Sometime later Monica came to a small country road on the edge of the town. The main street she'd left was no more than ten blocks away, yet this area looked completely deserted. There were a few houses, none that looked new, and the cemetery that dominated the low hill to her left was easily the most eye-catching landmark. Across the street from it, off to the right, was Richard's house.

It was small, but looked like it had once been a charming dwelling. Now it was gray and overgrown, as if no one lived there. But someone did.

Smoothing out her long dress and summoning up her angel's courage, Monica walked up the broken sidewalk to the door and knocked.

Nothing happened. After waiting a few moments Monica caught the sight of a curtain at one of the dingy windows fluttering, back then forth again, as someone unseen peeked out. But another minute went by, and no one came to the door.

She knocked again, a little louder. This time the door opened, slowly and not very far, and the same face she had bumped into earlier peered out at her, blinking as if unaccustomed to the bright sunlight. It was Richard. Monica was surprised at how drawn and white he looked.

When he didn't speak, Monica said, "Hello, I'm sorry to disturb you, but I'm cleaning up the town's church grounds and I need someone to give me a hand with the yard work. You were recommended to me by a friend. Can you help me?"

Richard blinked at her, surprised and she thought a bit confused. But still he didn't say anything.

"I'm sorry," Monica said, stepping back away from the door,"I must have caught you at a bad time. If you know of anyone who does lawn work have them call - "

"Oh!" Richard suddenly said, as if snapping out of a dream, and immediately opened the door wider. "I apologize. I - I was eating breakfast when you knocked. Yes, I do yard work. What do you need?"

"Everything, I'm afraid." Monica admitted, holding out her hands. "All thumbs, and none of them green. But the lawn is the worst. Can you come?"

"Yes," Richard said, and took the paper Monica offered. "What day?"

"Tomorrow morning, say around nine?"

"All right. I have to get back to breakfast - ," Richard said, and began to shut the door.

Eager to prolong the conversation and learn more about her Earthly charge, Monica blurted, "I'm sorry to impose, but may I use your phone? I need to make a call."

Richard shot her what seemed like a suspicious look, suspicious and fearful, but after a moment's pause he nodded and opened the door wider.

Monica stepped into the house and looked around. It was tidy but dim inside; all the curtains were drawn against the sun, and the resulting gloom was oppressive. There was an old couch, an old chair, both worn and frayed. Another chair sat in a corner, equally depressed-looking, next to an ancient floor lamp, which was off. There were no pictures on the walls, no photographic reminders of family or friends; however, in a cheap wooden frame next to the chair hung a faded newspaper photograph. Three rows of smiling teenagers enclosed in a black border, a haunting reminder.

Monica stood there a moment, touched by the emptiness in the tiny house, and unaware that Richard was next to her, fidgeting nervously. Finally he pointed toward the back of the house.

"Pardon?" Monica blinked out of her reverie.

"The phone. It's back there."

"Oh. Thank you."

Having no idea who she was going to call, Monica stepped through the darkened living room down a narrow hall into the kitchen. It was no brighter than the front of the house; the window above the sink was covered by a pulldown shade, allowing only slivers of light to slip past the edges. Everything in the room was old and unreplaced - the metal sink, the roundedged refrigerator. The phone had a large dial on it. Tentatively Monica picked it up and dialed a random set of digits, hoping she wasn't waking up a sleeping mother or sick child. Or angry teamster.

One ring, two. Click.

"Miss Wings, what are you doing?"

"Tess!" Monica was said the name loud enough to cause Richard to look at her. She stammered, "I was just - I was just checking to see if I had any messages."

"You want messages? Get your butt in gear and talk to the man. How's that?"

Monica pursed her lips. "I see. Any others?"

"Yeah. If you see Angelboy tell him I need to talk to him."

"He's not with you?"

"No, and I think he's hiding because I can't find him anywhere."

"Hiding? From what?"

There was a pause. Then Tess said, "All in God's time, honey. Just keep your mind on your own troubles."

Monica glanced toward Richard, who was easing himself into the dingy chair in the corner. "I will. Thank you." And she hung up the phone.

For a moment Monica stood there, thinking Then she happened to glance in the sink and noticed that there were no dishes in it. She looked on the counter. No breakfast dishes stacked in the folding plastic rack. None on the folding card table that sat in one dim corner. Quietly she slid to the fridge and opened it.

Inside was an almost-empty milk jug, an open package of bologna and half a loaf of bread. There was nothing else.

She looked back out at Richard; she could see his legs, but the rest was hidden by the wall and the chair he sat in.

Just as quietly she shut the fridge door and walked into the living room. Richard was sitting in the chair, almost absorbed by it, his hand on his chin, staring thoughtfully at nothing. Carefully Monica sat on the couch opposite him.

"Richard," She began, "Is there anything you - "

"I'm sorry," Richard exclaimed suddenly, "I'm sorry if I seemed rude just now. I'm not used to visitors."

"Oh. Well, maybe you can get used to it. Does no one come to - "

Richard leaned forward. "Who recommended you to me?"

