Last of the True Irish

Copyright © 2006 by Larry J. Hoefling

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-40426-1 (pbk)

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-84802-7 (ebk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-40426-X (pbk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-84802-8 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

At a Loss As to Discovery

A Weakness Until Friday

The Lion, The Wench, and the Wardrobe

When You Wish Upon A Bar

Cats as Cat’s Can

Almond Joy’s Got Nuts, Mounds Don’t

Act Me No Questions

From The Flying Pan Into the Pyre

The Spirit Is Willing

Not To Question Why But What

In The Halls, The Wolves

In a Vision She is She

Over The River And Through The Words

At Play In The Fields Of The Laird

Perchance to Dream

Down, Down, Down, In A Burning Ring Of Fire

Bread And Breakfast

All Along The Watchtower

Dungeons and Dragoons

The Lady In Red

All The Queen’s Horses

Crying Cockles and Mussels

A Room With A Few

With The Sun At Mid-Mourning

Catching the Midnight Rider

When The Moon Is High And The Glendalough

Blessed Art Thou, A Monk Swimming

Now Then, A Little More Time

So Little Time, Forever

Epilogue

The Digs at Glendalough

Acknowledgements

For Kathy Williams, loving sister and unflagging supporter

CHAPTER 1

At a Loss As to Discovery  

She kept her distance from the thing on the table. Inside the apartment, twilight slipped between the edges of the hastily drawn curtains and beyond the locked and chained front door beat the dying throes of the afternoon heat. Inside, where the floors were freshly scrubbed and the walls were reassuring with their whitewash, there had been a sense of security, the safety of anonymity. Outside, she now realized, someone was watching.

Her eyes were closed tightly in the manner of a child cringing before a shadowy terror; the heart within her chest was beating fitfully and her breathing was measured as though the presence might hear it and determine her distance. There came a late summer breeze at the nearby window that briefly fluttered the heavy curtains, allowing a stream of angled sunlight into the room and onto the table, spotlighting the thing resting there. Another gust sent golden motes dancing through the thick air, and those nearest to her seemed to hover over her head like an aura or halo, but she was no angel.

Knees drawn to her chin, she sat with her arms wrapped tightly around her legs, and she was rocking to and fro in the fashion of a long-term patient in some dismal institution. She opened her eyes ever so slightly and glanced at the table, reminding herself that it was an impossible thing she was seeing, and yet its very presence belied that fact.

On the table was a cream-colored envelope inscribed so carefully that she thought it to be the work of an artist or calligrapher. She could almost imagine it to be taunting her, in the way it had insinuated itself into the apartment. Hiding among the assorted bills, flyers, and advertisements, it had fallen to the ground as she emptied the mailbox, and it was sitting at the center of the aluminum-legged dining table as proof that someone had been watching her when she left Texas. She assumed someone was watching her even now.

Her secret was exposed, and the person behind the discovery of her location seemed to have anticipated her every move. She was sitting in cotton boxers and a tee shirt, but felt naked, wanting to hide herself away before anything else could happen, before some other form of contact could be attempted. It was thinking of the same sort that had led her to silently pack a single cardboard suitcase and slip out the Dallas condominium without a word, even as he had slept in the bedroom just a few short steps away. She was determined to escape and to keep moving until that was accomplished, but she had forced herself to stop when she was well beyond the Dallas city limits, when she spotted a convenience store with gas pumps; she took the exit ramp at sixty miles an hour, squealing the tires and coming to a stop just short of a collision. As she pumped the gasoline, she noticed her hands were trembling.

She had told no one of her intentions; there was no well-planned exit. It was an impulse that had been acted upon cleanly, without the scattered evidence left by preparation and forethought, and yet her trail had been uncovered already, a fact substantiated by the thing on the table.

The letter bore no return address, no stamp, and no postmark, but was sealed at the back with a thin spread of maroon colored wax, into which had been pressed an ornate design. The symbol appeared as tiny weavings of strands that looped in and out of each other, an intricate knot that had yet to be pulled tight. The physical details of the letter concerned her less than the fact that it was addressed to her, and had been placed in a mailbox that no one—not even the Postal Service—knew was hers. The letter seemed to have squirmed its way out the stack of junk mail and had fallen to the ground; she had glanced at it briefly as she stooped to pick it up, and then—as she spotted her name so carefully lettered on the envelope—she dropped it to the ground again, jerking her hand back as though it had burned her.

