Twelfth Angel Read Free Page B

seat in an old yellow school bus to our double-dating in his dad’s green Buick for our high school senior prom. Bill West? Bill West? My comrade, teammate, fellow Boy Scout, confidant and alter ego. Was that reallyBilly’s voice calling me from my deck? Even before Sally and I began our house hunting around Boland, I had tried in vain to make contact with him. Eventually I had learned that although he still lived in town with his wife and two sons, he was in Santa Fe, on a three-month sick leave from his company, recuperating from a triple-bypass operation that had almost killed him.
    The sound of pounding grew nearer and louder. Quickly I jerked open the desk’s right-bottom drawer, dropped the pistol and cartridge box on top of the phone book and seed catalogs and slammed the drawer shut. I certainly didn’t need any witnesses to my suicide, especially my oldest and dearest friend.
    Suddenly there he was, peering in my picture window, his hands shielding his eyes, yelling, “John … it’s Billy West … answer me, please. John!”
    I stood and moved close to the window. Bill staggered back several paces before he recovered his composure, grinned and pointed at me. “Hey, old buddy. Finally found you! It’s me, John.… Bill … Bill West!”
    I forced a smile and then motioned for him to come closer to the window so that he could hear me. “There’s a door down at the end of the deck,” I yelled, pointing to my right. “Go on down there and I’ll unlock it for you!”
    We embraced for several minutes and then stepped back but not so far that we released our hold on each other. The palms of Bill’s two hands were patting my cheeks while my fingers were locked tightly behind his neck. We were both crying.
    Bill spoke first after removing a handkerchief and blowing his nose. “Hell of a reunion, isn’t it? I’m so sorry, John.”
    I tried to answer but couldn’t. Bill placed his hands on my shoulders and said hoarsely, “I had read all about your big move up to Millennium. Aunt Jessie phoned us in New Mexico to give us the news about Boland’s planned welcome-home celebration, but my doctor insisted that if I truly loved my family, I should just lie around in a hammock in Santa Fe for another couple of months before coming back. He said I could celebrate with my old friend later. But when Jessie called again with the terrible news about Sally and Rick, I couldn’t stay out there.”
    “Bill,” I said softly, “you should have listened to your doctor. Thanks for caring, but there’s really nothing that anyone can do for me, I’m afraid. Hey, let’s not stand out here. It’s a lot more comfortable in the living room.”
    We sat in silence until Bill finally said haltingly, “It’s a … a … lovely room, John.”
    I stared down at the antique Heriz carpet and shook my head. “Sally kept promising me that by Christmas she’d have it looking just the way we wanted. I think I’ve only come in here once since the accident, and even then I could only stay a couple of minutes. My pretty lady is everywhere I look. I can remember the afternoon we bought that Queen Anne armchair and walnut slant-front desk in Conway and the rainy Saturday morning when we were shopping for vacation clothes and came home with this Chippendale sofa instead.”
    Bill looked around the room slowly, pausing to study the oil painting of clipper ships sailing in Portsmouth harbor, the Shaker rocking chair with woven-tape seat, the oversize fireplace with its carved walnut mantelpiece and flintlock rifle hanging above its shelf and the eight-foot-tall grandfather clock in the corner nearest to us.
    “Magnificent,” he sighed just as the clock chimed the quarter hour.
    I nodded. “Sally’s favorite … of all the furniture.”
    Bill forced a smile. “How long has it been since we’ve seen each other?”
    “High school reunion. Our tenth, wasn’t it? I only came for that one. Then I got too busy.”
    Bill shook