The Wrath of Angels by John Connolly Page A

knew, so that he could find her something that wasn’t available locally: a scarf, or a hat, or a small item of jewelry, with maybe a box of candy or cookies thrown in with it, and often a book, some big hardback novel that would keep her going for a week when the snow settled upon them. It amused and touched her to think of him in a fancy women’s clothing store, fingering varieties of silk and wool and interrogating the saleswoman on issues of quality and price, or browsing the aisles of a bookstore with his notebook open to a page filled with titles he had jotted down over the preceding months, a list of books that she had mentioned in passing, or novels about which he had read himself and thought she might like. She knew that he would have spent as much time, if not more, on choosing those gifts for her as he did on buying all of his winter supplies, and he would glow with delight at the pleasure she derived upon discovering what he had brought for her.
    Because here was the thing: while her friends sometimes complained at their husbands’ absence of taste and their seeming inability to buy anything appropriate for Christmas or birthdays, Harlan always chose right. Even the smallest of his gifts spoke of the consideration he had given to their suitability, and, over their many years together, she came to understand that he thought of her a great deal, and she was always with him, and these small tokens were simply occasional physical expressions of her deep and abiding presence in his life.
    So, on the day of the great expedition, she in turn would have a hot meal waiting for him, and a pie she had baked that day: peach or apple, not too sweet, the crust slightly burned, just the way he liked it. The two of them would eat, and talk, and later they’d make love, because he had never stopped loving her.
    He loved her still, even though she no longer always knew who it was that loved her.
    There was ice on the road that day, black and treacherous, and Harlan was forced to drive to the nursing home at a pace barely above walking, even for an old timer like himself. He experienced a profound sense of relief at the sight of the redbrick building looming against the pristine blue of the sky, the fairy lights still illuminated on the bushes and trees, the tracks of birds and small mammals crisscrossing the compacted snow. Lately, the imminence of his own mortality had begun to press upon him, and he had found himself taking more care than usual when driving. He did not wish to predecease his wife. Oh, he was certain that his daughter would care for her if that happened, because Marielle was a good girl, but he knew that, in her infrequent moments of clarity, his wife found some reassurance in the routine of his visits and he did not wish to add to her fears by his absence. He had to be careful, as much for her sake as for his own.
    He stomped the snow from his boots before entering the reception area, and greeted Evelyn, the pretty young black nurse who worked the desk from Monday through Thursday, and every second Saturday. He knew all of their schedules by heart, and they in turn could set their watches by the times of his arrival and departure.
    ‘Good afternoon, Mr Vetters. How you doin’ today?’
    ‘Still fighting the good fight, Miss Evelyn,’ he replied, just as he always did. ‘Cold one, huh?’
    ‘The worst. Brrrr!’
    Harlan sometimes wondered if black people felt the cold more than white people, but he was too polite to ask. He figured it was one of those questions that was destined to remain unanswered for him.
    ‘How’s the old girl?’
    ‘She had a troubled night, Mr Vetters,’ said Evelyn. ‘Clancy sat with her for a while and calmed her down, but she didn’t sleep much. Last time I checked she was napping, though, so that’s good.’
    Clancy worked only nights. He was a huge man of indeterminate race with sunken eyes and a head that looked too small for his body. The first time Harlan had met