John Grant's Little Angel

When grant got off the 10:05 from Stamford, at Grand Central, he walked out the Lexington exit, but instead of going to his office, he went to a bar on Third Avenue. He had a bad hangover and felt guilty as hell. All the way in town, on the train, he had kept thinking, What in God's name am I going to do? The night before, in one impetuous, passionate moment, he had thrown away his entire future.

"Black and White, and soda," he said to the bartender, and his fingers trembled as he took out his wallet. He drank down the Scotch and said, "Make it a double this time, in a tall glass with lots of ice."

"Yes, sir."

Grant picked up a dime from the change lying on the bar and walked back to the telephone booth. He called his office and asked for his secretary. "Ruby, don't let on who this is, don't say my name, but has Fred been in yet this morning?"

"Yes, sir," Ruby said. She was quite a bit older than the other girls and, possibly because of that, intensely loyal to Grant. "He's out now, though, with a client. Then he's got a lunch date. He'll be back around three."

Grant licked his dry lips. "Well, has Jack Regal called me this morning?"

"No, sir."

"Well, has he called Fred? This is very important to me, dear. I've got to know if Jack Regal has tried to get in touch with Fred, in any way, this morning."

"I don't know."

Grant was sweating, and it wasn't only because he was in a phone booth. "Listen, try to find out. But be discreet. I don't want Fred, or anyone, to know I'm trying to find out. And, Ruby, would you mind sticking around until I come in? You can go out to lunch at one o'clock or so."

"Oh, of course."

Grant went back to the bar. Fred would never have done anything so foolish, he was thinking; Fred would never do what I did with a prospective client's wife. He told himself he would not be surprised if Fred wanted to dissolve the partnership. They owned, jointly, what Grant called "the world's smallest advertising agency." It was really not that small, but if the agency did not survive and prosper, there would be only two mourners at the deathbed: Fred and himself--and, of course, their wives and children. And if they didn't survive, Grant knew it would be his fault.

For six months he had been trying to get the account of Regal Frocks. They created, manufactured and distributed clothing for girls ten years old and younger. ("A Regal Frock belongs on your little princess.") The corporation was run by Jack Regal, a young, muscular, aggressive man who was rapidly growing bald. The Regal account was a big account, a national account, and Grant and Fred had nothing like it. For six months Grant had slaved to get it, and then the night before had thrown it all away.

Jack Regal and his wife Jackie--her name was Judith, but everyone called her Jackie--had invited Grant and his wife Edith to dinner at their home in the Riverdale section of the Bronx. It was on nearly an acre of ground, a big, comfortable house. As soon as Grant and Edith had arrived, Jack had taken them down to the playroom where he had his electric trains. There was a bar, comfortable chairs and sofas, and everything was monogrammed J & J. Jack made martinis in a pitcher only slightly smaller than an umbrella stand and they had several before Jackie, who had been with the children, came down.

When Grant looked at her he experienced a sudden burst of sexual feeling, of a sort he couldn't remember having had since college days. He was surprised, because she was not unusual in appearance: too short to be beautiful, too rounded to be chic. But when they were introduced, and Grant took her hand, he felt her fingers tremble in his. For a second she looked into his eyes, and he saw the same desire that he was feeling.

Grant had not had an affair since he had been married; when he'd had chances he hadn't wanted to take time from work. He hadn't cared that much. If someone had asked his opinion about it, he would have said casually, "Oh, I imagine it's the rare couple who spend their adult lives together without something of that sort happening." But when he looked at Jackie Regal, what he felt was far from casual.

If it hadn't been for the damn martinis. Three times the maid came downstairs to ask if she should serve. And each time Jack had said no, they'd have a couple more. And they all four had got drunk.

Grant remembered getting up, with the honest intention of finding a bathroom. He could not remember if Jackie had left the playroom before he had or not. But he did remember encountering her in a butler's pantry, a small room with swinging doors. He had held out his arms, and she had come into them, and they had glued themselves together. Then the door behind him had swung open, and someone had said, "Oh, sorry," and the door had closed.