She had been found out. The timing of it unsettled her; she had only just arrived and before she could even settle in, her plans had been spoiled and her whereabouts discovered. She might have suspected that it was Wiley, but instantly dismissed the thought as ridiculous; as preoccupied as he kept himself with his own little world he probably wouldn’t even miss her until Sunday.

Someone, though, knew way too much, and as she continued her gentle rocking against the back of the chair, she ran through her mind one scenario after another that might have accounted for it. So far, she had come up with no reasonable explanation. She had left Dallas Thursday night without saying goodbye to anyone, giving no notice at her job. She had left no messages, no forwarding address; there were no utility deposits or telephone disconnects, and yet she had been found.

She tried to imagine her tracker, and how she could have been caught unaware. After driving for hours, she had pulled the pickup off the highway at a roadside turnout somewhere on the turnpike between Oklahoma City and Tulsa, where she slept until the sun crested a grove of trees and warmed the cab to the point that the stifling air choked her awake. She drove for another hour before spotting the first exit sign for Tulsa, and could not suppress the excitement at having returned to her familiar territory; she wound up driving aimlessly up and down the restaurant corridor like a teenager on the weekend. It had changed greatly in the years she had been away.

At one end of the three mile long district, where once had been a series of gently rolling hills, with horses and a small pond, now stood an expansive shopping center and acres of paved parking. The entire corridor was filled with commerce: restaurants, boutiques, discount houses, and strip centers. She remembered a thick grove of trees that had once stood near Mingo Road, the location that now accommodated a businessman’s hotel. She pulled into its parking lot, and found a parking space off to the side and out of sight. There was no one at the counter when she walked in; she quickly crossed to the elevators and slipped inside. Stopping at each floor, she poked her head out as the doors slid open, scanning the hallways. On the third floor, she saw a housekeeping cart at the far end. She could scarcely spare the twenty dollars she had offered the woman, but after so many hours on the road, she might have paid double for a shower. She had promised to keep quiet and leave the room tidy, and the woman had taken the money, looking both ways as though a drug deal had just been completed under the very nose of the DEA. The woman had been smiling though, as she tucked the twenty-dollar bill into her apron pocket and turned away to wheel the cart down the hall.

Later, after a luxurious twenty minutes in the bath, she had dressed and ventured out, leaving the door propped slightly ajar. She left the hotel by a side door, and walked to the thoroughfare, where restaurants were lined side by side as far as she could see; she bought a newspaper from a metal box outside Wendy’s, and inside she bought a hamburger and fries. She read the classifieds section as she ate, marking the possibilities with a greasy thumbprint. Later, she walked half a block to a Mexican restaurant and allowed herself a couple of margaritas at the bar, then returned to the hotel, slipped back into the stillempty room, and fell asleep watching television. In the morning she had slipped away.

Before noon she had already rented an apartment. The landlady was Mrs. Baker, and called herself that, seemingly possessing no other first name. The woman lived in the stone house at the street and owned the garage apartment in the back, and would have had access to the mailbox, but still, to consider her complicity was nothing more than idle thinking. She had introduced herself to Mrs. Baker as Callie Simpson, giving a fictitious last name and correctly assuming the widow woman would not go so far as to check references or credit reports.

On the envelope was a name she had not written out in years, nor said aloud for an even longer period of time. She pictured in her mind the ornate handwriting, with letters sketched in thick black ink, flowing letters—almost too perfect to be done by hand. She shuddered, as though touched by frost or an electric charge, and then eased her feet to the floor and rested her palms on her knees. She felt a wave of dizziness as she leaned over the table; she touched the corner of the envelope as one might pat a growling dog. She slowly turned the envelope to allow her to again read the inscription.

Cailleach Ahearne.

She pushed a finger down on the envelope and dragged from the center of the table to the edge, and thumped her palm down on it, punishing it for knowing something that it should not know, and for provoking her at having found her in a place where she should not have been found.

