the voice of angels

part 8

The day and the night slipped like a fish through fingers, or maybe a flying disk that skipped....

The day and night turned into a consummate painting, a masterpiece, and it zoomed along on rails of silver in a tunnel of light. They kissed like astronauts running out of air.

Pasta-louis reclined on the couch alone, smoking his second cigarette of the day. He inhaled slowly, expectantly, and exhaled with a caution, amused and saddened by the curls of smoke that lay tendrils across his cheek and tickled his nose hairs. In this room there was solace, everywhere else was frivolity or tedium. Or, in the wall room, in the Shmear, there was reverence, and duty. And the grandeur he so desired. Out the window the pinks began to blend with the blues, and darkness gathered in the low branches. There was much to do yet, and night was only the beginning. Pasta-louis dragged heavily on the spent stick and crushed the last glowing embers out in the sooty ash tray.

He left Mary Louisa in their bed, with the tiny notebook open on the sheets. She had read to him her poetry until they both nodded off. But Pasta-louis rested briefly, and rose again with purpose. That he had meditated with tobacco, seeing in the distance red, green, blue, white, did not diminish his concern. He knew not the outcome, but Pasta-louis felt his road was well paved and straight, and the guardrail was solid. It would not break should his cynics place an obstacle. He pulled on socks and shoes and stood, then moved through the rooms with the languid locomotion of a jellyfish in calm waters. In the altered room he wavered amid the creaking floor boards. Only dim light from the kitchen filtered into the room, but the great black and bloodied Shmear pulsed like a wound out of the sickly, decaying canvas, and Pasta-louis was pulled from within closer to the beacon. He stopped only when his palms met the wall and his outstretched arms ached. His elbows quivered from the battle, but finally the Shmear relented and Pasta-louis stood panting before his god. He looked into the Shmear and saw nothing but all he was meant to see, and the mantra echoed in his skull, playing and skipping like a broken record. I am your tool... I amI am. Your tool. I am your tool.

 

Up the stairs and down the hall, Mary Louisa sat abruptly, clutching the sheets up to her chin and spilling macaroni onto the carpeted floor. She could feel the power pulsing up the walls and rattling the springs beneath the bed like the clammy fingers of a cadaver. She swung her legs from the mattress and quickly pulled on her jeans and blouse. The power drew her from the bed, and without knowing how she was on the steps and then the landing. The yellowness crept out from the room. Pasta-louis was nowhere to be seen.

Although the night had conquered, and outside there was no sun, the light had not gone out. Up the lane and to the door came a group of gaily dressed strangers. They held sheets of white paper and brought joy and love and a message, and they knocked upon the door, and they sang even before invited. Mary Louisa hesitated, but the pull of the Shmear was strong. She stumbled by the front door. For a moment the voices faltered. Each of the carolers chocked and coughed, but they laughed aloud and cleared their throats. From inside she heard them again, and their voices leapt joyfully out from shining faces, louder than before. Mary Louisa stamped her foot, and she thrust her hand to the door, and turned the knob before the room could devour her soul.