The Angel Deeb
Patricia Abbott
“Mr.
Deeb?”
A middle-aged
Asian woman stood in the doorway, looking around. She’d no reason to know who a
Mr. Deeb was in midst of the crowded room, but spotted me immediately. I was the
only white man in a threadbare clinic in the depths of Detroit. I rose, following her into one of
the cubicles.
“What brings you to
see the doctor today?” she asked, motioning to the examining table. I looked at
it warily; things were getting too real. Me, sitting on that paper sheeting, hearing
the telltale crinkle beneath my sweating thighs after weeks of putting it off.
I
cleared my throat, debating whether to tell her the truth. The facts were so ridiculous
that I decided to be vague. “I’m having some problems with my back.”
I was mumbling and she leaned in to hear me. “Lower?”
she asked, jotting something on her clipboard.
I
pointed to the spot. Both spots to be precise.
She
looked at me over the top of her glasses. “When you say problems, do you mean
you’re experiencing pain? Do you have difficulty in raising your arms, for
instance?”
We looked each
other in the eye.
“A bit.” There was some tenderness in the area, but
that was the least of it.
She waited for me
to continue, but when I didn’t, said, “Would you please take off everything
above the waist, Mr. Deeb?” She handed me a gown, took my temperature, checked
my blood pressure and pulse. “The doctor will be with you in a minute.”
The door closed
behind her, and after hopping off the table, I began to read the cautionary
literature covering the walls. Thirty-five minutes later, an Indian doctor,
roughly half my size and weight, entered the cubicle.
“Mr. Deeb?” he
said, holding out a delicate hand. I shook it.
He promptly washed
his hands, glanced at the clipboard, and said, “Sorry for the wait. Back pain, yes?”
I swallowed,
nodding. “Probably see it all the time. Right?”
I was badly in
need of some reassurance after the literature I’d just read. It was hard to
believe anyone got out of here without a grim diagnosis.
“Yes, back pain’s
a common complaint. Can you tell me more about your particular problem?”
I don’t know why I
was so reluctant to tell him. Was it fear of a dire diagnosis or embarrassment
at my particular problem’s oddity? For several weeks, I’d noticed a growth on
both sides of my upper back. Felt it more than saw it, of course, because it
was in one of those places that’s hard to spot for the affected person. No
matter how I positioned myself and my mirrors, it mostly eluded me, taunting me
almost.
“I seem to have
some sort of… enlargement.” The word growth
seemed laden with implications I didn’t want to introduce into our conversation.
“See?” I flexed my shoulders and what were actually “enlargements” appeared.
The doctor’s face
grew pensive as he began to examine my back. After a minute or two, he
straightened up. “It’s called a winged scapula. Or, in your case, scapulas. Your
shoulder blades are pushing out. Have you always had them? It’s often
congenital.”
“Noticed it for the first time a few weeks ago.”
In fact, I’d turned over in bed one night and
rocked on one of the little nubs. Twisting left, I quickly found the other one.
I was a virtual rocking chair.
“Did you hurt
yourself on the job recently?”
I shook my head.
“Play sports?”
“No.”
The doctor sat
down on his wheeled stool, planting his heels on the floor to steady himself.
“Well, you must have done something.
Your thoracic nerves are damaged. Someone slam you into a wall?” I shrugged and
he sighed. “What do you do for a living, Mr. Deeb?”
That was a
question I didn’t want to answer—maybe the real reason I’d put off coming here.
Telling a doctor you’re a pickpocket doesn’t earn anyone’s respect. I’d never been
asked about my occupation by a doctor before, but I had my share of queries
from other sources and remembered the look on their faces. I was a thief, a
petty criminal, a small-time crook. None of these terms garner admiration.
“I’m unemployed at
the moment.”
Not so unusual in
Detroit in 2010.
“I used to load trucks,”
I added, suddenly inspired. I loaded trucks for the Free Press in the nineties.
It was the best, if not only, legitimate job I ever had.
The doctor smiled,
pleased to have an explanation to hang my winged scapulas on. “If you heaved weighty
merchandise up, you may have done some damage. Odd that it didn’t develop before
now, but still….I’ll give you some literature on your condition along with a
set of strengthening exercises. Let’s give it three months to see if things
have improved. Of course, call the office if the condition deteriorates.”
