The Unfinished Angel by Sharon Creech
“Ah,” Zola says. “Aha! Insurance!”
I had forgotten the chocolate-drawer story of Zola’s until I see Mr. Pomodoro open a deep drawer in his desk, and inside, what do you think? Chocolates! Boxes of chocolate-covered cherries and chocolate-covered almonds. Chocolate cookies and chocolate bars, stacks of them. Mr. Pomodoro opens the drawer, gazes inside, and removes one chocolate-covered cherry. He eats it slowly.
I have already seen what Zola keeps in the top drawer of her desk. She keeps rocks: jagged rocks, smooth rocks, big rocks, little rocks. From time to time, she opens the drawer, selects a rock, turns it around in her hands, studies it, and then returns it to the drawer. I feel as if she is collecting pieces to make a mountain. Is this insurance?
Zola also has another secret drawer. In it, wrapped in a piece of blue silk cloth, are feathers: mostly slenderly, gray or white. I wonder about these feathers. What kind of insurance do feathers offer?
My Territory
WHAT EXACTLY IS my territory? I don’t have the information. Maybe it is the whole village, maybe only part of the village, maybe one family, maybe one person, but which one? Who is going to tell me? I am never seeing other angels, not even when I float north and visit the goats. Where are all the angels?
And how does Zola know what angels are supposed to do? Why is she always telling me I’m supposed to know this and that?
Today Zola says to me, “So, no swords?”
“What is sword?”
Zola slaps her headfore. “You must be a very young angel.”
This is making me mad. I am hundreds of years old, and she is just a puny few-years-old people. Maybe ten. Maybe twelve. Maybe eight. Puh!
Zola says, “Angels used to fight, you know. They weren’t always sweet and loving and peaceful.”
She thinks I am “sweet and loving and peaceful”?
So Zola tells me a story about a fearsome battle between angels and evil beings. The angels rode flying white horses and slashed swords and threw thunderbolts. They were strong like warriors, and they defeated the evil beings in a long and mighty battle.
“Those were some amazing angels,” Zola says. “Do you do anything like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like ride flying horses and slash swords and throw thunderbolts.”
She isn’t kidding. I can tell she really wants me to say yes, and I am even considering saying yes because then she will be impressified with me, but before I can answer her, she says, “Are angels dead people?”
“What? What? No! I am not a dead people. I am an angel! A people is a people and an angel is an angel!”
“Okay, okay,” Zola says. “Take it easy.” She runs a finger along the stone ledge, tracing a vein in the rock. Then, just when I am calming down, she says, “Are you a boy angel or a girl angel?”
“What?” I don’t know why she is making me so fidgetated. I am not used to peoples seeing me, and I am especially not used to peoples asking me questions. Usually the peoples who see me are the ones who are in great dangering or are very sickly. They smile on me. I make them peaceful.
Zola is studying me. “It’s hard to tell. You could be a long-haired boy or a sturdy girl.”
“I am an angel,” I say. “I thought you knew a lot about angels. I am not a boy or a girl. I am angel. Angel. Angel!”
“Ah,” Zola says, nodding, her chip-chop hair flicking up and down. “It’s just that in churches, you know, sometimes the angels are women in long dresses, and sometimes they are babies, and—”
“Oh. Churches. I do not know about all those angels.” This is something very confusing to me. Zola is right: Some are women and some are babies, and it is a puzzlement because never I see these angels in real, only in stone and in paintings. Do some angels look like this? Am I supposed to look like that? I ask Zola what I look like.
“What you look like?” she says. “Don’t you know what you look like?”
“How would I know?” I say. “In a mirror I behold white fogness. Do I look like white fogness to you?”
“No, no,” Zola says. She is studying me carefully with the eyes with the large black poppils. “You look like—now don’t get mad—you look like a person—”
“No! Not a people—”
“Well, wait, not exactly, no, no. You have the shape of a person, and a pleasing face—”
“Pleasing? Attractiful?”
“Yes, pleasing, I would say. The robe, hmm, is a bit long and crooked….”
I hold out my arms. “It is?”
“Yes, but it’s also sort of regal. You know what ‘regal’ is?”
“Of course, like king, like queen!”
Zola is trying to peer around behind me. “Where do the wings go?”
“Wings? What wings?”
Zola frowns. “Don’t you have wings? I thought for sure, that first time I saw you, that you had wings.”
I feel like I am going to bust into the tower walls and crimble into a thousand pieces. “I do not have wings.” I say it slowly so that I do not sound too mad, but I am feeling hurt. “I am not a bird. I am an angel.”
“Okay, okay, calm down,” she says.
I am about to reassure her that I am perfectly calm when we hear boom, boom, boom-de-boom, boom, boom, boom-de-boom. It is Vinny on his drums. Then we hear arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arf.
Boom, boom, boom-de-boom—
Arf, arf, arf—
Zola leans over the balcony wall. “Be quiet! Shut up! Stop it! I’m going to kill you!”
If Zola had a thunderbolt, I think she would throw it.
