[It's something. Writing still isn't as fluid as I'd like it to be, but it's fun again. Problem is, there are so many pieces to this story, it's hard to keep them all together. Hint at this here, show a bit of that there, and--doh! I left something out!
[Ah, well. You get what you pay for.]
Vera Mason woke up with dry lips. In fact, her whole body felt dry, and her chest was stuffed with quilt batting. She opened her eyes and the room was black. Then she realized her eyes were still closed. That was strange. She was sure she’d opened them. She tried again. Still dark. She blinked, and the room came into focus. It wasn’t dark, just dim. Something clear was hanging above her head, like a floating blister. Ah, an IV bag, or whatever it was called. Who was it hooked up to?
The pieces fell into place: the Thai restaurant, the panicked feeling as breathing became harder and harder, and then impossible. That toothpick of a waiter, hadn’t she told him about peanuts? She was sure she had, and his face had been quick, intelligent. He wouldn’t have forgotten. Maybe she’d misjudged him?
She blinked again and tried to swallow. It ached, like her throat was bruised from the inside. What did they do to treat anaphylactic shock? Whatever they’d done, it had worked, apparently. So why didn’t she feel better? She should be feeling better. She’d inherited the power of a god.
Where was it?
“Are you awake, Senora Mason?”
Vera rolled her head sideways. They were there together, the Spanish husband and wife, like they usually were. Jose was standing behind the chair, his posture gently erect under his white hair, and Maria Teresa sat, her knees together, her hands folded on her lap. It was as if the elderly couple were posing for a portrait that would be hung at one of the several universities they’d sponsored over the years. The small table next to them was covered in a surprisingly large yet somehow tasteful floral arrangement.
Vera licked her lips again. “What time is it?” she whispered.
“Slightly after six in the morning,” said Jose.
“Then how?” Vera had to stop to swallow.
“How what, Senora?”
“How did you get flowers?”
Jose’s eyebrows came down--he found Vera’s sense of humor perplexing--but Maria Teresa smiled. “Money is good for very few things,” she said. “Flowers at six in the morning is one of those few. But I suspect that what you’re truly wondering is how we found you at the hospital.”
Vera had been wondering exactly that, and she had come up with only one possible answer. “Followed,” she croaked, and realized that her heart rate was up. She took a breath and tried to slow her breathing.
“Yes, treasure, we had you followed.” Maria Teresa’s voice was soothing, or at least it was intended to be. Vera wasn’t sure yet whether she’d let it be calming or not. The elderly woman went on. “We always said we would let you do this, but we would never leave you without support. We had you followed, but he stayed well away. We wouldn’t do anything to confuse the link between yourself and that unfortunate Mr. Baernson. The transfer of power to you was as complete as possible.”
Vera felt herself deflate. “Not complete,” she whispered. “It’s gone.”
Jose sniffed. Vera knew him well enough by now to know that counted as an expression of deep concern--the man was practically shouting--but she didn’t have any better news to offer them. She didn’t know how it had happened, but the power that had poured into her, slowly at first, then in a rush as she waited for her food--all that was gone. She couldn’t feel that flood anymore. Absent. Empty. Nothing.
“Are you certain?” asked Maria Teresa, her voice quiet. “I think it’s possible that the power might not have departed you entirely.”
Vera took a quick assessment of her situation. Chest, aching like a small child was jumping on her. Head, aching like the first child had an older brother. Throat, dry; legs, stiff: nose, slightly clogged. She felt like an overused cloth handkerchief.
“Pretty sure it’s gone,” she whispered, or tried to. Gone was the only word that came out clearly.
“Perhaps not,” said Maria Teresa. “Consider for a moment what you’ve been through. According to your very pleasant nurse, who seemed to know his business, you were dead for nearly ten minutes. That means more than five minutes without oxygen reaching your brain, a condition that almost inevitably results in brain damage, comas, and other unpleasant things.” The elderly woman smiled. “And yet, here you are, awake and questioning not only our choice to have you followed, but our decisions on floral arrangements. These are not the normal reactions of a person who should be in a coma. So I ask you again, Vera, are you certain the power is gone?”
Dead, thought Vera. She had been dead. Her mind had heard the rest of what Maria Teresa had said, but what caught in her mind was that one word: dead. So close. So close to being with Steven again--but they had brought her back. She took a deep breath--as deep as she could--and let it go. Not yet, she supposed. Still something to do, something to take care of.
Vera forced herself to consider the rest of what Maria Teresa had said. Ten minutes without oxygen to her brain should have caused brain damage. How would a person tell if she were brain damaged? Not having any way to judge, Vera supposed that she’d have to go based on how she felt, and aside from feeling terrible, she felt fine. She knew who she was, where she was, and why she was there. And, practically speaking, if she were brain damaged, would it make any difference? She’d just have to go on with what she had and make do.
But if she should be comatose, and she wasn’t--which she wasn’t--then it was a distinct possibility that Maria Teresa was right: the power wasn’t gone. But if she still had it, why was it so weak? With the power Forgotten Zed had stored up, she should be ready to run a marathon, lift a car, or both at the same time.
Vera breathed in sharply and started coughing. She could see the elderly couple watching her, leaning forward in concern, but she had enough energy to wave them back with the hand not attached to an IV. I’m okay, she wanted to say, but she wasn’t. For the first time she was facing the possibility that she may have done everything right, but would still fail. What if this was all the power that Forgotten Zed had? What if he had squandered it, his violent inheritance from his father, daughters, sons, wife? She could imagine the old man, cut off from his faithful, from anyone to be faithful to, saving only enough power to keep himself past any use or usefulness. And then, in a final betrayal that the ancient god couldn’t even know he was committing, he would die and leave Vera with just enough power to fail, so close to her goal.
She blinked at tears. She closed her eyes. She wouldn’t believe it. She couldn’t, because this was her only chance. The Three might not show themselves again for another ten, twenty, fifty years, and the odds that Jose and Maria Teresa could guess the next target accurately were impossibly slim. Maria Teresa had explained one night over a cup of tea, calmly discussing the millions they had spent, the years they had dedicated to finding these god-killers, finding who they were, what they wanted, what their weaknesses might be.
Finally they had hit on two critical pieces of information: the leader of the Three hated Forgotten Zed, and, for the first time in centuries, Forgotten Zed was in the news again. It was a chance, and perhaps the only chance in any of their lifetimes. They would go to Northern Lights, Wisconsin, and they would do what they had to. The Three wouldn’t hurt any more innocents.
So there was no stopping now. Vera left the tears to dry on her cheeks and turned back to the Spanish couple. “Water,” she said, and Jose stepped forward to give her a drink from the bottle waiting on her table. He leaned over her as she drank, helping her take a sip, then two, then gently pulled the bottle away. He was looking down at her, and Vera met his gaze. Jose grunted and smiled, turning back to Maria Teresa and saying something in Spanish. He pressed the bottle back into Vera’s hand and stepped back behind his wife.
“What did he say?” asked Vera.
“He said that you’re back.”
Vera smiled. Jose was right. She was back, and it was time to get moving.
“Do we know who got the rest of the power?” she asked.
“We assume it was the waiter or the chef,” said Maria Teresa. “We’re having them both followed. When you’re ready, you can go have a talk with them.”
When she was ready. That wasn’t soon enough for Vera, but it would have to be. Patience. With the power of a god in her--even just a fraction of that power--she should be mobile again quickly. And if the Three were as clever as she knew they were, going against them at less than one-hundred percent was suicide. Vera didn’t believe in suicide.
She believed in revenge.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
Accidental God 2.0 -- Our story so far.
At the request of Liz, here's a google doc of the entire story so far. I hope you enjoy it, and I can promise there's more on the way soon.
Accidental God 2.0 Google Doc
Accidental God 2.0 Google Doc
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 12
[This wasn't the hardest thing I've ever written. (No, that's always the next section.) But it was hard figuring out that it had to be written. I was trying to bring over a scene from my first attempt at this novel, and it wasn't working. I finally figured out why: the scene no longer had a purpose in the story.
[So I'm setting that aside and moving on to something else, which, to my surprise, is a new character and an entirely new plot thread.
[Yay.]
Sergeant Williston Mako of the Northern Lights Police Department had been shot twice while on duty, once when in uniform and once undercover. The first was a bank robbery gone bad, but at his wife’s insistence he’d had his vest on and he walked away with only bruising. The second time had involved a laundromat and a surprisingly valuable whites cycle--and had put him in the hospital for nearly a month. Will had always assumed that being shot would bother him, cause emotional trauma, make him seek out a new line of work.
Instead, Will made a decision: he was going to get every penny he could from his job, even if that meant living in what his (now ex-) wife called ‘the twilight of moral ambiguity.’ Also, interestingly enough, being shot had cured Will of his insomnia. He slept the restful sleep of a man who knew he had gone too far and had no interest in coming back.
So it wasn’t too surprising that the man had to almost shout at Will to wake him up.
“Sergeant Mako,” said the man again. Will blinked at him in the light that slanted out through the bathroom door--he slept with it on, since he hated bumping into things in the dark and he hand’t cleaned too often since his wife left.
“You’re in my house,” said Will.
“We thought it would be the best place to find you,” said the woman. She sounded amused. They always came together, the man and the woman, and always in the dark. Will had never seen their faces clearly, though the woman sounded like she must be beautiful. He’d been tempted to turn on a light a time or two, but not after he opened the first bag they brought him. That bag had turned into a weekend in Vegas, and while he was never going there again (such a waste of his money!) he wasn’t about to risk interfering with any more bags coming his way. So Will left the lights out and smiled. He’d done what he’d promised, so the man and woman couldn’t have any complaints. What that meant was another job, and another bag, and Will liked bags.
“What can I do for you good people?” he asked, blinking at the sand in his eyes. Clearly he hadn’t slept enough, but the man and woman were worth waking up for.
“Things didn’t go as we expected,” said the man. His voice was calm and even, but that didn’t tell Will much. The man had been calm and even when he’d calmly and evenly said that they were going to kill a god. Will felt his heart rate pick up. He wasn’t scared of these two, or at least he didn’t have any reason to be scared, except that there was something about them, like a gun waiting to be fired or a knife hidden in the hand.
“Did I miss something?” he asked. “We found the bodies and staked our claim. Like you said, we couldn’t keep the TCD away from Forgotten Zed’s place, but they didn’t even come after the other corpses. Maybe they’re not as good as you thought, since this is just a little branch out here. What do they have, five people?”
The woman laughed. Then they stood in silence. Will swallowed.
“Even if they do come around,” he said, “they won’t get anywhere. At least not very fast. I’ve made it clear that these are my cases, and I’m not letting go. Besides, the captain isn’t a fan of the TCD, so they’re going to have to go so far over my head, they’ll get a nosebleed before they get access to these bodies.”
There was silence again.
“Is that why you’re here?” asked Will.
“No,” said the man. “You remember that we asked you to find the two bodies.”
“Sure. The man and the woman.”
“We heard there was a third.”
Will sat up in his bed and nodded. “Sure, Baernson. We found the big guy, too--first, actually--and figured he was part of the mess, so I locked it all down. This case isn’t going to get me any promotions, but I can guarantee you that nobody’s finding out who killed all these people.”
“That’s unfortunate,” said the man.
Will blinked. “What?”
“He said that it’s unfortunate,” said the woman.
“That’s what I thought,” said Will. “Why?”
“Because the last man wasn’t part of our plan. As I said, things didn’t go as we expected.”
Will started to relax again. He really hadn’t done anything wrong, and it was looking more and more like these two actually did have another job for him. “I suppose there’s something you’d like me to do?”
“Find out who killed the extra man.”
The woman laughed again. “We want you to actually do your job, Sergeant Mako.”
“But,” Will coughed, “I assume you want to be the first ones to know what I find.”
“The only ones,” said the man.
“Interesting,” said Will. “Thing is, I’ve already done what you paid me for, and I know that the city already gives me a salary to do what you’re asking, but still--”
A brown paper bag landed on the blanket between Will’s knees.
