Angels of Destruction by Keith Donohue

voice and cant of the head, the stardust in his eyes, and the shining pompadour. More pictures of Washington as a ghost town, patriotic theme music trumpeting as the credits rolled.
    A quiz show began. Three people received an answer and had to compose the correct question, a concept that appealed to her philosophical nature, until she realized that there was only one solution. How much more interesting if there were a multiplicity of possible correct questions, just as in real life, where every question had an infinite number of likely answers, dependent entirely on where one wished the conversation to go. Margaret stayed on the phone the entire length of the program, and when the quiz was over, Norah turned off the TV to better eavesdrop.
    “The reason I never said anything is because it happened out of the blue… No, she just showed up here one night… No, she's not planning on coming home… Of course, I don't mind in the slightest, she's sweet…. I don't know when Erica will send for her, I don't know if she ever will. It hasn't been decided.”
    A long pause. Norah could hear a tiny voice shouting through the handset.
    “That's fine, that's fine,” Margaret pleaded. “But hardly necessary. No, no, no, I don't mind. Come. You're always welcome. No, great, come. Next month. You'll love her.”
    An even longer pause, an even more animated voice.
    “I'm absolutely sick about it too. Such a faker, how anyone could vote—”
    When at last she came into the living room, Mrs. Quinn looked older, the joy of the past two weeks drained from her features. She appeared as tired as she was the night Norah had arrived on her doorstep, but seeing the child again, she brightened and smiled, yet could not shake completely her distractions. Sitting next to Norah on the sofa, she stared at the blank television set.
    “When I answered, I didn't know that was your sister.”
    “That makes you two even. She didn't know I have a granddaughter to take my phone calls. We'll have to be careful with her.”
    “Like a leopard. We'll use our spots to mimic the shadows.”
    Margaret nodded. “Something like that. She will be visiting for a couple of days in February, and I just now had a hard time with her. She's naturally suspicious. A born skeptic.”
    Gathering an afghan about her shoulders, Norah huddled into a ball and rested her head on Mrs. Quinn's lap. The woman sighed and began to stroke the girl's hair while a ticking clock measured their silence. She could not imagine her life without the presence of the child and wondered how she had managed to endure the emptiness that had preceded Norahs arrival. Not just the comfort of another breath in the house, not just the sound of footsteps in the middle of the night when the child crept to the bathroom, not merely the fact of her being. The ruse was more than a game; it was a way of gaining some mastery over what had seemed cruel and arbitrary. She questioned her conscience for the thousandth time and resolved to her own satisfaction her right to claim the girl, just as the girl had seemed to claim her, one the necessity of the other.
    When Norah finally spoke, her tone reflected a shifting mood. “I'd like to invite Sean Fallon over to visit. Maybe after school or Saturday.”
    “He could come play and stay for dinner.”
    “I think having another child here will make it easier for my aunt to believe, and I can practice calling you Grandma with him around.”
    Margaret laughed and tapped her on the shoulder, signaling her to sit up. “You have a devious mind, Norah Quinn.”

14
    T hey fell in love with her. Each day illuminated some new aspect of her character that caused the children of the Friendship School third-grade class to wonder what strange creature had landed in their midst. Ordinary marvels abounded. She seemed to know just which questions to ask Mrs. Patterson to make their lessons clear and discussion lively. A pop quiz produced the unexpected result of perfect