Another Angel of Love Read online

  But then, it might be nothing. Maybe Mr. Engelmann had just gone back to bed after opening the store for him. He’d never done that before but he had been awfully tired lately.

  Henry summoned up more courage and climbed a few more stairs. Once again, he called out for Mr. Engelmann but didn’t receive a response. At the top of the stairs, he looked around. All the lights were off, and as he had assumed, the blinds on the window underneath which Mr. and Mrs. Engelmann usually sat and read were closed, only allowing a dim frame of light to seep in around the edges.

  He gazed down the hall and saw a soft glow in the bedroom doorway. He wondered if he should go in. He was sure the Engelmanns were just sleeping. But even so he had to wake up Mr. Engelmann, didn’t he? He’d be mortified if he slept the morning away while Henry worked alone downstairs. Henry imagined Mr. Engelmann’s ruddy face next to his wife’s pale one. What a contrast. The image only added to his growing anxiety.

  Henry tiptoed down the hall, not really knowing why since he had every intention of waking Mr. Engelmann anyway. He neared the doorway, hearing nothing but the pounding of his heart. Perspiration rolled down his back. Finally, he reached the doorway and dared to peek in—and the image in front of him was forever imprinted in his mind and heart.

  Mr. Engelmann sat in a chair beside the bed, holding Anna’s still hand in both of his. His head was bowed. Anna’s eyes were closed. Mr. Engelmann’s curved back heaved slightly. He was sobbing, the tears silent. Henry knew then that Mrs. Engelmann was gone. He stood there, half in and half out of the doorway, frozen, unsure what to do.

  A chill trickled down Henry’s back as if all the warmth had left the room with Anna’s spirit. Slowly, he drew close to Mr. Engelmann and put a hand on his shoulder. As he did, Mr. Engelmann’s sobbing increased. Mr. Engelmann took one hand away from Anna’s and placed it on top of Henry’s. In the peace and stillness of the moment, they mourned their loss.

  Henry’s heart went out to Mr. Engelmann. He had loved his wife and would miss her so much. Henry knew he would really miss their visits; he’d loved her like a second mom. Actually, now that he thought of it, he was surprised he wasn’t crying, too. Maybe he was in shock. He couldn’t keep his eyes off Mrs. Engelmann. He’d never seen someone who’d just died.

  Mrs. Engelmann looked perfectly peaceful, a soft smile on her face and a gentle glow on her skin. She finally looked at rest. She had been ill for so long. She should have been in the hospital, but Mr. Engelmann had refused, insisting on carrying the responsibility of looking after her day after day himself. He had never complained, only loved his wife and served her until the end. Mr. Engelmann had told him it was an honour to look after Anna, and often commented how she cheered him up when everyone thought it was the other way around.

  Suddenly Henry remembered the store was open and unattended. He had no idea how long he’d been upstairs.

  “Mr. Engelmann,” he said in a low voice, “I better go back downstairs.”

  “Yes, yes, go ahead,” Mr. Engelmann whispered back. He patted Henry’s hand then took Anna’s again. “Thank you, Henry.”

  Henry backed out of the room, a picture seared in his mind’s eye: Mrs. Engelmann still under the sheets, the warm glow of the lamp caressing her face; Mr. Engelmann behind the light as if in the shadows, weeping and holding her hand, giving it his warmth; and the wooden cross on the wall above them, the bronze sculpture of the Lord reflecting the light. It was He who was at the centre of their lives, at the heart of their marriage. It was He who helped them carry their burdens, and it was He who united them now.

  Henry was deeply moved by the beauty of that moment, by a love shared even in death. He felt the urge to draw what he’d seen, to paint it, freeze it on canvas. Why would he think such a thing at a time like this? He bumped into the doorway, startling Mr. Engelmann and himself. Slowly he turned and made his way to the light coming up the stairs from the storage room below.

  Downstairs, the phone jangled. He ran towards it, but it stopped ringing as he got there. He was glad. He wasn’t ready to talk to a customer just yet. He looked around the store and was grateful no one had come in. He decided to sweep the floor and restock the shelves. He’d wait for Mr. Engelmann to tell him what more he should do.

