Coffeehouse Angel (24 page)

The small brick building sat next to the hardware store. Two police cars were parked outside. Country music drifted down the hall. A secretary showed me to Officer Larsen's office.

"Hi, Katrina," he said. He pulled out a chair, but I didn't feel like sitting. Then he poured himself a cup of coffee from a stained Mr. Coffee carafe. "How's Anna?"

"They're going to discharge her after the weekend."

"Oh, that's good to hear. But too bad she'll miss the Solstice."

"She wouldn't be able to enjoy it anyway. They want her to stay in bed for a while."

"It'll be hard keeping that woman in bed." He sipped. "So, Katrina, how do you know this messenger kid? I can't get any information out of him."

"His name is Malcolm. He just came from Scotland. The Highlands. I met him last week and he's been helping out at the coffeehouse." I fiddled with my coat hem. What else could I say? "He's real nice." Malcolm's satchel sat on the floor. The words
Messenger Service
no longer twinkled. They had turned from gold to gray, as if written in soot.

"He won't give me a last name."

I didn't have a clue about his last name. "Is he under arrest?"

"He was loitering outside Irmgaard's apartment, calling out her name. The manager complained. Said he'd been coming around a lot, especially at night."

"Is that against the law?"

"We have a curfew for minors here in Nordby. Under eighteen and you're supposed to be off the streets after ten p.m.

"Really?" I'd never heard that. Vincent was out late all the time and no one had ever arrested him.

"If Irmgaard's willing to sign a statement saying that he's been harassing her, then I've got good reason to keep him."

"If Irmgaard doesn't sign the statement, will you let him go?"

Officer Larsen set down the coffee mug. "We may have a larger issue. He doesn't appear to have any identification. You say he's from Scotland? Without a visa or a passport, I might have to turn him over to immigration."

Did angels carry driver's licenses, or passports, or labor union cards? "I'm sure he has identification. It's probably back at the coffeehouse. Can I see him?"

Officer Larsen led me down the hall to an honest-to-God jail cell, in which sat an honest-to-God angel. Well, Malcolm wasn't exactly sitting, he was spread out on a bench, his arm flung across his face like the first time I had seen him, which felt like a million years ago. "You can have a few minutes," Officer Larsen said.

I watched him walk back down the hall, then I threw myself at the bars. "Malcolm?

What are you doing in here? Why don't you just leave? You
can
leave, can't you?"

"Where would I go?" He lay perfectly still.

"You can come back to the coffeehouse."

"Why? So I can continue to mess up your life? I should have known what you most desired. Any other messenger could have done it with his eyes closed. But I got it wrong with the first bean, and that's why you're not speaking to your best friend. Then I got it wrong with the second bean, and that's why your shop is closed."

I clutched the bars with both hands. "Malcolm, none of this was your fault. Vincent and Heidi would have gotten together anyway, even if he hadn't become a hero. They swim together and she's real...cute. And the coffeehouse was losing money long before you showed up. It would have closed even without the rat. Grandma's a great person, but she stinks at business."

"I stink at being a messenger."

As far as I knew, he was telling the truth. He did seem to be having a lot of trouble. I cleared my throat, searching for the right words. After all, it's not every day that you find yourself giving an angel a pep talk. "Look, Malcolm, think of all the other messages that you've delivered. Those worked out, right?"

He said nothing.
Oops.
I tried another tactic.

"Irmgaard's hard to figure out. I mean, she hasn't spoken a word in all the time that I've known her. You've got to be really stubborn to keep a vow of silence, don't you think? That's why you're having trouble with her. When she decides to do something, then forget about changing her mind." But I couldn't come up with an example of Irmgaard's stubbornness, other than the vow of silence. She was usually easy to work with, almost submissive. My pep talk was a dismal failure.

He didn't move or say anything, sinking deeper and deeper into the dark pit that I knew so well. Earlier that morning I would have joined him, and our combined brooding could have been the sulkfest of the century. But I had snapped out of it, so he could too. Angels were supposed to fall out of grace, not into bouts of self-pity.

Oh, what did I know? He wasn't anything like a storybook angel. He was himself. I wanted to throw my arms around him and tell him that things would get better.