“There’s a phone in there as well,” said the man. “It only has one number in the memory. Call us when you have something useful.”
Will looked at the bag and licked his lips. He felt stupid, licking his lips like that, but money did that to him. He liked having it. He liked spending it, even on the smallest things. A pack of mints on the way home. Even paying a library fine. He kept books out too long intentionally, just for the feeling of spending money. In fact, it never hurt to ask for more. The man and woman clearly had enough.
“Will there be any kind of bonus if I find her quickly?” asked Will, looking up, but his room was empty. He hated it when they did that.
[So I'm setting that aside and moving on to something else, which, to my surprise, is a new character and an entirely new plot thread.
[Yay.]
Sergeant Williston Mako of the Northern Lights Police Department had been shot twice while on duty, once when in uniform and once undercover. The first was a bank robbery gone bad, but at his wife’s insistence he’d had his vest on and he walked away with only bruising. The second time had involved a laundromat and a surprisingly valuable whites cycle--and had put him in the hospital for nearly a month. Will had always assumed that being shot would bother him, cause emotional trauma, make him seek out a new line of work.
Instead, Will made a decision: he was going to get every penny he could from his job, even if that meant living in what his (now ex-) wife called ‘the twilight of moral ambiguity.’ Also, interestingly enough, being shot had cured Will of his insomnia. He slept the restful sleep of a man who knew he had gone too far and had no interest in coming back.
So it wasn’t too surprising that the man had to almost shout at Will to wake him up.
“Sergeant Mako,” said the man again. Will blinked at him in the light that slanted out through the bathroom door--he slept with it on, since he hated bumping into things in the dark and he hand’t cleaned too often since his wife left.
“You’re in my house,” said Will.
“We thought it would be the best place to find you,” said the woman. She sounded amused. They always came together, the man and the woman, and always in the dark. Will had never seen their faces clearly, though the woman sounded like she must be beautiful. He’d been tempted to turn on a light a time or two, but not after he opened the first bag they brought him. That bag had turned into a weekend in Vegas, and while he was never going there again (such a waste of his money!) he wasn’t about to risk interfering with any more bags coming his way. So Will left the lights out and smiled. He’d done what he’d promised, so the man and woman couldn’t have any complaints. What that meant was another job, and another bag, and Will liked bags.
“What can I do for you good people?” he asked, blinking at the sand in his eyes. Clearly he hadn’t slept enough, but the man and woman were worth waking up for.
“Things didn’t go as we expected,” said the man. His voice was calm and even, but that didn’t tell Will much. The man had been calm and even when he’d calmly and evenly said that they were going to kill a god. Will felt his heart rate pick up. He wasn’t scared of these two, or at least he didn’t have any reason to be scared, except that there was something about them, like a gun waiting to be fired or a knife hidden in the hand.
“Did I miss something?” he asked. “We found the bodies and staked our claim. Like you said, we couldn’t keep the TCD away from Forgotten Zed’s place, but they didn’t even come after the other corpses. Maybe they’re not as good as you thought, since this is just a little branch out here. What do they have, five people?”
The woman laughed. Then they stood in silence. Will swallowed.
“Even if they do come around,” he said, “they won’t get anywhere. At least not very fast. I’ve made it clear that these are my cases, and I’m not letting go. Besides, the captain isn’t a fan of the TCD, so they’re going to have to go so far over my head, they’ll get a nosebleed before they get access to these bodies.”
There was silence again.
“Is that why you’re here?” asked Will.
“No,” said the man. “You remember that we asked you to find the two bodies.”
“Sure. The man and the woman.”
“We heard there was a third.”
Will sat up in his bed and nodded. “Sure, Baernson. We found the big guy, too--first, actually--and figured he was part of the mess, so I locked it all down. This case isn’t going to get me any promotions, but I can guarantee you that nobody’s finding out who killed all these people.”
“That’s unfortunate,” said the man.
Will blinked. “What?”
“He said that it’s unfortunate,” said the woman.
“That’s what I thought,” said Will. “Why?”
“Because the last man wasn’t part of our plan. As I said, things didn’t go as we expected.”
Will started to relax again. He really hadn’t done anything wrong, and it was looking more and more like these two actually did have another job for him. “I suppose there’s something you’d like me to do?”
“Find out who killed the extra man.”
The woman laughed again. “We want you to actually do your job, Sergeant Mako.”
“But,” Will coughed, “I assume you want to be the first ones to know what I find.”
“The only ones,” said the man.
“Interesting,” said Will. “Thing is, I’ve already done what you paid me for, and I know that the city already gives me a salary to do what you’re asking, but still--”
A brown paper bag landed on the blanket between Will’s knees.
“There’s a phone in there as well,” said the man. “It only has one number in the memory. Call us when you have something useful.”
Will looked at the bag and licked his lips. He felt stupid, licking his lips like that, but money did that to him. He liked having it. He liked spending it, even on the smallest things. A pack of mints on the way home. Even paying a library fine. He kept books out too long intentionally, just for the feeling of spending money. In fact, it never hurt to ask for more. The man and woman clearly had enough.
“Will there be any kind of bonus if I find her quickly?” asked Will, looking up, but his room was empty. He hated it when they did that.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 11
[I ground every word of this section out of a chunk of solid granite, using nothing more than my fingernails and a grim determination.
[In other words, writing this section was unbelievably hard. I'm not sure why, but it was, and then some. Ah, well. Plan on more pain and suffering and writing joy tomorrow.]
When Bradley woke up, he felt good. He narrowed his eyes and looked at the dark ceiling. He never felt good when he woke up. He hadn't done any official sleep studies, but he was suspicious that he had some kind of skinny-guy sleep apnea, and that he'd stop breathing in the middle of the night. He was at least positive that he snored, and that he woke up every morning with a stuffy nose. No 'blissfully arising into the lovely morning' for him. Was that part of a poem? He was probably making it up. He supposed that was what people did when they felt good, waking up spouting poetry.
What time was it, anyway? It was still dark out, which was unnerving enough. He'd certainly dabbled in waking up early, but it wasn't something he'd ever stuck with for very long. He glanced at his alarm clock, with its alarm that he had never set. He hadn't made the purchase--his mother had, more out of a sense that she ought to buy it for him and not with any genuine hope that Bradley would use the alarm portion.
Five-thirty. Now it was five-thirty one. Bradley blinked at the clock through surprisingly un-bleary eyes. He distinctly remembered falling asleep not much more than five hours ago. How could he possibly feel this good? How could he be awake at all?
Bradley closed his eyes out of a sense of duty. Then he opened them. Then he rolled out of bed and walked to the closet. Sleep was not happening. Was it stress? He didn't feel stressed. Worried, maybe, but not much. At least, not as worried as he'd been last night, and that was just worrying about the lady with the peanut allergy. It hadn't even occurred to him to worry about how he was going to pay rent on this shag carpeting. See? There was another thing he ought to be stressed about, and he simply wasn't feeling it. He felt great. He felt like thinking about some kind of physical exercise. Maybe he'd go look at an advertisement at the YMCA for some sport he'd never actually participate in.
But what to do now? Even on days when he had a job, Bradley's plans for the day didn't start until at least nine in the morning. Three-and-a-half hours of limbo. He'd start with a shower.
Bradley showered.
Three hours and seventeen minutes of limbo. What could he do? Reading a book was always an option, but he found himself bouncing on his toes. Apparently his body wanted to go someplace. Did he need a jacket? He'd take one, and a hat, too. He considered something with ear flaps and discarded the idea. He'd just pull on a knitted cap and, if necessary, stretch it down. (You never knew who you might meet, especially at around six in the morning.)
Bradley found himself at his door, his keys in his pocket, ready to go but with no idea where he was going. Breakfast? Why not? Losing his job was the perfect time to celebrate--but nothing too extravagant. Maybe the bagel place on the corner. He locked the door behind him and took the steps two at a time.
And almost ran into Olivia.
"Oh. Hey. Sorry." Bradley grimaced, then wiped that off and replaced it with a smile while trying to hide how distressed he was that, in one phrase, he'd summarized his life to this point: Oh. Hey. Sorry.
"Bradley?" She looked shocked. Shocked and beautiful, in a curvy, well-fed way.
"Yes. Present. What's up? Been jogging?" An incomprehensible activity, jogging. It was like playing ultimate frisbee, but without the frisbee. Or the fun.
She smiled, still looking puzzled. "What was your first clue?" she asked.
"Well, you know," Bradley gestured from her lightweight running jacket down to her running tights--nice legs, but don't stare, don't even linger--then back to her braided hair, "You look the part. Do it often? Jogging? And looking like you jog?"
Olivia laughed. "Both, actually." Then she stopped talking and just looked at him. Bradley resisted the urge to check behind him to see if there were someone significantly better looking back there. He swallowed.
Olivia finally broke the silence--that interminable, five second silence. "Bradley?"
"Yes?"
"Did something happen?"
How could she know? Did he look different? He knew he felt different, but he didn't think Olivia had ever paid enough attention to him to notice any subtle changes. Was there something obvious? Did he cut himself shaving? No, he used an electric razor, and, come to think of it, hadn't actually shaved that morning.
He stalled for time. "Why do you ask?"
She raised her eyebrows and glanced at her watch. "It's not even six yet."
"Does that matter?"
"I've never heard you awake before eight, usually later."
Was that a problem? Did she only like early risers? "I guess I usually have work late at night. And stuff. Or I'm just a night person. Night owl. That seems like a redundant phrase, doesn't it? Night owl, I mean. But, actually, some owls, like the burrowing owl, are diurnal. Which is the opposite of nocturnal." Bradley stopped talking. Then, in spite of himself, started again. "Do you like owls?"
"Owls?"
"Owls."
Olivia looked amused and confused at the same time. "I guess."
"There are even some pretty freaky ones," said Bradley. "Like the Southern White-faced Owl. It goes from cute to psychotic in a heartbeat. Pretty awesome, actually. It's on the internet. Also, not everyone knows this, but owls are creatures that are naturally sensitive to divine power. Like angels. Which is why owls live so long. And angels."
"Fascinating," said Olivia.
"I'm talking too much," said Bradley.
Olivia shrugged. What did that mean? Was she agreeing that he talked too much? That was probably it. Or she didn't care. Either one was equally bad. Either one was equally expected.
"I'm off then," said Bradley. "Getting breakfast."
"Have fun," said Olivia, turning back to her door. Then she was gone and the door was closed and Bradley was alone in the stairwell.
"I like your hair," whispered Bradley. "Also, you listen to cool music. Unless that's your roommate, but either way, it's still cool. And did I mention that you're probably perfect?"
He turned and walked down the stairs and out into the chilly morning.
[In other words, writing this section was unbelievably hard. I'm not sure why, but it was, and then some. Ah, well. Plan on more pain and suffering and writing joy tomorrow.]
When Bradley woke up, he felt good. He narrowed his eyes and looked at the dark ceiling. He never felt good when he woke up. He hadn't done any official sleep studies, but he was suspicious that he had some kind of skinny-guy sleep apnea, and that he'd stop breathing in the middle of the night. He was at least positive that he snored, and that he woke up every morning with a stuffy nose. No 'blissfully arising into the lovely morning' for him. Was that part of a poem? He was probably making it up. He supposed that was what people did when they felt good, waking up spouting poetry.
What time was it, anyway? It was still dark out, which was unnerving enough. He'd certainly dabbled in waking up early, but it wasn't something he'd ever stuck with for very long. He glanced at his alarm clock, with its alarm that he had never set. He hadn't made the purchase--his mother had, more out of a sense that she ought to buy it for him and not with any genuine hope that Bradley would use the alarm portion.
Five-thirty. Now it was five-thirty one. Bradley blinked at the clock through surprisingly un-bleary eyes. He distinctly remembered falling asleep not much more than five hours ago. How could he possibly feel this good? How could he be awake at all?
