Coffeehouse Angel (11 page)

He pulled the packet of chocolate-covered coffee beans from his satchel. "I've only got two left. They were very tasty." He picked out a bean, then closed his eyes.

Everything went quiet--no cars, no seagulls, even Lars held his wheezy breath. The world froze. But I didn't freeze. My heart pounded. I looked left, then right. Nothing else moved. I stood there, out of sync with a world suspended. "What's happening?" I whispered.

Malcolm's thick lashes rested on his cheeks. He seemed frozen too. I stared at his face, my gaze drawn to his mouth. Some guys had pencil-thin lips, but his lower lip was as perfect as his upper lip. What would it be like to kiss him? That thought, which popped into my head without an invitation, surprised me with its vividness.

Malcolm's eyes flew open and he smiled.

I stepped away and the world came back to life.

"Here you go." He held out the bean. "And don't pretend to eat it like you did last time. I'm not stupid."

What had just happened? I felt a bit dizzy. And frightened. Maybe it was a blood sugar thing and I just needed to eat a cookie. I needed to get back to the coffeehouse and sit down. "If I eat this now, will fame come right away?"

"I believe so."

"Then I'd like to wait. I mean, look at me. If I'm going to be famous, I'd like to fix my hair, maybe put on something nice."

"You should put on a dress," Lars said. "A nice dress. Girls don't wear dresses anymore."

"Yeah, I should put on a nice dress."

Malcolm frowned. "You won't eat it now?"

"I'll eat it later."

"You wouldn't be trying to trick me?"

"No."

"I'm freezing my nuts off," Lars said. "Take the bean."

I took the bean and put it into my pocket.

"Well then, I guess I'm done. I guess I won't be seeing you again." For a moment, his blue eyes, so deep and vivid, faded to gray. When he sighed, a cold breeze slid down my spine. "Time to be on my way or I'll get into trouble. I wish you a long and healthy life, Katrina Svensen. And to you, Lars Larsen, I wish you dignity." Up the hill he went, just like last time, except he stopped to look back, sadness clearly imprinted on his face. Then he was gone.

"I don't think that boy's right in the head," Lars said. "The pages in his book were blank."

Maybe I wasn't right in the head. The pharmacy sat across the street. "Wait here," I told Lars. They didn't have any walkers in stock. They'd have to order one and it was real expensive. I told the counter person I'd get back to him. I thought about asking if he knew anything about hallucinations, but decided against it. When I caught up to Lars, he was almost to Anna's. His limp had improved.

"Hey, Katrina." He held up a cane. "Isn't it a beauty?

Look, the handle's carved like a fish. And my name's right on it. Captain Lars."

"Where'd you get it?"

"I just found it." He waved it above his head and smiled. "Now, this has some dignity."

O
din sat alone at the corner table, staring forlornly at his game board. Ralph and Ingvar had abandoned him because Irmgaard was making krumkake--little rolled cookies flavored with almond, lemon, and cardamom. They watched as she poured yellow batter onto an iron. The batter sank into the iron's grooves, sizzling to a golden brown. The Boys waited with anticipation as she lifted the soft cookie with a spatula, then rolled it around a metal cone.

Irmgaard's silence and her graceful, repetitive movements could lull anyone into a trance. The steam from the hot iron had turned her cheeks pink. One might think that grown men would have better things to do on a Wednesday afternoon. But Ingvar would say, "What's better than a beautiful woman and a plate of warm cookies?"

"Katrina's got a boyfriend," Lars announced as we stepped inside.

"What? No I don't."

"What's that?" My grandmother barreled across the room, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her lower lip actually trembled. "A
boyfriend?
Who is he?" Her enthusiasm was embarrassing. You'd think I'd discovered a cure for cellulite or something.

"No one."

"He's a foreigner," Lars said, unbuttoning his coat. "And he's not all there, if you know what I mean."

My grandmother pursed her lips. "He's not Swedish, is he?"

"He wears a skirt," Lars added, taking a seat across from Odin.

Odin raised an eyebrow. "A skirt?"

"You're dating a homosexual?" my grandmother asked.

"He says he's not a fairy," Lars said.