"Malcolm, let's worry about the message later. I'll talk to Irmgaard. It'll work out.

Come on, let's get out of here. Can't you just slip through the wall or something? I could really use your help at the coffeehouse. And you still owe me that third bean, right? So until I figure out what I most desire, you're stuck with me."

Slowly, his face straining, he sat up and looked at me. His vibrant blue eyes had faded to gray. Sweat laced his upper lip. He groaned and leaned against the cell wall.

"Malcolm, are you sick?"

He lifted the hem of my grandfather's sweater. The golden envelope was tucked under his belt. "I hid it from the officer. It's heavier. In a few more hours I won't be able to move."

Won't be able to move? He wasn't sulking. He was in serious pain! "Then get rid of it.

Put it on the ground."

"I cannot. It's my burden to bear." He grimaced. "Katrina, I can't be seen like this. I need your help."

He was trapped in that cell. What would happen if the world found out about him?

He'd get into serious trouble. I ran back to the office. "Officer Larsen?" I cried. He was doing some paperwork. "I need to take Malcolm back to the coffeehouse. He's sick."

"I can't release him yet."

"Irmgaard's not going to press charges. I'll talk to her. I know she won't. And Malcolm will go back home as soon as he's better. I promise he will."

Officer Larsen stroked his chin. He was a man of rules. I'd never known him to make exceptions.

"Please." I paced in front of his desk. Vincent's and Ratcatcher's media coverage would be nothing compared to the frenzy a real angel would cause. "You've known me my entire life. I promise you that he's not a terrorist or a criminal of any kind. He's just here on vacation, but he's real sick."

"Are you sure he's sick? He didn't look sick when I brought him in. Let's take a look."

He unhooked a set of keys from his belt and led me back to the jail cell. "You're right, he sure doesn't look well," which was a total understatement because Malcolm had turned a light shade of green. "Maybe we should get him to the hospital."

"It's just the flu," I said. "It's going around. Maybe you shouldn't get too close. It's very contagious."

Officer Larsen stepped away from the cell. "The flu can bring a man to his knees. Last time I caught it, my fever went to a hundred and three."

"I've already been exposed, so I'll take him back to the coffeehouse and Irmgaard will make him some soup."
Come on, come on, just let him go.
Malcolm's eyes had closed again. I think he was trying to hide his pain. "Please, Officer Larsen."

"Well, I guess until I hear from Irmgaard I have no real reason to keep him. And, as far as I can tell, there's no warrant out for his arrest."

"He can go?"

Officer Larsen nodded. "Consider it a favor to you, Katrina. I appreciate all the times you've helped my father. I have your word that you'll get this boy's passport sorted out?"

"Yes." What else could I say?

He unlocked the gate. I rushed in. It took all my strength and still I couldn't get Malcolm to his feel. "Malcolm," I whispered in his ear. "You've got to help me get you out of here." He opened his eyes, groaned, then stood on shaky legs. "Don't get too close," I told Officer Larsen. Though I could have used his help, how would I explain the fact that Malcolm weighed as much as an elephant? And what if he found the envelope? "Be sure to disinfect this place after we leave."

Malcolm stumbled. I swung his arm over my shoulder, then we hobbled down the hall. "Thank you," I said as Officer Larsen slid the satchel over my arm. Then he held open the front door.

It took forever to get Malcolm to the Buick. Despite the winter wind, I started to sweat. The car tipped when he finally fell onto the passenger seat. The tires went a bit flat, but they held up as we drove off like a car in a cartoon. Malcolm groaned again and doubled over.

"What will happen if she doesn't take the message?" I asked.

"It will crush me," he said quietly. "Crush you?"

"Like a bug under your foot."

I stepped on the gas. "We're almost there."

We screeched into the apartment's parking lot. It's not easy to maneuver a lopsided car. I'd been to the building a few times, but I'd never gone inside. Irmgaard had never invited us over for dinner or to watch a movie. Her life outside the coffeehouse was a total mystery.

