Chapter 7.

About a quarter till three, Frank turned off the narrow, tree-lined street of tiny bungalows and duplexes crammed cheek to jowl, and entered his driveway. What he dubbed “Castle O’Brien” seemed palatial in their Irish Town neighborhood. Not because of the narrow, cookie-cutter colonial-style bungalow built circa 1920, which was nothing special. What made Castle O’Brien seem palatial was its double-lot—closer to two-and-a-half of the neighborhood’s tiny lots—making their yard an unofficial park for the neighborhood kids back in the day. He liked that since Maddy and he could watch the boys, steering them clear of trouble, especially getting wrapped up with Irish Town’s mobsters, or the Hell’s Angels, who had a local clubhouse on nearby Waterloo. No future in the rackets but jail, bail, bullets, or bombs, seemed to Frank, but he understood the draw the outlaw mystique held for blue-collar kids like his.

Great times, until his girl Mary Lou, a stunner, hit thirteen and attracted every hormone-addled adolescent in a fifty-block radius, forcing Frank to fence in the yard. Which still stood, a veritable fortress, plumb, and level as the day he raised it.

Good thing, with the boys already hound-dogging Peggy. He sighed, a resigned grin pinching his face tight. Blink, and they’ve grown.

His shoulders relaxed and his gaze softened as he remembered the yard crawling with the neighborhood kids playing baseball, football, cowboys and Indians, kick the can, or whatnot.

Head swimming in memories, dreams, and desires, he lifted the detached garage door, squeezing his truck into its place. His wife's car was gone, so Frank reckoned she was picking up Peggy and her dress, getting her ready for the youth orchestra concert.

He slid from the truck, thinking, Imagine an O’Brien playing classical music where the Cleveland Symphony plays, being coached by orchestra musicians and conducted by an honest-to-goodness conductor. Real pros, not just junior high teachers doing their best. Who’da thunk?

His heart swelled with pride, floating like a hot-air balloon.

But then he surveyed his truck and reality rushed in, popping that balloon. It would take hundreds of dollars and a few days in the body shop to fix his damned Ford.

Frigging Bo, frigging Delany, frigging assholes, he thought, grinding his molars.

While growling and cursing under his breath, Frank pulled down the garage door. His dog Emer barked from the back door, no doubt hearing him. He reckoned she’d keep, so he turned to inspect his “farm,” a productive Victory Garden they’d kept for decades. He walked the wide rows, admiring the fall lettuce, cabbage, beet, and spinach crop, before tapping the acorn squash, checking their ripeness. Most were ready. Nice. Big harvest tomorrow, which Maddy would convert to a tasty side dish for a pork roast or a chicken. Frank’s mouth watered in anticipation.

The weather forecast called for frost, so he pulled the thermal fleece over the rows of tender squash, beans, peppers, and zucchini, which were still producing, cinching the edges with two-by-fours he kept on hand so cold air would not leak under, killing the summer crops.

Content, Frank closed the rabbit-proof gate and walked through the apple, pear, and plum trees that ran along his yard’s northern edge. No reason, since he’d already harvested and pruned, except he wanted to stretch his legs, inhaling the soft, lingering scent of apples. The trees swayed in the brisk wind, their leaves turning red and a brilliant, greenish-gold, their trunks shaped in the open vase shape he’d learned from his dad, who’d learned it from his father, who had learned it from his own father who tended his trees on the frigid farm he sharecropped in Ireland.

Frank ended his inspection tour at the rose and perennial garden he’d planted for his wife Maddy, nestled between the back porch, garage, and shed. He’d more or less prepared it for the winter. The roses had stopped producing a while back, so he had hard-pruned the bushes and shrubs, leaving tattered sticks and spindly branches in their place. But in contrast, the mums, Japanese anemones, and Michaelmas daisies still thrived in drifts: islands of bloom and vibrant green foliage. The nearby trees and buildings buffered the wind, keeping the garden’s air calm, so he sank onto the bench and gazed at the statue of the Virgin Mother, the plot’s focal point. He sat for a few minutes, listening to the rustling leaves and birdsong, smelling the spicy scent of fall leaves, his eye following the dart of birds and the sway of the trees before settling on Mary again.

Otto drifted to mind, and Frank prayed to Mary for him and his wife, beseeching her to keep them safe. “It’s a hard world,” he thought-spoke to Mary, the words intentional but silent. And then he prayed for Maddy. And that Peggy would hit all her notes tonight, and he thanked the Lord for giving her the chance to play at Severance Hall. He forced himself past his spiteful, unruly heart to pray for Bo, Delaney, and Howard, and petitioned the Lord to help him suffer fools.

Done praying, Frank leaned back, enjoying the vital, thriving landscape he’d put so much time into. He drew a breath deep into his lungs, thanking God for the ground he owned and tilled, and the skill to make it bloom, yielding food for his family, feeding bodies and souls.

