The Burden of Angels

Atlas Merriweather shrugged into the harness and adjusted the straps, pulling the leather contraption forward where it lay more comfortable across his shoulders and back. The Velcro straps were itchy and he was pretty sure they were too tight. Miss Chadbourn had told him he was too small but Mark, Atlas’ best friend, had told her that his mother could make a harness that would fit him for the giant wings.

“See I told you she could make it fit.” Mark pulled one of the feathers from the wings.

“Quit it.” Atlas pulled the lever under his arm, smiling as the wings unfurled, giving him a ten-foot wingspan.

“Its a lucky charm.” Mark tucked the feather into Atlas’ front shirt pocket. “Didn’t you know? Pluck a feather from the wings of an angel and you get a wish.”

“I’m gonna pluck your feather in a minute.”

“Yeah, whatever you say, angelboy.” Mark Trenton was tall and formidable for a 7th grader. “Are you coming over after rehearsal?”

“Probably. I just have to call my dad first.”

“Mark. Atlas. You’re supposed to be angels with super human strength.” Mr. Cramden was a big man with red cheeks and almost no hair, and what he did have was gossamer thin and drifted. “I don’t think it would be good to have angels who can’t roll the stone away.”

“The stone is off its track again.” Mark pushed at the stone but it didn’t budge.

“ Harry. Harry! Could you get on that? I don’t need angels with hernias!” Mr. Cramden ran his hand over the top of his head, scratching the nape of his neck in frustration. Then his hands were all aflutter. “Okay lets pretend we’ve rolled the stone away. Jesus has walked out, looking all peace and serenity and gone on his merry way.” He gestured the imaginary Jesus off to stage left. “Atlas you’re up on the stone, flash of lightening for your angels countenance, enter the Mary Magdalene and the other Mary stage right and action.” Mr. Cramden’s hands drifted slowly back to his side.

“Be not affrighted, ye seek Jesus of Nazareth, which was crucified: he is risen, he is not here: behold the place where they laid him.” Atlas turned to the next page of his script his left hand pointing awkwardly towards the sepulcher “But go your way, tell his disciples and Peter that he goeth before you into Galilee, there shall ye see him as he said unto you.”

“And end scene two!” Mr. Cramden clapped his hands together twice. “Okay no rehearsal tonight. Final dress rehearsals are Friday night. Sunday night it’s the real deal. You’ve got three days and we’re live. It’s a sold out crowd. So please, please, please let’s everyone be here.” Mr. Cramden gave the stage a once over with his eyes, resting on the props, the backdrop curtain; a badly painted Golgotha in silhouette, and then the renegade stone. His right hand rested at the nape of his neck. He gave a drawn sigh. “Okay, that’s it. Go home.”

“Atlas.” Mrs. Trenton wiped at her eyes. “What...what are you doing here?” Mark, why is he here?” She looked at her son, touching the side of his face, cupping his cheeks in the palm of her hands.

“We didn’t have rehearsal. He tried to call his dad from school but there wasn’t an answer. He was gonna call from here.” Mark tried to look at Atlas, only his mother kept his eyes on her. “Mom, what’s the matter with you.”

She closed her eyes. “Honey, why don’t you fix yourself a soda? I need to talk to Atlas.” Mark tried to look at him again. “Go on, it’s important.” She watched her son go into the kitchen staring until she heard ice jangle into a glass.

“Honey. Your mother called. They tried to get you at school but you’d already left.”
“My mom?” His eyes drifted towards the kitchen and a carbonated hiss. “But she’s in Los Angeles. She’s . . .”

Mrs. Trenton wiped at her eyes again and then let her hands drift to his. “There’s been an accident.”

The hospital corridors weren’t white at all. He’d imagined them to be white and long, but they were short and grey and divided by several sets of doors all of them with the word emergency stenciled on both sides of the door under the window. He tried to take big strides but Miss Chadbourn was right, he was too small.

“Here. Atlas. Why don’t you sit here and I’ll go find someone who can tell us something.”

Atlas dropped into the seat, his shoulders hunched. He felt the imaginary straps of the harness dig into his shoulder blades. He reached up to adjust the strap only to realize he wasn‘t wearing it. He watched Mark’s mother through the window of one of the sets of doors at the information desk. She pointed back over her shoulder at him, her words indecipherable.