Bradley closed his eyes out of a sense of duty. Then he opened them. Then he rolled out of bed and walked to the closet. Sleep was not happening. Was it stress? He didn't feel stressed. Worried, maybe, but not much. At least, not as worried as he'd been last night, and that was just worrying about the lady with the peanut allergy. It hadn't even occurred to him to worry about how he was going to pay rent on this shag carpeting. See? There was another thing he ought to be stressed about, and he simply wasn't feeling it. He felt great. He felt like thinking about some kind of physical exercise. Maybe he'd go look at an advertisement at the YMCA for some sport he'd never actually participate in.
But what to do now? Even on days when he had a job, Bradley's plans for the day didn't start until at least nine in the morning. Three-and-a-half hours of limbo. He'd start with a shower.
Bradley showered.
Three hours and seventeen minutes of limbo. What could he do? Reading a book was always an option, but he found himself bouncing on his toes. Apparently his body wanted to go someplace. Did he need a jacket? He'd take one, and a hat, too. He considered something with ear flaps and discarded the idea. He'd just pull on a knitted cap and, if necessary, stretch it down. (You never knew who you might meet, especially at around six in the morning.)
Bradley found himself at his door, his keys in his pocket, ready to go but with no idea where he was going. Breakfast? Why not? Losing his job was the perfect time to celebrate--but nothing too extravagant. Maybe the bagel place on the corner. He locked the door behind him and took the steps two at a time.
And almost ran into Olivia.
"Oh. Hey. Sorry." Bradley grimaced, then wiped that off and replaced it with a smile while trying to hide how distressed he was that, in one phrase, he'd summarized his life to this point: Oh. Hey. Sorry.
"Bradley?" She looked shocked. Shocked and beautiful, in a curvy, well-fed way.
"Yes. Present. What's up? Been jogging?" An incomprehensible activity, jogging. It was like playing ultimate frisbee, but without the frisbee. Or the fun.
She smiled, still looking puzzled. "What was your first clue?" she asked.
"Well, you know," Bradley gestured from her lightweight running jacket down to her running tights--nice legs, but don't stare, don't even linger--then back to her braided hair, "You look the part. Do it often? Jogging? And looking like you jog?"
Olivia laughed. "Both, actually." Then she stopped talking and just looked at him. Bradley resisted the urge to check behind him to see if there were someone significantly better looking back there. He swallowed.
Olivia finally broke the silence--that interminable, five second silence. "Bradley?"
"Yes?"
"Did something happen?"
How could she know? Did he look different? He knew he felt different, but he didn't think Olivia had ever paid enough attention to him to notice any subtle changes. Was there something obvious? Did he cut himself shaving? No, he used an electric razor, and, come to think of it, hadn't actually shaved that morning.
He stalled for time. "Why do you ask?"
She raised her eyebrows and glanced at her watch. "It's not even six yet."
"Does that matter?"
"I've never heard you awake before eight, usually later."
Was that a problem? Did she only like early risers? "I guess I usually have work late at night. And stuff. Or I'm just a night person. Night owl. That seems like a redundant phrase, doesn't it? Night owl, I mean. But, actually, some owls, like the burrowing owl, are diurnal. Which is the opposite of nocturnal." Bradley stopped talking. Then, in spite of himself, started again. "Do you like owls?"
"Owls?"
"Owls."
Olivia looked amused and confused at the same time. "I guess."
"There are even some pretty freaky ones," said Bradley. "Like the Southern White-faced Owl. It goes from cute to psychotic in a heartbeat. Pretty awesome, actually. It's on the internet. Also, not everyone knows this, but owls are creatures that are naturally sensitive to divine power. Like angels. Which is why owls live so long. And angels."
"Fascinating," said Olivia.
"I'm talking too much," said Bradley.
Olivia shrugged. What did that mean? Was she agreeing that he talked too much? That was probably it. Or she didn't care. Either one was equally bad. Either one was equally expected.
"I'm off then," said Bradley. "Getting breakfast."
"Have fun," said Olivia, turning back to her door. Then she was gone and the door was closed and Bradley was alone in the stairwell.
"I like your hair," whispered Bradley. "Also, you listen to cool music. Unless that's your roommate, but either way, it's still cool. And did I mention that you're probably perfect?"
He turned and walked down the stairs and out into the chilly morning.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 10
[End of day one. Tomorrow we get to visit the bagel shop, have a phone call with Proust, stop off in a hospital, and go on a lunch date. But that's for another day.]
Alone in his apartment on the third floor, in an unremarkable building near the corner of Washington and Third Avenue--not Third Street, which was one block over--Bradley brushed his teeth. As he brushed, he thought about the woman in the oversized coat, lying on the floor of the restaurant. He thought about how still she’d been.
Then he walked down the hall, climbed under his covers, and fell asleep.
“I wish we could schedule all crime between the hours of ten and seven,” said Paul, starting the car and pulling out onto the mostly empty road. “This is ridiculously late for me to be working.”
“When was the last time you went to bed before midnight?” asked Tuck.
“I didn’t say it was too late to be awake. Just too late for me to be working. Also, it’s getting cold. You have a bearing on the violence residue from here?”
Tuck looked around the city. Traffic was thinning out, with just the occasional cab, a few late-night shoppers, and the flashing lights of police cars three blocks down.
“Hello,” he said. “What’s that?”
“That the right direction?” asked Paul.
“It is, mostly. Not exactly right, but...I think we should check it out.”
“Already on it,” said Paul, speeding up.
Less than a minute more and they were parked and walking up to the police tape, identification in hand.
“Uh-oh,” said the uniformed officer waiting by the tape, his unusually heavy eyebrows pulled down over his eyes.
“Something the matter?” asked Paul.
“Other than the dead guy in the alley? Yeah, Theological Crimes Division just showed up, and that means the sergeant is going to be pissed.”
Tuck and Paul glanced at each other. “We’re not here to step on anyone’s toes,” said Paul. “We’re just following a lead on another case, and it lead us this direction. Might not have anything to do with your guy.”
“You two working the Forgotten Zed murder?” asked the officer.
Tuck sighed. It would have been nice to keep a lid on the whole thing a little longer, but if someone had already tipped off the media--and they had--then there was no way the news wasn’t everywhere in Northern Lights.
“Yeah, that’s us.”
“Then I’m afraid you may have found your man.”
“The killer?”
“Yeah. I might as well tell you, since the sergeant is going to go all jurisdictional on your behinds and give you a big fight before he gives you anything useful: the guy down there is a hit man. Local, suspected in a lot of things, but nothing ever pinned on him.”
Tuck looked down the alley toward the flash of cameras as the CSI unit documented the scene. “The local guy have a name?”
“Sure does. Bjorn Baernson.”
“Bjorn’s dead?” asked Paul, clearly shocked.
“You know him?” asked Tuck.
“Sure do. The guy’s something like a quarter demon, so he showed up on my radar a couple years back. Big man. Very big.”
The officer nodded. “Yeah, that’s the guy.”
Paul was shaking his head. “But he couldn’t have done that shot. He wasn’t a finesse man. Up close stuff, not the kind of long-range accuracy that did it for Zed.”
Tuck covered his mouth with his hand and tugged at his lips.
“Uh-oh,” said Paul.
“What’s up?” asked the officer. “What’s he doing?”
“That’s his thinking face. He’s onto something.”
Tuck nodded. “I am. Maybe. It seems like I’ve heard about something like this before.”
“With another murder? Do we have a serial killer?”
“Not just any murder. The death of another god. We need to make a phone call, but first I think I need a couple minutes with the body.”
The officer’s radio crackled and they paused while he listened. Tuck couldn’t make out what was said--not for certain, at least--but he had his suspicions.
“Another body?” he asked.
“Two,” said the officer. “Two different dumpsters.”
“Aha,” said Tuck. “Time for bed, Paul.”
“What? Are you serious?”
Tuck turned and started walking to their car. Paul thanked the officer and hurried to catch up.
“That’s it? I thought you said you needed time with the body.”
Tuck shook his head. “No point. So many deaths, almost certainly all connected, I won’t get anything useful. By the time I figure out which killer leads where, the only one left alive will be halfway across the world. No, it’s time for some sleep.”
“What if the deaths are unconnected?”
Tuck pressed his lips together. “I don’t think they are.”
“Because of that thing you remembered--the other death of a god that you were talking about?”
“Exactly. I need to call Proust, and nothing is waking him up at this hour short of a fog horn on his bedside table. So we get some sleep and hit this in the morning fresh.”
Paul shrugged. “Fine by me. Did Proust catch the killer on his case?”
“Yes.”
“There’s hope, then.”
“Not exactly. The killer was dead.”
Paul blinked. “What about the person who killed the killer?”
“Also dead.”
“How long did that go on for?”
“I can’t remember, which is why we make a phone call, but I can tell you this: they never did figure out where the god’s power went. The case is still open.”
Paul laughed. “It’s like opening up one of those Russian dolls, and there’s another doll inside, and another, and another.”
“Yep,” agreed Tuck. “And then one of those little dolls becomes a crazy god and destroys your city.”
“I never did like those dolls,” said Paul.
Alone in his apartment on the third floor, in an unremarkable building near the corner of Washington and Third Avenue--not Third Street, which was one block over--Bradley brushed his teeth. As he brushed, he thought about the woman in the oversized coat, lying on the floor of the restaurant. He thought about how still she’d been.
Then he walked down the hall, climbed under his covers, and fell asleep.
“I wish we could schedule all crime between the hours of ten and seven,” said Paul, starting the car and pulling out onto the mostly empty road. “This is ridiculously late for me to be working.”
“When was the last time you went to bed before midnight?” asked Tuck.
“I didn’t say it was too late to be awake. Just too late for me to be working. Also, it’s getting cold. You have a bearing on the violence residue from here?”
Tuck looked around the city. Traffic was thinning out, with just the occasional cab, a few late-night shoppers, and the flashing lights of police cars three blocks down.
“Hello,” he said. “What’s that?”
“That the right direction?” asked Paul.
“It is, mostly. Not exactly right, but...I think we should check it out.”
“Already on it,” said Paul, speeding up.
Less than a minute more and they were parked and walking up to the police tape, identification in hand.
“Uh-oh,” said the uniformed officer waiting by the tape, his unusually heavy eyebrows pulled down over his eyes.
“Something the matter?” asked Paul.
“Other than the dead guy in the alley? Yeah, Theological Crimes Division just showed up, and that means the sergeant is going to be pissed.”
Tuck and Paul glanced at each other. “We’re not here to step on anyone’s toes,” said Paul. “We’re just following a lead on another case, and it lead us this direction. Might not have anything to do with your guy.”
“You two working the Forgotten Zed murder?” asked the officer.
Tuck sighed. It would have been nice to keep a lid on the whole thing a little longer, but if someone had already tipped off the media--and they had--then there was no way the news wasn’t everywhere in Northern Lights.
“Yeah, that’s us.”
“Then I’m afraid you may have found your man.”
“The killer?”
“Yeah. I might as well tell you, since the sergeant is going to go all jurisdictional on your behinds and give you a big fight before he gives you anything useful: the guy down there is a hit man. Local, suspected in a lot of things, but nothing ever pinned on him.”
Tuck looked down the alley toward the flash of cameras as the CSI unit documented the scene. “The local guy have a name?”
“Sure does. Bjorn Baernson.”
“Bjorn’s dead?” asked Paul, clearly shocked.
“You know him?” asked Tuck.
“Sure do. The guy’s something like a quarter demon, so he showed up on my radar a couple years back. Big man. Very big.”
The officer nodded. “Yeah, that’s the guy.”
Paul was shaking his head. “But he couldn’t have done that shot. He wasn’t a finesse man. Up close stuff, not the kind of long-range accuracy that did it for Zed.”
Tuck covered his mouth with his hand and tugged at his lips.
“Uh-oh,” said Paul.
“What’s up?” asked the officer. “What’s he doing?”
“That’s his thinking face. He’s onto something.”
Tuck nodded. “I am. Maybe. It seems like I’ve heard about something like this before.”
“With another murder? Do we have a serial killer?”
“Not just any murder. The death of another god. We need to make a phone call, but first I think I need a couple minutes with the body.”
The officer’s radio crackled and they paused while he listened. Tuck couldn’t make out what was said--not for certain, at least--but he had his suspicions.
