Current Issue 2026

Three days after the last protest, rumors spread about Saul, what happened to him, and how no one had seen him since the violence. Our friends said to me, “Eh, Maria, he was hit with a baton, he was shot with “non-lethal” bullets, he was hurt.” They said that he saved a kid’s life, pulled her away from a rampaging pickup truck. Someone thought he’d disappeared in the smoke of a flash-bang. I had never even seen him there; I was on a different street that day. Saul and I knew each other even before his unhoused situation. I figured I should call on him and see how he was. 

He didn’t answer his cell phone. Of course not. No one does anymore.

First rule of homelessness: Don’t tell anyone where you stay. He had told me, of course. I drove out to his nice spot at the local park, slotted between bathrooms and a fenced dog area. His white Toyota had seen better days but it still was passably decent. I parked in the next slot by him. His windows were dark; lots of tinting and a sunscreen in the windshield gave a pretense of privacy. A parking ticket was tucked under the wipers. I could not see in. I pounded on his driver’s side door. No response. 

The spare key was still in the driver’s side rear wheel well. I’d seen him retrieve it once. I don’t think he knew that I knew it was there. 

He kept two cats in that car, and a litter box, and if the car hadn’t been opened for three days then the hot smell of cat urine and turds would rush out and knock me down. That and the smell of whatever was going on with him, injury, sickness, blood. Nursing home stench. I had some Vicks in my car, stashed with the aspirin and emergency nostrums. I did not use a modest dab underneath my nose, like they show on tv. I jammed that jelly up into my nostrils. I stuck the physical key into the physical door lock and turned. I braced myself for the onslaught of overpowering stink. 

The smell startled me. I took a step back, then I leaned forward, into his car. The car reeked of flowers: sweeter than perfume, fresher than a bouquet, indefinable scent. He lay in the back seat, his head nestled on a golden pillow.  I touched his face. He was not breathing.

The litter box was used, not full. I could not smell it for the flowers. 

Sunlight poured in through the open door and slathered his brown face, turning it golden. His thick black curls looked artificially good. 

A beatific smile curled his lips. Not a death rictus, flesh pulling away from dead teeth, but a peaceful flex. I crossed myself, Catholic old school: spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch, and clutched the golden body of the hung Christ on my crucifix. 

“Ah, Saul,” I whispered. “I’ll call the diocese. They’ll….” I paused. I did not know what the Church could do. I remembered some catechism, though: the Church says that saints do not suffer the corruption of the body, and historical records say dead saints smell like flowers.

His cats lay curled on his bare feet. Gabriel, the orange one, had his nose buried in the black cat’s belly. That cat’s name was a secret, Saul had told me. A joke between friends. I knew it was another rule of homelessness: don’t share too much. Underneath the guardian cats, Saul’s bare feet were clean. His toenails looked great for a homeless guy, manicured. Nicer than mine.

His dead left hand, curled against his belly, held a lotus flower cupped in his palm. Plump cream petals with a blush of gold and rose, nestled in a fuzzy green calyx. Despite the Vicks in my nostrils, I smelled that scent: delicate, exotic, impossible. No flower lasts three days in a car box.

I took it from his hand. 

He vanished. Him and his clothes. The two cats, disturbed from their dreams of heaven, slid out the door and between my legs, escaping irretrievably. 

All he did was save a kid, I thought. He must have done more than that. I had known him, hung out with him, been his friend. How did he qualify? Maybe there are lots of unnoticed saints, I thought. The Church couldn’t possibly track them all. I smiled and tried not to feel lonely.

He was gone, my friend Saul. His cats were gone, never to be seen again. After a few more days the cops towed his car away. 

I still have that plump little flower. It smells like heaven.

The End