The building sat on a really depressing corner, at the exact spot where the Scandinavian charm of Nordby ended and the strip malls began. Beyond stretched the shared landscape of America--cheap nail salons, fast-food restaurants, and outlet stores. I parked crooked, taking up two spaces. "Wait here." He wasn't going anywhere and there was no way I could get him up the stairs.

Malcolm nodded. His long hair fell over his face.

I didn't want anything to happen to him. He was the only angel I'd ever met--maybe the only one I'd ever meet. He was kind, and honest, and handsome, and I was the only person who could help him. Imagine that.

I ran up the front steps and slipped into the building just as an old guy was leaving.

Irmgaard lived in apartment 201. I knew that because I always helped Grandma address our Christmas cards.

At first, Irmgaard wouldn't open her door. "It's me," I said. No response. "Irmgaard, please let me in. Grandma had another heart attack." The door swung open. Irmgaard clutched the knob, her eyes wide with alarm. I flew inside. "Don't worry. She didn't have another heart attack. She's fine. I need to talk to you about the message."

Irmgaard pulled a black shawl around her shoulders. The place was freezing and barren, with only an old thrift store table and one single wooden chair. The only thing that hung on the white walls was a wooden cross. No television, no photographs, no radio. It looked like a convent cell in the middle of nowhere rather than an apartment next to a teriyaki hut. The place gave me the creeps. Why would a person live with no comforts? Like some sort of punishment?

"Irmgaard?" I looked her right in the eyes. "Each day that you don't take the message, it gets heavier and heavier." I pointed to the window. "Malcolm's sitting down there.

He can barely move. The message is crushing him. I think he might die. Or cease to exist. Or something like that. It's very confusing."

She pulled the shawl tighter, shrinking beneath its folds.

"Look, if it's bad news I'll help you. Grandma will help you. The Boys will help too.

But maybe it's good news. Maybe it's something amazing." I forced a feeble smile, picturing Malcolm doubled over. "There's not much time."

Dark shadows circled her usually beautiful eyes. Her silence didn't feel comfortable or hypnotic. It felt eerie and chilling. She knew he was an angel, but she didn't seem to care. I recognized the tight look on her face. "Irmgaard, why are you so scared?

Please tell me. I can't help you and I can't help Malcolm if I don't know. He's in real danger."

She nodded, then motioned for me to sit in the chair, which I did while she went into the other room. What was she doing? I fidgeted and was about to yell her name when she returned with a folder in her hands. She set the folder on the table, then stepped away. I opened it.

Three newspaper clippings lay inside. The top clipping had a photograph of a mangled car.
Local Husband and Wife Killed in Crash.
I'd never seen the article before. Why hadn't my grandmother ever showed it to me?

My heart sped up as I read. According to the article, my mother and father had been driving in unusually thick fog on their way to a weekend stay on the coast. On a curvy stretch, where the highway wound around Lake Crescent, an oncoming van had swerved to avoid a deer and had crossed the center line. My parents died immediately.

I scanned the photo for signs of them but only found the aftermath, caught in black-and-white, grainy and fading.

The next clipping had the headline:
Funeral Held for the Svensens.
The funeral had taken place at the Nordby Lutheran Church. A photo showed Grandma, Grandpa, and me holding hands as we left the church. I hovered over the photo, trying to take in every inch that had been me at age three. My Mary Janes, my wool coat buttoned to my chin, my little sad face, my long hair, braided and golden. The only memory I had of that day was that I had to sit very still in the front row of church and that Grandpa kept handing me caramels, one at a time, as my reward for sitting still. I could still see his big calloused hand opening to reveal each sweet cube, as if it had appeared magically. But I remembered nothing more. My three-year-old mind had chosen to save the caramel memory, probably the only happy memory from that day.

I hesitated, sensing that something terrible waited in the third article.
Driver of Van
Released from Hospital.

The unidentified driver of the van that caused the deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Svensen was
released today, after two weeks in the hospital for treatment of a punctured lung and
three broken ribs.
The photo of the van showed its front end, completely crushed. On the side of the van were the words:
Abbey of St. Clare.
The clipping said that St.

Clare's Abbey was set in a remote location in the Olympic Mountains, and that the nuns only ventured into the outside world for supplies, which is where the van's driver had been headed on that fateful afternoon.