Coffeehouse Angel (10 page)

You should tell him that he can't use your name."

"Well..." Vincent looked away for a moment. "I didn't know anything about that drink, but I'm not sure it's such a bad thing, Katrina. Ten percent of the profits will go to the swim team. We need new lane dividers and new timers." He frowned. "It's just a stupid drink."

I stiffened. "It's more than that. Mr. Darling is trying to close us down. Your name will help him make more money. And..." I didn't want to admit how bad things were.

Vincent knew what it was like to be poor, but Elizabeth didn't have a clue. Anyway, I'd been raised to believe that money matters were personal. It was embarrassing too.

Every day we worked and worked, only to sink deeper and deeper into debt.

Vincent nudged me. "Don't be mad. What can I do?"

Despite his calm, steady voice, all my worries burst to the surface. Like an out-of-body experience, I watched myself from across the room, painfully aware that I was acting like a pouty child. But I couldn't stop.

"I want you to hate Java Heaven as much as I do. That's what I want. You're
my
friend, not Heidi's. I want you to help us, not them."

Vincent Hawk, best friend since the fourth grade, smiled sweetly. "I'll always be your friend. If you want me to do something for Anna's, I will."

"If I come up with a special drink, will you help serve it and maybe sign some cups?"

"Yeah, of course."

Of course. He was still the same old Vincent. Heidi could trick him into holding her stupid cup of coffee, but she'd never be his best friend. I felt a million times better.

The bell rang. Vincent wandered off. Elizabeth tossed her garbage, then pulled the checklist from my pocket. "What are you doing?" I asked.

She clicked her pen. "You said you were going to create a special drink, right?"

"Right."

She scribbled something, then smiled.

Vice President of Product Development.

T
hat afternoon, Principal Carmichael announced that
People
magazine would visit on Friday, which meant that Vincent's good deed would spread throughout waiting rooms and beauty shops everywhere. Maybe he'd sign a book deal. Maybe someone would buy the movie rights. The possibilities were endless. Fortune had cast its big golden net over the swimmer from Nordby.

Despite the chill, I felt kind of springy walking home-- almost perky. It was one of those rare moments when I wasn't comparing myself to everybody else. Elizabeth had helped me see the ridiculousness of the checklist. And with Vincent in our corner, we would make tons of money at the festival. We'd call it Hero's Hot Chocolate, with the actual hero serving it. Our line would wind down the sidewalk, blocking the entrance to Java Heaven. I snickered, imagining Mr. Darling yelling at us to move the line.

We'd donate 10 percent--no, make it 11 percent to a local charity. Sure, Hero's Hot Chocolate was a short-term answer, but one thing at a time.

Lars, the oldest of The Boys, sat on the bus bench, his ruddy face half-hidden behind an upturned collar. "How come you're not at Anna's?" I asked.

"Can't get down the hill. My legs are giving me trouble."

I sat next to him. "Did you take your arthritis medicine?"

"Can't remember." He scratched a tuft of white ear hair. "I might fall going down that hill. There's no dignity falling in public."

"I'll help you walk," I said.
Eldercare Volunteer.

He pulled his knit hat over his ears. "I don't need help. I'm taking the bus."

"But Lars, you know your son doesn't want you to take the bus."

He narrowed his cloudy eyes. "My son needs to mind his own business. It's a public bus and I'm the public."

Lars's son was Officer Larsen. Officer Larsen had sent his father to a detox facility dozens of times, but he always went back to drinking. Last year, at age eighty-two, Lars had almost killed some joggers on his drive home from the Nordby Pub. The state took away his driver's license. A few days later he moved in with his son. The doctor said that Lars's liver was in terrible condition, along with high cholesterol, high blood pressure, and stiff joints. He needed to start exercising or he wouldn't live much longer. But Lars wanted nothing to do with exercise. So Officer Larsen hatched a plan. There would be no alcohol in the house. If Lars wanted to drink, he'd have to walk the mile to the Nordby Pub on Main Street. That way he'd be forced to get some exercise. All the locals knew not to give Lars a ride. Everyone agreed that it was for his own good.

According to the doctor, the walking had improved Lars's health.

So every afternoon he walked the mile. He'd stop at Anna's for coffee and soup (Officer Larsen kept a tab there) and every other day he'd play a game of Hnefatafl.