It was heavy paper, and Callie guessed that it was the sort of thing that would come from a stationary store or card shop. She lifted the envelope and turned it over, looking again at the strange seal at the flap. Suddenly, she slipped a fingernail beneath the wax and popped it free. She pulled her chair back to the table and sat down, wondering whether simply opening the envelope constituted a commitment to read the letter within. There was only one way to learn who had found her, she decided, and she abruptly withdrew the folded pages. The same skillful hand that had inscribed the envelope also penned the two-page note, and although the paper was unlined, the carefully drawn letters were all set in perfectly spaced rows. Callie pulled the second page from the back to examine the signature. She could not have even made a guess as to whose autograph she would discover.

There was only an initial.

Written slightly larger than the rest of the text was a capital M, and it was done in that fashion identifying an old acquaintance or relative simply by scribbling an initial—but it was no scribble. It was as precisely drawn as the remainder of the message. There was nothing to do but read the entire letter, she thought, and pushed page two back in its place and smoothed the papers flat on the table before her.

Ms. Ahearne,

You are, no doubt, surprised at receiving this unexpected message.

I would have contacted you regardless, but am compelled to do so now,

believing you to be in the midst of some changes. This letter is also about

change, and how your life might be affected.

Take several moments now, to assess your life and your happiness. I urge

you to destroy this letter immediately if you find yourself comfortable in your

present situation. Some things will change forever simply by continuing to read

beyond this point…

The first page ended there and Callie supposed it was intended to serve as an intermission point. She used it as such and leaned back in the chair, placing the palms of both hands against her cheeks. Her face felt hot to the touch. She grabbed the pages and held them up, intending to finish, but then slammed them back down on the table.

What the hell? she said aloud, and pushed the letter as far away as her arm allowed. Who is this M? she wondered, and resented automatically the fact that whoever it was had been snooping around her life, for who knew how long, and who knew how closely?

Callie wanted to reread the first page, but knew she would be unable to stop again at the break. Comfortable? That’s a laugh, she said aloud, looking toward the pages as though some indication of its own promise might be revealed. She picked up the papers to continue, but the final line made her momentarily hesitate. What could change forever, just by reading on? She examined the writing—looking beyond the words themselves—to study the penmanship and grammatical structure of the letter, in an effort to determine something about its author, whether M was a man or a woman, and if anything might be learned from the way the letters and sentences were formed and written on the paper. Something about the construction made her believe the writer was likely a woman, and as she further decided it was likely an old woman, she slowly turned the first page face down on the table and began to read the second.

I am pleased that you possess an adventurous spirit. My search for you has

been quite deliberate—it was quite by accident that I learned of you at all.

You are the last of your kind.

Unless you discover through your own efforts some alternative, you will be

dead within the year.

I am quite anxious to meet you, and have no reason to deceive you. As com

pensation for intruding on your life, a modest sum will shortly be delivered to

you, and although no guarantees are made of anything further, the possibility

exists of much more. What will you risk?

One week…for you to consider.

M

She was unexpectedly overcome and she blinked at the tears welling in her eyes, not knowing if the emotion sprang from the prospect of financial relief or at the preposterous forecast of her death. She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes; crying was not a reaction she generally allowed herself, and had to be explained away as allergies.

A modest sum, the letter had said, but there was nothing more in the envelope, not even a single dollar bill. If it was to come at a later time, Callie wondered how much cash constituted a modest sum, and whether she was envisioning, by comparison, an amount that might be considered immodest.

She placed no great stock in the forecast of her imminent demise, and thought of the seemingly hapless TV meteorologists, who were at least bold enough to reveal their entire names, regardless of how often those names were besmirched by the uncooperative weather. The last of her kind? She had heard that often enough from any number of people, and to hear it one more time brought no shocks, even if it wasn’t explicitly explained. Possibility? That, she decided, was the highlight of the entire note, even if there were no guarantees. In her thirty-five years, Callie Ahearne had heard so many tales and excuses, stories and wild ambitions, that she had developed a tone-deaf ear to them. She had long ago grown weary of the plans and schemes of the small-minded hangers-on who thought they held a ticket to the stars and were just waiting to have them punched.

