"Darn it," muttered Angel Lopez, pulling the covers over her head. Yesterday's forecast had predicted fair weather this Saturday. Torrential rain beat against the roof and windows. She'd been looking forward to a long bike ride this morning. Instead, she brewed Maxwell House, and left to attend morning Mass. As much as she enjoyed High Mass on special occasions, she preferred Low Mass, its simplicity, its very plainness: humble, like a manger. Sometimes after Mass, she stopped by the refectory for breakfast with Father Callahan and the brothers.
She'd been dreaming before being startled awake. In Angel's dream, which was vivid, she was a little girl in Jerusalem circa 30 AD. She'd wandered from her home and saw a crowd. Curious, she tried to see what was at the center of the commotion. Being little, she couldn't see. So, down on all fours, she crawled along the dirt, like a squirrel, unnoticed by the adults, until she came to the cause of the crowd and beheld Him. Her tiny hand strained to touch the hem of His garment. Before she could, He reached down, scooped her from the shadows, raised her up, way up, to the sun. The multitude cheered. The sky was blazing blue and the sun burned white, but His eyes burned with a fire that dimmed all. Then Angel woke, with a snap, to the morning rain cleansing the atmosphere of yesterday's dust.
Angel's parents migrated, with her brother, from Portugal to the United States before she was born. Europe was in turmoil, and her father had a line on a job via a relative here. Lumberjacks were needed in the Adirondacks. Red-blooded American men were funneled into the war; a sturdy middle-aged foreigner, fluent in English, filled a slot. Within a few years, he manned an office job, accounting.
By early-afternoon the skies cleared, sun glinting off wet leaves. Angel decided a ride was in order after all. In the garage sat her Schwinn, the same one she'd received for her birthday, 15 years ago. She'd kept the bike, a three-speed English, in excellent condition. No rust, not even on the chrome headlamp. Its candy-blue finish still sparkled, remained immaculate.
She decided to take an extended ride. Early-September, summer coming to a close; who knew how many rides were left?
During the week, Angel worked in a steno pool, punching the clock for an insurance company in town. After graduating high school she'd enrolled in junior college, taking secretarial courses. She made a decent living, paid the mortgage on a house, a Cape Cod, and her VW Bug was paid for.
She left the kitchen radio on, a John Denver hit playing. She liked to return home to a song. Or even the news. It made the house seem less empty.
After an hour or so, she came to a side road she'd never noticed. A sign announced, Thornapple Acres: PRIVATE. NOT A THRU ROAD. Angel shrugged. "It's just me, not a criminal. No one will mind."
Coasting along, she saw pleasant homes, one- and two-story. In one driveway, a 1948 Ford sedan, exactly like the one her parents bought when she was five.
In the Adirondacks, the Lopez family were sort of odd-man-out, the only Portuguese. She used to hope and pray to meet a good man of Portuguese, or Spanish, descent. But it never came to pass. At this point, she'd make do with an Italian. She dismissed the notion of a Greek because he'd almost certainly be Orthodox Catholic, no connection to the Vatican: a heretic. An Irishman, though off the mark by a mile, would be preferable to a Greek. Theoretically, even a Chinaman—provided he were Roman Catholic—would be preferable to a Greek. She laughed to herself about the very idea of being married to a Chinaman. Laughter aside, she was, at 30, a spinster. It made no sense! She was slim and lovely, still, with raven hair and eyes, an olive complexion. And she had a good heart! She would’ve made a wonderful wife and mother.
Her girlfriends, one after another, found the right fella, married, had children. In Angel's backyard there's a small pond. Every spring the peepers peep, until one day there's only one lonely peeper. Peep! No answer. Peep! No answer. She knew how that little one felt.
On one side of that pond, autumn's wildflowers were running riot.
Late-afternoon, the people of Thornapple Acres were in their backyards, barbecuing, men in slacks and nice shirts, women in summer dresses, children racing about. Angel felt wistful, thought of her parents, both fierce smokers, in the Old World manner, claimed by cancer. She wished that her brother lived close, not in Florida.
Riding about, Angel realized the sun was low. Yet she felt compelled to nose along a narrow dirt path, brushed by leaves on either side. After a bit, she arrived at a small yard, its lawn neat and trim. There was a ranch house, plain, no shutters. In its garage a man sawed a board. The scent of fresh-cut pine struck Angel as one of the best things life has to offer.
The front door opened and a radiant brunette in a sky-blue dress waved to her.
"Hallo, Angel! We've been expecting you. There's a place a place set for you at the supper table. We'd like for you to meet our son."
From somewhere, music played. It was heavenly.