“Holy . . . ,” breathes Jeffrey.
Yep. That’s the right word.
It’s some sort of meadow, a vast, flat stretch of land surrounded on two sides by mountains, the third edge a beautiful shining lake that’s clear enough that you can see the landscape reflected back perfectly. A few feet from where we’re standing the snow disappears, becoming instead a long, soft grass, so green it almost hurts the eyes to look at it after so many hours of white on white. It’s not snowing here. The sun is sinking behind the far mountain, and the sky is a riot of oranges and blues. Birds are winging their way back and forth across the meadow, like they too can’t believe that they’ve stumbled into this paradise out here in the middle of nowhere.
But the meadow’s not what we’re looking at. What has the three of us (not Mom, of course, since she obviously knows all about this) gaping stupidly out into the sunshine is the fact that the meadow is crowded with tents. About two dozen people are bustling around, some building campfires, some fishing on the lake, some simply standing or sitting or lying down in the grass talking.
My eyes are drawn to one particular woman, mahogany-skinned with long, lustrous dark hair, a face like the Sacagawea golden dollar. And a pair of dazzling wings folded like a magnificent white robe against her back.
“This,” Mom says, gesturing around the meadow, “is what’s called a congregation. A gathering of angel-bloods.”
“Congregarium celestial,” breathes Angela.
The lady with the wings sees us and waves. Mom waves back.
“That’s Billy,” she says. “Come on.” She removes her coat and the rest of her winter gear until she’s only wearing a flannel shirt and jeans. Then she strides off barefoot into the grass.
“Come on,” she calls back to us again. “They’ll be eager to meet you.” We leave our packs at the edge of the grass and move hesitantly into the meadow. Several people stop what they’re doing to watch us.
“What is this?” Jeffrey asks beside me, still confused.
Mom’s already reached Billy, who throws her arms around my mother like the two are old friends. Then they turn and start back toward us, and when she gets close enough this Billy woman hugs me too, a giant bear hug with surprising strength.
“Clara!” she exclaims. “I can’t believe it. I haven’t seen you since you were knee high to a grasshopper.”
“Uh, hi,” I reply stiffly against her hair, which smells like wildflowers and leather. “I don’t remember. . . .”
“Oh, of course not,” she says with a laugh. “You were tiny.” She peers over my shoulder.
“And this is Jeffrey. Good God above. Already a man.”
Jeffrey doesn’t say anything, but I can tell he’s pleased by this announcement.
“Meet Wilma Fairweather,” announces my mom as a formal introduction.
Wilma smirks at us. “Billy,” she corrects.
“And this is Angela Zerbino,” says my mom, not to overlook any of us.
Billy nods, looking at Angela so intently that Angela actually blushes. “The Pink Garter, am I right?”
“Yeah,” says Angela.
“Welcome! Are you hungry?”
We glance around at each other. Food is the last thing on our minds.
“Of course you are,” Billy says. “Why don’t you go over there and get some grub?” She gestures off to one side of the meadow, where there’s a plume of smoke coming up over what looks like a big stone barbecue grill. “Corbett makes the best burgers, I swear, enough to get me to eat meat a few times a year, anyway.” She laughs again. “Go eat and then you can start setting up your tents. I want you all right by me.” She links her arm with Mom’s. “You finally got the guts to bring them, Mags. I’m proud of you. Although I guess this means—”
“Bill,” Mom says with a warning in her voice, looking at me. Then she shakes it off and smiles at Billy. “We’ve got a million things to talk about, you and I.” And with that, they walk away, leaving us staring after them.
We make our way over to the barbecue. When we get there we can see that it’s being manned by a white-haired guy with a long ponytail wearing a Hawaiian-style flowered shirt, khaki shorts, and flip-flops. He’s flipping meat on the grill like a professional.
“What’ll it be, young’uns?” he calls back without bothering to turn around.
“Cheeseburger or regular?”
“Cheese,” answers Jeffrey, who can always be counted on to think with his stomach. “I’ll take two.”
“Right-o,” says the guy, and then he turns and squints at us. “What about you, Clara?” It’s Mr. Phibbs. My English teacher. Mr. Phibbs in flip-flops. My head is going to explode.
“A bit of a shock?” he says good-naturedly, taking in our expressions, as if it has only now occurred to him that we might be surprised to see him. “We decided that it was for the best if you didn’t know.”
“Who decided?” I can’t help but ask.
“Your mother, mostly,” he says. “But it was something we all agreed upon.”
“You’ve known about us all this time?” Angela manages.
He snorts, which is the strangest sound ever coming from him. “But of course. That’s why I’m there. You kids need someone to keep an eye on you.” He turns back to the grill, whistling. He serves us up two hamburgers each, which we balance on paper plates with potato chips and fruit salad like this is a Fourth of July picnic. We wander off dazedly to sit in the grass and eat. I discover that I’m ravenous. And the food is wonderful.
“Oh my God,” Angela says, when she finally stops eating long enough to talk. “This is so cool. I would never have guessed there’s a group. The congregation.” She says the word like she’s trying it out on her tongue, like it’s a word with magic powers. “I want to talk to Billy again.
She seemed fabulous. Holy geez,” she exclaims, pointing across the meadow. “That’s Jay Hooper, you know, who manages the rodeo arena in Jackson.”
“Are all these people from Jackson?”
“Don’t think so,” she says. “A few, though. I can’t believe that I’ve lived here for my entire life and I didn’t know about this. I wonder if it’s like this in every city, or if it’s just Jackson. I have that theory that angel-bloods are attracted to the mountains, did I ever tell you?