Coffeehouse Angel (16 page)

The dark pressed in on me but I didn't want to turn on the light, in case someone else wandered by.
Look at the Norwegian girl, sitting alone in that plague-filled
coffeehouse. Take a picture of her and put it on a postcard.
The place felt doomed with its lingering eau de rat and the big yellow sign burning a hole on the front door.

The king and queen of Norway stared from the wall. They'd never eat in a place like this.

No way would I be able to sleep. Maybe I could do some homework or read something to distract myself. My backpack sat on one of the stools. I pulled the little book from it.
Angels Among Us.
I opened it.

At the bottom of the inside cover, printed in little gold letters was:
Property of Sister
Irmgaard. Abbey of St. Clare.
Wow. Irmgaard had been a nun?

The book was mostly a collection of old drawings and paintings. It was divided into three sections: "The Messenger," "The Guardian," and "The Fallen."

I flipped through oil paintings of winged creatures in white robes. I recognized some of the painters--Raphael, Michelangelo, and Caravaggio. Then I stopped flipping.

It was Malcolm. His perfect face, his electric eyes, his long brown and copper hair, his strong legs. The artist's name was Carlino Botolucci and his painting was called
The Messenger,
painted in 1845. A shiver darted up my spine. I'd rationalized all the strange happenings, but this portrait jarred me to my core. I ran to the back door. The alley was empty. Where was he? I ran out the front door and stood on the sidewalk.

"Malcolm," I whispered, wrapping my arms around my pink bathrobe as icy wind stung my bare ankles. Music drifted from the pub, but not a single person walked along Main Street. Darkness gathered in the distance where the streetlights ended. My bare feet went numb against the cold cement.

"Malcolm. Where are you?"

"You'd better come in." He stuck his head out our front door. "It looks like a storm is brewing."

J
ust a whisper and he had appeared.

How had he gotten inside the coffeehouse? That should have been the question on my mind, but all I could think about was the glow.

Though the sun had set hours ago, I could have sworn it was hiding right behind Malcolm's back, wrapping its golden rays around him in a bright hug. Light shot out of the doorway like one of those paintings in the angel book. Was that a halo hanging over his head?

I couldn't move. Was this real? Aren't people who see angels crazy? Maybe I had a brain tumor or maybe I was on the brink of a seizure.

"Katrina?"

As he stepped through the doorway, the glow faded back to its source--a light fixture above the kitchen counter. Not heavenly, after all. I let out a huge breath, feeling disappointed and relieved at the same time. Coming face-to-face with an otherwordly being would be amazing
and
freaky. I had jumped to an impossible conclusion. His resemblance to the painting was explainable. If I pulled back Elizabeth's hair, wiped off her makeup, and moved time forward ten years, she could look exactly like the
Mona Lisa.
Sort of.

"Katrina?" He held out his hand. A sudden gust slapped his kilt against his thighs.

"You're not dressed properly for the cold. Come inside."

I thought about taking his hand but felt too self-conscious. The gust swept across my terry-cloth bathrobe. Why was I wearing that old thing? Why didn't I own one of those glamorous bathrobes made of silk with a boa hem? I needed to get one of those.

And some matching high heels with boa tufts. Elizabeth had a bathrobe from France.

My bathrobe was from Wal-Mart. And why had I taken off my mascara and pulled my hair into a knot? I probably looked like I had the flu.

He held the door for me. As I walked toward him, I imagined stepping into the balmy paradise of a tropical island, because that's what it felt like. The winter wind kept its distance, as if Malcolm stood in a bubble of summer. Once inside, eau de rat was replaced by eau de Malcolm. Did he keep a spritzer in his pocket? "Where did you go?" I asked.

"Business."

"Irmgaard, the woman who works here, thinks you're an angel."

"Does she now?"

He shut the door. We were alone, at night, and I still had no proof that he wasn't crazy--just a gut feeling. If he had any sinister plans, this would be the perfect opportunity. I walked behind the counter, using it as a shield.

"Why does she think you're an angel?"

"Because I delivered a message to her."

"You did? When?"

