Bob and I dragged ourselves out of bed and were at the church by five, but six other families had camped out overnight and were already in line. Macy was confused by the early departure, but fell asleep in the car and we carried her in. Not a person in the line could look at her and not recognize her as a perfect little angel.
Zachary Walker went in first, of course. The Walkers were always first. They bought every new gadget and jumped on every developing trend. Plastic surgery rendered the parents perfect years ago, and a nutritionist, chef, masseuse, chiropractor and personal trainers saw that they stayed that way. They dressed the boy in the nicest of clothes—the kind people grumbled about, wasting that money on a five-year-old who would outgrow them in a season. The boy was the perfect height and perfect weight. Thick, long lashes fringed his bright blue eyes. He was polite to adults, kind to animals, and smart as a whip, his father always bragged.
But his hair was a bland brown, and that little bit at the back never did lie down quite right.
He wasn’t perfect, I whispered to my husband. Bob and I looked down our noses at those lining the corridor behind us. The other parents glared back at us over the heads of little Ashley, Ethan, Michelle, Joe, Zinnia, and Sam, whose parents were just sure that their child was the perfect child that Brother Zimmy sought. I caressed my angel’s silken curls, secure in my knowledge of Macy’s perfection.
Brother Zimmy preached for two hours every Sunday. He preached love and how to take responsibility for making the world better while improving one’s own life. God wanted you to be happy. His sermons didn’t vary much from week to week.
When static first struck the JumboTron, people started in their seats. Brother Zimmy went on with his message of love and money. Static ate his words and warped his image and that of the choir behind him. The distortion echoing through the speakers moved several infants to tears.
A brilliant white light filled the screen of the JumboTron. The congregation clapped hands over their eyes. The light disappeared as quickly as it came, but thirty minutes disappeared in that blinding flash.
Brother Zimmy knelt before them, creasing his Armani suit, tears streaming down his face.
Michael Warner’s parents were obviously delusional. Hadn’t their demon spawn given Tommy Leto and Bryan Thayer bloody noses in this last month alone? Michael was the last child in the congregation who might be an angel incarnate.
Emily Allen’s eyes were too close together. Only braces when she was a bit older would fix Madison Johnson’s teeth. Sean Lewis stank. Daniel Roberts broke his arm last spring. (A perfect child would have perfect bones. Not one with a healed fracture visible on any x-ray, we muttered to each other.) Macy had huge blue eyes, at just the right spacing, over pearly white little teeth in straight rows. She smelled wonderful always, and had never so much as broken a nail.
Joey Tenson carried well more than ten percent body fat. Both of Nina Trevino’s knees were skinned and looked dreadful peeking out from beneath her yellow sundress, with its loose thread dangling from its hem. Macy was perfectly fit, and her brand new dress showed not a wrinkle.
On the JumboTron, diamonds sparkled on Brother Zimmy Fly’s cufflinks and tiepin. Compassion swam in his soulful eyes as he begged his flock to be strong, to give God their perfect faith, perfect love, the gift of their perfect child.
Brother Zimmy Fly brought the congregation to tears as he reminisced on the JumboTron about the days before the sweeping grassfires, floods, and blizzards that shut down their cities every winter. With one little messenger returned to God to intercede on their behalf, the earth could be theirs again.
Isabella Smythe’s smile was lopsided. Mikey Samuels was on Ritalin, as were Tina Stone, Jasper Brown, and Jacob Bishop. Tomas Gutierrez should have been.
Emma Roucheleau had asthma. Emma Dresden’s ears were too big while Emma Bandi had no chin to speak of. And Emma MacTaggart whined incessantly. (Macy was perfectly formed and perfectly well behaved. We’d been stopped at the mall only last week and told she should be a model.)
Aiden O’Brien was a tattletale and a sneak. Ryan Thompson was a bully. Several parents knew that Logan Matthews had been caught more than once dressing up in his sisters’ clothes and putting on his mother’s makeup. We’d all suspected that long before we heard it. Look at how he stared at Jacy Wilson’s doll.
Cody Flowers sent his sister to the emergency room with a broken nose. James Hannigan was a complete klutz. Poor little Addison Brooks was a bit slow, and her twin Alexis wore coke-bottle glasses and wheezed. I pitied their parents. I pitied the kids.
The perfect child would ascend to heaven with an escort of angels and take word of the people’s need for rain directly to God. God would bless the earth with healing rains, turning the scorched world into the very garden of Eden. The parents who brought the angel into the world would be taken care of forever after. Riches beyond imagination would be their reward. All they needed to do was sacrifice a child who never belonged to them in the first place.
The child would reclaim its spot in the chorus of angels. The name of the child and their parents would be remembered and revered throughout the ages.
Brother Zimmy needed the perfect child. He said so on the JumboTron. An angel incarnate, ready to return home and deliver the flock’s pleas to the ears of God.
Wasn’t Caitlin Jenkins a bed-wetter? Darling Macy hadn’t had an accident since she was potty-trained at two. Sophie Martin might model at the local department store, but hadn’t that attention turned her head and made the child an insufferable brat?
How many mothers sighed over Nicholas Avery, the perfect little gentleman? So well brought up and ever so polite. Bob and I’d always hoped that if we had a son, he’d be like Nicholas, but now I wondered—was his face slightly lopsided? Did he bite those nails to keep them so trim and short?
One special child, that was all Brother Zimmy needed. An offering to God. Returning a blessed angel to the heavens. How Brother Zimmy stirred the crowd when he looked down at them from the JumboTron. Their hearts ached and they cried along with him in hopes that the one perfect child would be found.
The door handle moved. The line gasped as one. The door opened and the most perfect hand ever seen gestured the next child through. The white-white hand shone with the glory of heaven, and when the door shut, its movement sent a soft white feather skimming down the hall. Everyone stared at the wondrous evidence of Brother Zimmy Fly’s words.
But the wonder only held our attention for a minute. More important matters took precedence. Zachary Walker had been deemed unsuitable, flawed. Around us, other parents sighed with the realization that Olivia, Jack, Hailey, Joshua, Hannah, Tyler, and Kaylee still had a chance. Worried looks were shot at the door through which Ava Randall and her parents had entered the church.
Bob and I exchanged a grin. We knew exactly who’d be chosen. Our Macy was perfect. They’d see.