“Another body?” he asked.
“Two,” said the officer. “Two different dumpsters.”
“Aha,” said Tuck. “Time for bed, Paul.”
“What? Are you serious?”
Tuck turned and started walking to their car. Paul thanked the officer and hurried to catch up.
“That’s it? I thought you said you needed time with the body.”
Tuck shook his head. “No point. So many deaths, almost certainly all connected, I won’t get anything useful. By the time I figure out which killer leads where, the only one left alive will be halfway across the world. No, it’s time for some sleep.”
“What if the deaths are unconnected?”
Tuck pressed his lips together. “I don’t think they are.”
“Because of that thing you remembered--the other death of a god that you were talking about?”
“Exactly. I need to call Proust, and nothing is waking him up at this hour short of a fog horn on his bedside table. So we get some sleep and hit this in the morning fresh.”
Paul shrugged. “Fine by me. Did Proust catch the killer on his case?”
“Yes.”
“There’s hope, then.”
“Not exactly. The killer was dead.”
Paul blinked. “What about the person who killed the killer?”
“Also dead.”
“How long did that go on for?”
“I can’t remember, which is why we make a phone call, but I can tell you this: they never did figure out where the god’s power went. The case is still open.”
Paul laughed. “It’s like opening up one of those Russian dolls, and there’s another doll inside, and another, and another.”
“Yep,” agreed Tuck. “And then one of those little dolls becomes a crazy god and destroys your city.”
“I never did like those dolls,” said Paul.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 09
[We're almost to the end of day one. We'll be coming back to Bradley in the next section, I think. Also, in response to Ammie's comment on the last section, I'm afraid that I don't know what pancakes have to do with murder.]
“Home, sweet you-know-the-rest,” said Atty, pushing into his apartment with his back and carrying the groceries into the kitchen. Luther wasn’t sure why he was there, but sometime in the walk back to his own apartment it had changed into a walk to Atty’s apartment, and now he was there.
“I do have my own you-know-the-rest,” he said, closing the front door behind him.
“Been over this,” called Atty over the sound of the opening fridge. “Your place is a pit.”
“But it’s my pit.”
“Never admit that in public, buddy. Besides,” something glass clanked in the kitchen, “the way you were looking in the store, no way I was letting you go home alone. I may have the observational skills of Hellen Keller, but even I could tell you’re not in a good place.”
Luther walked into the kitchen and stared.
“What?” asked Atty.
“Did you actually just make that joke?”
“Which?”
“You don’t know which one?”
“The one about Hellen Keller? There, I just proved my own point. I have the sensitivity of a--hang on, can’t use that one...or that one. Fine. I have the sensitivity of a very insensitive person, but I could still tell that you’re feeling terrible, so I stand by my decision. You’re sleeping on my couch tonight.”
Luther sighed and walked down the short hall into Atty’s living room. It was...angelic. Lived in but clean, orderly but not intimidating. Even magazines on the coffee table. Martha Stewart? What bachelor read Martha Stewart? He sighed again and sat on the couch, laying his head back.
“I’m making you soup,” Atty shouted.
“Don’t want soup.”
“Yes you do.”
It wasn’t worth fighting. That was the way things went so often with Atty: they went Atty’s way. Not that Luther wouldn’t stand firm for what mattered. It was just that he wasn’t so sure what those things were anymore. Turned out that soup wasn’t one of them.
“Fine,” he called. “Just microwave whatever.”
“Are you kidding?” said Atty, showing up in the doorway. “That’s no way to prepare soup. Stove top or nothing. Well, crock pot is an option, as is Dutch oven.”
“What’s a Dutch oven?”
“Never mind. Oh, also pressure cooker. But the point is, no microwave.”
“It is from a can, though, right? Doesn’t that make a microwave mandatory?”
“Irrelevant. Soup goes on the stove, whether it was made by machine or by Tibetan monks. Warm milk?”
“Just water, thank you.”
Atty nodded and disappeared, leaving Luther with time to think. He wasn’t sure he liked it. He looked forward at his day tomorrow, and it was distressingly empty. A morning of nothing filled with nothing in particular for lunch, and all of that chased down by a nice evening of nothing else. He knew he needed to fill his life with more than that, but even making the decision to do it didn’t mean that he understood how it was accomplished. He had stopped, and he didn’t know how to get started again.
“So who are you going to call?” asked Atty, standing in the doorway again. He was leaned against the doorframe with a casual charisma that movie stars attempt but usually only accomplish with a great deal of makeup, lighting, and carefully selected music.
“About what?”
“About your life. You said you’d call someone.”
“Right.” Maybe that was how to get started again. “I’ll call Rae.”
“That’s a good start.”
“Just a start?”
“Yes, just a start. You should try hanging out with people who aren’t angels and demons every once-in-a-while.”
“I hang out with humans all the time.”
“No, you serve humans all the time. Dispensing miracles for a god and hanging out are two very different things.”
“Do you hang out with humans?”
“All the time. Once a week, at least.”
“Where?”
“Little cafe called 26 Letters. Great place. You should come.”
“Is it artsy and pretentious and run by a small man named Maurice?”
“Yes. He speaks with a French accent, wears a pathetic goatee, and his entire wardrobe is turtle-necked black jumpsuits.”
“Really?”
“No. Owned by a big guy named Bruce. Come on, Luther. You’d enjoy it. Very low stress.”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow night.”
“Maybe.”
“So when are you calling Rae.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Why not right now?”
“Don’t you have soup on the stove?”
“Low heat. It’s fine. Why not right now?”
“Because she’s probably asleep.”
“It’s not even midnight,” said Atty, checking his watch.
“Don’t people usually sleep at this hour?”
“Only you. And old people. And small children. But not Rae. She’s usually up reading.”
“How do you know this?”
“We talk.”
“About what?”
“Only about you, Luther. About our concern for you, our never ending obsession with you, about how to make you into the grand angel that God intends you to be. And about her bedtime.”
“You’re mocking me,” said Luther.
“Yes, I am. I told you I was insensitive.”
“Will you stop if I call Rae?”
Atty sniffed the air. “I think I should go stir the soup.”
“You do that.”
Atty stepped away, then poked his head back in. “If you don’t have your cell with you, my phone is on the table to your left.”
“Thank you, Atty. I can see it there.”
“You remember how to use a telephone? Because you haven’t been returning my calls recently. I had to go to your place to get you out, so I figured you’d just forgotten how to--”
“Thank you, Atty. I remember.”
“You could also hop on my computer. Pretty sure she’s got Skype.”
“If I started dialing, would you leave me alone?”
“Probably.”
Luther pulled out his phone, scrolled through his contacts to the letter ‘R,’ and pushed the call button. It didn’t take very long to scroll through most of the alphabet, and Rae was the only ‘R’ in there. He chose to not think about what that said about his life.
“It’s ringing,” he said.
“Then I’m stirring,” said Atty, walking away.
The ringing stopped. “Luther?” It was Rae’s voice.
“Hi, Rae. You’re not asleep?”
“Just about to go to bed. Why aren’t YOU asleep? Aren’t you usually a nine-to-five guy?”
“No. Not anymore. Got fired, if you remember.”
Silence for a second. “I knew that, Luther. I meant your sleep habits. Bed at nine, up at five.”
Of course that was what she’d meant. “Atty took me out tonight. We had some fun.” Why had he said that? Was fun what they’d actually had? What if she asked him about it?
“Really,” said Rae, her voice amused. “What did you do? Hit the library?”
“The library is fun,” he said.
“Is it what you did?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“Are you going to let this go?”
“No.”
“Grocery store.”
She laughed, low soprano and rich. Rae didn’t have a pretty face--nice enough looking, much more average than astonishing--but she made up for it with her voice. “Good job, Atty. Get anything good?”
“Sports drinks. Cannelloni. Something made from corn.”
“You let Atty tell you what to buy.”
“It seemed...inevitable at the time.”
“Soon, Luther, you and I are going to sit down and plan out a menu. We’ll figure out what you like to eat, what you’ll actually cook, and what it takes to make it. Then we’ll go shopping, and we’ll do it without Atty. Deal?”
“Sounds like a plan,” said Luther. He swallowed. “What about tomorrow?”
Silence again.
“Is tomorrow a problem? We don’t have to.” He shut his mouth and shut up.
Rae cleared her throat. “Tomorrow’s fine. I was just thinking how glad I am.”
“About what?”
“That you asked. You’re starting to wake up again.”
“Yeah.” Luther looked up at the ceiling. “I guess it’s been a rough couple of months.”
“No,” said Rae. “It’s been a rough decade. What time? Lunch? Let’s do lunch, then go shopping. It’s not a good idea to go shopping on an empty stomach. You end up buying all junk food.”
“Okay then. Lunch. Where?”
“You have someplace you like?”
Luther blinked, thinking. “Not really.”
“Thai food, then. There’s a little place I know close to your apartment. You like Thai?”
“Not sure. I’ve mostly lived in the West.”
“This will be an adventure for you, then. I’ll meet you at your place at eleven thirty?”
“My place is fine.”
“No it’s not,” said Atty, walking in with a bowl of something steaming. “You’re staying here.”
“But I have to go home to clean up.”
Atty considered. “That’s fine, then.”
“Is that Atty?” asked Rae.
“Yes.”
“Hand me to him for a second?”
Luther held the phone out. Atty set down the bowl of soup on a magazine with a picture of a bowl of soup and took the phone.
“Hey, Rae.” Pause. “Yes.” Pause. “Sure.” Pause, pause, and a smile. “You know it. Here’s Luther again. ‘Night, Rae.”
“What was that about?” whispered Luther, taking the phone.
Atty shrugged and walked out, and Luther put the phone to his ear.
“What was that about?” he asked.
“It was about you, Luther. That’s all we talk about is you.”
“Ha-ha. Atty made the same joke.”
“Then it must be funny. See you tomorrow, Luther. Thanks for calling.”
“No problem. I mean, thank you.”
Rae laughed and hung up. Luther dropped his phone on the couch and looked at the soup. It had noodles in it.
“Home, sweet you-know-the-rest,” said Atty, pushing into his apartment with his back and carrying the groceries into the kitchen. Luther wasn’t sure why he was there, but sometime in the walk back to his own apartment it had changed into a walk to Atty’s apartment, and now he was there.
“I do have my own you-know-the-rest,” he said, closing the front door behind him.
“Been over this,” called Atty over the sound of the opening fridge. “Your place is a pit.”
“But it’s my pit.”
“Never admit that in public, buddy. Besides,” something glass clanked in the kitchen, “the way you were looking in the store, no way I was letting you go home alone. I may have the observational skills of Hellen Keller, but even I could tell you’re not in a good place.”
Luther walked into the kitchen and stared.
“What?” asked Atty.
“Did you actually just make that joke?”
“Which?”
“You don’t know which one?”
“The one about Hellen Keller? There, I just proved my own point. I have the sensitivity of a--hang on, can’t use that one...or that one. Fine. I have the sensitivity of a very insensitive person, but I could still tell that you’re feeling terrible, so I stand by my decision. You’re sleeping on my couch tonight.”
Luther sighed and walked down the short hall into Atty’s living room. It was...angelic. Lived in but clean, orderly but not intimidating. Even magazines on the coffee table. Martha Stewart? What bachelor read Martha Stewart? He sighed again and sat on the couch, laying his head back.
“I’m making you soup,” Atty shouted.
“Don’t want soup.”
“Yes you do.”
It wasn’t worth fighting. That was the way things went so often with Atty: they went Atty’s way. Not that Luther wouldn’t stand firm for what mattered. It was just that he wasn’t so sure what those things were anymore. Turned out that soup wasn’t one of them.
“Fine,” he called. “Just microwave whatever.”
“Are you kidding?” said Atty, showing up in the doorway. “That’s no way to prepare soup. Stove top or nothing. Well, crock pot is an option, as is Dutch oven.”
“What’s a Dutch oven?”
“Never mind. Oh, also pressure cooker. But the point is, no microwave.”