"After I woke up in your alley. You've no need to fear me, Katrina." He laid his satchel on a table, then stood in front of the portrait of the King and Queen of Norway. "Is this your family?"

"No. My parents' photo is over there." I pointed to the photo that Grandma kept near the cash register. My mother, the source of my pale blond hair, stood on a beach with my father on their wedding day. "They died in a car accident when I was three. Do you have a family?"

He ran a finger along the portrait's frame. "Messengers don't have families." He said it matter-of-factly.

"But who do you live with?"

"No one."

My first impression of him was true, after all. "You're homeless?"

"I suppose you could say that, since messengers don't have homes. We're nomads. We go where we're needed." He turned his attention to the counter, running his hand along its surface, stopping to examine the salt shakers, napkin containers, a vase of fake flowers--inspecting the items as if he'd never seen them before. I was looking at him in much the same way.

"How old are you?" I asked.

"I'm not sure." He opened the lid of a jam pot. "Young, though, compared to the others. What's this?"

"Loganberry jam."

He smelled it, then tilted back his head and dumped the entire contents of the pot into his mouth. I shuddered, thinking how sickly sweet so much jam would taste. He swallowed, then smiled. "That was quite good. I don't get much opportunity to try food. I'm not supposed to partake of local customs, but sometimes I can't help myself.

In Scotland I tried a boiled pudding." He found another jam pot and downed its contents, and then another.

"Malcolm?" I leaned against the counter, my head spinning with questions. What was true and what was delusion? Did he really work for a messenger service? Did he really have no home or family? Why had Vincent gotten fortune and why had Ratcatcher gotten fame? And why did the portrait in Irmgaard's book look just like him?

"Why does Irmgaard think you're an angel?" I paused. "Are you?"

"Some call me that." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I don't think that last one was loganberry."

"Marmalade." I felt sweaty all of a sudden. "This is crazy."

"Sorry. Did you not want me to eat the marmalade?"

"No. You telling me that you're an angel. That's crazy." He scowled. "I am many things, but in good faith I am not crazy."

"Angels are supposed to have wings and they wear white robes and fly around with harps."

He closed the jam pot and frowned. "Says who?"

"Says every artist that ever painted one." I held out the book.

He folded his arms. "I've seen that book and only two of those artists actually met an angel--Michelangelo and Botolucci, and they both decided to add halos and wings to the portraits because that was what the people of their time expected. I don't think that portrait looks anything like me."

It looked exactly like him. "Prove that you're an angel," I said.

"You mean you want me to make frogs fall from the sky? Or...make time stand still?"

Time stand still? That moment flashed in my mind, standing on the sidewalk, the world frozen around me, staring at his face and lips. Wanting to kiss him. "You did that? You actually made time stand still?"

He shrugged. "Don't expect me to do it again or I'll be getting demoted for sure. I don't want to go back to stuffing envelopes."

"What do you mean?"

He pulled a golden envelope from his satchel. The envelope's surface glittered like golden fish scales. "See this?" I nodded. "This is the message for Irmgaard." He dropped it onto the table. It landed with a loud
clunk.

"But you said you delivered it."

"I delivered it, but she wouldn't take it. And she still won't. I've tried and tried. And each day that it goes undelivered, it gets heavier. Go on, try to lift it."

I walked over to the table and tried to pick up the glittering piece of paper. The envelope was heavier than a bag of cement. I only managed to lift a corner. How could it weigh so much? Then Malcolm reached out and whisked it off the table with his index finger and thumb. I stuck my hands into my bathrobe pockets to hide my trembling. Sometimes the truth sneaks up on you like a chill. "How'd you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Make it so heavy?"

"It does that on its own, to punish me for not delivering it. It's my one and only duty as a messenger. But Irmgaard keeps refusing it."

"Why?"

"She's afraid of what the message might say." He tucked the envelope back into his satchel, as if it weighed no more than an envelope should.

"Is Irmgaard's message bad news?"

