scott Peck’s “People of the Lie,” too. In most documented cases of pure evil, the perpetrators work in pairs and they play off one another in teaming up against the victim with contradictions, fabrications, and accusations. They target their vulnerable victim’s weaknesses, insecurities, and guilt feelings. As the Pulaskis did. One is often more vocal and proactive than the other, as was Betty Pulaski. But, the quiet one in the symbiotic relationship, like Bill Pulaski, is no less culpable of the lies they mutually use or wink at, lies that are just as deadly, as a loaded pistol.”
Prosecutor Barrett bluntly asked: “Are you saying the Pulaskis drove Terry to kill himself?”
“They did. Systematically. Over two decades. They didn’t pull the trigger that killed Terry. But, they might as well have.”
”The evidence?” Riley wondered, shaking his head.
“I first came to suspect the extent to which the Pulaskis’ unnatural relationship with Terry had evolved when, in our counseling sessions, he was agreeing with obvious falsehoods expressed by them. For instance, when they confronted Terry, a solid engineering student, over a university’s report card that showed all As except for one B. I’ll never forget Terry telling me, ‘My aunt and uncle are right. I’m always going to be a failure in school and that’s why nobody likes me. Not my teachers or the kids in my classes.’”
“But, Terry was engaged,” Barrett reminded.
“And, do you know how Terry would be counseled during that romance? Betty Pulaski would give him bizarrely contradictory advice like, ‘Your parents would say go ahead and have your fun with that girl; but remember, if she gets pregnant, you’re going to lie in the bed you made’; or, when Terry announced his engagement a year later, he was told, ‘Good luck, you’ll need it with no job lined up. Your parents had so many dreams for you. Just don’t come running back to us for help when you fail in marriage, too.’”
“Well, that IS strange,” Riley agreed. “I mean, with that hefty trust account in Terry’s back pocket, you’d think finances were the least of his worries.”
Dr. Sharpe shook his head with a frown. “The latest court accounting I saw showed Terry’s trust account was badly depleted. When I asked him about it, he brushed it off, saying the money was needed to pay for annual family vacations, then, to pay for his college; and, besides, several years ago, his aunt and uncle had sunk a lot of the funds into building a resort home for his use after graduation.”
“Don’t tell me,” Barrett interjected. “The Pulaskis have been using the resort home to vaca when they weren’t partying with Terry overseas.”
“Terry has never seen the place,” Dr. Sharpe replied matter-of-factly, if for effect.
“Never?” Riley wanted to know.
“It’s also my understanding the Pulaskis are Terry’s sole heirs,” Barrett said as she let out a deep sigh.
“And, you can imagine Bill Pulaski showing Terry how to use his Gloch and be assured he had immediate access to it whenever he wanted.
“But, they were under court supervision all this time,” Barrett cautioned. “Surely, somebody in the system would have noticed something very wrong was going on …”
“I tried,” Dr. Sharpe said in a lowered voice, “but no one would listen.”
“So, what else is new?” Riley asked with disgust. “And, you expect that to change now?”
Dr. Sharpe had been waiting to deliver his punch line. “I wouldn’t have expected anything to change if not for the game-changer I put in front of you earlier.”
The prosecutor in Barrett was piqued as she again picked up the blue folder on the desk. “Oh? You think you have one?”
“Did you read Terry’s suicide note?”
“I did. Short. Sad. Depressing. Nothing revealing.”
“Except for Terry’s mentioning he’d ‘always remember our talks together.”
“You shared your theories of evil with him?”
“No. That might have made him even more depressed, suicidal.”
“But, you did try to dispel the spell you seemed to think Betty and Bill had over him.”
“I did. And, I thought we were making progress. His upcoming marriage with that sweet girl was a life line.”
“So, what happened?”
“Bill and Betty cut the line. Told the girl’s parents that Terry’s earlier accident maybe was a real suicide attempt, after all.”
The trio sat muted for nearly five minutes. Dr. Sharpe was contemplating expressionless. Detective Riley was biting his lip. Prosecutor Barrett’s eyes grew watery as she carefully read through the doctor’s file.
“In those papers just received by me through the mail,” Dr. Sharpe noted, “you’ll find Terry’s daily diary of events showing how relentlessly they intentionally berated him, controlled him, cast doubts upon him, and even used his own money for themselves…all with one thought in mind: Make Terry take his own life.”
Barrett fought off a lump that had emerged in her throat: “I still don’t think we’d ever be able to get an indictment for murder against the Pulaskis,” she opined.
“They’re just gonna skate?” Riley demanded.
“Yes and no,” Dr. Sharpe smiled at and for Barrett. “I think counselor is going to tell us the Bitch and the Bastard skated themselves into jail terms of 10-30 years for pejury, mail fraud and income tax evasion.”
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