“It is from a can, though, right? Doesn’t that make a microwave mandatory?”
“Irrelevant. Soup goes on the stove, whether it was made by machine or by Tibetan monks. Warm milk?”
“Just water, thank you.”
Atty nodded and disappeared, leaving Luther with time to think. He wasn’t sure he liked it. He looked forward at his day tomorrow, and it was distressingly empty. A morning of nothing filled with nothing in particular for lunch, and all of that chased down by a nice evening of nothing else. He knew he needed to fill his life with more than that, but even making the decision to do it didn’t mean that he understood how it was accomplished. He had stopped, and he didn’t know how to get started again.
“So who are you going to call?” asked Atty, standing in the doorway again. He was leaned against the doorframe with a casual charisma that movie stars attempt but usually only accomplish with a great deal of makeup, lighting, and carefully selected music.
“About what?”
“About your life. You said you’d call someone.”
“Right.” Maybe that was how to get started again. “I’ll call Rae.”
“That’s a good start.”
“Just a start?”
“Yes, just a start. You should try hanging out with people who aren’t angels and demons every once-in-a-while.”
“I hang out with humans all the time.”
“No, you serve humans all the time. Dispensing miracles for a god and hanging out are two very different things.”
“Do you hang out with humans?”
“All the time. Once a week, at least.”
“Where?”
“Little cafe called 26 Letters. Great place. You should come.”
“Is it artsy and pretentious and run by a small man named Maurice?”
“Yes. He speaks with a French accent, wears a pathetic goatee, and his entire wardrobe is turtle-necked black jumpsuits.”
“Really?”
“No. Owned by a big guy named Bruce. Come on, Luther. You’d enjoy it. Very low stress.”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow night.”
“Maybe.”
“So when are you calling Rae.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Why not right now?”
“Don’t you have soup on the stove?”
“Low heat. It’s fine. Why not right now?”
“Because she’s probably asleep.”
“It’s not even midnight,” said Atty, checking his watch.
“Don’t people usually sleep at this hour?”
“Only you. And old people. And small children. But not Rae. She’s usually up reading.”
“How do you know this?”
“We talk.”
“About what?”
“Only about you, Luther. About our concern for you, our never ending obsession with you, about how to make you into the grand angel that God intends you to be. And about her bedtime.”
“You’re mocking me,” said Luther.
“Yes, I am. I told you I was insensitive.”
“Will you stop if I call Rae?”
Atty sniffed the air. “I think I should go stir the soup.”
“You do that.”
Atty stepped away, then poked his head back in. “If you don’t have your cell with you, my phone is on the table to your left.”
“Thank you, Atty. I can see it there.”
“You remember how to use a telephone? Because you haven’t been returning my calls recently. I had to go to your place to get you out, so I figured you’d just forgotten how to--”
“Thank you, Atty. I remember.”
“You could also hop on my computer. Pretty sure she’s got Skype.”
“If I started dialing, would you leave me alone?”
“Probably.”
Luther pulled out his phone, scrolled through his contacts to the letter ‘R,’ and pushed the call button. It didn’t take very long to scroll through most of the alphabet, and Rae was the only ‘R’ in there. He chose to not think about what that said about his life.
“It’s ringing,” he said.
“Then I’m stirring,” said Atty, walking away.
The ringing stopped. “Luther?” It was Rae’s voice.
“Hi, Rae. You’re not asleep?”
“Just about to go to bed. Why aren’t YOU asleep? Aren’t you usually a nine-to-five guy?”
“No. Not anymore. Got fired, if you remember.”
Silence for a second. “I knew that, Luther. I meant your sleep habits. Bed at nine, up at five.”
Of course that was what she’d meant. “Atty took me out tonight. We had some fun.” Why had he said that? Was fun what they’d actually had? What if she asked him about it?
“Really,” said Rae, her voice amused. “What did you do? Hit the library?”
“The library is fun,” he said.
“Is it what you did?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“Are you going to let this go?”
“No.”
“Grocery store.”
She laughed, low soprano and rich. Rae didn’t have a pretty face--nice enough looking, much more average than astonishing--but she made up for it with her voice. “Good job, Atty. Get anything good?”
“Sports drinks. Cannelloni. Something made from corn.”
“You let Atty tell you what to buy.”
“It seemed...inevitable at the time.”
“Soon, Luther, you and I are going to sit down and plan out a menu. We’ll figure out what you like to eat, what you’ll actually cook, and what it takes to make it. Then we’ll go shopping, and we’ll do it without Atty. Deal?”
“Sounds like a plan,” said Luther. He swallowed. “What about tomorrow?”
Silence again.
“Is tomorrow a problem? We don’t have to.” He shut his mouth and shut up.
Rae cleared her throat. “Tomorrow’s fine. I was just thinking how glad I am.”
“About what?”
“That you asked. You’re starting to wake up again.”
“Yeah.” Luther looked up at the ceiling. “I guess it’s been a rough couple of months.”
“No,” said Rae. “It’s been a rough decade. What time? Lunch? Let’s do lunch, then go shopping. It’s not a good idea to go shopping on an empty stomach. You end up buying all junk food.”
“Okay then. Lunch. Where?”
“You have someplace you like?”
Luther blinked, thinking. “Not really.”
“Thai food, then. There’s a little place I know close to your apartment. You like Thai?”
“Not sure. I’ve mostly lived in the West.”
“This will be an adventure for you, then. I’ll meet you at your place at eleven thirty?”
“My place is fine.”
“No it’s not,” said Atty, walking in with a bowl of something steaming. “You’re staying here.”
“But I have to go home to clean up.”
Atty considered. “That’s fine, then.”
“Is that Atty?” asked Rae.
“Yes.”
“Hand me to him for a second?”
Luther held the phone out. Atty set down the bowl of soup on a magazine with a picture of a bowl of soup and took the phone.
“Hey, Rae.” Pause. “Yes.” Pause. “Sure.” Pause, pause, and a smile. “You know it. Here’s Luther again. ‘Night, Rae.”
“What was that about?” whispered Luther, taking the phone.
Atty shrugged and walked out, and Luther put the phone to his ear.
“What was that about?” he asked.
“It was about you, Luther. That’s all we talk about is you.”
“Ha-ha. Atty made the same joke.”
“Then it must be funny. See you tomorrow, Luther. Thanks for calling.”
“No problem. I mean, thank you.”
Rae laughed and hung up. Luther dropped his phone on the couch and looked at the soup. It had noodles in it.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 08
[We're making progress again.]
"What a mess," said Paul, looking around the room.
Tuck knew exactly what he meant. Hardly any furniture--just a table and a couple chairs, rug on the floor--with a kettle on the stove and a few dishes that had wandered away from their families. Other than that, the room was perfectly clean. Empty.
"You sure this is the place?" asked his partner. "They haven't left us anything to work with. At least nothing obvious."
Tuck nodded. The residue of violence was strong, like the taste of liver in his nose. He'd only tried liver once, but the meat hadn't left a favorable impression. Meat? Was liver even meat? Tuck wished he could spit out the feeling of violence as easily as he had the liver.
"This is the place, but it's...strange, somehow. It's stronger than it seems like it should be."
"The residue?"
"Exactly."
Paul looked around at the immaculate room. "Maybe a dead god leaves a stronger residue. You ever seen a dead god before?"
"Of course I haven't. No one has."
"That's not true," said Paul.
"No, you're right. But how many have, really? A dozen?"
Paul blinked, scrunching up his eyes. "Didn't Proust work some of the god deaths from the Olympics in eighty? Yeah, I'm pretty sure he did. Should we call him up?"
Tuck walked across the room toward the window and stopped, standing on the rug. It had a floral pattern with leaves in some odd magenta color. Why make realistic looking flowers with magenta leaves? Maybe they were from a plant he'd never heard of. He pushed the thought out of his mind and concentrated on why he was there, as distasteful as it was.
"No," he said. "This is different. The residue of destruction definitely clings to the perpetrator, but not the way it does to the actual location. There was more death here."
"Seriously?" said Paul. "Someone killed our killer?"
"Or the killer killed twice. Whatever happened, the people here didn't get along so well."
There was a knock on the open door and Jaimie Lawrence, the crime scene investigator, poked her head in. "Hey, guys."
Tuck smiled. "Hi, Jamie." She was nice in the way that very few people are. Tuck wasn't sure how she could approach scenes of violence and horror with the cheerful innocence of a bouncy-ball, but she managed.
"You almost ready for me?"
"I wish," said Paul. "We've got nothing."
"You sure this is the place?"
"He's sure."
Tuck nodded. "I'm sure."
"You want us to take a look around? Just a once over? Maybe we can find something that will give your guts some direction to follow."
"Is that standard procedure?" asked Tuck.
"No, but I'm assuming time is important here, and we're not especially concerned about proving anything in court."
"Time is very important," said Paul, "and court is the last thing on my list of worries at the moment."
"No, it's not," said Tuck.
"Yes, it is."
"Court matters."
"Saving lives matters."
"That, too, but--"
"Get in here, Jamie," said Paul.
"Great. Come on, boys!" Jamie stepped in, followed by the members of her team. With a few gestures and quite a few words, she divided up the small apartment into regions and the CSI crew started working across the room in rows, wall to wall.
"So, Forgotten Zed, huh?" Jamie talked as she looked at the rug, wall, ceiling, and rug again, inch by inch.
"Yeah," said Tuck. "Um, where should we stand? Do you need us to move?"
"You're fine. Who would have thought? I mean, the guy WAS forgotten. Not much going on around him. Most gods you hear something about. Who he's dating, where he's living, what she's wearing. Why don't you hear about gods getting drunk? Can they get drunk? I assume there are gods out there who drink. It'd be a waste to live for thousands of years without a martini now and then. You guys want to go out for drinks after this is all over?"
"Tuck doesn't drink," said Paul.
"I don't drink."
"Why not?"
"I don't like feeling out of control."
"He won't even take gas at the dentist. He'd rather just suffer."
Tuck gave a tight lipped smile as Jamie looked up at him.
"No drinks, then," she said. "Chinese food?"
Paul laughed. "After a murder scene? Tuck won't be eating for a week."
"Two to three hours," said his partner.
"I get it," said Jamie, looking at the floor. "But you two WILL hang out with me sometime. My boyfriend is out of town for a month, I'm bored, and you two are more fun than Buffy reruns."
Tuck looked at Paul, lost.
"You know," said Paul, grinning. "The demon slayer show?"
"Oh, yeah. That fake docudrama. I hate that show."
"You and all the other demons."
"Nobody thinks it's actually real," said Jamie, looking at the window closely, "just like that show about angels spending all their time helping people."
Paul snorted. "Like we have the time for that. Ruled by the mortgage. Not all of us have been making money for the last thousand years. You find anything?"
"Yeah. The smudges on the dirt here suggest that they took the screen out for the shot and put it back. That mean anything?"
"That they were careful," said Tuck, "but we already knew that."
"Somebody had tea," called one of the crew from the kitchen. "Anyone want some?"
"What kind?"
"Peach-a-Palooza."
Paul wrinkled his nose. "We'll pass," he called back, then turned to Tuck. "Why do people drink fruit tea? Tea is supposed to be from leaves. No fruit. No hips. You with me on this?"
Tuck shrugged. "Partially. I prefer Peach 'Plosion to Peach-a-Palooza."
"Seriously? You DRINK that stuff?"
"Not Peach-a-Palooza."
"Holes on the table," called another of the crew. "Little ones, like they had something screwed in here."
"Makes sense," said Paul. "They'd need some kind of mount for two shots that close together at this distance."
Tuck glanced out the window toward where he thought Forgotten Zed's apartment must be. "I can't even see it," he muttered.
"What was that?" asked Jamie.
"The building. Zed's apartment. I can't tell where it is from here."
"No kidding. That's an amazing shot."
"Two amazing shots," said Paul, "which probably means they braced the table as well. Everybody off."
Tuck stepped back awkwardly off the rug as Paul rolled it up, shoving it against the wall.
"We are trampling the rules of evidence under foot like the Romans in Carthage," he protested.
