Web of Angels by Lilian Nattel

Patting his pocket, he quietly said, “Uh oh, my glasses,” the microphone picking up his voice. Debra opened her purse,fished out his reading glasses and reached out to hand them to him. Though the purse appeared to be alligator, it had to be imitation. Around here people did not wear animals, except for cows.
    “Dear neighbours,” Rick began, looking down through his glasses at his notes, then over them at all those assembled for the sake of his wayward daughter, or more, for the sake of her abandoned parents. “Your support for myself, my wife and Cathy is everything I’d expect of Seaton Grove, though I’m sorry that it has to be proven under these circumstances. I hope to God that nobody here ever has to go through what we have in the last week. But with the help of our family and community we will go on.
    “We are here to commemorate a life that was all too short. Heather was born sixteen years ago. My first little girl, the apple of my eye. Like any father I hoped for great things from my child. But let’s speak plainly because only plain speaking will prevent such a tragedy from happening again. Heather’s bright future darkened as she became a troubled child and then a teen at risk. That’s the term the psychiatrist used—’at risk.’ If only I had known what the risk was. When my daughter came home pregnant, I thought we’d reached the bottom. The worst had happened …” His voice broke. Neighbours wept, stifling sobs in tissues.
    “Because of my wife’s courage, we have another baby in our family,” Rick said. “Life goes on. We can’t bring Heather back. We can only learn from this and draw strength from each other. That’s why I would like to start the Committee for Youth to provide programming and guidance for teens.”He paused, waiting for this to sink in. Neighbours nodded, whispered, wiped their eyes, a few tentatively clapped. Rick held up a hand, staying their response. “My friends, terrible things happen here in Seaton Grove, too. And if a single family can be saved because of my daughter’s death …” The clapping began again, uncertainly; nobody was sure if it was appropriate. But more joined in, then everyone was clapping, the friends and neighbours who had come from the streets all around making a thunder of their hands to ward off despair.
    Callisto’s eyes remained dry as she considered the nature of fathers and what they required of their children: beauty, cleverness, stamina. It was warm in the gym. She folded her program into a fan, thinking over Rick’s words, neither adding to nor subtracting from them. What he had said: he hoped for great things from Heather. What he had not said: he wished great things for her. His black sheep.
    “I couldn’t do that.” Dan spoke into her ear, so she could hear above the clapping. “Not under these circumstances.”
    “Do what?” She fanned herself.
    “Be able to think of anybody but myself and my kids. If one of ours …” He paused, looking at her. He knew the subtlety of words, he was a writer of pleas that drew money out of pockets, and he had said “ours,” his and hers, the left-handed wife. “I wouldn’t be starting any committees, I can tell you that.”
    Lost in thought or perhaps in a battle with emotion, Rick gripped the podium, eyes on his notes. After a moment he removed his reading glasses and put them in his breastpocket, waiting for the applause to die down. In the first row, Cathy’s hands were flat on her knees until she noticed her father looking at her. Then she clapped loudly, slowly, punctiliously. “My other daughter would like to say a few words to you this evening,” he said, moving away from the microphone, but staying near the podium.
    All the mothers and the fathers, row upon row in their mourning clothes, sat silently, expectantly, while the living child stood to face them. Darkness behind her and darkness in front, her father a frame as she unfolded a piece of paper and flattened it