"I don't know. I'm afraid there's a Law of Confidentiality. Truth be told, I messed up. I let myself be seen, when I should have just slipped the message to her while she was sleeping. I'm always making a mess of things, just like I did by giving you two wishes that you obviously didn't want in the first place." He looked at me again, right through my skin and into my bones, seeing me like a guy with X-ray glasses. "I should have paid closer attention. I know what it's like to want something, yet not want to admit it to anyone."

Was he reading my mind? "If you still want to give me a reward, then you can give me a big pile of money."

"But you already asked for fortune."

"Yes, but I didn't get it. And now I really, really need it."

He shook his head. "You can't be asking for the same thing. If fortune was your true desire, then that bean wouldn't have gone to someone else. I'm not going to hand over another wish until I'm sure it's your true heart's desire. One more mistake and I'll have no chance of ever getting promoted." He slid off the stool. "You got anything more to eat?"

He walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out a cube of butter.

Before I could stop him, he took a bite. He worked the butter around in his mouth, then swallowed. "Bit odd," he said, setting the rest of the cube onto the counter.

"Why can't I ask for fortune if it's what I want? You said you're supposed to give me what I want."

"There's a difference between what you want and what you desire. I'm sure you could list a hundred things that you want, like a new bathrobe, for instance. But desire is a deeper longing. It comes from the soul, not from the mind."

One moment he was eating butter like a child, the next he was speaking eloquently.

The light from the kitchen bulb did that thing again, where it gathered at Malcolm's edges, illuminating him like an actor on stage. His aura seeped into me. It melted the half-eaten cube of butter. What was I feeling exactly? Why did I want to kiss him?

Someone knocked on the front door. Outside, Vincent leaned his bike against the picture window. The clock read midnight. "Why are you out so late?" I asked after opening the door.

"I just got back. The bus ride took forever." He pointed to the Health Department's sign. "My dad told me about the rat. Did they really close you down?"

Cold wind whipped through the coffeehouse. I pulled Vincent inside and closed the door. Eau de Malcolm gave way to chlorine freshness. "What's
he
doing here?"

Vincent asked, pointing at my guest.

Standing in a beam of refrigerator light, Malcolm squirted ketchup into his mouth.

"He's...visiting," I said.

Vincent narrowed his eyes and his voice took on a fatherly tone. "Why's he here at midnight?"

Malcolm licked the inside of a mustard lid, then said,

"I'm here at midnight because I'm fulfilling Katrina's desire."

"What?" Vincent did a quick scan of my bathrobe. "Oh jeez, Katrina, you don't even know the guy."

"It's not like that," I tried to explain. How could he think such a thing?

"Whatever. Didn't mean to interrupt. I rode over here because I was worried about you. I'll be sure to call next time." Then he put his mouth next to my ear. "I thought you had better taste than that." He slammed the door on his way out. Or maybe the wind slammed it. I'm not quite sure.

I opened the door. "And I thought you had better taste!"

He gripped his chrome handlebars. "You need to get used to the fact that I'm going out with Heidi."

"Well, maybe I'm going out with someone," I said.

"Whatever. You can do what you want. I'd never tell you who you could or couldn't date. If you started going out with someone, I'd accept it. I wouldn't act like a total jerk about it."

"Oh, really? Then why'd you get so mad just now?"

"Because he's not right for you. Look at him. He's a weirdo."

"Well, Heidi's not right for you. She's a phony."

"She's not a phony."

"Well, he's not a weirdo." I didn't turn around to look at Malcolm because he was probably eating dish soap or mayonnaise or something.

Vincent frowned. "Are you actually telling me that you're going out with a homeless guy you just met?"

"Yes." The lie couldn't be stopped. Who was he to get all judgmental? As if Heidi Darling, manic do-gooder, was better than a Real-Life Angel. "He's taking me to the Solstice Festival." I folded my arms, trying to look confident.

"I thought you had to work."

"What's the point, now that you're not helping us sell Hero Hot Chocolate?"

"Whatever." Vincent lifted himself onto his bike and pedaled away.

"That's right," I yelled. "Whatever!"

Inside, Malcolm leaned on the counter, his little black book propped in front of him.