  He was concerned about Mrs. Engelmann, though. Surely she couldn’t stay in the bedroom? How was Mr. Engelmann going to get her out of there? Henry thought about the funeral. His mind buzzed with questions. Who would Mr. Engelmann want as pallbearers? Would Mr. Engelmann have to go buy a coffin? Where would the funeral be held?

  It’s so complicated to die.

  Then Mr. Engelmann appeared in the storeroom doorway. He looked tired and sad. His eyes were swollen and his shoulders slouched a little more than usual. His glasses were so smudged they looked frosted over, as if he’d just come in from the cold. He wore the same sweater vest he usually did. He could afford a new one and maybe a nicer one, but he was satisfied with what he had. He was comfortable, liked things simple and saw no need to change.

  Mr. Engelmann walked towards Henry, patting his shoulder as he passed. When he got to the front door, he turned the deadbolt above the doorknob to the right until it clicked and locked, then flipped the sign, which Henry had turned to open when he’d come in, back to closed. Mr. Engelmann slowly walked back to Henry and put his arm around his young partner’s shoulder. “Come, Henry. Let us go sit on the old crate out back and feel the morning sun on our faces for awhile.”

  As they emerged from the back of the store, they squinted against the bright sun. They sat down side by side as they had done so many times before.

  Fully expecting a conversation about loss and death, Henry was surprised when Mr. Engelmann began talking about how he had first met Anna, how he’d known from the beginning she would be his wife. He talked about her qualities, charm, mannerisms and looks, all the things that had attracted him to her. He talked about their life, marriage, honeymoon, first apartment and first home. He talked about their trials and sorrows, including the fact that they could not have children. He talked about their love of theatre and music. He talked about how they’d gotten out of Austria during the war and come to Canada. Mr. Engelmann told Henry his life’s story, passing on the legacy to the only son they had.

  Mr. Engelmann finished shortly after noon, ending with how they’d bought the store and the plans they’d had, some of which had not turned out. In a sense he was reliving his life with his chosen mate, not regretting a minute of it. If there were any regrets, it would be that his time with Anna hadn’t been long enough. Mr. Engelmann was deeply in love with her.

  Henry could relate; it was how he felt about Jenny.

  They sat in silence, each in his own thoughts. Henry thought of Jenny and how he had wanted her for his wife. He envied Mr. Engelmann for having married his true love.

  “Well, Henry, you can sit for awhile longer if you wish. I have things that need to be done.”

  When Henry came back into the store, Mr. Engelmann was on the phone to the funeral home. When he hung up, Henry asked if they should open the door to customers.

  “No, today is a day for mourning, Henry. It is Anna’s day. We respect her passing today. I am not interested in making money or carrying on any other business than what I have to do now. When the ambulance comes, let them in, Henry, and show them the way upstairs. I am going up now, to get Anna ready. You stay here, answer the phone, and tell people we are closed and why. Do the same for anyone who comes to the door. Tell them we will be open again tomorrow but will be closed on the day of Anna’s funeral.”

  As Mr. Engelmann turned to leave, he added, “Maybe phone Mrs. Schmidt and tell her to come in for awhile today, and for sure tomorrow because I won’t be here for most of the day. I have many things to do and many preparations to make.”

  As Mr. Engelmann headed upstairs, Henry remembered Mrs. Neaster’s phone call. “Mr. Engelmann, Mr
s. Neaster phoned when I got in this morning and placed an order for salami, bread and butter. I told her I’d deliver it today. Should I phone and tell her that we can’t right now?”

  “No, no, if you promised her it would be delivered today, then we must honour your word.” He walked over to the meat counter, took out the salami and cut the meat the way he knew Mrs. Neaster liked it, then wrapped it first in wax paper then in coated brown paper. He wrote the weight and price on the outside of the package then laid it on top of the glass display case.

  “Here, Henry, finish the order and take it to her this afternoon when you can.”