Jackie had jumped away, but too late. "I don't think he saw," she said huskily, looking at him and licking her lips as if he would be delicious to eat. "You go wash your face."

But Grant had known that only a blind man would not have seen. And, standing in the butler's pantry, he had known, too, that he had lost what he had worked for so hard. "All right, I'll wash my face," he had said mournfully, and he had.

When Grant returned to the playroom he saw the stiffness, felt the silence, of the three of them sitting there. Jack had seen and, obviously, had told Edith. Grant's memory of dinner was of drinking as much wine as he could, to blot out horror. He could not remember saying good night, nor driving back to Stamford. Edith had driven in to New York to meet him; perhaps she had driven them home. She had been asleep when he left that morning, but she would certainly be awake when he got home that night.

Oh, God, Grant thought, what am I going to do?

"Don't worry," someone said in a soft voice. "Things will work out much better than you imagine."

Grant turned. A girl was sitting on a bar stool next to him; he hadn't seen her come in, he'd been so sunk in himself. She could not be older than 21, he knew, and she was wearing the feminine version of the classic Chesterfield and carrying an ebony stick with a plain ivory head. Grant had never seen so young a girl carry a stick, and he thought for a moment she had a disability, perhaps a twisted ankle from a skiing weekend, but no, her legs appeared to be in excellent condition. She wore no hat and her hair was golden, not blonde, but a gold that glowed in the darkness of the bar.

What she said had startled Grant--and then angered him; he felt it an invasion of privacy for someone to read his mind. "I beg your pardon?" he said, sounding cool.

"I said, the first one of the day," the girl said, smiling. "There's nothing like the first drink of the day." Without taking off her glove she lifted her glass.

"Are you sure that's what you said?" Grant asked.

"Of course," she said. "What did you think?"

Grant shook his head. If he was having auditory hallucinations he wasn't going to talk about it in bars, he was going to a doctor.

"Well, happy days," the girl said, and she drank, then sighed with pleasure. Quite abruptly, she blushed. "Oh, I don't ordinarily drink at this time of day, but, you see, for me it's really five o'clock." She pushed back the right sleeve of her coat and glanced at a large, practical-looking wrist watch. "Eight minutes past, to be exact."

Grant stared at her. "You don't wear two wrist watches, do you?"

"Why, how did you know?" she said. "Yes, one on my left wrist, with local time"--she showed him. "And this other one, with--"

"Greenwich mean time," Grant finished for her.

She hesitated. "Well, no. It has the time where I came from. But the idea is the same. How did you know?"

"I knew a pilot," Grant said. "He made that long flight to Australia and back. He got in the habit of wearing two watches. You aren't a pilot?"

"Well, I fly."

"But, I mean, not a transport pilot."

"No, they don't let me transport groups of people," she said, and she sounded rather sad.

"Well, that's not unusual," Grant said. "I'd be very surprised if an airline did hire you."

"Oh, you say that only because I'm female," she said, her lovely little chin rising. "If you had read history, you'd know that both males and females were involved in transporting people by air--frequently large groups of people--from the earliest days."

It seemed to Grant he had read a newspaper item about a woman back in the Twenties who'd flown copilot for a New England airline. "You're involved with flying, then?"

"Oh, yes. I fly all over the world, all the time. But I fly alone."

"You mean you pilot a plane---"

"Oh, no," she said quickly. "I simply meant I fly alone, by myself. But someday," she added softly, "someday I'm going to transport groups of people. Someday they'll let me."

"The people you work for? How do you know?"

"The higher-ups," she said, nodding and looking into the distance. "Oh, I know they will. You see, that's what I was made for, really."

Grant couldn't picture her daintiness at the controls of a Mach Three jet transport. It was impossible. "Well, a lot of us feel we have talents we don't possess. It's only when we test our desires in reality---"

"I tell you, I was made for it," the girl said. "It's the thing I was made for. But I've got to convince the higher-ups now." (continued overleaf) "Show them you can, you mean?"