Swishing in the Night
THAT NIGHT, AFTER I check on the childrens in the chicken shad and beam them warm beams and see if they have found the figs I have left for them (they have), I wait until dark and then I flish into all the casas and apartamentos and sprinkle over the heads of all the sleeping adulterinos the knowingness of the hungry childrens. It takes a long time, but I am happy when I am done.
Now the peoples will do something, because peoples take care of other peoples, especially childrens, right?
I return to my hammock on the balcony just as the rosy headfore of morning begins to rise over the mountain. It is quiet, perfectly quiet, with only the sounds of mountains and trees humming.
Pocketa
POCKETA-POCKETA-POCKETA, pocketa-pocketa-pocketa, pocketa-pocketa-pocketa, pocketa-pocketa-pocket—
What is it? What is the awful pocketa-pocketa-pocketa noise?
Pocketa-pocketa-pocketa, pocketa-pocketa-pocketa—
It sounds like peoples playing that game, what is it, pong-ping? Like that, hitting the ball very fast back and forth, pocketa-pocketa-pocketa.
I flash here and there. Stop that noise! This is the peaceful village!
Pocketa-pocketa-pocketa—
Now il beasto joins in: Arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arf—
Pocketa-pocketa—
It is a workman. He is in the old Pita building just down the road, and he is putting up walls for the school of Mr. Pomodoro. He has a new tool, an automatico nail driver. It goes like this: Pocketa-pocketa-pocketa, pocketa-pocketa-pocketa—
Signora Divino shouts out of her window. She tells the pocketa man to be quiet and then she says many ugly words. Next, Signor Rubini and then Signora Pompa and soon most of the villagers are leaning out of their windows with their ruffled bed hair and they are shouting ugly words at the pocketa man, who does not stop because he cannot hear them, what with all the pocketa-pocketa-pocketa, pocketa-pocketa-pocketa.
Agitato
THERE IS NO sleeping, no resting to be had with all the noise in the village. This used to be such a quiet place. You only would hear the birdies twirping and the church bells ringing.
I am a little crankiful when I am not sleeping well. I fling myself here and there on the balcony ledges, trying to knock myself into sleep. Then I give up and see over the scene. This is an intrigueful thing to do usually. You can see into everyone’s yar
Today I see Zola’s father, Mr. Pomodoro, on his terrace, talking with an elderly man wearing painter’s clothes. Mr. Pomodoro of the rubbery face has thick, black hair, and he has long bones with not much meat on them. He moves his arms a lot when he talks. The painter man stands very still, like a statue. It makes you want to poke him to see if he is alive.
Over there, to the right, I see Signora Mondopoco in her sheep boots. She is listening to two other women, who are speaking in a very urgento way.
Now Signora Divino comes out in her pink bedjacket over her black dress, and she throws a tub of dirty water on the bushes nearest our Casa Rosa, and then she goes to the back gate, where two old men and two old women are gathered. Signora Divino nods her head and then stamps her foot.
Something is up! Or down.
And then I remember that I did the flishing last night and the sprinkling over all the heads the knowingness of the hungry childrens. Aha! So this is good. Now they will do something to fix the hungry childrens.
Pretty soon, there are clomps of people in all the lanes and in the parco, and they are growing more agitato, waving their arms and stompling their feets. They are mad! Well, good. They should be mad that childrens are hungry and cold and all alone in the chicken shad.
And just when I am feeling mostest proud of my sprinkling work, Zola climbers up through the trippy-trap door and onto the balcony and says, “Angel! You have to do something!”
Mad Peoples
ZOLA, SHE IS SWOOSHING with her colorful skirts, three of them: red on top of green on top of blue; and two blouses, yellow over white; and violet leggings; and black ribbons in her hair and on her wrists. It is a smiling combination, and it makes me happy.
“Did you hear me?” Zola says. “You have to do something!”
I am not feeling too worried because I have already done the swishing in the night so that everyone will know about the hungry childrens.
“Angel! The people are mad!”
“Mad? Why?” If they are mad because the childrens are hungry, that is good, because if they are mad, they will do something.
“Because of the stealing, and now—”
“What stealing? What are you talking in my ears about?”
“The stealing—everyone is missing food and some are missing blankets and clothing. And I don’t know how they found out about the children—”
“The childrens?” I say. “The childrens in the shad?”
Zola is molto agitato, kicking acorns all around the balcony. “Yes! So now they think the children are stealing from them and they called the police—”
“The police? The police are coming after the hungry childrens?”
“Yes,” Zola says. “Angel! You have to do something!”
I do not feel so good.
Pocketa-pocketa-pocketa—
Arf, arf, arf—
Zola shouts over the edge of the balcony. “Be quiet!”
Mr. Pomodoro shouts from the terrace, “Be quiet!”
Pocketa-pocketa-pocketa—
Arf, arf, arf—
Signora Divino is gathering slugs in her garden. Her grandson, Vinny, is throwing a frog in the air. Signora Mondopoco is peeking inside her sheep boots. “Baa,” she says fondly. “Baa, baa, baa.”
How am I supposed to think with all this craziness going on?
“Angel!” Zola says.
“I know, I know. I will do something.” And then I think, Wait a minute. I do not have to do what Zola says! She is a people and I am an angel!