Then he'd end each evening at the pub. His son would pick him up on his way home from patrol.

But on that particular Wednesday afternoon, Lars had mutiny on his mind. When the bus pulled up, he hobbled forward. As the door hissed open he reached for the handrail. Millie heaved herself from the driver's seat and blocked the entrance. "Just what do you think you're doing?"

"I'm riding the bus today," Lars said. "So get out of my way."

"Now Lars, you know I can't let you on." Millie would have made a great drill sergeant, the way her voice slammed right into your head.

"Look here,
woman,
this is public transportation."

"I promised your son. You know that."

"My son's an idiot. Move aside!"

"Walking's good for you."

Lars yanked his hat off his head and shook it at her. "My legs can't take it. I'm gonna fall. Mark my words--I'm gonna fall, and then I'll sue you and everybody else."

I felt embarrassed for him. Not because we all knew he was an alcoholic, but because he knew that he wasn't as strong as he used to be. That had to be one of the worst parts of getting old.

"You need to get yourself a walker," Millie said. "My aunt uses one and she can go up and down a hill, no problem.

"I don't need a walker."

"You need something." Millie leaned out the door. "Hey, Katrina. Help Lars get down the hill, will ya?"

"Sure," I said.

Lars shook his hat again. "You think I need help? Look here,
woman,
this body used to haul two-hundred-pound crab pots from the ocean. These legs have fought storms that would break you like a wishbone. I don't need help."

"Look,
old man,
don't you call me
woman,"
Millie said. "Hey, Katrina." I ran to the door. "Stop in at the pharmacy on your way home and see if they have any walkers."

"Walkers?" Spit flew from Lars's thin lips. "I don't need a damn walker."

"You're a stubborn one," Millie said. "You won't use a walker and you won't take Katrina's help."

"Lars," I said gently. "You should let someone help you."

"I'd be happy to help."

Millie sucked in her belly as Malcolm squeezed past her and down the bus's steps.

"Where'd you come from?" she asked. "I don't remember picking you up."

He paused on the lower step and smiled. "And I don't remember ever laying eyes on a lovelier bus driver."

If people could melt like ice cream, that's what would have happened--Millie would just be a big puddle of rocky road. As Malcolm stepped off the bus his kilt slipped up his thigh--muscular, just like his calves. Millie patted her hair, smiling as if she'd been sipping Lars's whiskey.

"Hey lady, I'm gonna be late," someone hollered from the back of the bus. Millie returned to her seat. Malcolm waved as the bus door hissed closed.

I shouldn't have been surprised to see him. He had told me that he'd be back after he'd delivered a message. Maybe with Lars around, he wouldn't start in on all that good deed stuff.

We stood on the sidewalk as the bus drove off. Lars stuck his hat on his head, then gave Malcolm the once-over. "Whatcha wearing a skirt for?"

Malcolm slung his satchel over his hip. "I find I'm partial to it. Quite comfortable." He offered his arm. "I'm happy to help you down the hill."

"You some kind of
fairy?"
Lars asked, stepping back. "Is that why you're wearing a skirt?"

I rolled my eyes. "Lars, he's offering to help you down the hill."

"I assure you that I'm not a fairy. Fairies are fictional beings, manifestations of mankind's primal fear of nature. I am a messenger."

Lars narrowed his eyes. "Whoopdedoo. I used to be a captain. Everyone called me Captain Lars. Now I'm a drunk, but I've still got my dignity. I don't need your help."

He started limping down the hill, his legs slightly bowed. We followed, flanking him like bodyguards.

"Did you know that Hemingway was a drunk?" Malcolm asked. Lars eyed him suspiciously. "So were Mozart and Dean Martin. But they had their dignity too."

Malcolm had a nice way about him--a gentleness I hadn't noticed until that moment.

Maybe my happy mood had clouded my judgment, the way ice cream can mask a sore throat. But here's something odd. Though Malcolm had spoken to Lars, and though his pupils had been fixed on Lars's face, I had felt his gaze on me.
Felt
it. He wasn't looking at me the way we look at people walking down the street, or food on a plate, or words in a book. He was
seeing
me. I shivered.