"Oh, they know I can," she said. "No, I have to prove I'm worthy. You see, when I was younger, I got into trouble. I got drunk in Chicago."

Grant smiled. "Most kids get tight sometime."

"But I was drunk from the night before Thanksgiving until two days after New Year's Eve," she said. "Does that shock you?"

"It surprises me," Grant said.

"I was just a baby then," she said, explaining. "I was so new. I got drunk and lived in expensive hotels and bought marvelous clothes and went on the town every night and spent all the gold they'd given me and charged things and ran up enormous bills. And twice I picked pockets."

"Really," Grant said.

She leaned close to him and whispered, "It's not hard. Want me to show you?"

"No," Grant said. "I don't think so."

"Well, here's your wallet, anyway," she said, handing him his wallet; it had been in his jacket pocket.

"No wonder you got in trouble," Grant said. "Drinking that way and spending company money and stealing." He looked at her closely. "There was a man involved, too, wasn't there? A handsome, no-good, worthless---"

She blushed a pretty, rosy pink. "That is none of your concern," she said stiffly. "And you are no one to lecture me, John Grant. You drink that way, too, sometimes. And you have been involved with women."

"Oh, that's a cute trick," Grant said. "But I'll tell you how you did it. My name's in my wallet. And you know I've been drunk because that's only human. And, as for women, well, you're guessing."

She giggled. "Oh, that's the easiest of all. You're a man. It's bound to happen."

Grant smiled. "Your headquarters in New York?"

"No, they're elsewhere. But I come here often. I like it. There's so much life, so many people." She hesitated. "You'll probably think I'm crazy, but you know what I do when I'm here? I go down to the Bowery, and if I find someone who's really down and out, and sick, I buy him a drink, and get him a meal and a place to sleep. I always do. You probably think I'm crazy."

"No, that's a kind thing to do," Grant said seriously. "I think that's a real act of kindness."

"Oh, do you really?" she said, looking at him with her eyes shining. "I'm so glad you told me that. You see, I'm not very good at defining things."

"It's an act of kindness," Grant said stoutly.

"Well, I'd like to tell you something else," she said, and she leaned closer to him. "I'm not a nut or anything, I don't want you to think that, but I meditate."

"You meditate?" he said.

She nodded. "Yes, I do. Now and then. Pretty frequently, actually. And I'd like to tell you about it."

"All right," Grant said.

"Some people think you have to go to a chapel or temple, some place that's got a sign that says Open daily for Rest, Meditation and prayer. But you don't. I find sacred places. I mean, I could sit down in that booth and meditate, but it's better in a sacred place."

"A sacred place?" he said.

"You find them when you're closest to nature. Perhaps at the shore, at night, with phosphorescence coming in with the waves. Or alone in the stillness of a pine forest. I recommend those places to you. It's an experience that will be beneficial and rewarding for you."

"Well, I like nature," Grant said.

She glanced at her watch, the large one on her right wrist. "Oh. I must fly. But I'll buy you one quick drink," she said, signaling the bartender.

"No, I'll buy you."

"Oh, no," she said. "I have to." She lifted the fresh glass and smiled at him. "Happy days."

"Amen to that," Grant said.

She put her gloved hand on his shoulder, then lightly against his cheek. "Bless you," she said.

"What?" Grant said.

"I said goodbye to you. Tell me, do you have some problem with your hearing?"

"Oh, no. No," Grant said firmly.

She walked to the door, then suddenly turned back. She was carrying the ebony stick in her right hand and she lifted it, gesturing at him. "Oh, there was one other thing. You're to take very good care of your women." Then she laughed, winked at him and walked out.

Oh, hell, I forgot to ask her name, Grant thought. He went to the door, glanced down the street, then across the block. She was gone. She had probably got right into a cab. Grant walked back to the bar, smiling. What a charming girl, he was thinking. A real little angel. His hangover seemed to be cured.