"What are you talking about? I'm not dating anyone." I dropped my backpack, then grabbed a krumkake. "And Malcolm wears a kilt, not a skirt. Lots of guys wear kilts.

It has nothing to do with being gay."

"She's right. Romans wore skirts," Ingvar said.

"Romans didn't wear skirts. They wore tunics," Ralph said, crumbs falling from his mouth.

"They wore skirts," Ingvar insisted. "With pleats."

Ralph grabbed another cookie. "I'll tell you who wore a skirt. Mel Gibson wore one in that movie."

"Yeah well, he's an actor, and everyone knows that actors are
fairies
," Odin said.

The wisdom of the aged. I ate my cookie, then poured milk into a tall glass. The cookie helped me feel better after the whole "world freezing" episode. Maybe I'd just been tired, or hormonal.

"Where'd you get that cane?" Odin asked.

"Found it," Lars said.

Great, we were off the subject of boyfriends. My shoulders relaxed as I drank the milk. Why was it such a big deal whether or not I had a boyfriend? Of course, I wouldn't feel so defensive if I had purposefully chosen to be boyfriendless.

Lars moved one of the playing pieces. "Katrina's boyfriend said he was imprisoned.

That's what he said. That Katrina had imprisoned him."

Everyone stopped eating and cooking and playing, and grinned at me. Goofy little grins as if I had just said my first word or taken my first step. My face felt like it was on fire. I bolted into the office, but Grandma Anna, despite her arthritic knees, stayed hot on my heels. "Is that what the boy said?" she asked, blinking excitedly.

"Imprisoned?"

"I don't know." I looked around for the order sheets, trying to seem busy. One of my jobs was to place the orders for food and supplies. An unruly pile of papers covered my grandmother's desk. Shoe boxes overflowing with receipts lay on the floor. The desk drawers sat open. "What happened in here?"

She fiddled with some papers. "I'm trying to find the receipt for the television."

"The new one?"

She looked away. "I thought we could sell it on eBay. We don't really need it."

My stomach clenched. She loved that new television because she could watch two shows at once. Had we reached the point of having to sell our belongings? "Are things that bad?"

"We need a new dishwasher. It's a matter of necessity."

"Don't get rid of the television," I said. "We could have a garage sale. I've got all that stuff in the upstairs closet."

"We'll talk about it later." She turned her round face up at me, her eyebrows arched with hope. "Are you going to ask this boy to the Solstice Festival?" We were out of money and she was worried about my love life. Should I have been worried too? Does not having a boyfriend at sixteen put you on the fast track to spinsterhood? Did this mean I would spend the rest of my life alone, childless, dried up?

Aaron could start calling me Coffeehouse Crone.

"I'm not asking him to the Solstice Festival. I really don't know him." I picked up a bill from the power company. "Grandma, how much money do we need?"

"That's none of your concern." She whisked the bill from my hand. "How did you meet this boy?"

"He just showed up. He keeps following me."

She nodded. "That's what they do. Believe me, once a man falls in love, he follows you everywhere. He sends flowers, he calls, he takes you out to dinner, to the movies.

He embeds himself like a tick." She sighed. "So romantic."

"Well, I don't want a tick."

Her dazed expression faded and her down-to-earth, commonsense nature reappeared.

"Then you'll have to make that clear. If you don't love him, you don't love him. No good leading him on. Tell him that you appreciate his feelings, but you're just not interested." She patted my hand. "Your time will come." She went back to the kitchen.

I wouldn't have to tell Malcolm that I wasn't
interested,
because he had left Nordby.

He had wished me a long and healthy life. Even if he turned out to be sane it didn't matter. He had gone.

I picked up another bill, this one from Acme Supply Company. Thirty days overdue.

Another from Visa was also thirty days overdue. If only we could just throw them in the trash and be done with them, like bad sardines.

"Good-bye, Katrina. Good-bye, Anna.
Good-bye, Irmgaard,"
The Boys called, the front door closing behind them.

"Grandma?" I went into the kitchen. "Did you see the late fees on these bills? They add up to hundreds of dollars."

She waved me away. "Not now, Katrina. I'm not feeling well. I'm going to lie down."

She gripped the handrail and slowly pulled herself up the stairs. Going to bed at 4:30

in the afternoon wouldn't solve our money problems, but sometimes, crawling under the covers is the only thing a person can think to do.

