Chapter Five: Picayune

Gabriel ran up to Phillis, his heart in his throat his hands sweating, his mind grasping for something to say. But when she looked up at him, with those brown eyes like artesian well, he knew exactly what to say.

"It makes a difference," Gabriel said looking her right in the eyes.

"What?" she asked softly.

"It makes a difference, when you go."

She smiled at him, and laughed, and turned her head away. She had never smiled at him and laughed and turned her head away during her high school days. That was a flirtatious ploy she used often back then, but she had never used it on him. Now that she was he wasn't sure whether or not he wanted her to.

But she didn't turn back to him with her giggly facade, her eyes were serious and her voice was solid. "I'm sorry about last night," she said. "I asked Jim not to do that."

"Jim? Your boyfriend?"

She nodded.

"Where's Jim today?" Gabriel asked. She couldn't tell by the sound of his voice if he was eager or afraid of the answer.

"Gone, for the day." She replied. "He had to work."

"Where's he work?"

"In Poughkeepsie," she said evasively. "That's where we live." She didn't tell him that he was a local hero: the star player on the Poughkeepsie Raiders, A major league La Cross team which had an exposition game on this fine April day. She didn't tell him that they had toured Europe and America together with his team and she didn't tell him that she knew first hand that a La Cross bat could easily break your bones if it was swung with enough force.

Gabriel nodded, accepting what she told him, and what she didn't. "Poughkeepsie, I hear it has a nice, um, river."

"The Hudson," Phillis supplied. "Same one that flows through New York."

"Right."

There was a moment of awkward silence and then finally, "Gabriel, I miss you so much."

He looked up at her, almost disbelieving.

"After we fought I convinced myself that it was for the best. That you were just bitter, and jealous."

"I was," Gabriel admitted softly. "I'm sorry."

"No," Phillis said fondly, reaching up and tracing his jaw line with her thumb, as if she were a sculptor and he was a masterpiece. Gabriel couldn't help but smile at this elegant showing of affection, but still, it felt somehow wrong, sudden, misplaced. "You were an angel trying to save me from hell," Phillis continued. "And I just pushed you away. I'm so sorry."

"Me too," Gabe said earnestly. "I should have kept trying."

"Please," she said, almost crying and almost laughing, "Please don't ask for my forgiveness."

"Why? Wouldn't you forgive me?"

She shook her head and looked away, "I don't deserve too."

Gabriel considered, for a moment, telling her that she was the most wonderful human being he had ever met and that, morally and spiritually, he believed her to be his superior, no matter the stupid mistakes she had made in the past. This may have been true, but it was hardly what she wanted or needed to hear at the time. He knew she would dismiss it as flattery, and he knew that to someone so beautiful and sweet, flattery was cheap and hollow. He wanted to give her something solid, something of worth.

"Well then, ah, lets just call it even," he said, craning his head so he could look her in the eye. "No harm, no foul."

She nodded, tears of shame or joy were welling in her eyes. Suddenly, Gabriel found himself in a strong, heartfelt embrace, which he returned without hesitation. This was good, this was right, this was the way it should always have been.

* * *

They were invited to lunch at the Avalla house. Gabriel did not ask his mother for permission to go, but rather, told her they would be going. Yet another chance to talk to Rev. Dunn, gone. But Sara's own spiritual inquires were far less important than keeping an eye on Gabriel. Plus, she would be able to learn more about Phillis, a prospect which she found very appealing.

They walked to the same rowhouse like apartments they had visited last night, but instead of a violent, possessive boyfriend sending them away at the door, they were welcomed in by Mr. Avalla.

A Chicano, he had the same dark hair and eyes as his daughter, but his skin was a few shades darker and his accent was as heavy as the smell of pipe tobacco that filled the small apartment. His hands were large and rough, he was a carpenter, Gabriel had explained on the way over. He lived totally on the small fees he charged for making or repairing all things wooden. He didn't have a little storefront in the town square, or even a small workroom on the small strip of businesses at the edge of town. He worked out of his home, coming to whomever called and excepting whatever they gave him. She could tell by the fine craftsmanship of the numerous hand made pieces of wooden furniture throughout his house that he was more than a craftsman, he was an artisan. In a just world he would not be living in this hovel, Sara thought, he obviously had the skill and the dedication to be successful, but she had seen this story a thousandfold in New York. Anyone with a Spanish accent was considered a lesser citizen and rarely were they given a chance. She knew that, in a small town like this, the prejudice towards the immigrant would be prodigious, unsurmountable, and heartbreaking.

