You laughed again. Such an uplifting melody.
“Yes,” you said enthusiastically. “I allow it. Are there some magic words?”
“Just make your intent known. Focus all of your energy behind it. And say it three times.”
“Like Beetlejuice?” you asked sincerely. Your comparisons were such a delight.
“Yes, like Beetlejuice.”
You sat up on your knees again, hands clasped in front of you as if in prayer. How it stirred me to see you in a posture of worship. And me, the object of your veneration. Power corrupts, both human and divine. No statement has ever been truer.
“I wish for Henri, my guardian angel, to watch over and protect me.”
The words echoed in your bedroom, sacred and binding. You said it again with more confidence.
“I wish for Henri, my guardian angel, to watch over and protect me.”
“Once more,” I coached. “Use your lungs.”
“I wish for Henri, my guardian angel, to watch over and protect me!”
I blew out the candles and dashed us both into darkness. I did it for theatrical effect, but in retrospect, the gesture was a perfect metaphor for what we were embarking upon.
With solemnity and resolve, I uttered into the darkness, “I accept Orlando Bell as my charge.”
Your whole body shivered as if being possessed, the natural reaction to two spirits being bound. Three candles, three summons, and one wish repeated thrice.
Remember, Orlando,youcalledme.
4
Orlando
My memory of you from when I was young was hazy, but I recognized your voice right away. And how it felt with you near, exciting and comforting at the same time. Like when I used to jump off the swings at the playground, you gave me that extra lift that made me feel like I could fly.
The first night you spoke to me, I didn’t record it, but the next night I did. Calling for you again only took a few minutes, and I knew just the moment you arrived. It was a charge of electricity humming in the air that raised the hair on the back of my neck and told me I was no longer alone.
After some questions about my day and whether I’d seen my “adversaries” (I hadn’t), we got on the topic of movies, and specifically,Legends of the Fall, which you loved, and I hated, mainly because I couldn’t stand the character of Tristan, so much that it made me kind of hate the actor who played him.
“But he made sacrifices for the people he loved,” you said with passion. You really got into plot and character and the emotions surrounding their decisions. “Tristan thought he was setting her free and the guilt over his brother…”
“He was a cocktease, Henri. He abandoned Susannah when she was grieving and broke her heart. She only married Alfred because she was so depressed. And then Tristan comes back with his bedroom eyes and huge cock and acts likeshe’sthe slut.”
“How can you determine the size of his phallus?” you asked sincerely, like there might be an X-rated version you hadn’t seen. I snickered.
“I mean, why else would she put up with his shit?”
You laughed but wouldn’t give up your argument. “He behaved that way because he still loved her.”
“Then he should have married her when he had the chance instead of dicking around and running off tofind himself. I mean, how selfish. The girl killed herself over it.”
My mom happened to have the VHS—she loved that damn movie—so we ended up watching it together and continued the argument throughout.
My cassette tape ran out at 90 minutes—that was after flipping it once. You asked me what I was doing, and I told you.
“Why would you want to record our conversation?” You sounded perplexed by it. Or maybe by the technology itself. You weren’t all that hip to gadgets and devices or modern-day slang. But you were a quick learner.
“So I’ll have proof of it later,” I told you.