I started to wipe down the counters, when Irmgaard opened her purse and took out her wallet. She held out two twenty-dollar bills.

"Oh, thanks, Irmgaard, but I'm sure things aren't that bad," I said. "We'll work it out."

She frowned and put the money on the counter.

"You know Grandma won't accept that." I picked up the bills and tucked them back into her purse. Irmgaard didn't have money to give away. No customers meant no tips.

I changed the radio station. Irmgaard never seemed to mind. Getting lost in the music always made cleanup go faster. As I hummed, the image of Malcolm with his eyes closed kept popping into my head. Did he know how perfect his face was? Did he know that even with those ragged clothes he was gorgeous? Watching him standing there, I had wanted to lean forward and kiss his lips. I didn't even know him and I had wanted to kiss him.

A sudden tap on my shoulder nearly gave me a heart attack. Irmgaard stood next to me, her coat and hat on. "Closing time already?" I asked.

She bit her lower lip and looked away, uncertain about something.

"What's wrong?" I turned down the radio.

She pulled a small book from her coat's pocket--one of those little gift books that you find near a cash register. The gold foiled title was
Angels Among Us.
She waved it at me. "Is it for me?" Irmgaard had given me tons of gifts over the years, remembering every birthday and every holiday. On Easter she always brought a basket of chocolate eggs, on Valentine's Day she brought a bottle of drugstore perfume. She didn't have kids of her own, so I always figured I was sort of her surrogate kid.

She pointed to the image on the cover, one of those religious paintings from the Middle Ages. The person in the painting was robed, with large wings on his back and a golden halo radiating from his head. I took the book. "It's an angel," I said. She nodded eagerly, then motioned me toward the front door. She opened the door, then motioned again.

We stood outside the shop and Irmgaard pointed up the sidewalk. Then she pointed to her skirt. I was clueless. She tugged at her skirt. "I don't get it," I said.

We went through this all time. It was a game called
What is Irmgaard trying to say?

Vows of silence can be really annoying. Certainly they can create an aura of mystery and even reverence, for any kind of vow takes dedication, but if you're going to be silent, then you'd better develop a keen ability to play charades, or you'll drive everyone crazy.

She pointed--sidewalk, skirt, sidewalk, skirt.

"I still don't get it."

She sighed, walked up the sidewalk, then stopped. She held out her hand, palm up, as if balancing something. She pointed to her hand, then to her skirt, then to the sidewalk. Over and over and over.

Oh. "Do you mean the guy who was standing right here on the sidewalk, holding the sample cup? The guy wearing the kilt?"

She nodded, then took the book and opened it to the first chapter.

It was called "The Messenger."

I
ate some of Irmgaard's clam chowder at our upstairs table. Why would she think that Malcolm was an angel? She was deeply religious, no doubt about that. She silently prayed before eating anything. I'd often seen her kiss the cross that hung around her neck, and she kept a travel Bible in her purse. But angels didn't stand around on sidewalks, talking to people. Or wear kilts or sleep in alleys. Did they? Unfortunately, I didn't have time to look through Irmgaard's gift book. I barely had time to squeeze in my geometry homework before Elizabeth came by at seven to take me to her art class.

"I called the teacher. There's an extra easel for you. This will be fun."

"Don't get your hopes up." I knew that I'd massacre whatever I painted. But at least the class would be something to add to the all-important checklist.

Grandma Anna lay on her bed, her radio tuned to a book discussion on NPR. "Can I get you anything?" I asked.

"No thanks, sweetheart," she said quietly. "I'm just worn out. You go and have fun."

"You sure? I don't have to go." She did seem more pale than the normal Norwegian pale.

"Go on."

Elizabeth and I ate the last of the krumkakes on the way to the community center. She had changed into her painting pants--an expensive pair of jeans with paint dribbled all over them. Sometime after school she had added a red streak to her hair. I slid into the passenger seat in my usual jeans and sweatshirt. Elizabeth talked about Face the whole way. She'd seen him in the grocery store buying a bag of potato chips, which gave her hope because she liked potato chips too. "Do you think I should sign up for golf lessons? Doesn't that just seem like the most boring game in the entire world?"