A roar louder than a B-52 roused Frank, and he bolted to his feet. A hurricane-strength wind swirled the fallen leaves, bent trees, snapped limbs, and almost knocked him back onto his ass.

His gaze snapped towards a flash in the sky, and his jaw went slack. “What the… no way,” he said, his pounding heart sending shock and awe swooshing through his brain. Because he THOUGHT he saw a band of angels painted in vivid colors, like graffiti gone wild, carrying flaming swords flying up his street from Lakeshore Avenue, their wingbeats driving the wind.

Impossible.

So he steadied for a beat, a trick he’d learned as an infantryman under Patton, making certain he saw what he thought he saw. He breathed air deep into his lungs, blinked, and looked again.

No change, just more details. Forty improbable, four-headed graffiti-covered angels carrying flaming swords were landing in front of his house, folding their wings. The cyclone calmed, and the angels turned with mechanical precision towards him.

Startled, he dashed towards his back porch, seeking shelter, but the angels flashed past, lightning-fast, and encircled him. From pure instinct, he rolled into a ball, covering his face and head with his arms, and then laughed at his folly.

As if playing pill-bug will save my dumb-ass from supernatural beings with four heads and inhuman speed. Idiot.

Somewhat leavened by the self-deprecating gallows humor, Frank waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Nothing happened, so MAYBE he was safe? After a quick prayer, Frank took a leap of faith and stood, assessing his situation. The angels hadn’t slaughtered him but had instead secured him inside a square-phalanx formation. It was creepy, because while he faced an impenetrable sea of marble backs, each of the angels’ rear faces stared at him, their eyes glowing with a soft, diffuse white light.

Frank nodded his greeting at the eyes and tapped at the stone wall, finding no gap. While stifling a barrage of curses, he raised his gaze to a random pair of eyes.

He cleared his throat, asking, “Am I your prisoner?”

No answer.

The dog snarled, scratching the kitchen door. He had to calm her and let her out before she peed all over the kitchen, so he tried to push past but couldn’t. They had him locked tight. The angels were giants, too tall to leap, and he found no hand-hold to help him climb.

He thought for a few beats, trying to stay calm, but the frustration built. He needed to get shit done, and these angelic assholes were impeding him. Like a boiler bursting under pressure, he lashed out, kicking the marble as hard as he could with his steel-toe boots. Each time he connected, an angel gasped and whimpered with annoyance, and the wall opened a sliver. Before he could scamper through, though, the gap sealed.

Frank stopped kicking and glowered at an angel’s empty-headed, glowing eyes. “Let me out, God damn it!”

Reality warped.

Frank couldn’t explain how, but even as each of the angels’ faces still pointed at the four compass points, every single one glared at him. Three-hundred-and-twenty eyes, now glowing blood-red, focused on him. One-hundred-and-sixty mouths said in unison, the ground quaking as they spoke, “Thou shalt not use the name of the Lord your God in vain.”

He gulped, troubled by their fiery gazes. “Sorry,” he said, feeling foolish. “Thing is, my dog needs to pee, and I need to catch a youth orchestra recital tonight… I want to… I need to…. I mean, can you let me go?”

Reality unwarped, leaving only forty creepy, earnest yet expressionless faces, their eyes glowing soft white. One majestic angel, taller than the rest, its robes painted ermine and face, hands and arms rendered in a rich burnt umber detached from the rest. Frank knew to his bones that this was the leader.

“We cannot,” the leader said, his breath reeking of incense and holy oil.

“Why?”

The angel cleared his throat, flaring his wings. “I am Metatron, member of the Inner Council, one of the Select Protectors of the throne of He-Who-Is-Who-He-Is, the Lord Jehovah, Who has granted me this Holy See to protect you from the marauding hordes.”

Frank scoffed. “What marauding hordes?”

Metatron pointed with his flaming sword. Again, reality warped. Though still ensconced behind the angels, Frank spied a dark dust cloud swirling around a thin, lanky man dressed in a swanky black suit.

But it wasn’t dust.

Instead, the cloud resolved into a swarm of skeletons swathed in black leather biker chaps and jackets bearing pikes and riding smoke-snorting dragons with crow-like wings and lizard bodies.

He gulped. The horde numbered one thousand strong, a battalion of Demon Dragon Riders against Metatron’s paltry platoon: twenty-five to one.

Frank remembered his squad pinned down behind German lines in France after they’d stormed Normandy Beach as a Kraut company marched past, retreating. The Germans were far from full strength, yet they still outnumbered Frank’s men twenty-to-one, and they had three tanks. Outnumbered and outgunned, the GIs hid like scared rats in a church basement.

Frank would die for America, but facing-off and fighting, force to force, while outnumbered twenty-to-one? That wasn’t heroism, but stupidity. Suicide.

No thanks.

And yet outmanned twenty-five to one, Metatron’s Morons stood pat, itching to fight. Needless to say, Frank did not feel safe, flaming swords or not. Dumb is dumb, whether the dumbass was human or divine. So he beat on stone backs, saying, “Let me out,” but Metatron’s Morons ignored him, concentrating on the Demon Dragon Riders, who smelled of sulfur and sewer gas.