She took a deep breath and held it for a moment or two, and then exhaled slowly, pursing her lips as though ready to whistle. It was a deep enough breath that the papers moved on the table. She picked up the pages and briefly glanced again at the meticulous writing. It would be nice to be able to write like that, she thought, admiring the even strokes and beautiful lettering. She folded the pages along the original creases and slipped them back inside the envelope. A week, she thought, and wondered whether she should bother to think anything more of it, or simply dismiss it from her mind with the mental rip-and-flush that she could so easily manage. She got up and carried the letter to the counter near the sink, and then propped it up on the ledge below the kitchen window.

Hardly life changing, after all.

The kitchen overlooked a narrow concrete driveway that ran from the street along the north side of Mrs. Baker’s house to the garage at the back. Callie’s apartment was tidy, if tiny, and situated atop an aging two-car garage designed with a narrow post separating two individual garage doors that lifted on spring-loaded hinges rather than rolling on a track. A narrow flight of steps rose along the west wall to a small square porch in front of the doorway. The apartment was modestly furnished when she had rented it, and contained a small table and chairs in the nook beside the kitchen, a raggedy sofa and coffee table in the cramped living room, and a small bed with an ancient wooden chest of drawers. The entire apartment was only slightly bigger than the space required for two cars parked side by side, but it was all she needed for now. The price had been the prevailing issue, and Callie had sweet-talked Mrs. Baker into foregoing the normally required deposit and final month’s rent. Callie’s affable manner had served her well over the years, and she knew very well how to flash a pretty smile that would never betray its usage as a persuasive device. At times the smile came easier than at others, but it was generally sincere and always effortless. The next couple of weeks would have been rough going, if Mrs. Baker had not come around. Callie had slept in her truck on more than one occasion, but it was never a comfortable thing, and she was thankful to have the tiny apartment to call her own. Looking out through the kitchen window, she let her eyes wander over the back of Mrs. Baker’s house; at that moment, a car pulled into the driveway.

It was black and shiny, looking new in the non-descript way that compact rental cars look when lined up on the pavement at the airport. It was the kind of car that someone must surely buy, but Callie could never imagine who would pay good money for such plain transportation. It might have been the perfect car for a pizza delivery driver, except that it was obviously too new for that, and was missing the plastic sign on the roof. The automobile was barely moving as it turned off the street, as though gauging the location. It continued to creep along the driveway and when it neared the halfway point between the street and her apartment, Callie could see the driver leaning to the side, looking at Mrs. Baker’s house. When the car continued slowly toward her apartment, she felt her heart climbing into her throat.

It’s already rented, Bub, she said, and grinned despite herself, pleased that she had found it first. She looked over her shoulder at the apartment. Sure, it was small—but there were plenty of people who would just look at it as she did: more convenient, less space to clean, fewer steps between bed and bath. It was a nice enough place, and Callie was thankful for the stroke of luck that had allowed her to find it. It might be a good sign, she thought, an omen of better things now that Dallas was behind her. The car was still edging its way toward the garage. No vacancy, so quit gawking and drive back out of here, she said, willing the driver to somehow hear her message.

The shiny black compact came to a halt and Callie rose onto her toes to see directly below the window ledge. The driver was getting out. It was hard to see him clearly from her vantage point, and for a fleeting moment she panicked, thinking it was Wiley in some airport rental and he too had tracked her down; she was relieved to see that whoever was getting out was too young and too blonde to be Wiley. A wave of relief passed over her as she watched the stranger disappear from her line of sight, apparently headed for the steps.

Callie crossed toward the door intending to save him the effort of walking up, but stopped abruptly and considered the clothing she was wearing. She hurried into the bedroom where her clothes were already scattered on the floor between the doorway, her suitcase, and the small wooden chest of drawers. Grabbing a pair of blue jeans, she was hopping up and down and stabbing a leg into the pants when the knock sounded.

Coming! she called, and flopped onto the bed on her back, jerking at the too-tight jeans until they cleared her hips and she could fasten the button, then hustled through the living room.

Callie opened the door and immediately said, Oh!

Hello, he replied, looking unsure whether his intended destination and his present location were correctly matched.