"May I carry that for you?" he asked, pointing to my backpack. "It looks heavy."

I still didn't know much about him. Would he try to steal my backpack? My wallet was inside. I only had ten dollars, but still. Yet this time my inner voice didn't scream at me. It didn't say, "Run!" Part of me wanted to move closer to him--to feel him looking at me. "No thanks. I'm used to carrying it."

Lars's limp made the going slow. I thought about running ahead to tell my grandmother all about how Vincent was going to help us. But I stayed, lingering in Malcolm's flowery scent. Lingering in the strange sensation of being
noticed.

"What's wrong with your leg?" Malcolm asked Lars.

"I'm old. That's what's wrong. Everything's falling apart. You'll find out."

"I won't get old." He said that without any hint of humor. What did he mean? Was he suicidal? One of Mr. Prince's posters popped into my head:
Know the Warning Signs
of Suicide.
I hadn't bothered to read any further.

"Kids never think they'll get old," Lars grumbled. "But life goes by fast--real fast."

The sudden rush of emotion made Lars stumble. Malcolm caught him by the arm.

"Let go," Lars snarled after regaining his balance. "I don't need help. And I don't need a walker. No dignity in using a walker. Bad enough the whole town knows I'm a drunk."

We
started walking again, but this time Lars hobbled ahead.

"Katrina, you promised that when I returned, you would tell me what you most desire.

I still need to reward your good deed."

Oh great, back to that again. I grabbed a tissue from my pocket. Cold air always made my nose run. What could I tell him?

"Hold on now." Lars stopped walking. He turned and peered up at Malcolm, his eyes half-hidden by his knit hat.
" You
want to give Katrina what she most desires?"

Malcolm nodded. "I've tried, but she won't tell me what it is."

Lars shook his head. "She'll never tell you. No woman ever tells. And no man's ever been able to figure it out. You'll be guessing for the rest of your life and you'll always guess wrong. Women like it that way because it gives them something to complain about."

"That's ridiculous," I said, crumpling the tissue and dropping it into a garbage can.

Malcolm gripped his satchel. "I can't guess for the rest of my life. That's not possible.

And I can't be on my way until I reward her. She's imprisoned me, you see."

"Imprisoned?" Lars glared at me. "You should be ashamed, Katrina, playing with this boy's heart."

"What?" I just about choked on my own spit. They were
both
crazy.

"It's all in this book." Malcolm opened his satchel and pulled out the black book.

"You studying to be a lawyer?" Lars asked after reading the book's title. "I want you to sue the city for me. That's a public bus and I'm the public."

"I'm not a lawyer. I'm a messenger." Malcolm opened the book and read: " 'If it doth come to pass that during the course of thy travels, an unsolicited, unselfish act of kindness is bestowed upon thee, then thou must reward the act by granting to the bestower that which the bestower most desires.' "

Lars scratched his head. "You don't say?"

"I don't want to guess. I've had some troubles in the past, made some guesses that didn't quite work out. I can't afford to make another mistake."

Lars screwed up his face. "Uh-huh."

Malcolm turned to a new page. "There's a handy chart in here. It says that the most common thing people ask for is fortune. But Katrina didn't want that. She gave it to her friend. The second-most common thing people ask for is fame." Lars and Malcolm turned and looked at me. Yep, that's right, I was still standing there. I don't know why. I should have left those two idiots in the dust. "Could fame be what you most desire?" Malcolm asked.

Fame.

Seemed like famous people were mostly miserable, spending their time denying rumors, punching photographers, checking themselves into rehab. What good were billions of dollars and a recognizable face if you couldn't even walk your dog in your pajama bottoms without some jerk following you and then plastering your picture across every grocery store tabloid so people in checkout lines could stand around and talk about you as if they knew you?
Look how fat she's gotten. She's not so pretty.

She's so tall, she should join the Masai tribe.

"Katrina?" Malcolm's inky blue gaze swept over me like a feather duster. I shivered again. "Do you desire fame?" Vincent seemed to be enjoying his fame, and it couldn't hurt our coffeehouse if I became the world's most famous person. What would I be famous for? Filling jam pots? Not that I believed in the whole magic bean thing. But I'd never get rid of this guy if I didn't finish his game. "I'll choose fame."