• • •

Grant left the bar and walked uptown. He did not want to go to his office. At 51st Street he turned and walked east to the river. He leaned against a railing, staring at the water, standing so still a sea gull circled twice over his head before deciding Grant was not edible, or would not make a firm perch. It had been years since he had stood there. When he had first worked in New York he had gone there almost every day. He had stared at the water and planned what he would accomplish. Sometimes he had told Frances. She was his girl then. A Greenwich Village girl with a copy of something by Sartre under her arm, talking to people instead of going to her classes at the New School. They had lived in one room with an electric hot plate and no refrigerator, and they had washed dishes in the bathroom. Sundays she got up before he did, walked to Sutter's and bought pastry for breakfast. When she returned, it would still be warm.

The sea gull alighted on the railing.

"I'll tell you something, bird," Grant said. "It's a long way from an electric hot plate to Stamford, Connecticut. And I don't plan on losing any of it. Not one lousy dandelion, not one miserable crabgrass seed. Understand?"

The sea gull screamed in horror and flew off.

Grant stared into his palm, as if his life rested there. Two full acres of Fairfield County with an authentic 19th Century house and an authentic 20th Century swimming pool; a full-time maid who slept in, and a part-time gardener; a Buick station wagon, a Porsche, an old Morgan he tinkered with on weekends; soon he would buy a boat--his son was seven, old enough to learn to sail; the children went to the proper schools in winter, and in summer to proper camps; a full-time wife, Edith, who also slept in; she was always doing something for the League of Women Voters or something; she had got him to adopt the Greek girl--oh, you didn't really adopt them, you only sent money and wrote letters; and he had his partnership with Fred.

Grant closed his hand, as if he had seen the future. My God, it's only one account, he thought. If I've lost it, I've lost it. There are other accounts. And Edith will have to understand that I was tight, that's all. She knows that.

Grant walked back across town. He saw a cigar store and went inside and telephoned Jack Regal. The secretary asked him to hold, please.

In seconds Regal was on the line. "Grant? Jesus, buddy, you still alive today?"

"Well, I spent the morning curing a hangover," Grant said. "Do you know, I don't even remember leaving your house? I don't remember driving to Stamford."

"Listen, I don't remember dinner," Jack said. "The last I remember was sitting, laughing and drinking it up in the playroom. Then, boom! it's nine o'clock this morning and Jackie's giving me hell for getting us stinking. Listen, did we ever have dinner?"

My God, he doesn't remember, Grant thought. He doesn't remember me with his wife; he was too drunk! "I'll put it this way, Jack. From what I remember the wine was excellent. But, why I called. Could I buy you a lunch?"

"Not today, buddy. I got long-distance calls hanging on right this minute. Let's make it lunch tomorrow and I'll pick (continued on page 140) Little Angel (continued from page 54) you up, because we got to discuss details. I decided I want you and Fred to handle my account. I decided you and Fred will devote the time and energy to my account that I want devoted to it."

I got it, Grant thought. I got it, after all! "Jack, that's wonderful," he said. "We appreciate that very much. Both Fred and I appreciate it very much."

"So I got to go now, buddy. Calls waiting."

"Lunch tomorrow," Grant reminded him.

He was still smiling when he walked into his office.

His secretary took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose, something she did when she was nervous. "Mrs. Grant is in your office, Mr. Grant. She wanted to wait for you. She, well, she seemed upset, so---"

"That's all right, Ruby," Grant said. But he thought, Damn it, not here. He couldn't afford a scene in the office; he'd get her into a cab, take her to lunch. He went briskly into his office, said, "Hello, baby," to his wife, and kissed her.

Edith was tall, blonde, and always immaculately groomed. But she looked as if she had just dashed from catastrophe, flinging herself into clothes as she ran. He knew that Jack Regal might not remember seeing, but that Edith remembered hearing, or something.

"Are you as hung over as I am, doll?" he said. "I had a couple, but I'm going to have one more. How about you?"