"The Romans had rules about evidence?"
"Just one: don't destroy it."
"Pish," said Paul, crouching down close to the floor. "See? Holes. They attached the table to the floor."
"And what's this," said Jamie, on her knees and pulling out a flashlight. "Looks like blood here."
"Finally," said Paul with a smile. "They left a little bit of a mess. Something you can get a lead from, Tuck?"
"If it's leftover from a fight, then I'd think so." Tuck took a deep breath. It meant another hour or two of feeling terrible, but that was to be expected. "Part of the job, right?"
"Exactly," said Paul. "And when it's done, we take Jamie out for Chinese."
"I thought we were doing Denny's?"
"Only if it's three in the morning. Otherwise I override you and say it's Chinese."
"I know an all night Chinese place," chipped in Jamie.
"In that case," said Paul, "it's definitely Chinese."
Tuck crouched down over the blood stain. "But I like pancakes," he muttered.
"What a mess," said Paul, looking around the room.
Tuck knew exactly what he meant. Hardly any furniture--just a table and a couple chairs, rug on the floor--with a kettle on the stove and a few dishes that had wandered away from their families. Other than that, the room was perfectly clean. Empty.
"You sure this is the place?" asked his partner. "They haven't left us anything to work with. At least nothing obvious."
Tuck nodded. The residue of violence was strong, like the taste of liver in his nose. He'd only tried liver once, but the meat hadn't left a favorable impression. Meat? Was liver even meat? Tuck wished he could spit out the feeling of violence as easily as he had the liver.
"This is the place, but it's...strange, somehow. It's stronger than it seems like it should be."
"The residue?"
"Exactly."
Paul looked around at the immaculate room. "Maybe a dead god leaves a stronger residue. You ever seen a dead god before?"
"Of course I haven't. No one has."
"That's not true," said Paul.
"No, you're right. But how many have, really? A dozen?"
Paul blinked, scrunching up his eyes. "Didn't Proust work some of the god deaths from the Olympics in eighty? Yeah, I'm pretty sure he did. Should we call him up?"
Tuck walked across the room toward the window and stopped, standing on the rug. It had a floral pattern with leaves in some odd magenta color. Why make realistic looking flowers with magenta leaves? Maybe they were from a plant he'd never heard of. He pushed the thought out of his mind and concentrated on why he was there, as distasteful as it was.
"No," he said. "This is different. The residue of destruction definitely clings to the perpetrator, but not the way it does to the actual location. There was more death here."
"Seriously?" said Paul. "Someone killed our killer?"
"Or the killer killed twice. Whatever happened, the people here didn't get along so well."
There was a knock on the open door and Jaimie Lawrence, the crime scene investigator, poked her head in. "Hey, guys."
Tuck smiled. "Hi, Jamie." She was nice in the way that very few people are. Tuck wasn't sure how she could approach scenes of violence and horror with the cheerful innocence of a bouncy-ball, but she managed.
"You almost ready for me?"
"I wish," said Paul. "We've got nothing."
"You sure this is the place?"
"He's sure."
Tuck nodded. "I'm sure."
"You want us to take a look around? Just a once over? Maybe we can find something that will give your guts some direction to follow."
"Is that standard procedure?" asked Tuck.
"No, but I'm assuming time is important here, and we're not especially concerned about proving anything in court."
"Time is very important," said Paul, "and court is the last thing on my list of worries at the moment."
"No, it's not," said Tuck.
"Yes, it is."
"Court matters."
"Saving lives matters."
"That, too, but--"
"Get in here, Jamie," said Paul.
"Great. Come on, boys!" Jamie stepped in, followed by the members of her team. With a few gestures and quite a few words, she divided up the small apartment into regions and the CSI crew started working across the room in rows, wall to wall.
"So, Forgotten Zed, huh?" Jamie talked as she looked at the rug, wall, ceiling, and rug again, inch by inch.
"Yeah," said Tuck. "Um, where should we stand? Do you need us to move?"
"You're fine. Who would have thought? I mean, the guy WAS forgotten. Not much going on around him. Most gods you hear something about. Who he's dating, where he's living, what she's wearing. Why don't you hear about gods getting drunk? Can they get drunk? I assume there are gods out there who drink. It'd be a waste to live for thousands of years without a martini now and then. You guys want to go out for drinks after this is all over?"
"Tuck doesn't drink," said Paul.
"I don't drink."
"Why not?"
"I don't like feeling out of control."
"He won't even take gas at the dentist. He'd rather just suffer."
Tuck gave a tight lipped smile as Jamie looked up at him.
"No drinks, then," she said. "Chinese food?"
Paul laughed. "After a murder scene? Tuck won't be eating for a week."
"Two to three hours," said his partner.
"I get it," said Jamie, looking at the floor. "But you two WILL hang out with me sometime. My boyfriend is out of town for a month, I'm bored, and you two are more fun than Buffy reruns."
Tuck looked at Paul, lost.
"You know," said Paul, grinning. "The demon slayer show?"
"Oh, yeah. That fake docudrama. I hate that show."
"You and all the other demons."
"Nobody thinks it's actually real," said Jamie, looking at the window closely, "just like that show about angels spending all their time helping people."
Paul snorted. "Like we have the time for that. Ruled by the mortgage. Not all of us have been making money for the last thousand years. You find anything?"
"Yeah. The smudges on the dirt here suggest that they took the screen out for the shot and put it back. That mean anything?"
"That they were careful," said Tuck, "but we already knew that."
"Somebody had tea," called one of the crew from the kitchen. "Anyone want some?"
"What kind?"
"Peach-a-Palooza."
Paul wrinkled his nose. "We'll pass," he called back, then turned to Tuck. "Why do people drink fruit tea? Tea is supposed to be from leaves. No fruit. No hips. You with me on this?"
Tuck shrugged. "Partially. I prefer Peach 'Plosion to Peach-a-Palooza."
"Seriously? You DRINK that stuff?"
"Not Peach-a-Palooza."
"Holes on the table," called another of the crew. "Little ones, like they had something screwed in here."
"Makes sense," said Paul. "They'd need some kind of mount for two shots that close together at this distance."
Tuck glanced out the window toward where he thought Forgotten Zed's apartment must be. "I can't even see it," he muttered.
"What was that?" asked Jamie.
"The building. Zed's apartment. I can't tell where it is from here."
"No kidding. That's an amazing shot."
"Two amazing shots," said Paul, "which probably means they braced the table as well. Everybody off."
Tuck stepped back awkwardly off the rug as Paul rolled it up, shoving it against the wall.
"We are trampling the rules of evidence under foot like the Romans in Carthage," he protested.
"The Romans had rules about evidence?"
"Just one: don't destroy it."
"Pish," said Paul, crouching down close to the floor. "See? Holes. They attached the table to the floor."
"And what's this," said Jamie, on her knees and pulling out a flashlight. "Looks like blood here."
"Finally," said Paul with a smile. "They left a little bit of a mess. Something you can get a lead from, Tuck?"
"If it's leftover from a fight, then I'd think so." Tuck took a deep breath. It meant another hour or two of feeling terrible, but that was to be expected. "Part of the job, right?"
"Exactly," said Paul. "And when it's done, we take Jamie out for Chinese."
"I thought we were doing Denny's?"
"Only if it's three in the morning. Otherwise I override you and say it's Chinese."
"I know an all night Chinese place," chipped in Jamie.
"In that case," said Paul, "it's definitely Chinese."
Tuck crouched down over the blood stain. "But I like pancakes," he muttered.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 07
[So...I had this section written two days ago. Yeah, I just forgot to post it. Really sorry.]
In a suite on the fifth floor of the Hilton, Damastes sat and waited. His companions had something playing on the television in the other room, but that was not a technology that Damastes had ever taken to. He used it, certainly--it was unavoidable--but it was not his choice for entertainment. Books were much more calming. At his age, he found that mattered to him.
There was a polite knock on the door.
"Come," he said.
Ninny poked her head in. At more than a thousand years old she was long lived for a demon, but she didn't look a day over two-hundred, her hair still black like a raven. Beautiful. Damastes had always found her beautiful. Not for the first time, he was struck by how much she reminded him of his daughter, and, not for the first time, he couldn't decide whether that caused him more pain or joy. Whatever the case, he wouldn't resolve the debate today.
"She hasn't come," he said.
Ninny shook her head. "Is there a chance that intriguing Mr. Tombs got her?"
"Possible. But not likely. I chose Veronica for her competence. Even if the psychopath figured out our intentions, I have no doubt that she was more than a match for him."
Ninny walked in and sat down on one of the overstuffed leather chairs, crossing her legs. "I suppose we have to consider the possibility that she lost her nerve."
"Also not likely."
"But possible?"
"When it comes to facing death, I have seen great disparity in the reactions of men. I watched while one man ran for three hours before he was finally caught and killed--ran the entire time. I wouldn't have thought it was possible. Another time a woman was perfectly calm facing her own death, but for some reason had a craving for muffins."
"What kind of muffins?"
"Does it matter?"
"I'm curious."
"Chocolate."
Ninny wrinkled her nose. "Those don't count as muffins. I can't find any meaningful distinction between those and cupcakes."
"One is cake, one is muffin."
"Both are chocolate."
"This is beside the point. Veronica was prepared for death. She knew it was necessary."
"A true believer," said Ninny, smiling, mockery in her voice.
"Yes," said Damastes, his words clipped. "They do exist."
"Oh, don't get short with me," said the demon, smiling. "You know that Hugh and I believe in what you're doing."
"I do. And I appreciate it." Damastes adjusted his hands in his lap. "I'm afraid I've been slightly on edge."
Ninny stood. "A significant day. Meaningful. Important."
Damastes shook his head. "No. Zed is a god, just like any other."
"No he's not."
The angel realized his jaw was clenched. He consciously relaxed it. "You're right. He's not."
"And now he's dead."
"Is he?" His eyebrows raised.
"That's what I came in to tell you."
"You could have started with that."
"I know." Ninny's face was serious. "I should have. I always feel strange when we do this--almost giddy, you know. I thought I would tease you a bit, make you wait for the news. I'm sorry."
"So it's definite that he's dead?"
"We just saw it on the television. The police and the TCD aren't talking, but someone tipped off the press. Forgotten Zed is gone. What he deserved, I suppose."
Damastes closed his eyes. "Not what he deserved. But what was best."
He heard Ninny's quiet footsteps and the sound of the door closing. He sat without opening his eyes, just breathing. Death was not what Forgotten Zed deserved, but it would have to do.
Bradley hurried back out of the kitchen when he heard someone shout. There was a general hubbub--he didn't know why the word 'hubbub' came to mind, but it did--and it all surrounded table twelve. The woman. He pushed forward, sliding past a couple in sweater vests to get a view.
She was on the floor.
An older man was kneeling next to her, searching through her pockets, while his wife spoke quickly into a phone.
"What's the matter?" asked Bradley, also kneeling.
"Looks like anaphylactic shock," said the man, pulling back the coat and sliding his hands into one of the hip pockets of the woman's jeans. "Confound it! Why doesn't she have an EpiPen?"
"A what?"
"Helps with allergic reactions."
"Should we do CPR?" Bradley felt like he should be doing SOMETHING, but he realized his rescue breathing training was eight years old from Boy Scouts, and he'd heard that things had changed. How had they changed?
"CPR won't do much good with an airway swolen shut." The man finished checking her other pocket, pulled out her wallet, opened it up quickly, then slammed it on the floor. "She should know better! With a reaction this severe, she should have something with her."
"They're on their way," said his wife. "Three minutes."
"Isn't there something we can do?" asked Bradley. She wasn't moving, wasn't breathing. She was too still. It reminded him uncomfortably of his grandmother's funeral. He'd watched the body in the coffin, overly still, and had expected any moment that Grandma would sit up, twitch, sneeze, something, anything. That was the kind of stillness that held this woman's body. Bradley realized he didn't even know her name.
"Nothing that I know of," said the man. "I'm not idiot enough to try that tracheotomy with a hollow tube that you see on TV."