Hello, Callie answered. She was still surprised at his appearance. She had expected to cross swords with a disappointed apartment hunter, and instead found herself looking at a sixteen or seventeen year old wearing a khaki-colored service uniform. His entire demeanor was wrong for house hunting, and Callie had sensed it immediately upon opening the door. He wasn’t looking for a place to live, Callie thought, and decided he was probably still living with his parents. His name was printed on a white patch that was stitched over his left breast pocket. Over the other pocket was cursive embroidery that spelled out Midtown Couriers in bright yellow stitching. He was carrying a leather pouch that was hung from a long strap over his shoulder and had every appearance of having once been owned by the first pony express rider, who must have cast it off as too ancient.

Ben, is it?

He nodded.

What can I do for you, Ben?

She could sense him sizing her up, and she could not help but smile, wondering what thoughts boiled in the heads of boys in men’s bodies. Callie knew she was no beauty queen, especially like this—without makeup and her hair in disarray—but, on the other hand, even carrying a couple of extra pounds she could probably inspire a seventeen year old. Callie noted that Ben was like a lot of young men who had the unique ability to stare even while deliberately averting their eyes.

Were you looking for someone? she said, prompting him in a different direction.

I’m looking for someone named Ahearne. He said it A-hurn, as if the name was made of two separate words, which were A-lot to say and A-mystery to him. I can’t say the first name, he admitted.

I’m Callie, she offered, hoping to ease the misery that appeared to be consuming him. My last name is Ahearne.

Oh, uh-HURN, he repeated. Sorry. That’s a new one on me. He grinned, as though he was finally finding his footing and was ready to climb into the discussion. "I’m glad I didn’t try the first name.

Callie isn’t so tough.

It doesn’t look like Callie, he answered, and immediately turned the clipboard.

He might as well have hit her with it, for the impact the writing had on her.

Who sent you? she said, looking at her full name written out once again. She spoke in a voice that was a mixture of confusion, anger, and fear. "Who gave you that name?"

It’s on the package, he explained. It’s just a delivery.

What are you delivering?

Ben lifted the flap of his shabby bag and reached inside. After digging around for a moment, he pulled out a brown parcel wrapped with twine. It was about the size of a brick. He presented it with both hands and looked as though he might bow or genuflect as part of the ceremony.

Callie took it from him and enjoyed the sensation of the package in her fingertips. Again, the writing was the elaborate calligraphy, and once more it spelled her entire name, Cailleach Ahearne. After untying the twine, the brown paper fell away to reveal a light gray box that appeared to be brushed suede. It had the look of an expensive boutique or shopping mall jeweler.

Who sent it? she asked, but knew already that it had to have been sent by

M. Does it have a name on your clipboard?

Sorry, he answered. All they give me are the delivery names and addresses. This one is different, though. It says I am supposed to note your response.

My response?

That’s what it says. He half turned the clipboard again as if to offer proof.

Well, she started, and then took a moment to consider something appropriate. You can just say I’m very happy with it. Very happy. She was turning the box over in her hands as she talked, vainly looking for the name of the store or some other sort of identifying imprint. No, she said, and quickly leaned toward the courier. Say I’m tickled pink. She pointed at the clipboard. Write that. Tickled Pink. I think that says it pretty well.

Ben was hesitating.

You can’t write that?

"Sure, but I thought it meant your reaction—after. I thought maybe they meant after you opened it. It’s a Special Instruction Delivery. I don’t get too many of those. He turned the clipboard again and pointed at a box in the corner. See right there? The red box? That is only for use on Special Instruction Deliveries."

Let me see that, she said, and snatched the clipboard from his hand. She read the instructions in the corner, but hoped somewhere would be listed the name of the sender.

See? Ben repeated as though exonerated. S-I-D. Maybe whoever sent it would like to know how you like it.

That’s the strangest thing I ever heard, Callie said, but immediately realized it was not even in the same ballpark compared to the strangeness of the letter. I suppose I should open it then.

The lid hinged at the back and opened like a motorized clamshell that was ultra-oiled, and it seemed to yawn its way until the lid was perpendicular with the bottom of the box.

Man, Ben said, his eyes gone wide. Those look like hundreds.

They are, Callie answered, the breath taken quite out of her. She looked around to see if someone might be watching from the ground below. It had all the markings of a trick or practical joke. Centered in the brushed suede jewelry box was a banded pack of one hundred dollar bills. She lifted out the bills and ran a thumb over the edge. They were crisp and new.

