Wings
by G. O. Clark © 2006
New to the neighborhood, I'd never actually met the old man a few doors down, but had heard the rumors. We kept different hours, and he always kept to himself anyway. Then one morning he was gone, carted away in a silent ambulance, unanswered questions left behind.
He wasn't survived by any family or friends, at least according to the newspaper obit. A loner, like myself. Rumor has it that the authorities, found a big surprise in his attic. Hundreds of pairs of wings, both avian and insect, and, one unclassifiable.
It was a regular natural history museum according to one story.
Wings of all shapes and sizes; framed, under glass domes, hanging from the rafters. Ravens, crows, owls, song birds, hummingbirds, and even an albatross. Each bodiless pair professionally displayed and precisely labeled.
More delicate, but just as numerous, were the insect wings. Not the typical butterfly collection, but much more. Moths, dragonflies, house flies, bees, fireflies, and even those pesky anopheles, the smallest pairs mounted under magnified glass. The old man must have had the steady hands of a surgeon or watch repairman. He was definitely into doing detail work. My uncle used to build ships in bottles, but he was never in the same league. According to the old man's obit, they did have two things in common, though. Both had served in the Navy in W.W.II, and worked as insurance underwriters most of their lives.
They say the old man was found slumped over his attic work bench. He'd been working on a new display, one the size of a postage stamp. The wings of an ant, it's rumored. A heart attack took him, releasing him from the lung cancer that had already sealed his fate. Ironic to be surrounded by all those symbols of flight, yet grounded for life. Perhaps not eternity, though, if you believe the old Italian lady next door, who swears he was lifted up to heaven by angels.
The old man's house went on the market within a couple of weeks. No probate to slow things down. Turns out he left everything to the local Catholic church. I went to the open house more out of curiosity than as a prospective buyer. I'm sure the realtor dealt with others like me that weekend, but still acted professional each time. The house was pretty much empty, an old couch and full sized bed all that remained. She acted bored, however, when I asked to see the attic, and left me on my own.
The only thing left in that dimly lit expanse was an old mahogany wardrobe shoved into a dark corner, one door hanging open. It was empty of course, except for two large brass hooks hanging down. I was taken by the strange musty smell that still lingered within. A combination of moth balls, roses, and smoke. When I left, the realtor asked if I was interested, and I said I'd get back to her. Her smile said, who's fooling who.
It was shortly after my visit to the old man's house that the wildest rumor of all started circulating. Once again, the old Italian lady was its source. It seems the very same wardrobe I'd seen in his attic had once contained a pair of angel's wings. These same snow white, luminous wings were evidently charred along their wing tips, as if their owner had flown to close to the sun, or gotten a bit sloppy during a reconnaissance flight in Hell. One could decide according to their own belief system. There was more, of course. She said the wings were attached to a worn leather harness, sized to fit the old man's chest and shoulders, complete with solid gold buckles. "Perhaps the old man was one part Da Vinci," I offered one morning, running into her on the front stoop. She just shrugged me off, sighing heavily.
Her response befitted her religious background. According to her, the day after the old man died, some black-robed men showed up in the middle of the night and claimed the angel wings. "And where are the wings now?" I asked. "Rome," she said, "The Vatican, safe in a vault, guarded over by the holy fathers."
An image of monkish shadows cast by candlelight upon ancient stone walls came to mind as she finished her story. Pretty incredible stuff, and perfectly logical to her way of thinking.
"As for those other wings," she off-handedly added, "they got donated to the science museum, where those little devils on field trips can paw them to pieces." Remembering field trips from my own youth, I
didn't argue her point.
A nice family of four has moved into the old man's house now. Two "little devils" living right next door to the old Italian lady. They know all the stories about the house, and seem pretty much amused by the whole thing. They're dividing the attic up into two rooms. Future bedrooms for their growing family.
The memory of the old man will live on, but he's no longer a hot topic around here. Talk of war, crime, and taxes have taken the lead again.
As for me, I go to work each night, take in a movie now and again, more or less keep up with sports, and think about the old man's wings often. It's hard to put them out of my mind, especially after finding that snow white, slightly charred, foot long feather in the alley behind his house a few weeks after his death.
One part of me says take the feather to an expert for identification. The other, secret it away, perhaps deep down really wanting to believe. I often go to bed juggling these choices. But the luminous glow from the feather, pinned to the ceiling above my bed, always soothes my mind. And the sweet dreams outweigh the nightmares.