"Oh," said Bradley. "Could we do that? No, you just said not to."
The older man's mouth twisted, and they sat. Doing nothing. Part of Bradley's mind knew that there was chatter in the restaurant. The manager was saying something, possibly to him, but he couldn't track it. He was looking at the woman's face, and it looked strangely calm. When she'd come into the restaurant she had looked so anxious. Strained, almost like she was in shock. Now she was napping. Just without breathing.
The front door of the restaurant swung open to swallow a rush of medics and equipment. Bradley was pushed back as the EMT's did their work, and he sat down at an empty table. There was a plate in front of him. C-three, his brain informed him, but the Thai escaped him. How had it happened? He'd been very specific. He HAD.
The EMT's moved out and people started sitting down again. Bradley apologized and stood, giving the table back to the three women eating together. He started back to the kitchen and nearly collided with the round chef and the less-round manager.
"Why didn't you tell the chef she had a peanut allergy?"
Bradley blinked at him. "What?"
"Why didn't you mention her allergy? She must have told you."
"She did."
"So why didn't you tell the chef?"
"I did."
The chef was red in the face. "I would have remembered that, and I heard nothing."
Bradley blinked again. This was ridiculous. It was like a bad dream, except he wasn't holding a miniature banana palm. (For some reason, those kept showing up in his dreams.) Should he argue? His word against the chef, and the chef had worked here longer. Also, he realized with a bit of cynicism, it's easier to replace a waiter than a chef.
"I see where this is going," he said.
"Hang on, Bradley," said the manager. "This isn't going anywhere. I just need to know what happened."
Bradley shook his head. "Don't worry about it. I've loved working here. I'll go."
"Hang on, Bradley!"
The chef snorted. "Go. Good riddance."
Bradley ignored the manager as he slipped into the back and grabbed his things, walking out into the alley. He hadn't loved working at Thai For First. He'd thought he would, since he liked the food and he liked being funny, and he'd assumed the two would combine in waiting tables almost as well as they would with dinner theater. He'd been partially right. The two had combined, but more like a weak soup of humor and curry. It hadn't tasted THAT great.
The door closed behind him, shutting off the chatter and sizzle, leaving him in the muted city sounds of the back streets. Never quiet in the city, but quieter, like Northern Lights had forgotten about Bradley. It had. That was fine. He put in his earbuds and started walking.
In a suite on the fifth floor of the Hilton, Damastes sat and waited. His companions had something playing on the television in the other room, but that was not a technology that Damastes had ever taken to. He used it, certainly--it was unavoidable--but it was not his choice for entertainment. Books were much more calming. At his age, he found that mattered to him.
There was a polite knock on the door.
"Come," he said.
Ninny poked her head in. At more than a thousand years old she was long lived for a demon, but she didn't look a day over two-hundred, her hair still black like a raven. Beautiful. Damastes had always found her beautiful. Not for the first time, he was struck by how much she reminded him of his daughter, and, not for the first time, he couldn't decide whether that caused him more pain or joy. Whatever the case, he wouldn't resolve the debate today.
"She hasn't come," he said.
Ninny shook her head. "Is there a chance that intriguing Mr. Tombs got her?"
"Possible. But not likely. I chose Veronica for her competence. Even if the psychopath figured out our intentions, I have no doubt that she was more than a match for him."
Ninny walked in and sat down on one of the overstuffed leather chairs, crossing her legs. "I suppose we have to consider the possibility that she lost her nerve."
"Also not likely."
"But possible?"
"When it comes to facing death, I have seen great disparity in the reactions of men. I watched while one man ran for three hours before he was finally caught and killed--ran the entire time. I wouldn't have thought it was possible. Another time a woman was perfectly calm facing her own death, but for some reason had a craving for muffins."
"What kind of muffins?"
"Does it matter?"
"I'm curious."
"Chocolate."
Ninny wrinkled her nose. "Those don't count as muffins. I can't find any meaningful distinction between those and cupcakes."
"One is cake, one is muffin."
"Both are chocolate."
"This is beside the point. Veronica was prepared for death. She knew it was necessary."
"A true believer," said Ninny, smiling, mockery in her voice.
"Yes," said Damastes, his words clipped. "They do exist."
"Oh, don't get short with me," said the demon, smiling. "You know that Hugh and I believe in what you're doing."
"I do. And I appreciate it." Damastes adjusted his hands in his lap. "I'm afraid I've been slightly on edge."
Ninny stood. "A significant day. Meaningful. Important."
Damastes shook his head. "No. Zed is a god, just like any other."
"No he's not."
The angel realized his jaw was clenched. He consciously relaxed it. "You're right. He's not."
"And now he's dead."
"Is he?" His eyebrows raised.
"That's what I came in to tell you."
"You could have started with that."
"I know." Ninny's face was serious. "I should have. I always feel strange when we do this--almost giddy, you know. I thought I would tease you a bit, make you wait for the news. I'm sorry."
"So it's definite that he's dead?"
"We just saw it on the television. The police and the TCD aren't talking, but someone tipped off the press. Forgotten Zed is gone. What he deserved, I suppose."
Damastes closed his eyes. "Not what he deserved. But what was best."
He heard Ninny's quiet footsteps and the sound of the door closing. He sat without opening his eyes, just breathing. Death was not what Forgotten Zed deserved, but it would have to do.
Bradley hurried back out of the kitchen when he heard someone shout. There was a general hubbub--he didn't know why the word 'hubbub' came to mind, but it did--and it all surrounded table twelve. The woman. He pushed forward, sliding past a couple in sweater vests to get a view.
She was on the floor.
An older man was kneeling next to her, searching through her pockets, while his wife spoke quickly into a phone.
"What's the matter?" asked Bradley, also kneeling.
"Looks like anaphylactic shock," said the man, pulling back the coat and sliding his hands into one of the hip pockets of the woman's jeans. "Confound it! Why doesn't she have an EpiPen?"
"A what?"
"Helps with allergic reactions."
"Should we do CPR?" Bradley felt like he should be doing SOMETHING, but he realized his rescue breathing training was eight years old from Boy Scouts, and he'd heard that things had changed. How had they changed?
"CPR won't do much good with an airway swolen shut." The man finished checking her other pocket, pulled out her wallet, opened it up quickly, then slammed it on the floor. "She should know better! With a reaction this severe, she should have something with her."
"They're on their way," said his wife. "Three minutes."
"Isn't there something we can do?" asked Bradley. She wasn't moving, wasn't breathing. She was too still. It reminded him uncomfortably of his grandmother's funeral. He'd watched the body in the coffin, overly still, and had expected any moment that Grandma would sit up, twitch, sneeze, something, anything. That was the kind of stillness that held this woman's body. Bradley realized he didn't even know her name.
"Nothing that I know of," said the man. "I'm not idiot enough to try that tracheotomy with a hollow tube that you see on TV."
"Oh," said Bradley. "Could we do that? No, you just said not to."
The older man's mouth twisted, and they sat. Doing nothing. Part of Bradley's mind knew that there was chatter in the restaurant. The manager was saying something, possibly to him, but he couldn't track it. He was looking at the woman's face, and it looked strangely calm. When she'd come into the restaurant she had looked so anxious. Strained, almost like she was in shock. Now she was napping. Just without breathing.
The front door of the restaurant swung open to swallow a rush of medics and equipment. Bradley was pushed back as the EMT's did their work, and he sat down at an empty table. There was a plate in front of him. C-three, his brain informed him, but the Thai escaped him. How had it happened? He'd been very specific. He HAD.
The EMT's moved out and people started sitting down again. Bradley apologized and stood, giving the table back to the three women eating together. He started back to the kitchen and nearly collided with the round chef and the less-round manager.
"Why didn't you tell the chef she had a peanut allergy?"
Bradley blinked at him. "What?"
"Why didn't you mention her allergy? She must have told you."
"She did."
"So why didn't you tell the chef?"
"I did."
The chef was red in the face. "I would have remembered that, and I heard nothing."
Bradley blinked again. This was ridiculous. It was like a bad dream, except he wasn't holding a miniature banana palm. (For some reason, those kept showing up in his dreams.) Should he argue? His word against the chef, and the chef had worked here longer. Also, he realized with a bit of cynicism, it's easier to replace a waiter than a chef.
"I see where this is going," he said.
"Hang on, Bradley," said the manager. "This isn't going anywhere. I just need to know what happened."
Bradley shook his head. "Don't worry about it. I've loved working here. I'll go."
"Hang on, Bradley!"
The chef snorted. "Go. Good riddance."
Bradley ignored the manager as he slipped into the back and grabbed his things, walking out into the alley. He hadn't loved working at Thai For First. He'd thought he would, since he liked the food and he liked being funny, and he'd assumed the two would combine in waiting tables almost as well as they would with dinner theater. He'd been partially right. The two had combined, but more like a weak soup of humor and curry. It hadn't tasted THAT great.
The door closed behind him, shutting off the chatter and sizzle, leaving him in the muted city sounds of the back streets. Never quiet in the city, but quieter, like Northern Lights had forgotten about Bradley. It had. That was fine. He put in his earbuds and started walking.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 06
[Thanks to everyone who gives feedback. This book feels very new for me, so the encouragement is very appreciated.
Bradley stepped out of the kitchen and leaned his head against the little wall that hid him from the diners. His feet hurt. They shouldn't, since he'd been walking on them every night for the endless eternity of cleaning tables and washing dishes. In fact, he was usually on his feet for longer than he had been that night, but his feet hurt twice as badly. He couldn't figure it out.
"Sore feet?" asked Denise, stopping next to him.
Bradley rolled his head sideways on the wall to look at her. "How did you know?"
"Happened to me, too, first night I started waiting tables. I think it's the stress. Gets to you, makes your body tense. Been rough?"
"Have you been watching me?"
Denise was smiling. "Off and on. I wondered what was going on at table ten."
"Chicken nuggets," said Bradley.
"The kid wanted chicken nuggets?"
"No, the kid wanted Khao Pad Namprik Pao Sai Kai. It was the dad who wanted chicken nuggets."
"Look at you!" said Denise, smiling even more. "Rattling off that name like you grew up shorter and more Thai."
Bradley stood up straight and rolled his shoulders and head, trying to get out some of the tension. "I've washed enough of it off plates, I ought to be able to pronounce it by now."
"Fine. Don't accept a compliment. You've got a new customer."
"Hey, Denise, I didn't mean it that way."
"I get it," she said, starting to walk away. "Sore feet."
"Yeah," he called after her. Sore feet. That was probably it. Also, speaking without thinking. The menu came easy to him, but he remembered Denise talking about it. Took her months to get it right. Stupid, acting like it was nothing special. Stupid.
But Denise was also right about the customer. Sitting at twelve, alone, a small lady with a fluffed up coat on, like she was puffer fish, trying to look bigger than she was. She looked intelligent, which was promising. At the very least, if she were rude to him, she might do it in a clever way. She didn't look like the rude type, though. Not that Bradley had enough experience to be certain there really was a 'rude type,' but if there were, she didn't look it. She looked stressed. Flushed, too. Jogging on your way to eat dinner? Oh, please don't let her be sick. He did not need that. Table eleven had been filled with an entire pack of teenagers, apparently raised by wolves, without the benefit of either elbows or handkerchiefs. Sniffles and coughing out into the air. He was probably doomed to a weekend inside, shivering under his duvet, and a weekend being sick was a weekend not being paid.
But, sick or not, the lady needed water. He grabbed the necessaries from off the serving counter and headed over.
"Hi, I'm Bradley, and I'm the guy who will be explaining the mysteries of our menu tonight. Can I start you off with something to drink?"
She blinked at him, not seeming to comprehend.
"Drink?"
"Yes," said Bradley. "Juice, fountain drinks, beer, wine?"
She shook her head. "No thanks. This water is fine. Empty stomach. Anything alcoholic would make me pass out on your table."
"No problem," said Bradley, mentally adjusting down the value of his tip. That was okay. He'd had some decent tippers already. If the rest of his tables commented on his hair instead of giving money, he'd still be coming out ahead of his nights washing dishes. "Would you like me to give you a minute to look at the menu?"
