Angel

ANGEL / Philip Graham BRADLEY ALREADY KNEW BY HEART the tales of the lonely angels that hovered at busy street corners and watched careless children; of angels whose tears for all the unconfessed sins of the world created the mountain streams that emptied into the oceans; and of angels that lived in upholstered chairs and waited for lapsed believers to settle unsuspectingly into a suddenly renewed faith. Yet as he sat in the front row of the nearly empty catechism class, resisting as always the impulse to stare at the wispy hint of pompadour that dangled from Father Gregory's forehead, Bradley still listened carefully as the priest said, "Celestial beings have no bodies of their own and need none, for they are clothed in thought. But they love to assume the human form, and this they can do instantly." The Father looked up at the ceiling, away from Bradley and the other remaining student, that young girl named Lisa who always sat in the last row. Only two left, he thought. "Some angels," he half-mumbled, "let their fingers, hands and limbs fill out slowly, with voluptuous grace, quietly erupting from nothing into a diaphanous shape." Though Bradley knew most of these words, he wished Father Gregory would spell the hard ones so he could look them up. But he was afraid to interrupt the Father who, regarding his hands as if he were alone, said, "Others spend hours inventing a perfect face for their angelic temperaments." Then the Father held one hand before his lips as though suppressing a cough and continued, very softly, "There is some dispute as to whether angels invent clothes for themselves." Bradley suppressed a giggle and glanced back at Lisa. He was shocked to see her indifferent face. At the end of all those empty rows of folding chairs, Lisa watched the Father's bulbish lips move, which she imagined slapped together. She was glad she wasn't close enough to hear, so she could decide what to make up about today's class—the last time she had told the truth about Father Gregory's stories her Dad had smacked her for lying. But right now she couldn't concentrate; instead she wondered why the Father still called out the long class roll even though only two kids were left. The Missouri Review · 13 "It is of course well known that angels can read a person's thoughts," Father Gregory said, "but some angels will only do this briefly, for they are too easily lost within that thicket of desires and fears, strange opinions and unspoken urges—so unangel-like!" He looked down at the two students and wondered how long it would take before they too stopped coming to class, so his afternoons would finally be free. "All angels—the seraphim and cherubim—are addicted to us," he now whispered, "and they hover not so much to protect, but to experience us." Bradley, straining to hear this, felt uneasily that he had just heard a secret. He didn't care if he couldn't always understand; he loved being spoken to as if he were an adult. Bradley stood beside Lisa under the church eaves and pretended, because it was raining, that his parents would be picking him up too. He wanted to ask Lisa why she kept coming to class if she didn't appreciate the Father, but she stood away from him and offered no opening for his curiosity. Jonah and the whale, that's what we talked about, Lisa thought, watching the station wagon pull up to the curb and stop. The dim figure of her mother leaned over in the car and the window slowly slid down. "Hurry up, dear, you'll get wet," she called. Lisa's fingers scraped at her skirt. Finally, she walked to the car slowly, still not sure how long Jonah had been in that whale's stomach. "I want to hear all about your class, sweetie," Bradley heard, and he envied such attentiveness. Then the glass rose up and the car pulled away. He remained at the church entrance and waited. His parents were probably home from work by now, and maybe...