“Hello son.” His voice rumbled. Atlas noticed the milky pale eyes first, and how the man didn’t look at him, then, the man’s dark complexion, a deep impenetrable dark chocolate. His hair was gray and crowned his head in tufts. He sat straight in his chair, his eyes intent on nothing. “I hate these places. Its always like this.” He gestured to the door. “You never know what’s comin’.”

Atlas looked at the door, saw Mrs. Trenton through the window. She talked with her hands almost as much as Mr. Cramden. Each time the door opened her voice carried into the hall.

“Is that your mother?”

“No.” Atlas studied his hands. “My mother’s in Los Angeles.”

“I been to Los Angeles once.” He turned to Atlas, his milky eyes touching nothing. “I was just a boy on leave from the Army. I couldn’t believe my eyes. At the time it was the biggest city I ever saw. Everywhere you looked there was people. And strange people at that.” He chuckled to himself, both his hands resting atop a white cane. “What she do in Los Angeles?”

“She teaches English.”

“Mmm hmmmm.” He reached absently to his breast pocket and pulled out a pair of dark sunglasses.

“Well, I hope everything is alright. My father, he was here some years ago. Matter of fact, I sat right where you are. I could see my momma through the door window and she was givin’ them nurses ‘what for’.” He laughed again. “I could tell she was mad, cuz she had her apron on, it was her favorite one, and she had it all wadded up in front of her. Not that all that hollerin’ did her any good.” He nodded to himself.

“I think my dad is dead.” Atlas shrugged his shoulders and wiped at his eyes. “My mom is on her way right now. She hates to fly, but she’s gonna be here in a couple of hours.”

“Oh son.” He raised one hand hesitantly for a moment and then rested it again on his cane. Shaking his head he turned toward Atlas. “Let’s not think the worst ‘fore you know the truth. These doctors. They’re good at what they do. My father, he had many good years after our visit here. And it was bad then, I remember. My momma, she stayed here for a whole week while I had to stay with my aunt.” He looked up like he was seeing the memories, rubbing absently at his knees. “My momma was a proud woman but she was scared. She had me prayin’ right here in front of everybody.” He turned back towards Atlas. “But lets not worry ‘bout any of that.” He offered his hand. “My name’s Lucas Gabriel. Folks that know me call me Luke.”

“I’m Atlas.” Atlas accepted Luke’s hand. It was warm and dry and his grip was strong.

“That’s quite a name there. It’s nice to meet you Atlas.”

“My mom, she teaches English.” Explaining his name, Atlas imagined his father’s voice. Ayn Rand is her favorite author. So, it was either that or Fountainhead.

“Mr. Gabriel?” Dr. Johnson will see you now.” A nurse stood in the doorway at the other end of the hall.

“Yes ma’am. Thank you, ma’am. I’ll be right there.” He turned his attention back to Atlas. “Now, don’t you worry any. Young people; they have angels watching after them. So I’m sure yours is right here.”

Atlas watched him pull himself up with his cane and walk to the door, the cane tapping lightly to the left and the right. He stopped at the door and turned back “They’re just hard to see.” The door rocked back and forth behind him.

Mrs. Trenton tapped Atlas on the shoulder. “Okay.” Her eyes were not wet or shiny. “I think we got this figured out. Let’s go.” She waited, her hand held out to Atlas.

Atlas jumped out of the cushioned seat and took her hand. It was cold. “He’s alright. Right?”

“Come on.” She looked back and smiled. “You can ask him yourself.”

The curtains were pulled, the room was bright and the television blared. In the hospital bed, his father was propped up on white pillows. He had the remote in his left hand; his right hand was in a cast. His left leg, also in a cast, was hoisted on a pulley. Above his left eye a large white bandage. Atlas stood in the doorway for a moment. “Dad?”

Atlas’ father pointed the remote. The room went quiet. “Come here. I was worried about you.” He mussed his son’s hair, noticing the concern in his eyes. “I’m all right,” he said in a low voice. “Just a few knocks. Everything is going to be all right.” He glanced at the doorway and saw Mrs. Trenton. “Thank you for taking him.”

Well Julie called from Los Angeles, she’s on her way, by the way, and then he showed up with Mark and I was . . . thank goodness you’re alright.” She pulled one of the chairs next to the window closer to the bed and settled in it, her hands in her lap.

“Dad. Are you still going to be able to come to the play? It opens on Sunday”

“Three days? I’ll be there, live and in person.”