  So Henry phoned Mrs. Schmidt and explained to customers who called or knocked on the front door about Mrs. Engelmann, telling them the store would re-open the following day. Many wept as soon as Henry told them. He’d never realized how much the community loved Mr. and Mrs. Engelmann.

  Besides their visits, Henry’s most vivid memories of Anna were of her constant kindness and sincerity, and the fact that despite the obvious pain her cancer inflicted, she never complained about it. She had always wanted to help in the store, even towards the end when Mr. Engelmann insisted she rest. Henry had always liked it when she was able to come down to the store, though; she brought with her a sense of peace and an aura of simple elegance and charm.

  A tapping at the front door startled Henry from his recollections. The ambulance had arrived. He opened the door and held it while the men entered, carrying a cot between them. He led them upstairs, calling up to Mr. Engelmann that the ambulance men were there. When they arrived at the bedroom door, a teary Mr. Engelmann greeted them and swept a hand towards the bed.

  It was still hard for Henry to believe. Mrs. Engelmann looked as if she were asleep. Her arms lay on top of the covers, her hands now holding each other naturally.

  “I thought I would leave her nightgown on,” said Mr. Engelmann, breaking the silence.

  “That’s fine,” said the first man who entered the room. “They’ll dress her at the funeral home, if you have clothes you want to send along. You can stay if you want, or you can wait downstairs while we get her ready.”

  “No, no, I will stay.”

  It was evident that it bothered Mr. Engelmann to have to share the sanctity and privacy of his bedroom with other men.

  The first attendant walked to the other side of the bed and reached for the covers, gently sliding them from underneath Mrs. Engelmann’s arms, and slowly lowered the sheets, making certain that he wouldn’t expose her unnecessarily. But Mr. Engelmann had anticipated this and had prepared her so that her modesty was preserved, her gown pulled down as far as it could go, wrapped snuggly around her ankles and tucked in underneath. All that showed were her tiny feet, tight together and pointing straight up.

  The man removed a heavy vinyl plastic bag of olive green from the case he’d been carrying. He set the bag down on the white bedspread beside Mrs. Engelmann and unrolled it in the space where Mr. Engelmann would normally sleep. The bag had a long zipper in the middle, running its entire length. He opened it wide and then motioned to the second man. They leaned over to the far side of the bed and slid their hands underneath Mrs. Engelmann. Henry worried they were off-balance, but Mrs. Engelmann was so frail and light they had no trouble lifting her and placing her into the open bag.

  Mr. Engelmann gasped as the first man took hold of the zipper and slowly pulled it up over Anna’s face, closing out the last image that Henry and Mr. Engelmann would ever have of Anna in her bedroom. It seemed a cruel thing to do and yet it was necessary. Henry went over to Mr. Engelmann and put a hand on his shoulder.

  They both stared at the cold plastic bag. It seemed so wrong for such a warm, loving person to be sealed inside it.

  The ambulance attendants tucked their arms underneath the plastic bag and shifted it towards the other side of the bed, making room to set down the stretcher. Clearly they’d done this many times before. They laid the stretcher on the edge of the bed beside Mrs. Engelmann and shifted her onto it, then buckled up the straps, pulling very hard to make them tight so they wouldn’t lose her going down the stairs. The first man nodded to the second and they lifted the stretcher.

  Under Henry’s hand, Mr. Engelmann tensed as Anna’s body left the bedroom.

  Mr. Engelmann stood motionless. The ambulance men had left with Anna’s body and Henry had followed them out. As the bag holding his wife went past him, he had almost reached out to touch it, but seeing her placed inside had been bad enough without adding the memory of the feel of her body through its cold plastic.

  He stared at the empty bed for a long time, then walked over to the bed and sat down where his wife had lain. He put his hand on the white sheet, hoping somehow to still feel her warmth.

  He felt only cold emptiness.

  He missed her already. How would he survive without her?

  He leaned back and tried to lay down so that he covered the spot where Anna had been. He rested his head on her pillow, trying to fit it into the slight depression left by her own. He looked as still as Anna had. He closed his eyes, thinking to dream of her, but found himself praying instead…that the Lord might take him this day, too.

