The President's Angel Read Free Page B

fully on himself.
    â€œYou prefer a stroke?” Frank teased him gently.
    The President laughed appreciatively. “Can’t be that, because I‘m fit and fine.” He flexed his healthy biceps. “It was just a dream.”

    Then one night he sat up in bed with a gasp. The angel lit the room. It was garbed in gold, and the ceiling vanished in its burnished hair. The President’s mouth went dry. Why didn’t it speak? Its eyes burned into his soul, and what he felt was fear at its awesome majesty. He reached for a weapon—the brandy glass beside his bed—and threw it at the phantom with all his strength. The Waterford crystal skimmed through the figure of light to smash in splinters against the opposite wall.
    â€œDemon,” he breathed. “Who are you? What do you want with me?” His heart was running like footsteps in his chest.
    The angel collected its aura into a firmer, smaller, more human shape. It shook itself, and ripples of light fell from its wings as it sent out a wave of love, of hope. Then to the President’s wonderment, he saw the shattered glass begin to rise, re-form, rebuild, and the crystal was floating through the air, its drops of brandy at the bottom, to land softly on the table again.
    At that moment the angel approached, until it towered gorgeously above his bed, and now Matt saw that it was composed of stupendous colors, and down its flanks and, yes, off its wings, fell stars, cascading like liquid gold. It moved toward the President as if to enfold him.
    â€œNo!” he cried—but suddenly felt seized and then pulled forward, to plunge after the figure that swept through the bedroom door.
    The halls were empty. The angel was a quivering, glorious presence ahead of him. He hurried on, down the red tongue of a rug, around a corner. He passed one sentry, sleeping, and wondered if this was all a dream.
    The angel stopped at the north window. Again it gathered into human form, and again the President was stunned by a wave of such feeling that his knees went weak. He stepped back. He felt too dirty for such love.
    It held up one hand—in caution? in blessing?—and flung itself through the closed glass pane.
    The President ran forward. Had it disappeared? But no, he could see it shining in the night. It made him faint. Was this the same compassionate angel child that had first appeared to him, innocent as dawn? It crossed the lawn, melted through the metal bars of the spike fence, and floated across Pennsylvania Avenue, which was devoid of traffic at this hour.
    In Lafayette Park across the street, the political protestors slept among their signs. MURDERER, one sign called silently, and ASSASSIN STOP WAR POLLUTION HOLOCAUST SAVE THE CHILDREN PRAY. The signs, intended to grab the President’s attention, were as large as billboards. His reaction was disgust. Some of the others said:
SUE YOUR GOVERNMENT NOW
and
If Genocidal Weapons are Peacemakers
,
ADOLF HITLER WAS A SAINT
    The park was populated by protesters, some of whom kept house in tents.
    The angel turned, and the President knew it was directing his attention now to one ragged man, seated on a worn gray rug. He saw the angel flare with light. He saw him touch the beggar’s shoulders, and felt a pang of jealousy, because now the beggar, too, was flaring, flashing luminescent.… The angel towered above the trees.
    And then went out.
    The President was left startled, staring, at black night. Across the street under the harsh glow of an incandescent street lamp, he could barely make out the beggar on his rug. He could see (but not read) the hideous signs about the President being a puppet of militarism, capitalism, and a fascist tool.…
    The dry autumn leaves blew across the lawn in a little gust of wind.

    In those days people were terrified of nuclear war. It had become a metaphor for the terror of their souls.
    Since nuclear war posed a true and dazzling threat, no one