THE DAY THE ANGELS CRIED

It was nineteen years ago. The pain still shoots through me like a knife. A knife that is embedded forever in my heart. They say that time heals. I agree. In time, you learn to live with the regrets, the pain and the guilt.


Marg had been born in Saskatchewan, the daughter of a Mormon couple. As a teenager, she hated the strict rules of both her parents and the church. She ran away. She was 15 years old.


Marg met Bill and fell madly in love. Within a few months, they were married. In seven years, Marg bore five children. Bill liked his wife barefoot and pregnant.


Many times over the years, I knew Marg was unhappy. I'd question her and she'd deny it. But Bill drank and was emotionally and physically abusive to the children. He heaped mental abuse on Marg.


I encouraged Marg to leave Bill. She refused, saying that with only a grade six education, she wouldn't be able to provide for the children. She didn't believe Bill abused her because he didn't beat her.


Then, one day, my world fell apart. Marg had a black eye. Bill had hit her.


"You get out of here," I begged. "It's not going to change. It will only get worse."


"He says he won't do it again," she said, voice trembling. "I can't leave. Don't you understand? I have t o stay. Without his money, the kids will go hungry."


"No, they won't. We'll figure something out. You can't stay here and let him beat you and the kids. This is no life. What are material things when there's no love. You'd be better off on the streets."


I turned. Horror washed over me. Bill was standing in the doorway. When had he come in? What had he heard?"


"Get out of my house," he said calmly.


"Bill, no! She was only trying to help me," Marg exclaimed, tears streaming down her cheeks.


"We don't need her help. I run this household and I want her out. She's never to step foot in this house again, Marg. Do you hear me?" I could hear the threat in his voice. He meant it.


For the first few weeks after this, I would call Marg and we would talk. One day she told me, "Mary, don't call anymore. Bill found out and I got a terrible beating."


Years went by. I thought of Marg often. What was she going through? Would Bill kill her one day? I hoped not and prayed for God and His angels to protect this tiny woman who had a heart as big as an ocean.


One day as I was taking inventory in the used furniture store where I worked, Bill walked in.


"What do you want?" I asked sarcastically.


He had a sheepish look on his face, tears in his eyes. "I came to tell you Marg has lung cancer. They don't expect her to last the summer."


" What! Where is she?"


"She's in the car. You can talk to her if you want."


Marg was sitting in the passenger seat of the car. She wore a wig, and though she had always been tiny, she looked like a walking skeleton.


"Marg, what have you been doing to yourself?" I asked.


Marg chuckled. "Well, I couldn't get away from Bill any other way. I guess he can't control my dying." Tears welled. "Mary, I'm sorry that I didn't stand up to him."


I reached through the window and hugged her. "Forget it," I said. "It's in the past. We have a new start."


A few weeks later, Marg was hospitalized. She was a warrior and came home a week later - carrying a large bottle of morphine labelled, "TAKE AS REQUIRED." It was then I knew that my friend's days were numbered. My heart ached as I sat beside her and took her in my arms. We wept - holding each other, not wanting to let go.


"When they told me I was going to die," she sobbed, "I was scared to death. Now I've made my peace with God. I'm ready to go home."


A few days later, Bill phoned to say Marg had passed away. She had died on his birthday. How ironic I thought. He would never forget her, nor would he forget the abuse he had heaped upon her.


At the cemetery, I placed a single red rose on Marg's coffin - a symbol of love. A token of our friendship. For a moment I thought I felt her hand on my shoulder. Impossible.


Though the day was sunny, as they lowered Marg's coffin into the ground, a light rain began to fall - and the angels cried.


For many years, I lived with the regret of deserting Marg. If I had been more forceful, would she have left? If she had left would she still be alive?


One day I went to visit her grave. I took a large bouquet of gladiolas - her favorite flowers. I stood there wishing I could see my friend, talk to her one more time. Make up for all the years we'd missed. A little bird landed on her tombstone. A bluebird - Marg's favorite bird. I wept deep gut-wrenching sobs that shook my body. I hadn't really let my grief out when Marg had died. Now, in a torrent, it burst forth.


A gentle rain began to fall. I remembered the words that had ran threw my mind the day of her funeral. "And the angels cried." And this time, I cried with them.


Copyright © 1999 - 2000 by Mary M. Alward




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