Edith closed her eyes, as if she couldn't bear to look at life. "I should be in bed, but I had to talk to you. I had to talk to you face to face, not over a phone."

Oh, God, Grant thought. He walked to a small bar in the corner of the room. "I'll make some highballs. And tell you some good news. I got Jack Regal's account."

Edith took a deep drink from her glass. "I don't like some things you have to do to get accounts."

"Mixing business with our social life?" Grant said. "Oh, I'll be able to hire a bright young man to do that now."

"Oh, I don't understand how you can be so calm!" she burst out. "You know what happened last night. I don't see how you can stand there and look at me so calmly! Don't you care? Don't you care about anything but the agency?" And she began to weep.

"Let me fix you another drink, baby," Grant said heavily. "And I'll try to explain."

When Edith did weep, which was seldom, she went all out, sobbing, hiccuping, her nose running, strangling for breath. After the second drink she gained some control. "Never in my life have I felt so ashamed and embarrassed, so deeply, deeply ashamed and embarrassed."

"Well," Grant said, taking a long breath.

"Oh, I would have told you about it," Edith said. "Even if you hadn't walked in and seen me with that horrible little man. I would have told you about it."

Grant lifted his glass carefully and drank.

"It was bad enough what I did. Letting him paw me like that. I mean, this morning when I realized I'd let him, not even saying no. Oh, my God. Then you walked in and there we were, sprawled on that sofa ..." She began to sob again.

When the hell did that happen, Grant thought. He did not remember anything about that.

"Oh, how can you stand me?" she wept. "I've never done that since we've been married. I feel so ashamed."

"Now cut that out," Grant said, rather automatically. "That's not getting us anywhere."

The phone on his desk buzzed. He had forgot to tell Ruby no calls. "Yes?" he said into the phone.

"There's a woman calling who won't give her last name. I thought it might be a friend, from Stamford or someplace. She said to tell you Jackie."

Grant felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle. Her name brought back her image. He could remember her fingers trembling in his palm, kissing her and the taste of perfume.

"Get the number," he said. "I'll try to call back."

As he put the phone down he thought, Maybe she saw Edith with Regal, maybe she's going to make trouble. But how could she cause trouble? Regal ran the corporation. And then another thought occurred to Grant: But perhaps Regal's wife runs him. Oh, Goddamn, Grant thought. Now I'll have to call her back, I'll have to see her.

"I'll go," Edith said. "I'm interrupting."

"No, stay," he said quickly. He smoothed her forehead with his hand and smiled. "Look, you never saw that guy before. You haven't been having an affair with him. You got a little tight at a party, a little affectionate."

"I went pretty far," Edith said soberly.

"Listen, you know when a person gets loaded the censor in his mind relaxes. Last night Regal reminded you of something subconscious. Some old, atavistic thing, connected with your past, perhaps your father---"

"Oh, no! Daddy's a tall man."

"That doesn't matter. As far as you and I are concerned, Jack Regal is a father figure. An authority figure. Because he controls the money, money that I want. And so you are bound to react as if he was---"

Edith shook her head. "No. It's simpler than that, I'm afraid. I didn't want to go to dinner there, I didn't like him or his wife. I was leading him on, really. Just so that, finally, I could say no to him. To put him down, to put him in his place. I was being a bitch."

Grant saw she no longer felt so bad. "Look, do you want another drink? Because I want you to get on a train and go home and sleep. I want dinner in tonight, not out."

"No, not another," Edith said. She kissed him goodbye quickly. "See you later," she said, smiling at him as if she were promising him something.

Grant gave her ten minutes to go downstairs and get a cab for Grand Central. Then he put on his topcoat and went out to his secretary. "Ruby, dear, this isn't my day. Something's come up about the children. Will you stay until Fred gets back? Then take the rest of the day off."

"Oh, I'm sorry you have an emergency. But what about the woman who called?" She handed him a slip of paper.