The word
deteriorate hung in the air like a bat in flight.
He had me push
against a wall, flex various muscles, raise my arms. He took several photos,
even pulling a video camera out of a filing cabinet. “First time I’ve seen
wings on both scapulas,” he muttered, mostly to himself.
The nurse showed
me out, giving me several leaflets with exercises to do. I made another
appointment, paid my bill, and left.
I read the
literature thoroughly and began the recommended exercises. Thinking back on it,
my natural ambidexterity was probably why it was a two-sided condition. And I
decided it was reaching rather than throwing or lifting that had brought about
the condition. I’d reached a lot over
the last ten years: primarily into pockets or to grab purses dangling from
shoulders or hands. I’d reached my hands
across aisles and through windows on cars, buses, subways, trains. Lots of times,
well, most of it, the object I was reaching for was on the move: a man or woman
walking down the street, occasionally someone on a bike. Once or twice, a car
took off before I extract my hand. Grabbing a purse, for instance, was rife
with problems if it didn’t easily detach. My long arms, which had served me
well, turned out to be weakly ligatured.
I decided to stop
reaching for things as much as possible, but I only had so many ways to make a
living. I contented myself with mailboxes, the ones people install by the road.
Problem was, often some wing nut would swing around the corner just as I stuck
my hand into one—or the front door would open despite the bogus mail carrier’s
uniform I wore. I began to wonder if I was losing my touch. My hearing wasn’t good
enough now to pick up a car’s motor before it closed in on me. My intuition
also seemed to be faltering. I was the beneficiary of a declining skill-set in
every way at forty-four years of age.
Despite doing the
exercises, regardless of getting more rest and modifying my behavior, the wings
continued to grow—alarmingly. It became difficult to lie on my back so I slept
on my stomach with a pillow between under knees to ease the pressure. I needed
to go back to the clinic and ask to see a specialist, but I didn’t. It was just
too damned weird. I’d built my life on being as invisible as possible, on
fitting in without a fuss, and now I didn’t. My shirts began to look odd, so I
purchased larger jackets with shoulder padding to hide my growths. Soon I moved
on to capes. More than once, I thought of the Kafka story I’d read in tenth
grade. Was I turning into something else? Was a metamorphosis taking place?
After a half-dozen
wasted efforts (empty mailboxes, ones filled with flyers or magazines), I
finally stumbled on a box on a quiet suburban street the next week. Red, gold
and orange leaves drifted over the macadam as I studied my quarry from behind
an evergreen. The size of the mailbox attracted me. The residents must be
receiving packages of some heft to install this behemoth contraption. A
scarecrow stood propped beside it, its arm draped around it. A plastic black
cat nestled nearby.
Halloween was a holiday
that meant very little to me as a childless man, and its decorations even less.
Somehow over the years, it had become an
extravaganza rivaling Christmas. Creeping up, I pushed the stuffed doll aside,
but luck wasn’t with me. I heard the front door opening before I’d even fully
pulled the mail out. Fleeing, I took the entire contents along—sticking it
under by arm. Back to the car and departure post-haste.
Had the occupant
of 5 Pillsbury Road
spotted me? I was pretty non-descript except for the bulge under my cape. Back
home, I sorted through the sizable packet of mail. What I was hoping for, of
course, were checks I could quickly cash or financial information I could make
use of. There were rarely any saleable items in mailboxes. No stray pieces of
pricey jewelry or expensive electronics. Constant references to mail theft by
the press had seen to that.
Today, there was a
good-sized package from a medical facility, however, and although I generally
kept my distance from drugs because of the people they attract, I opened it. Selling
drugs might tide me over—painkillers, anti-depressants, Ritalin, anti-anxiety
drugs. There was a market for almost any drug and I knew a guy or two who would
middle-man me.
It was drugs, but
the wrong kind. Along with the medication, the styrofoam box was filled with
Polar packs and air bags. The accompanying pamphlet advised it was insulin for
Type One diabetes. The instructions addressed the issues in administering the
medication to a child. I’d intercepted a shipment that would soon expire if I
didn’t return it. A child was waiting for this at that house at 5 Pillsbury Road. It
would have to be returned. None of my activity had ever endangered a child, and
I was not about to go down that road now.