Still, he accepted them with an openness and generosity equal to Gabriel's own family, exceeding it even, considering how little Jaime had to be generous with.

"Gabriel," he said, embracing the boy affectionately.

"Hello Mr. Avalla," Gabe said, obviously uncertain how to respond to this outpouring of affection.

"Don't be so formal, we are both men now, call me Jaime."

Having been released from the hug, Gabriel looked at his host awkwardly, "I don't think I can."

Jaime only nodded, good naturedly, and smiled. "And who is this lovely flower you have brought into my house?"

"Mr. Avalla, this is my friend, Sara Pezzini."

"It's nice to meet you sir," Sara said, extending her hand, which was quickly wrapped in his strong, warm handshake.

"You must call me Jaime," Mr. Avalla said looking her directly in the eye. "For Gabriel I will always be his friend's father, but you and I, we can just be friends."

"I'd like that, Jaime," Sara said. As alien as the oak diningroom had been to Sara, the Avalla's dinning room/kitchen was warm and comfortable. Crowded with images and icons of Our Lady of Guadalupe, the Sacred heart, and a score of other religious figures, as well as scores of pictures of Jaime and Phillis and some boy who must have been her brother, this place felt like a home, a place where people lived.

"This meal was supposed to be for Sunday," Jaime said as he, with Phillis's help, brought out the first dish, a sort of glazed mango-cranberry dish served cold. Had someone explained it to her, she would have declined trying it, but once she had taken a tentative bite, she was hooked.

"You shouldn't tell them that Papa," Phillis said. Sara noticed that, when she was around him, her normally unaccented voice had a distinctive Hispanic drawl.

"I am not a rich man," Jaime continued. "And I can not afford to feast often . . ."

"Papa stop," Phillis ordered, obviously embarrassed.

"But I am glad to share this with you," he said, totally ignoring his daughter's pleas. "For you are far better company than our other guest."

"You shouldn't say that Papa," Phillis's embarrassment had turned to anger.

"When was the last time Gabriel sent you to the hospital?" Jaime demanded. Phillis' eyes shot betrayed glances at her father, then quickly looked at her hands. Gabriel and Sara were too shocked by the old man's bluntness to do anything other than stare at him, then glance at her, then stare at him again. Jaime didn't seem to mind. There was a heavy silence in the room for nearly a minute before Phillis stood up, "I think it's time for the main corse," she said as she gathered everyone's bowls. Once she was in the kitchen, Jaime leaned forward, towards Gabriel who was sitting across from him on the small circular table. "You were always my first choice for her," Jaime said. "If the good Lord had granted me my wish, she would have chosen you."

"Same here," Gabriel said sadly.

A wise old smile slowly spread across the older man's face as hope filled out the edges of his eyes, "Then perhaps it is not too late."

Gabriel was going to ask too late for what? But before he got the words out, Phillis again entered the room with a large plate of tortillas in one hand and a baked chicken garnished with an array of peppers in the other.

"This is my father's own recipe," she said.

"You can't buy Mexican food here," he explained to Sara, who looked at the dish bewildered, "So I had to make up my own way of cooking." He laughed, heartily, as he showed Sara (Gabriel and Phillis already knew) how to pull the meat off the bones of the chicken and then wrap it in a tortilla along with the peppers and onions that garnished it. Sara had never had anything like it and, like the fruit dish, it was good.

The topic of discussion at the table turned light, they talked about Sara and what she did as a New York cop, they talked about Gabriel and what he did too. She was surprised to find that he told Mr. Avalla the truth about his business, that the articles in his warehouse were more than just antiques.

Jaime talked about how he had come to America, saving his money and flying over the border instead of crossing it illegally. Unfortunately, he had flown into Albany, New York instead of into the city itself (he hadn't realized that their was a state outside the city) so he had spent the rest of his life in upstate New York, making a better living than most of the people he knew in that immigrant crowded city. Phillis sat and listened, she told no tales.

***

Ian watched as Gabriel and Sara walked back to the boy's family home. It was almost four, high afternoon, and the sun shone everywhere in that clean town without alleys or shadows. He followed them, as closely as he dared, but far too far away to hear their conversation. He watched the way they walked and marveled at it. They strolled, slowly, without a strict determination or obvious purpose. They talked, he could tell that much even though he could not hear what they said, and they even laughed at times. Sometimes she would look at him, and he would look at her, but not all the time; often their gazes drifted. And then, twice, she put her hand, her perfect hand, the one that was honored to wear the Witchblade and wield a power second to none, on his small, unimportant shoulder and he thought nothing of it.