Somehow, the Demons surrounded the Morons, even from above and below.

Weird, Frank thought, impossible.

And yet it happened.

But things grew even weirder when Metatron’s Morons again warped space, this time occupying three dimensions, surrounding him in a rock-hard stone cocoon.

Frank’s skin crawled. He didn’t like it. Sure, Metatron’s Morons would keep him safe, but they had him trapped: not good.

Worse, he could no longer see outside the protective shell, where a battle raged: steel rang on steel, bones crunched and stones cracked. Dozens of angelic faces dimmed. Injuries, Frank reckoned. And then, one by one, their eyes went dark.

Frank gulped, a hollow void forming between his eyebrows as he realized his protectors were dead. Forlorn, he sunk to the ground, numb, entombed in dark stone.

He sighed, thinking, This is like hiding in that church basement, Jerry under duress, retreating, marching past us mere yards away….

Well, sort of...

This was worse by Frank's reckoning. Though that was horrific, at least back then he hoped, knowing the GIs were marching towards them. But this was just hopeless.

The Demon Dragon Riders celebrated with discordant hollers and call and response cheers. Their dragons’ wings beat with the sound of twenty-thousand Harleys revving at Altamont. Entombed by dead angels, Frank doubted he’d ever see Maddy and the family again, let alone catch Peggy’s concert.

His heart broke.

And then he heard a tapping. A cane pierced the cocoon, wedging it open, letting in light. He spied a man wearing a corn-cob hat and black and red cardigan peering through the crack.

The man said, in a deep Mississippi drawl, “Brother Frank, to be good and godly—and I mean full-on, bone-deep, Jesus-like good brother—you need to be free. So fuck the angels, and fuck the demons. Don’t hollow yourself out, but fill yourself with soul and spirit. Rage. Howl. Follow angel-headed hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, brother. Don’t let MK Ultra and the CIA and all that government mind-control shit squash your mojo. Live, love, fight, laugh and dance, despite The Man. Free your mind, and your ass will follow.”

Frank chuckled, recognizing Corny’s corny-ass words, but in a voice that sounded exactly like him, while being completely different. Catching the contradiction, Frank let out a nervous laugh.

The man disappeared, replaced by a fair-skinned negro saxophonist, sporting a white suit, silver tie, and charcoal porkpie hat. And that cat played his horn, hard. Frank sensed the tune was ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,’ but the cat played with the song, taking it apart and reassembling the pieces, the exact same but brand-spanking new. He was stamping and swaying, like he was playing at an old-time tent revival meeting. The guy had serious chops: great, even. It was the best sax playing Frank had ever heard, whether live or on vinyl, and he’d been a jazz freak since hearing his first uncut “race record,” Count Basie’s ‘One O’Clock Jump,’ back in the day. And this cat was the flea’s eyebrows.

The sax player hit the end of the tune, a fifth note teasing but not delivering the home key, as the lyrics in Frank’s head sang, “coming for to carry me home.”

The sax player stayed on that note, sustaining it, his vibrato rich and surging, never resolving. And the music man began glowing. Brighter and brighter and growing larger and larger. The rich note, while unmoved and unmoving, surged as free and varied as life itself. Soon, the man’s feet stood on molten magma and his head scraped the moon, and his horn glowed, bright as a supernova.

And then… he imploded, his huge being and walloping sound condensed to a point so fine it smacked of nothingness. Movement seemed impossible, the squeeze too tight, and yet the musician played, shook his tail-feather, stomped his platform shoes, and…

‘BOOM!’

He exploded, the flash brighter than ten thousand suns.

Frank shielded his eyes, and he heard the stone angels shattered into rock dust, his face blistering, burned by the explosion.

All was silence and birdsong and Emer barking and whining. A few beats later, he opened his eyes. He stood in his backyard, freed from the stone cocoon, facing a statue of Mary.

Heart leaping for joy in his breast, Frank strode towards the porch door to liberate Emer. But stopped dead in his tracks.

Again, a cyclone swirled, blowing so hard he could not move. A din filled his ears, and the scents of incense and sulfur mingled in his nostrils. Distraught, his gaze shot skyward. Metatron’s Moronic Angels swooped towards him from the right, Demon Dragon Riders to the left.

The wind ripped, so powerful it shattered Mary into pieces, lifting whole chunks of her into the cyclone which swirled about him. Frank struggled against the wind, dodging stone chunks, trying for the backdoor and shelter. And yet, the opposing forces rushed closer and closer, threatening to squash him between them like a bug.

Not to mention chunks of Mary.

Frank's pulse raced, and he saw a large rock aimed square at him. The damned thing would shatter him like a cannonball. Try as he might, though, the gale-force winds made moving near impossible as he struggled to twist free of the cannonball's path.