The question was asked with such suddenness - and such force - that for a moment Monica lost her thoughts. Then she stammered, "A friend. Someone I know..."

"Well, see...see, there isn't a soul in town that'll speak my name, that's why I was so confused before. Nobody around would recommend me to anyone. They - well..." He sank back into the chair and trailed off, staring once again into nothing.

Monica took a breath. "Mr. Paxton, I haven't been here very long and I don't know your story, but you have to believe me when I say you do have a friend in this town, and He does speak very highly of you."

Hard eyes met hers. Hard, but sad and bitter. "He does, huh? I'd like to meet him."

"You will. If you want."

Richard brought his hand down, regarded Monica with a set face. "I don't want. If anybody around here likes me, it's because they don't know me."

"I like you." Monica said automatically.

Richard almost glared at her. "Like I said."

There was an uncomfortable pause. Monica glanced back toward the kitchen and stood. "I know you've already had breakfast, but I was going to the diner to get some coffee. Would you like me to bring you back something?"

Richard gave her at look that was at once so angry and so bewildered she felt as if she'd sworn at him. Then it softened a bit and said, "I'll be at the church at nine o'clock tomorrow, ma'am. Till then I can take care of myself."

Monica opened her mouth, but she could see that Richard had sunk back even farther in the chair, and had closed his eyes. She accepted this as an end to the conversation and let herself out.

Once on the front steps she was a bit surprised at how bright it was outside compared to the darkness of the house. She had to squint for a moment, but as her eyes adjusted to the glare she saw Andrew pacing on the sidewalk some distance away, his head down and his hands, characteristically, in his pockets. He didn't see her at first, but as she approached him he brought his head up. Instead of greeting her, however, the angel gave a small nod and turned away to pace in the other direction.

Monica stopped her approach. This was very odd. She had known Andrew for three years, and he was one of the most friendly, open members of the Heavenly Host she knew. He always smiled at her, always said hello. And what was that look in his large hazel eyes when he saw her?It almost looked like...well, shame?

Then she remembered. Quietly she said to the Death Angel's retreating back, "Andrew? Tess is looking for you."

A few more steps. "I know."

Monica thought harder. That response wasn't like her friend either. "She wants to talk to you."

A few more steps, gravel crunching against hard-soled shoes. Then Andrew stopped, still not facing her, and looked Heavenward. "I know." He repeated, in a tired voice.

Silence. Hesitantly Monica said. "I'm going to the diner. Is there anything you need?"

A shake of blond hair. "No."

Monica couldn't stand it. "Andrew, are you all right? Maybe it's none of my business but - "

Andrew did turn to face her then, and Monica was so shocked at the look on his face that she almost gasped. She had often seen Andrew worried, sometimes sad, once or twice angry. But the expression he bore now was one of such anxiety, such sorrow, such anger and helplessness all at once that she lost her voice completely and simply stared.

"I'm sorry, Monica,"Andrew said in a tight voice, "But you're right. This isn't any of your business, not this time. There's something..." Here he paused, and looked at the house behind them with what Monica could have sworn was loathing. "Something I have to work out, for myself, by myself. No one can help me."

Monica, terribly confused at her friend's words, reached out and touched his arm. "God can help you. Do I really have to remind you of that?"

Andrew brought his head back sharply, as if Monica had struck him. Then Andrew reached up and took her hand, a tight grip. "No, no you don't. But..." He glanced behind her again. "It's very hard to talk about. I'm sorry." And before she could say another word he quickly walked past her.

"Andrew - " Monica spun around, but Andrew had vanished, leaving her alone in the morning sunshine whose warmth she alone, it seemed, could feel. Slowly, after many moments' thought, she turned her steps towards downtown, and the diner. So it was that she did not look back toward the house; if she had, she would have seen Richard standing at the door, quietly watching the sidewalk where Andrew had been.


The main street was quiet as Monica walked slowly past its vacant stores and litter-strewn alleyways. She noticed few cars parked along the road, and only a few storefronts with anything in them. The only place that seemed to be doing any business at all was a small diner on a corner a block ahead; and even that only had two cars parked diagonally in front of it.

It was a tidy-looking little place, with a large picture window and a painted sign that read "Jimmy's" hanging above the swinging door. The green checkered curtain that hung in the lower half of the window was easily the cheeriest sight on the whole street. As Monica approached the door to go in, she noticed it pushing slowly open as an old couple emerged into the street.

She rushed forward to hold the door open wider for them, and was greeted with a slightly startled look by the man.

"Good morning," She said pleasantly.

The man's wife glanced at her now, but didn't smile or return the salutation.

"Thank you," the husband mumbled, not looking at Monica anymore, and the old couple walked past her without further words.

Saddened, Monica watched them go for a moment. She could feel the weight of grief on this place, feel the life that used to be here but was gone. No, not gone. Only sleeping, and she had to find a way to wake it up again.

"Excuse me?" A voice called from inside the diner. "Could you close the door?".

Popping out of her reverie, Monica hurriedly stepped into the diner and let go of the door. The inside of the diner was small but neat, with a row of booths lining one wall and a long counter with stools facing the other. A cash register stood sentinel just inside the door, and with a small twinge Monica noticed, among plaques of excellence and sports pictures, another copy of that black-bordered school photograph, in a black frame, hanging behind the register.

