Inventing from Place / Alto Angel

The following scene was written in response to an “Inventing from Place” assignment given in my Tools of the Writer’s Craft class through  UCDavis Extension. It was later included in Between Yesterday and Tomorrow, book three of my “Enter the Between” visionary fiction series.

We were asked to think of a place that we found either particularly enjoyable or particularly scary or unpleasant and then jot down our memories, being as specific as possible.  Then we were to invent a character who inhabits this place and write a short story that develops from this interaction between character and setting.

To give it a twist, I wrote my short story in present-perfect tense.

 ALTO ANGEL

Paul Garcia’s mind is in neutral, his feet on overdrive.  He follows Lighthouse Avenue past the post office, then turns left on Forest and forges on until he comes to Center.  From there, he takes a right and continues past Jewell Park, the Pacific Grove Museum of Natural History, and the library.  Paul isn’t in the mood to rest or dawdle.  He isn’t in the mood to do much of anything but walk.

Near 12th Street, he sights a building that prompts him to slow and come to a halt, St Mary’s by the Sea Episcopal Church.  It is constructed of redwood beams and siding, and Paul feels drawn to it immediately.  The door to the church’s porch entry stands open, and he hears music–an invitation to enter, which he accepts.

He is penetrating the sacred space of another faith, drawn not only by curiosity, but also by the promptings of his spirit.  Ignoring the sirens of fear and misunderstanding, Paul stumbles into the commencement of their ten A.M. service.  The organ is playing an Irish hymn, the piped air imitating bagpipes, a keening sound that causes his skin to bristle like goose flesh and his chest to swell to accommodate the new rhythm.  Worshipers stand in anticipation as the priest approaches the altar.

The pew next to the sixth Station of the Cross–Jesus and Veronica–is empty, so Paul genuflects and slips in.  The dark wooden walls and ceiling resemble the hull of an overturned ship, and he feels safe and protected within its hold.  But when he glances at the stained-glass windows, he receives a jolt that nearly buckles him in his seat.

By some strange trick of the imagination, Paul sees marbles floating in his line of vision, Cosmic Rainbows, Cat’s Eyes, Tiger Eyes, like the ones his dad gave him on his eighth birthday.  He sees peewees, shooters, and boulders, some opaque as marble, some clear as glass, scored with rainbow-colored stripes and spirals, and some, like his prized “Steely,” as dense as lead solder.

He shakes his head to clear it, only to have another memory usurp the first, his father teaching him the old marble games of his youth:  “Bombsies, Keepsies, and Knuckle-down.”  The ache of nostalgia causes Paul to catch his breath, clear his throat, rub his eyes.  Thankfully, he is among strangers, who seem oblivious to this undignified display of emotion.

And then, as if The Almighty still has more in store for him, Paul hears the alto in the choir.  Although he has long admired the voice of the soprano because of its ability to reach such ridiculously high notes and put enough tension into the air to lift him off his seat, the voice of the alto, especially if female, can fill the air with waves of comfort that cradle like the arms of a mother.

The alto singing solo about crossing a barren desert is doing just that and more.

Paul cranes his neck to see where the voice is coming from, but although the choir stands in front of the altar facing the congregation, the singer evades his view.

Later, while the lector reads from the Old Testament and the priest reads one of the Gospels–something about Lazarus being an invisible person in the rich man’s line of vision–Paul is still savoring the captivating voice he has heard.  Be not afraid.

The priest talks about the sin of ignoring the needs of others and not sharing one’s wealth in a way that could alleviate their pain.  He talks about the people in the world who are hungry, lost, lonely, sick, and dying and asks, “Do we turn away from their needs?  Do we pretend they do not exist?”  And all the while, Paul is thinking of the invisible alto who has sung her way into his heart.

“Song of life,” Paul whispers, wondering where the words have come from.   His right brain, likely, the side of his corpus callosum that is most inhibited.  As a Neuroscientist at Standford School of Medicine, he knows a thing or two about brain function–although never enough.  How, for instance, has the alto angel managed to re-circuit his brain in this way?  He is starting to feel a new stirring as if Roto-Rooter is clearing the way, and he is at his wits end to know what to do about it.,

The priest invites all baptized Christians, no matter of what denomination, to receive communion with the rest of the congregation.  “There are no insiders and outsiders.  We’re in this together.”

Paul is so startled that he, a Roman Catholic, is being invited by the Episcopalians to join in their Eucharistic meal that he stands without volition and heads for the altar rail.  While the choir sings about the hungry finding plenty and the thirsty finding drink, Paul partakes of the bread and wine.  Then he heads back to his pew, where he kneels, presses his forehead into his hands, and prays in thanksgiving for the gift of this little red church, a home away from home, as God has surely intended His house to be.

When the worshipers leave their pews and head for the door to continue their life of service to God, Paul stays behind, head bowed, listening to the choir sing the closing hymn.  Go and Share.

He recalls the priest’s words about the sin of ignoring the needs of others and thinks again of his father.  That his father is in pain, there is not doubt, self-inflicted or not.  But Paul is afraid.  He knows how alcoholism destroys people’s lives and he has observed first hand his father’s ability to take people down, even those he professes to love.  How can he help his father without destroying himself?

Paul wonders, for the hundredth time what made his father turn to alcohol.  Yet now, for a reason Paul’s scientific brain cannot fathom, the wall of his heart begins to dissolve, displaying a new landscape, giving him hope.

“One foot in front of the other,” Paul whispers, “One step at a time, ” and with these words, he pries open a space in his heart and his mind for a miracle.

As always, thanks for stopping by,