T he neighborhoods around the Bateman’s Church Street home in Iowa City suggest the pleasant perils of the 1950s families – the Cleavers, the Nelsons – missing cookies, lessons about telling small lies and other minor misunderstandings. Nice, modest, well-kept homes, kept but not manicured lawns, splashes of garden color. Quiet. Safe.
Within walking distance of her home was Hickory Hill Park. There was a cemetery near. Despite having lived there all of her childhood, she could never remember its name. Just as she was about to look up and see the name above the gate and memorize it, the large statue visible ahead always stole her gaze and her thoughts.
For the most part, it was a relatively normal little cemetery – concrete stones embedded in little mounds of green lawn. Around them were narrow avenues that would curve and, eventually, lead visitors back to the tall iron-gated entrance. Fresh cut flowers and patriotic flags were plentiful despite the fact that it wasn’t the Fourth of July or Memorial Day.
Julia found the walk through the cemetery both appealing and profoundly sad. Towering over one black-topped avenue was the Black Angel. Her head down. Her dark, weathered bronze wings folded over her like a large, heavy cape.
The Black Angel frightened her when she was a child. She would have nightmares that heaven was far less desirable than people made it out to be. Now, looking at the face, the posture, the cape-like wings, Julia didn’t feel fear at all.
The expression on the angel’s face wasn’t what she had remembered. She wasn’t sure if she had ever seen the angel’s face before. The angel’s eyes showed not so much sadness as compassion. The angel’s wings spoke of protection. The face of the angel showed determination.
Julia sat on the ground beneath it and began to cry. She knew she wasn’t done yet. It wasn’t over.
The next few days she was drawn back again to the Black Angel, wanted to hide under the shroud-like wings. She looked forward to the walks and to her stay with the angel.
Less appealing were the errands that took her from the solitude of the house. The pharmacy and the food co-op were more civilization than she cared to encounter. Some people in town still knew her. She could see the concerned look on their faces when they noticed her. Though her face and body were nearly healed and her walk almost normal, many had to have known her story – or part of it. Human nature being what it is, Julia imagined that what part of the story they didn’t know, they invented.
Those she knew, who insisted upon engagement, she would engage briefly. She would be polite with them; but she would excuse herself quickly with one alibi or another. The horror came when she came face to face with Wayne in the Co-Op. He had rounded the corner by the wine. They had come face to face. There was no way out – for either of them.
‘Julia? For heaven’s sake,’ Wayne said. ‘I heard you were here. How are you?’
‘Fine.’
‘Good. You look fine,’ he said.
Funny, she thought, how after all these years, she could still detect when he was being insincere. But something had changed.
‘How have you been?’ she asked, looking around, hoping to see something or someone to rescue her. She could be insincere too. Insincerity was important in awkward moments like these.
‘Fine.’ He nodded. There was a kindness in his face she didn’t remember.
‘You staying?’
‘I… am visiting… visiting my father.’
‘How is he?’ Wayne asked.
‘The same. He doesn’t change.’
‘No,’ Wayne laughed awkwardly. ‘No I’m sure he hasn’t. Well, I’ve seen him, of course. From a distance. I’ve never gotten up the courage since… since the divorce.’
Oddly, Wayne, who once dominated her life physically and emotionally, seemed powerless. The look on his face she thought was kindness now seemed more like uneasiness. He seemed as troubled and embarrassed running into her as she was meeting him.
‘Yes. I’m kind of in a hurry, Wayne. I’m glad you’re fine. You’re looking great. Happy even.’ She looked around for a passing life raft.
‘Thanks to Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘I know, I know. Sounds crazy. I won’t bore you with it. Just wanted to let you know that I’m not that person anymore. I’ve asked for forgiveness from God.’
‘That’s good, Wayne.’
‘I should have asked you too.’ He looked nervous. ‘For forgiveness, I mean.’
‘Long time ago,’ she said. ‘Got to go.’
‘Something to think about,’ Wayne said. ‘The Lord, I mean.’
‘Yes,’ she said, nearly running back into one of the aisles.
When she found the mayonnaise, she headed toward checkout. Wayne and a woman about his age and two little blond boys were gathering the bags. They seemed happy in the world they created.
Julia felt like an impostor. She was only pretending to live here. Only pretending she was one of them.
Iowa City was a wonderful place; but she couldn’t shake the notion that she had come back to ghosts, that she hadn’t come here to live at all, but to die quietly, passively, defeated.
She knew at that moment, she would return to San Francisco. It was only a matter of telling her father. She had to go back in order not to be defeated by the evil that sent her away. She had to go back because that was her home.