Wow, Ben said, genuinely impressed.

I can’t believe it, Callie whispered. Here! she said, tugging at one of the notes until it slipped from beneath the paper band. A tip! She fanned the air in front of her face with the bills and leaned back against the side of the apartment. "I’m stunned! You can write that down. Or, put down amazed—maybe with capitals. Amazed and Stunned!"

Ben took the bill and held it in both hands. A hundred dollar tip? Are you sure? he asked.

Of course I am. Look, she answered, and held the stack out for him to consider. I’ve got plenty more.

Man, Ben said again. He turned the bill over to examine the back. My first one.

I don’t remember ever having a stack like this, either. Ben, you’ve— she stopped mid-sentence and clapped her hands on the side of his head and then kissed him full on the lips. You’ve just made me happier than you can imagine!

She thumbed the pack of bills again and was moving them back into the case when she noticed a barely visible gold chain in the corner of the box that had apparently slipped from a notched display holder. Callie pinched it in her fingers and pulled out a delicate chain that appeared to be just long enough to allow it to be slipped over the head without unfastening it, and dangling from its length was a small polished blue stone mounted in a golden lattice. It was about the size of an unused pencil eraser and the working of the beautiful gold setting was intricate in its detail and design.

Very, very happy, Callie said, and slipped the necklace over her head.

Ben’s face was inches from hers, but as she blinked, he leaned back, and she was looking at the evening sky. There was a frightened expression etched on his face, and although he was talking to her, she was having difficulty making out his words. She was on her back, she finally realized, on the porch of the apartment and flat on her back. At last, she began to make out what Ben was saying. And then you passed out, said Ben, and he immediately averted his eyes and looked toward the ground.

CHAPTER 2

A Weakness Until Friday  

Part of the buzzing sound that seemed to whirr about Callie’s head came from the several cicadas in the nearby pin oaks; the remaining noise seemed to be sounding from somewhere between her ears. Ben was patting her on the top of her head like she was a puppy, but she was about ready to bite his hand to make him stop. Callie finally pushed away his arm and tried to speak to him, but the words sounded as though they came from someone else and needed translating into English.

Maybe you should lie down, he said.

"I am lying down," she attempted. It still had an odd ring to it, but apparently he understood her response.

I meant inside. Ben pointed at the door to the apartment. Maybe you should prop up your feet or something.

She took a moment to digest his words and then nodded, reaching her arms toward Ben in an unspoken plea for assistance. He took her by the wrists and then leaned back, pulling her to her feet. Her legs were rubbery and unsure, and she draped an arm over Ben’s shoulder, then wore him like a crutch in navigating the short distance through the doorway and into the apartment, where she lowered herself onto the couch.

Mmm, Callie said, and turned sideways on the couch to lie down. What is that smell? It’s delicious. She sniffed at the air and found herself thinking of the mall.

What smell?

Don’t you smell it? I love that smell.

What?

She thought for a moment until she could identify the aroma and then answered, Cinnamon rolls. Smells like fresh cinnamon rolls. She glanced across the room. It smells just like CinnaRoll at the mall in Dallas. Do they have that here?

Yeah, Ben said, and shook his head. I know where you mean, but I don’t smell anything.

The sensation was just as quickly gone for Callie as well.

Strange, she said, realizing even in her cloudy state that it was an apt description for any number of recent occurrences. Her mouth felt as though she could have lodged half a bun somewhere at the back of her throat. Maybe I need some water. Would you mind?

Sure, he answered quickly, and was already across the room opening doors to the kitchen cabinets. Don’t you have any glasses?

I just moved in, she explained, and then remembered the drink she had purchased earlier in the day and brought into the apartment. There’s a cup in the bedroom, she said, and pointed the way. On the dresser.

He came back holding a plastic convenience store cup with a bent straw still poking through the lid, keeping it away from his body as though it was infected. This?

It’ll work. Just pour it out and fill it from the faucet.

When he brought it to her he was still trying to reattach the plastic lid, but she snatched it from his hands and began sucking at the straw.