  Chapter Two

  Good morning Mom,” Jenny said as she bounced into the kitchen carrying her diary.

  “Well, it’s about time you got up. Just in time for lunch rather than breakfast.”

  “I did wake up earlier and had every intention of getting up— then I drifted back to sleep somehow…”

  “You must have been overtired from helping the groundskeepers yesterday.”

  “I love working outside…perhaps I should be a landscaper instead of a librarian.”

  Edith smiled, poured another cup of coffee and sat down at the table. “Thought of something special to tell your diary?”

  “Yes.” Jenny turned to her mother and opened her mouth to tell her today was an unforgettable anniversary but thought better of it. It was just too upsetting for her mom and especially her father to know how much she still loved and missed her first love, Henry.

  “I—I’m planning to go out to the gazebo and…well, yes, there are a few things I want to share with my diary,” Jenny winked at her mother, hoping she’d get the hint that it was private.

  “Want some lunch first?”

  “No, just a glass of orange juice.”

  Jenny closed the fridge and sipped the tangy liquid as she gazed at the flowers outside. “It’s just so beautiful here, Mom. And I love the transformation spring brings.”

  “I love it too, Jenny. Of all the homes we’ve had this certainly is the most beautiful, with the loveliest surroundings…especially compared to the small yard we had in Regina.” Edith glanced at her daughter hoping the mention of that city wouldn’t stir memories best kept buried.

  Jenny returned her mother’s gaze and smiled in an attempt to hide the thoughts she had entertained only moments earlier too. As soon as she opened the sliding patio door several butterflies, attracted to the blooms near the house, flew into the kitchen.

  Edith quickly reached for the dish towel on the counter to shoo them out.

  “It’s okay, Mom, they’ll leave on their own.”

  “Jenny, don’t start that again,” Edith said curtly as she made her way over to the door already waving the checkered cloth.

  As soon as Jenny stepped out onto the patio the butterflies followed. Edith rushed to close the door behind her.

  As Edith watched her daughter stroll down the path her expression turned from one of condemnation to puzzlement. Many times when Jenny was a child she’d had to drive these silly thoughts of butterflies and angels from her daughter’s mind. “What nonsense,” Edith muttered. “To think that angels turn into butterflies…and she even had her father convinced of it too!”

  Edith remembered the night it had all come to a head. Ted had gone into Jenny’s room
to kiss her good night, and as he opened the door he’d thought there was a glow in the room. At first he thought it was just his little girl’s natural radiance—Ted had always maintained Jenny loved being out in the sun so much she absorbed it into her bright smile and fine blond hair so she glowed a little herself. But there had been a kind of soft light. Hovering above little Jenny, her eyes wide with delight, were three colourful butterflies. “Look, Daddy!” she’d exclaimed, “The angels are singing to me.”

  Ted had stood at the door, dumbfounded, blinking to clear his vision. But there they were. And like Edith herself had just a few minutes ago, Ted went to shoo the intruders away as well. But as he approached, he told her afterwards, the butterflies began to flit away, disappearing out the open window into the night…except for one. He could just make out the deep violet-coloured butterfly nearly blending into the growing darkness, fluttering ever so gently near his daughter’s face. She seemed mesmerized, a stray golden strand fell forward into her eyes as she watched the butterfly’s dance. Ted edged still closer and the tiny winged creature flew up on top of the bedpost nearest the wall and perched there as if guarding its charge.

  Afterwards, Ted had said it was surreal but wonderful. And instead of being concerned or annoyed by their daughter’s over-active imagination (Or his, for that matter, Edith thought) he had simply been compelled to say, “Yes, they are beautiful, sweetheart” and kiss his daughter good night. He left feeling, he’d said, strangely elated.

  Edith shook her head as she recalled it. Ted is so much like her, Edith thought, two peas in a pod. She hadn’t believe a word of their nonsense and for the next week she’d visited Jenny’s room each night to tuck their little girl in herself, doing her best to nip these flights of fancy in the bud. There was a time and a place for storytelling and imagination, but for Ted to encourage these—these fabrications…