Grant stared at the telephone number. It was in Manhattan. He memorized it, then tossed the paper into the wastebasket. "It's not important. Some charity thing."

He rode the elevator down to the lobby and telephoned. "Hey, Jackie?---"

"Yes, this is Mrs. Regal. Is that you, Mr. Grant?"

Damn, she is going to cause trouble, Grant thought. "Yes, it is, Mrs. Regal. John Grant."

"Are you in the office, Mr. Grant?"

"No. I'm in a telephone booth."

"Oh," she said, and her voice relaxed and became warm. "I just didn't want a bunch of secretaries listening to our conversation. Listen, why I called. He didn't see a thing. I thought you might worry, so I called as soon as I could."

"Are you certain?" Grant asked.

"Listen, he drinks three martinis and everything's blank. Nobody knows, he looks the same. I asked him this morning, and the last thing he remembers is me coming downstairs. And that was right at first, if you recall."

Grant realized she hadn't seen Edith and Regal, or else she didn't care. You're out of the fire now, boy, he told himself. From now on there was one rule he was going to obey: Leave the clients' wives strictly alone.

"Hey, you there or what?" she said.

Her voice was husky. He could picture her holding the phone, moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue. Oh, Goddamn, he thought, I shouldn't do this. He took a deep breath. "Listen, Jackie. I want to see you very much."

"Well, me, too. It's what I came to Manhattan for. You got a pencil? Take down an address."

It was in the East 70s.

"It's an apartment of a girlfriend of mine," she said. "Jack doesn't know I know her anymore. He doesn't know who she's married to. Well, they went to South America and left me the key. So I could look in? There's no doorman. The elevator's automatic. You coming now, or what?"

"I'll be right over," Grant said. He decided he would stop by Sherry's and buy some champagne.

The elevator door opened into the apartment, but it could only be opened from the inside. Grant buzzed and saw her face looking through the small window, then she opened the door. "OK. Everybody out of the elevator. Everybody into the apartment."

Grant put his hat and the package from Sherry's on a small table. She had walked into the living room. He went after her and put his arms around her; he tried to turn her around, so she faced him--she struggled away.

"Wait a minute, wait. You got on your topcoat still. I got to talk to you."

"Oh, there's no need for talk," Grant said, kissing her neck and shoulders, and feeling for a zipper.

"Cut that out, you're driving me crazy," she said. "Listen, I got to talk, this is very serious what we're involved in, you and I. I had two girlfriends involved in this very same thing and it ruined their lives. Ida---"

"Oh, don't worry, darling" Grant said, struggling to get a firm grasp on her wrists. "There's nothing to---"

"But let me tell you about Ida Glass! She could never make up her mind, if it was right or not. She never did and she had a breakdown, a complete breakdown!"

"You see?" Grant said, searching for the zipper again. "That's what frustration can do to you."

"But what about Bernice?" she cried. "Bernice did. She went wild for this guy. She ran off with this guy, left her kids, everything. Then the guy left her. Poor Bernice. She's on her sixth marriage."

Grant forgot that such a thing as a zipper had ever been invented. "Who's talking about anything like that?" he said. "Who's said anything like that?"

"Me, me. It's what I'm talking about," she said distractedly. "I mean, look, I never thought I was sexy. I never did. But last night you made me feel so sexy, just looking at you. I got a passion for you, a real passion. Oh, I want to absorb you or something. But that's all. I mean, why can't I have it without interfering with my life? Why can't I? So I have to know, what do you expect? I mean, for instance, you got a happy home life, or what?"

"Oh, it's delightful," Grant said, and he wrapped his arms around her and they fell together upon the sofa. "This is all I expect. This."

"Oh, I like it," she said in his ear. "I like it."

• • •

At four o'clock the city sky outside the windows was darkening. Grant thought she was asleep and he started to get up. She put out her hand and opened her eyes.

"Hey, you leaving me? Where you going?"

"Make a drink. Want one?"