He watched her drinking for a moment before speaking. What happened? he asked. I was writing out the form and—Wham!—You’re on the floor! You aren’t sick or something, are you?

Callie was still pulling water from the cup and only shook her head in response.

Maybe it was the excitement of all that money, he offered, and you just fainted or something. Like the movies? Bam, you were out.

She stopped drinking and took a gasping breath. I don’t know, she said. I’ve never fainted before. I’m feeling better now, though.

You want me to call somebody, or something?

She declined the offer, and looked around on the couch beside her. Where is the box? You didn’t take my money, did you Ben? She gave him a grin as she said it, but her concern at its whereabouts was genuine.

I didn’t take it—it must be on the porch. He darted out the door and reappeared seconds later carrying the gray box balanced atop his clipboard, as though his refusal to touch it declared and proved his complete innocence.

You must have dropped it when you fell. It was right outside.

Callie eased open the lid and assured herself the cash was still inside.

I was just kidding, Ben, she said, and smiled at him. I knew you wouldn’t take it.

Are you sure you’re okay?

I’m sure. Thanks.

Ben seemed to have run out of comfortable conversation, and stood awkwardly looking in her direction, but trying desperately not to stare. He reached a hand into his pocket and withdrew the one hundred dollar bill; he smiled broadly at the sight of it. I guess I should go, he said. If you need anything else, just call. He took a half step toward the door and stopped abruptly. Oh, I almost forgot. You need to sign for the package. He handed her the clipboard and pulled a pen from his pocket.

While she was signing her name, she could sense Ben watching. She looked up quickly and his gaze went immediately to the floor. Weird day, huh? she said, smiling.

He looked up, hesitatingly, and shrugged his shoulders.

Yeah.

Maybe you’ll come back and visit me sometime, Callie teased. Especially if you’ve got more packages like this one!

Ben laughed. Thanks again, he said, and made his way to the door. Standing at the threshold of the open door, he said, I wrote that you were Amazed, just like you said. You think maybe I should write down that you were so amazed that you fainted?

"I didn’t really faint, did I?"

Seemed like it. You went all limp and fell down on the porch there and then you squirmed around a bit before you went limp again.

Squirmed around? Callie asked, and immediately wondered whether or not she should feel embarrassed.

Yeah. Like you were having a bad dream or something. You know.

Oh.

Maybe I don’t need to mention the fainting part.

I don’t care. It’s your form. Write down whatever you like.

Ben smiled and nodded, and then gave a small wave goodbye.

Hey, Ben! she called after him.

What?

On second thought, you can leave the squirming around part out, can’t you? Might make me sound sort of—wack. She wiggled her fingers in a wave, and Ben nodded before pulling the door closed behind him.

When Callie awoke again, she was still on the couch and her neck ached from having slept at an odd angle. She sat up stiffly and cocked her head from side to side, trying to loosen up and trying to remember falling asleep. The kid left and then what?

The apartment was no longer dark, but there was a different angle of light spilling in at the window. She got up and opened the door. Birds were singing madly in the trees behind Mrs. Baker’s house and the air was cool and summer morning sweet. She leaned out over the wooden two by four that served as a porch railing, trying to see around the corner of the garage, but couldn’t quite stretch far enough. Instead, she walked slowly down the steps, taking several deep breaths and enjoying the fresh feel of the day. When she turned the corner of the garage she could see an orange glow between the trees to the east, and wondered when she had last been awake at sunrise.

She was starving, and trotted back up the stairs for her purse and the truck keys, craving fried eggs and pancakes, perhaps with side orders of bacon and buttered toast; she was hungry for the sort of big breakfast that could only be eaten alone, when no one was sitting across the table watching. After locating again the gray box, she transferred all the money to her purse, but reconsidered, pulling out six or seven of the bills and then looking around for someplace to hide the remainder. The refrigerator was one of those old white, round-cornered models, the bulky battering-ram resistant type that was rarely found anymore except in back storerooms and landfills. She opened the interior plastic door to the small freezer and slid the bills underneath an ice tray, patted it several times for insurance, and closed it up.

Before the day was through, Callie had spent some six hundred and fifty dollars. Between the early morning breakfast and her late dinner, she treated herself to several glasses of wine at