"Can I get you something?" The waitress, a young woman with short wavy black hair and a helping smile, said as she came forward.

"Um, yes," Monica answered, "I'd like a coffee - "

"Regular or decaf?"

Ouch. "Uh...decaf. And-" She quickly scanned the menu, which was scrawled on a dry-erase board behind the counter. "- and two roast chicken sandwiches. To go, please."

The waitress scribbled the order down and, ripping the order from her pad, handed it quickly through the window that separated the diner from its kitchen and yelled,"Two chickens to go please!"

Monica smiled. "You sound like you have a voice that gets things done."

The waitress smiled and shrugged. "Someone's got to keep them in line, I guess. Will that be all?"

"Well, no," Monica slide onto an empty stool at the counter and leaned forward. "Actually, I need a little help. See, I'm new in this town - "

The waitress' eyebrows shot up. "You moved here?"

Monica paused. "I'll be here for a while. You sound surprised."

"Well - " The waitress looked out the window into the empty street. "People don't move here very often, that's all. I guess I am a little surprised. Sorry."

"It seems like such a nice town," Monica continued as the waitress turned to pick up a coffeepot. "I wanted to ask about it, you know, the history of the place. Have you lived here long?"

The waitress nodded. "All my life."

"Then will you be my guide? My name is Monica."

"Sure," The waitress said as she picked up a Styrofoam cup and poured coffee into it. "I'm Beth. What do you want to know?"

Monica spread out her hands. "Anything. Local weather?"

Beth nodded. "Pretty nice most of the time. Heavy snow in the winter."

"Best place to get fresh fruits and vegetables?"

Beth, plastic cup lid in hand, paused to think. "There's a farm half a mile out of town on route 4. Has one of those cutouts that looks like a man leaning on a tree? John Murphy's place. He puts his stand out about July."

"Ah. Best place to get good gossip?"

Beth smiled as she snapped the lid on the Styrofoam cup. 'No one gossips much around here. Too busy with their own lives to bother much about other peoples'."

"I noticed that." Monica admitted. She pointed to the area behind the cash register, at the photograph. "Can you tell me about the pictures over there? Looks like there's a lot of pride in this town."

"Oh," Beth moved to the wall where the pictures hung and began pointing, "This one is from when we won a divisional football championship in 1980. This one is from a record crop in '79. Our cheerleaders took first place in a regional competition in this one - "

"What year was that?"

"Um - " Beth peered at the clipping. "'82. Spring."

"And that one?" Monica pointed at the black-bordered school photograph.

Beth turned to see where she was indicating, then turned back, an odd expression on her face.

"You really are new here, aren't you?" She said quietly, attempting a halfhearted smile. "I thought everybody knew about that."

Monica shook her head. "Can you tell me?"

Beth gave Monica a strange look - a look similar to the one she'd seen on Andrew's face earlier, Monica realized. But before she could respond a voice from the kitchen hollered out, "Two chickens are up!"

Beth hurriedly cleared her throat, "Excuse me. I'll be right back with your sandwiches." And without meeting Monica's eyes again walked quickly back into the kitchen.

Monica watched her go in puzzlement. Then she heard Tess' low voice in her ear saying. "Watch how you tread here, Angel-girl."

Monica swiveled around to face her mentor, who was standing behind the cash register, looking stern.

"Tess, I don't understand," Monica confessed, "Is everyone in this town still so affected by what happened that they can't even talk about it?"

Tess shook her head. "Everyone here is living under that pall, but Beth moreso than most. And if you take a moment out of your busy day to look closer at those young faces, you'll see why."

Monica blinked. That was true - she'd seen that photograph four times now, but had not looked at it closely enough to know the faces, and the shortened histories they contained. Slowly, she slid off the counter stool and went behind the register.

The photograph was old, yellowed from too many days in a glaring afternoon sun, but still the freshness of those young faces was apparent to Monica. Twenty-six boys and girls, the entire senior class of this small town, the caption under the photo said. All three-piece suits and Gunne Sax dresses. Longish hair on the boys and the "Prairie Look". Mostly smiles, a few serious expressions, squinting in the sun. Twenty-six teenagers,survivors listed in boldfaced type, three boldfaced names. One of them somehow familiar, younger, first name Beth -

Monica looked up at Tess, shocked. Tess nodded soberly. "That's right, Miss Wings. Your guide to this town's tragedy is one of the only ones who lived through it."

"Oh Tess," Monica breathed, her eyes widening, "I've made a mistake - "

"Mistakes are sometimes our greatest opportunities," Tess whispered as Beth emerged from the kitchen. "This one may be yours." And promptly vanished.

Monica pursed her lips and glanced at Beth, who slowed down when she saw Monica standing in front of the photograph. After a moment's silence Monica stammered, "Beth, I'm - "

Beth held up a white paper bag a said soberly, "Come on, my shift's over and I'm going home. If you're going to be in this town long, this is a story you better know."