"Uh-uh. Listen, I'm hungry. Make me a sandwich. There's turkey in the fridge. With lots of Russian."

The apartment felt cool to Grant and as he walked into the living room he turned up the heat. He stood staring out the window, standing so that anyone looking in would not see him. It had been the strangest day he had ever spent. That terrible hangover, the feeling he had lost everything. Then he had talked with that charming girl. He smiled. A real little angel.

He realized what his choice of words had been, and he frowned. He had never used that phrase before except to describe a young girl child, and the girl in the bar had not been that young. After all, she'd been drunk in Chicago, she'd spent... "And spent all the gold they'd given me," she had said. She had said it; she had said gold!

"But you can't spend gold in Chicago!" Grant cried.

"Yeah?" a voice in the bedroom said. "Honey, you take me to Chicago and I'll show you. In the meantime, how about my sandwich? With plenty of Russian."

Grant said, "You want a pickle?"

"No, honey. No pickle."

Of course, Grant thought, as he opened the refrigerator, gold is slang for money, like bread. That must be it. But she was certainly a little angel.

His mind stumbled again over that word. Oh, cut it out, he told himself, or you'll start having auditory hallucinations again ... But perhaps he hadn't; perhaps she had blessed him.

Grant sat on the kitchen stool and stared at the Russian dressing.

She had suddenly appeared in the bar. Her hair had glowed, actually glowed. "Well, no. It has the time where I came from." Where had that been? "No. I simply meant I fly alone, by myself." Without a plane? "I have to prove I'm worthy," she had said, too. So when she came to New York she found someone down and out, and bought him a drink. And I was certainly down and out, emotionally, Grant thought, and she did buy me a drink. Then disappeared. Vanished. And he had walked uptown, gone to the river. What had she said about meditating? Sacred places were found close to nature, or something. That spot by the East River had been a sacred place of his youth. What had she said? "It's an experience that will be beneficial and rewarding for you."

But why me Grant thought. I am no more worthy than anyone else, no more deserving, and certainly no better.

He took the sandwich into the bedroom and Jackie sat up, sitting cross-legged on the bed, to eat it. She stared at him. "You got the funniest look on your face," she said, chewing. "What happened to you?"

"I don't know," John Grant said.

In the days that followed, he decided he had, accidentally or by some plan, seen and talked to an angel. He knew he could not prove it, he could not prove angels existed. But logically he could not prove they did not exist. So he chose to believe he had talked with a little angel. The fact that he had seen her in a bar was explained by her being a fallen angel, but one who had not fallen too far. She had to go into bars, of course, to prove that she was worthy, that she could resist temptation. And she had conducted herself like a perfect lady: two drinks and no more. The hardest question Grant had to answer was the one concerning his own worth: Why had she visited him? The answer, when he thought of it, was quite simple. There are angels going about every day, looking much like people. We see them when we are ready to, or perhaps when we need to--but they are always among us.

In the days that followed, Grant watched for her. He went to that same bar, but she never came in. Once he followed a blonde three blocks up Madison before she paused to glance in Abercrombie's windows, and he saw she was no angel. And more than once he went down to the Bowery.

"Friend of mine comes down here," he would say. "Small girl. Blonde. Wears a black coat. Ever see her?"

The bums were kind to him, because he was obviously squirrelly; they accepted his dollars, said they would sure watch for her, they would sure let him know.

In the days that followed, Grant found a sacred spot in the wood lot behind his Fairfield County home. A large stone on which he sat. His meditations, he knew, might be called reflections by others. No great truths were ever revealed to him. He thought of the past, what had happened, and then he thought of the future, what he could do. Then he would rise, with a quiet feeling, and rejoin his family.

And, in the days that passed, John Grant prospered, and so Fred prospered, too. Grant became known, locally around Stamford, for his kindness to children, to small birds and to the elderly. He became a more gentle lover--oh, Jackie Regal could have written books about it; and, when he did have hangovers, which was seldom, they were always mild, and finished and done with by nine o'clock of a morning.