Zola looks at me so pleading and begging. “Do something, Angel, please, I beseech you!”
Beseech? “Hokay, hokay, I will do something, but it will be what I choose to do.”
Peoples! Why so bossy?
Where Are Parents?
I HAVE TO THINK. I do not have the instant answers. While I am thinking of what to do about the police going after the hungry childrens, I am wondering where are the parents of the childrens? Why are they all alone, with only other childrens for company? And while I am wondering this, I also think about Zola.
Where is her mother? I want to ask, but it seems too bold, no? She wants me to do this; she wants me to do that. Why can’t I ask her a little question?
Pocketa-pocketa-pocketa—
Arf, arf, arf—
“Be quiet, you annoying arfing dog!”
Arf, arf, arf—
Zola scrabbles up a handful of acorns and tosses them over the side of the balcony. “You most annoying dog in the universe!” Now she unties a ribbon from her ankle and wraps it loosely at her neckle.
Boom, boom, boom-de-boom—
“Auf!” Zola says. “The drums of Vinny!”
Boom, boom—
Arf, arf, arf—
“Be quiet, you artichoke!” And then Zola turns to me and says, “Where is Vinny’s mother? And father? How come he lives with his grandmother?”
“That is a twisty tale,” I say. “I will tell you later, because now I have to swish the heads of the childrens.” I float off the balcony, but then I turn back, full of nosy courage. “Zola! Where is your mother? And do you have a brother? And why do you live with your father?”
Zola pinches her lips as if she has sucked on a peppercorn. “A mother, a brother, a father?” She turns that into a tune: “A moth-er, a broth-er, a fath-er. A doodle, a dandle, a candle.” She disappears through the trippy-trap door, just like that.
Inside the Mountains
ALL AROUND ARE the mountains. I used to think the mountains were made of dirt: heaps of dirt piled high. Now I know they are mostly rock with dirt on top. I mentioned this to Zola one day and she said, “Of course the mountains are rock,” and then she gave me the scowl that tells me I am stupido.
An angel is not stupido!
What I like is that the houses and the churches and the paths and steps and walls and towers in this village are all made from the rock of the mountains, so the inside of the mountain is on the outside. And the houses made of rock and stone, they are like childrens of the mountain sprinkled all around, close by. That gives me a good feeling.
On the inside of the mountains, where the rock for the houses and the roads and churches and towers used to be, is the secret that everyone who lives here knows. Inside the mountains is dynamite to blow up bridges to keep out invaders, and inside the mountains are airplanes ready to zoom into the air in a blink to keep out invaders. Inside the mountains are food and guns and ammunition and water and blankets and medical equipment. Inside some mountains it is like a whole village. I am not kidding you.
All of the peoples here know this and they know where to go if the invaders come and they know what is their job to protect their country. Sometimes I think that is extramarkable and smart, and sometimes I think it is so sadful that peoples have to worry about invaders. Why would peoples invade other peoples? Don’t they know the other peoples are like their own peoples, who don’t want to be invaded? I get agitato if I think about it too much.
What calms me down is the rock of the houses and the towers and the churches. The rock is so strong and has been here forever and will still be here even if peoples make a mashmish of things. The rock of the tower makes me feel safe.
I hurry to swish to the hungry childrens, who are not in the shad because they have heard that the police are coming, and so they are hiding here, there, and there. I flish into their heads to let them know where to go. To the rock. To the tower. My tower.
Permissions
I DON’T NEED THE permission of Zola or Mr. Pomodoro, but I think it is better to have at least Zola in the knowing. It is funny about peoples, but they like to be in the knowing; they like to give permissions; they do not so much like surprisements unless the surprisement is a lot of gold dropped into their laps.
So
Zola says, “He won’t like it. He’ll say he needs permission from the authorities—the police or whoever would be in charge of the children.”
“I am thinking no one is in charge of the childrens, or else they would not be hungry and cold in the chicken shad.”
“No, I mean officially. So we don’t get in trouble.”
“In trouble for what?”
“For hiding the children.”
“We are not hiding. We are protecting.”
Zola is kicking the acorns again. “Okay, then,” she says. “Okay. Let’s see what happens. Let’s see if the children will be quiet.” She does the smile with her mouth and I think maybe she likes this plan.
The police are out hunting for the childrens, but the childrens have managed to hide themselves well, and as soon as it is dark they slip into the tower one by two by one. Zola brings blankets and pillows and bread and cheese and chocolate. She adds three stuffed animals and extra socks and scarves and some of her swirly skirts and ribbons.
The childrens are surprised by what they see, and at first they are suspicious. They think it is a trip-trap. Zola tries to explain to them that they are safe, but they are not understanding her words, so I flish inside their heads to calm them.
What It Means?
HERE IN THE Ticino, in the south of Switzerland, the peoples mostly speak Italian. In another part of Switzerland, the Swiss peoples speak French; in another part German; and yet another tiny part Romansch. But the Swiss peoples are so smart that most of them can speak all those languages and switch from one to another zoomzoomzoom just like that and then they will dizzy you and switch to English. How they are holding all those words in their heads?