Ian had seen these kinds of interactions his entire life, it was what humans, well, natural humans, did. But he had never experienced it, and as Ian watched he realized that, no matter what the Witchblade had in store for him or Sara Pezzini, it was not going to allow him such simple pleasures. He wasn't enough of a person, Ian realized, to sustain that kind of a relationship. For that kind of relationship the two parties had to be equal, they had to need each other equally. The only relationships he had ever been in was total dependance, where he needed the other, Kenneth Irons, Sara Pezzini, totally; or of total ambivalence, such as his relationships with the whores who would bed him.

But as these thoughts streamed through his consciousness, Ian could not overcome the overwhelming sense of guilt he felt. He was not meant to love Sara Pezzini, that's not why he was brought to live. He was meant to protect Kenneth Irons. Granted Irons had charged him with watching Sara Pezzini, but he had not charged him with loving her. He wondered what his master would do if he knew, fully knew, the extent of Ian's devotion to Sara. He wondered if he truly knew the extent of his devotion to her. He knew that if the choice needed to be made, between Irons and Pezzini, he would not be able to make it. Worse yet, he was afraid he might chose Sara. No matter his choice, he would have to die. He would not be able to live with either decision.

With a sigh he watched as Sara entered the warm, well lit Bowman house: a warm well lit world. A world that Ian would never be able to enter.

***

Sara never really had any girl friends. Maybe it came from being raised by her father or maybe it came from her natural aggressiveness, but she had always been more comfortable around boys. And yet, when she meet Chastity Bowman she felt an instant bond.

Chase was so much like her brother it was eerie, the same morbid sense of humor, the same way of smiling, the same comprehensive yet erratic knowledge base. She knew everything about New York city politics and crime, and she even had some interesting stories They talked, about everything, for hours. Sara was so engrossed in the discussion that she almost missed when Gabriel said goodnight to the both of them and headed off to Mike and Anna's. She would have, in fact, if Chastity hadn't informed her, "Gabriel's leaving, wanna say goodbye?"

"He's leaving?"

"Yeah," she said. "Mike and Anna want to bed early, I guess."

"Ahh," Sara stuttered. She didn't want to leave him alone, unguarded, with Ian out there, a very real threat, not to mention the uncertainty of her vision.

"I need to talk to him real quick."

"Don't worry," Chastity said, smiling, "I can wait."

Sara practically jumped out of her solid oak dinning room chair and all but tore through the living room to the entryway where Gabe was helping Mary put on her jacket. "Gabriel, we need to talk."

"Hey Chief maybe you can answer a question for me," he said, smiling at her in a way that communicated the next thing he said would be a great joke. "Why is it that all my friends like my sister?"

"I'm serious Gabriel," Sara said, not quite hiding her smile. "You have to be careful tonight."

"Why?" Gabe said, almost laughing at the suggestion.

"Just promise me you'll be very careful, never going out alone, staying inside, all the doors and windows locked."

"What brought on this bout of paranoia?" Gabriel asked, less afraid than annoyed.

"All I want is a promise."

"Pez no," Gabe said. "I'm not gonna turn myself into a caged animal without a good reason."

"Just while it's dark," Sara pleaded.

"No."

His persistence made no sense, why would he be so determined to not do the simple things she asked of him. Then she realized, someone, a thousand times more important than her, had a prior claim. "You're gonna meet Phil."

"Gabriel," Anna interrupted, touching her brother-in-law gently on the shoulder. "Mary has to get to bed."

"Sorry, I'll be a sec," Gabe said to her, and then, picking up Mary, he turned to Sara. "I'll be careful."

"You don't understand," Sara said, her voice tense.

"Then you're gonna have to explain it to me," he said.

It was a challenge, would she tell him why she was suddenly paranoid, would she risk sounding totally insane in front of his family, would she admit to visions and clairvoyance, would she betray Ian's intentions, which were good . . . all he wanted to do was protect her. "Please trust me," Sara said, knowing it was a poor explanation.

"Gabriel!" Mike's voice boomed from outside.

Gabe glanced over his shoulder and smiled at his friend, sadly, before turning his back on her. "Sorry Pez, I will be careful."

Sara was left standing in the brightly lit house, watching the figures moving through the darkness, walking home. She felt a sickly sweet sickness in the pit of her stomach, as if she hadn't eaten in days and just drank a large cup of apple juice. It was the same feeling that had filled her stomach as she saw Danny lying helpless on the floor, and then, only months later, Conchabar in the same position. "Not this time," she promised herself softly. "No matter what, not this time."

To be continued . . .