Dead Angels

"Dearest Mother."

That is how it began—the letter. I found it tucked inside an old envelope in the bottom drawer of an antique dresser. The drawer was otherwise unoccupied. The envelope had been folded twice and locked using a single industrial grade staple. It was the kind of staple they used to bind manuscripts. It was the kind of staple surgeons once used to reattach severed limbs.

Mrs. Clark, the apartment's inhabitant, lie outstretched on her divan, expressionless, covered neck to toe by a crocheted blanket, discolored and frayed. She lie completely still. Dead still.

Her cat sat watching me from its perch atop her torso. Occasionally, there would be a footstep in the corridor outside her door, or a bell would chime in the street below. When it did, Mrs. Clark's cat would cock an ear or twitch a whisker, never taking its eyes off of my hands as I rifled through her things.

Who am I? Think of me as a petty thief. My name is not important. They call me, or guys like me, dead angels. I don't know why, there's nothing angelic about us. When I locate an old person nearing the end of their lives, I follow them. Clandestinely, mostly. I track their every move. Sometimes, I even lend them a helping hand. I don't kill them, I'm not a sicko, nature takes care of that for me. I wait them out. When it's their time, I show up. They usually invite me in, eager to confess their sins. I'm not a priest. I don't do confessions. I don't grant wishes. I've come to pick up the pieces—the good ones—cash and jewelry. That's all I take. I never take their wedding rings. I guess I'm superstitious, I don't like to touch the dead.

In the city, there are so many elderly living alone, I sometimes have to be choosy, but not in Mrs. Clark's case. I had her marked from the get go. So with Mrs. Clark's cat watching, I located the partially rusted coffee can hidden behind a box of dry dish soap under the kitchen sink. It held a small amount of loose change, pennies mostly. Next, I found the pillow in the spare closet that contained a few ones and fives. Old people are so predictable. Under her mattress inside a sealed baggy, I found a single twenty dollar bill. The baggy was labelled, "For Bobby." Sorry Bob. Then there was the letter.

I knew about the letter of course. It's why I was there. The cash was nice, but forty bucks wasn't enough to feed me but for a short week. I also knew well enough not to waste time searching for jewelry. Mrs. Clark was poor. Her Social Security check, courtesy of her long deceased husband, was a pittance. She got by, sad as it is to say, by sharing meals with her cat. Unfortunately, the rising cost of cat food left her even more destitute than before. When her time ran out, she was down to two unopened cans, and one partially consumed, uncovered in her fridge. I pulled it out, set it down on the floor and gave it a little kick. It slid easily coming to a rest in front of the couch. Mrs. Clark's cat didn't budge.

I checked her telephone for a signal—dead. I'd have to call in a wellness check from a public phone later. The unmistakable odor of decay was already beginning to permeate the room.

One last look. Mrs. Clark's cat sat statuesque—silent—defiant. I tucked Bobby's letter into my jacket pocket. Some stories were never meant to be shared. I turned and headed quietly out the door. No need to wake the dead. Not today.