I parked several
streets away that night, not sure if my car had been spotted in the afternoon
by whoever opened that front door on Pillsbury Street. It was a good night for loitering
being Halloween, and it grew dark quickly the way it does in late October. I
made my way along the suburban streets, just another costumed reveler among
hundreds. Hadn’t E.T. gotten away with this stunt thirty years earlier? I’d
left my cape at home despite the chill temperatures and my wings were freed for
once. A hint of euphoria came with it, too.
“Look, an angel,”
a small boy cried, pointing. But I’d disappeared before his father could turn
and question the height and weight of that angel.
My goal was to set the box on the porch, ring
the bell, and disappear. It anyone spotted me I’d be just another costumed
trick or treater. I made my way to 5
Pillsbury Road. The front walk was festooned with
lighted skulls and tombstones, and I nearly put my foot inside an overturned
squash.
“You’re here
then,” a tiny but assertive voice said from the bay window nearest the door. The
child was about six, I’d guess, and dressed like a princess. A gold crown
perched lopsided on her head. Her hair was too short and messy to pull off such
an elaborate headpiece though.
“Me?” I said,
after looking around. “I think you have the wrong guy.” I placed my package on
the step and turned to go.
“Then you aren’t
my guardian angel?”
She adjusted her
crown, using her reflection in the window for a mirror. A line of winking
pumpkins on a table outside lit her view.
“No, I’m just
trick or treating. Same as the rest of ‘em.” I motioned to the distant hordes
and began to skulk down the walk.
“Not me,” she
reminded me. “I’m to stay inside.” She paused. “And that’s sort of ridiculous,
you know. What you just said. A grown
man trick or treating.” She peered at me through the dark. “Those aren’t real
wings then?”
“Nope.” I was
nearly at the gate and turned. “Hey, see that package on the porch.” I pointed.
“It’s for you.” I pointed again when she didn’t move. “You might want to fetch
it and take it inside.” Where were her parents? “It needs to go in the fridge.”
“I can only open the door if you’re my
guardian angel.” She was quite adamant. “I’m not allowed to open it to
strangers.”
I sighed. Maybe I could be her guardian angel for the
length of time it took her to open the door. “Okay, I’m your guardian angel.”
“I thought so. And
those are real wings?”
I nodded and
fluttered them, rising a few inches from the ground at the same time, something I hadn’t even
known I could do. I heard a deep intake of breath, and then she smiled and
disappeared, opening the front door a few seconds later.
“You shouldn’t
open the door to strangers,” I said as she picked up the package. “I'm the
one exception. You need to get that package into the refrigerator pronto.”
“I know what it
is,” she said, sounding bored. “It comes every week. I was hoping you’d bring
me a greeting gift.”
“A greeting gift?”
“You bring one to
your hostess when you come to their house the first time. Something like guest
towels, flowers, or coasters made of tile.” She frowned. “Or in my case,
perhaps something more suitable for a princess.”
“Never heard of
that custom before. Look, why don’t you shut the door now and I’ll be on my
way. You’re going to catch a cold.”
She did just that,
returning to her position at the window before I could escape. “What’s your
name anyway?”
“Deeb,” I said,
without thinking.
“That’s a funny
name for a guardian angel. I suppose I can get used to it though.”
“Sure, call me
Deeb.” What did it matter if we never met again?
“You can call me
Princess Isabella.” I nodded. “And next time you come, try and remember to
bring me a greeting gift.”
I nodded again.
“I’d better be off.”
“I especially like
barrettes if you can’t think of anything else.” I was at the gate now and held
up a hand. She waved back. “See ya.”
The streets were
filled with children by now. Taking a circuitous route in case I was being
followed, I made my way back to the car. There was a tattered wallet on the
road beside it. It had fifty bucks inside and nothing else. I pocketed the
money surreptitiously. Well, even angels have to make a living, I told myself. And
one good deed a day was enough.
Or at least until
I grew into my wings.
Kevin Tipple
George Kelley
Richard Robinson
Jerry House
