The Sinner's Angel

It now seems unfortunately ironic to say her house was full of life.

The little stone walk that led from the street to the porch meandered through the garden. The first steps took you through the gate, graced by the miniature rosebushes. From there, you'd pass the bench that sat beneath the magnolia tree. A tree that large must be at least fifty years old, and the swing hanging from it might be almost as old. The weathered ropes creaked as they swayed in the breeze. There was always the gentlest of breezes. It was as if the wind never dared do more.

Your fourth and fifth steps would curve toward the flower beds. They were always pristine and populated by whatever was in season. I never could remember the names of all the little flowers she kept on rotation. The colors were always balanced--the pinks with the blues, the yellows poking out from among the dark green leaves.

The sixth, seventh, and eighth steps were taken upon little stepping stones that crossed through the groundcover between the edge of the path and the porch. Peeking out from under the ivy, a little fountain poured into the birdbath, which, in turn, spilled into the little pond. There were no longer fish, and what little water remained stood stagnant. If the weather got a little warmer, the mosquitoes would take over.

Each of the nine steps from the gate to the porch seemed to pass through its own little paradise. Each glimpse brought a memory of her: her straw hat slipping down her back as she laughed from the swing, her reaching into the thorns of a rosebush with an ungloved hand and emerging unscathed, her plucking fallen leaves out of the birdbath just in time for an eager robin to flutter into the water...

Nine meandering steps crossed a universe contained in only a few yards. You never felt that the path was unnecessarily winding. When visiting her, you were never in a hurry. To pass this bit of her beauty without pausing to enjoy it would be sacrilege.

Once you reached the porch, it was three steps up. A little wicker rocking chair sat between the wooden spindles of the railing and the large bay window that looked out from the parlor. If she was not in the garden, she would be in the chair.

When you cross the threshold and enter the hall, the lively paradise melts into a calm sense of welcome. The yellow wallpaper with the pale blue trim keeps the place bright, despite the lack of windows. The Persian rug feels a little too dark for the room, as it runs alongside the steep wooden stairs.

She always referred to the room on the right as the "parlor," but it's more akin to a library. The oak bookshelves were built by her husband, several decades ago. Featuring Homer, Virgil, Livy, Plutarch, Cicero, Petrarch, Dante, Shakespeare, Spenser, Marlowe Donne, Milton and the rest, they prove her husband's profession. She'd read them all as well, of course, but somehow, you never felt her knowledge as a burden the way you felt the old professor's. She was different. The only book we ever saw her read was the Bible that rested on the little table by the window. Her son made that table, back in better days.

The parlor is not the source of interest, nor are the bedrooms at the top of the stairs. They're all beautiful, of course, but so was everything she touched. Instead, you continue through the hall, past the stairs, to the narrow kitchen. Herbs hang from the ceiling in front of the window over the sink. Though they all came out of the garden, only she could tell you which came from which plant, or which would help with what ailment, or which would season which meal. Surrounded by a brick hearth and wall, the stove is one of those old, woodburning, cast-iron stoves. She never would let us replace it. The back wall of the kitchen has a small nook, in which lives a table with four seats. She could fit twelve people around it comfortably. The copper tea-kettle lives on a shelf near the back door.

If, once standing by the back door, you turn to your left and step down, you'll reach the enigma of a room. Once, this room was meant to be a dining room. With its large windows and the skylight carved into the sloping roof, she decided there was a better use for this room. This room became the place we boys spent our childhoods. We joined her as she painted, helped her start her seedlings for the garden, watched in awe as she created a beautiful doily from nothing but thread and a hook, and we sang when she opened the old piano. Long after the sun set, when the stars twinkled through the skylight, we'd still be rejoicing, a lone candle illuminating the old hymnbook.

When the professor died, her neighbors told her to stop taking in students as boarders, or at least to start taking in girls, instead. Girls don't stay out drinking as late. Girls don't get into fights that break windows. Girls don't disappear for two days at a time.

She laughed at those neighbors. Neither do my boys, she'd say.

Her son disagreed. He'd point to the window. She'd laugh and elaborately relay the ridiculous story of the wrestling match as we helped her clear the table.

I wonder, now, whether she knew that most rebellions begin at universities. I wonder whether she knew what we'd gotten into. Did she know that every ideal eventually becomes a brutal reality?

If she was blind, it was surely by choice.

When I started running with the group that started the riots, she advised me to be careful. When I was first arrested, she picked me up and paid the bail. She never asked what had happened.

One night, James did not come home. Three days later, they found his body in the river. She changed her clothes that night, and her time with that Bible in the parlor lengthened. I think she wore black the rest of her life. I found her once, on her knees in prayer, but now slumped in sleep. The police knew who he'd been with that night. They started asking questions. How long before they learned what James had been plotting?

It was only a few weeks before Paul attempted to finish what James had started. He shot at the governor. He was caught and hanged a few days later. She attended his funeral with me. It was more than Paul's family was willing to risk.

We rebels always think we're doing something noble. Perhaps we are. Perhaps it always starts that way. Finally, my part came. The action was not noble.

I retreated to the backroom of an old tavern to wash my hands afterward. There was no saving my coat from the bloodstains. When I returned to the university campus, the hunt was on. They were after me, and I was afraid. It no longer mattered whether I'd been right to do what I'd done. Life was lost, and the blood was on my hands and my coat.

I stood outside her gate that night, and I knew that if I went in, death would follow me. I made it to the porch, knowing that she was my refuge, knowing that she would forgive me my crimes, and that there would be peace.

When I reached the porch, I reached for the door handle. It would not be locked. It is never locked.

I hesitated.

"Boy, you know you're welcome," she said from her seat in the rocking chair.

Even in the moonlight, she was nearly invisible.

"You don't know what I've done."

"It doesn't matter," she said, standing. The pages of her Bible shone briefly in the moonlight before she set it on the chair. "Grace is free. Redemption requires only repentance."

I looked at my coat. Surely, she had not seen my coat. "It's not so simple."

"It never is," she replied.

I turned and moved down the steps. "I cannot damn you as well."

"No," she said. "You cannot. Not even if you wanted to."

When I glanced back at her, she looked like an angel. Her silver hair hung loose, and her white robe nearly glistened in the moonlight. She smiled.

As I started to leave, she said my name, and I turned back. Standing three steps up, she was just barely taller than me. She gently grasped my face with both hands, and bending slightly, she kissed my forehead. "You can escape neither love nor grace."

Despite her words, I tried. I fled, that night, and my guilt has yet to release me. The authorities abandoned their search when open battles broke out. History smiled on us, and we are free now.

John, the last one of us who lived in her house, sent word to me that she is dead now. Sometimes, I wonder if it was my fault. Even in victory, we could not save the world. Now, not even she can save me.

And yet...I cannot escape.