The woman was looking down at it, but her eyes seemed to be having a hard time focussing. Should he say something?
"I can't read it," she said finally, throwing it onto the table. "What do you recommend?"
"That depends. Are you in the mood for something simple and filling, or more complex? Do you like mild or hot? Meat or vegetarian?"
She held up her hands. "Too many choices. Just a second." She thought. "Don't care about complex, either way works. Hot is good, and the only people I know who are vegetarians never had to deal with chickens."
"Have you had to deal with chickens?" asked Bradley.
"Oh yes. So what do you recommend?"
"I really enjoy the--"
"Hang on. One more thing. No peanuts. I'm allergic."
Bradley mentally switched gears, running through the menu in his head. "In that case I recommend the Kuaytiao Lad na."
"Sounds exotic."
"It all sounds exotic," said Bradley, bobbing his eyebrows.
The woman laughed. It sounded slightly brittle, but genuine. Bradley smiled along.
"That was funny."
"Thank you."
"So tell me what that exotic sounding dish actually is."
"Noodles, broccoli, and chicken. Pretty much."
"No peanuts?"
"None, and I'll make sure to tell the chef."
"Perfect. You're a saint," she looked up at his name tag, "Bradley. Definitely a saint."
"Oh, I'm much more than that," he said. "I'm a minor deity at least."
The woman looked at him sharply, then burst into laughter again. Bradley wasn't sure his joke was worth all that, but he smiled anyway. Was that the right response? The more he looked at her, the more on edge she seemed. Her eyes were red, and her cheeks had faint tracks on them, like she'd been crying.
"You're shaking," he said, surprised that he said it out loud. Might as well go all the way. "Are you all right?"
She stopped laughing, her face very serious. "I just need food, Bradley. I'll feel much better. Any way to hurry it along? I can tip extra."
Bradley was shaking his head. "No, ma'am, that's not necessary. Especially since I can't be sure I can deliver. Our chef is a bit like Old Faithful."
"Reliable, is he?"
"Actually, Old Faithful isn't as consistent as people think it is. All depends on how long the last explosion was, but one thing is always certain: it's not comfortable to stand too close."
"He blows up sometimes?"
"Sometimes. Why am I telling you this?"
"I don't know, but I find it very amusing. Of course, that may be due to fatigue."
"Right. I'll get your order in. Chicken, noodles, veggies, all of it spicy?"
"Perfect."
"How spicy?"
"What are my options?"
"Anything from 'forgotten memory of a peppercorn,' to 'melt your eyes' spicy."
"Hmm. Give me a runny nose."
"Nasal drainage spicy it is."
She wrinkled her nose."
"I guess I won't ever use that phrase with a customer again," said Bradley.
"First night waiting tables?"
Bradley put his finger on his nose.
"I won't hold it against you," she said. "Just get him to hurry."
"I'll see what I can do."
He left her, glancing back to see her huddled into her coat. She looked exhausted and energized, both at the same time. It was strange. Attractive, and they were about the same age, but still strange. Also, the height difference would definitely be an issue. They'd have to end any dates close to a stepladder.
Also, what was he even thinking? Why had he spent the whole night noticing if female customers were single or not? Was he that desperate for company? Yeah, he probably was.
Time to talk to the chef. It hadn't been so bad tonight. The chef was at the ideal level of fatigue, not tired enough to be disastrously temperamental, but fatigued enough to seem mellow. He'd probably been up too late playing online. He'd overheard the guy talking about it a time or two. Or twenty. Who knew there could be so much drama over who got to walk away with a particular piece of digital armor? It was like junior high all over again, but with a lot more acronyms. He still had to go look up what, exactly, 'DPS' stood for.
Bradley slipped through the doors into the kitchen, walking over into shouting range with the chef.
"What's up, skinny?" asked the round man. Once again, Bradley was astounded by the man's creativity. He was tempted to call the chef 'fats' in return, but no, he wasn't that stupid.
"I've got an F-three on order, but it needs a little extra care."
"You want extra care? I was up half the night raiding. Finally got my tier-ten shoulder piece, thank you very much. I'm too tired to do special care."
"Hey, I understand, but it's pretty important. The lady has a peanut allergy."
"Oh, right," said the chef. "Sorry. I get it. I'll be careful. F-three, careful on the peanuts."
"Perfect. Thanks, chef. She's also very hungry so," the chef glared, "so I'll take her some bread. Absolutely. No need to bother you. I'm out."
And Bradley backed away, not making eye contact. He'd read somewhere that eye contact provokes male gorillas, and since he'd noticed some similarities in intelligence between mountain gorillas and the chef, he was trying to apply the lessons he'd gleaned from the nature channel. So far it was having some positive effects. No eye contact. Back away.
He still thought it was weird that they served bread as an appetizer at a Thai restaurant. It didn't seem right, but at least it gave him something to bring the woman. He filled two glasses on the way, smiled, asked an older couple if everything were delicious--either it was, or they were too polite to say otherwise--and then he was back at table twelve with the woman in the coat.
"Here's some bread."
She cocked an eyebrow. "At a Thai restaurant?"
Bradley shrugged. "Don't ask me. I've always thought it was weird, too. But it's good bread. Sometimes I snack on it in the back. That's why you only have three pieces. The baskets usually have four."
She looked at him closely.
"You're messing with me."
"I am."
She laughed again while Bradley smiled.
"Deadpan humor, I see. A little refreshing. My husband is like that. Sorry. Was." Her smile vanished.
Bradley rubbed his hand over his mouth. Uh-oh. "I'm sorry. He passed away?" She nodded, and Bradley didn't know whether he should be glad he'd guessed right. "Recently?"
"Recently enough," she said, reaching for a pieces of bread and tearing it in half. "I'm sorry. I don't usually inflict this on others, but it's fresh in my mind tonight. Things keep reminding me of him recently. Like your humor. He'd always joke but never laugh. Just smile. Are you a laugher, Bradley?"
"Not much of one. The world is an amusing place, but not really a funny one."
"That's the kind of thing Gerald would say." She shook her head. "Again, sorry for inflicting this on you. I should eat something. Make myself shut up."
"Nothing to worry about, ma'am. You come here to enjoy good food and be comfortable. So be comfortable. I'll just bring you the food."
"And the jokes?"
"Only bad jokes. For the really funny stuff, you have to get Denise."
"Which is Denise?"
"That server right over there."
The woman turned in her seat to look. "She looks pretty serious."
"Oh no. She's like a barrel full of monkeys. Non-stop yucks."
"Monkeys?"
"Monkeys."
"Also, you just said 'yucks.'"
"Yes, I did."
She was smiling again. "I think I'll stick with you as my server, Bradley. I've been through much worse things today than a few bad jokes. I think I can handle anything you throw at me."
"Except peanuts."
She shook her head. "That one wasn't funny."
"Should I keep trying?"
"Sure. Keep trying."
"I need to go check on my other tables. Wave at me if you need anything, okay?"
She nodded.
"I really mean it. Not in a romantic sense. I'm not trying to come on to you. It's just that you look pretty strung out, and I know what it's like to be tired and have a bad day, so I wanted you to know that I can call you a cab, or whatever. Get you mango with sticky rice. It's good."
"You recommend the mango?"
"With sticky rice. Yes. In fact, you could just skip dinner and go straight to desert. The syrup they put on the rice is to die for."
"You mean it has peanuts in it?"
"I could check--oh. Joke. Actually that was quite clever."
She smiled. "Thank you. And I'll stick with the Kuay-whatever. I need real food in my stomach before I try anything else."
"Absolutely. I'll go see how it's coming."
"Thank you, Bradley."
Bradley stepped out of the kitchen and leaned his head against the little wall that hid him from the diners. His feet hurt. They shouldn't, since he'd been walking on them every night for the endless eternity of cleaning tables and washing dishes. In fact, he was usually on his feet for longer than he had been that night, but his feet hurt twice as badly. He couldn't figure it out.
"Sore feet?" asked Denise, stopping next to him.
Bradley rolled his head sideways on the wall to look at her. "How did you know?"
"Happened to me, too, first night I started waiting tables. I think it's the stress. Gets to you, makes your body tense. Been rough?"
"Have you been watching me?"
Denise was smiling. "Off and on. I wondered what was going on at table ten."
"Chicken nuggets," said Bradley.
"The kid wanted chicken nuggets?"
"No, the kid wanted Khao Pad Namprik Pao Sai Kai. It was the dad who wanted chicken nuggets."
"Look at you!" said Denise, smiling even more. "Rattling off that name like you grew up shorter and more Thai."
Bradley stood up straight and rolled his shoulders and head, trying to get out some of the tension. "I've washed enough of it off plates, I ought to be able to pronounce it by now."
"Fine. Don't accept a compliment. You've got a new customer."
"Hey, Denise, I didn't mean it that way."
"I get it," she said, starting to walk away. "Sore feet."
"Yeah," he called after her. Sore feet. That was probably it. Also, speaking without thinking. The menu came easy to him, but he remembered Denise talking about it. Took her months to get it right. Stupid, acting like it was nothing special. Stupid.
But Denise was also right about the customer. Sitting at twelve, alone, a small lady with a fluffed up coat on, like she was puffer fish, trying to look bigger than she was. She looked intelligent, which was promising. At the very least, if she were rude to him, she might do it in a clever way. She didn't look like the rude type, though. Not that Bradley had enough experience to be certain there really was a 'rude type,' but if there were, she didn't look it. She looked stressed. Flushed, too. Jogging on your way to eat dinner? Oh, please don't let her be sick. He did not need that. Table eleven had been filled with an entire pack of teenagers, apparently raised by wolves, without the benefit of either elbows or handkerchiefs. Sniffles and coughing out into the air. He was probably doomed to a weekend inside, shivering under his duvet, and a weekend being sick was a weekend not being paid.
But, sick or not, the lady needed water. He grabbed the necessaries from off the serving counter and headed over.
"Hi, I'm Bradley, and I'm the guy who will be explaining the mysteries of our menu tonight. Can I start you off with something to drink?"
She blinked at him, not seeming to comprehend.
"Drink?"
"Yes," said Bradley. "Juice, fountain drinks, beer, wine?"
She shook her head. "No thanks. This water is fine. Empty stomach. Anything alcoholic would make me pass out on your table."
"No problem," said Bradley, mentally adjusting down the value of his tip. That was okay. He'd had some decent tippers already. If the rest of his tables commented on his hair instead of giving money, he'd still be coming out ahead of his nights washing dishes. "Would you like me to give you a minute to look at the menu?"
The woman was looking down at it, but her eyes seemed to be having a hard time focussing. Should he say something?
"I can't read it," she said finally, throwing it onto the table. "What do you recommend?"
"That depends. Are you in the mood for something simple and filling, or more complex? Do you like mild or hot? Meat or vegetarian?"
She held up her hands. "Too many choices. Just a second." She thought. "Don't care about complex, either way works. Hot is good, and the only people I know who are vegetarians never had to deal with chickens."
"Have you had to deal with chickens?" asked Bradley.
"Oh yes. So what do you recommend?"
"I really enjoy the--"
"Hang on. One more thing. No peanuts. I'm allergic."
Bradley mentally switched gears, running through the menu in his head. "In that case I recommend the Kuaytiao Lad na."
"Sounds exotic."
"It all sounds exotic," said Bradley, bobbing his eyebrows.
The woman laughed. It sounded slightly brittle, but genuine. Bradley smiled along.
"That was funny."
"Thank you."
"So tell me what that exotic sounding dish actually is."
"Noodles, broccoli, and chicken. Pretty much."
"No peanuts?"
"None, and I'll make sure to tell the chef."
"Perfect. You're a saint," she looked up at his name tag, "Bradley. Definitely a saint."
"Oh, I'm much more than that," he said. "I'm a minor deity at least."
The woman looked at him sharply, then burst into laughter again. Bradley wasn't sure his joke was worth all that, but he smiled anyway. Was that the right response? The more he looked at her, the more on edge she seemed. Her eyes were red, and her cheeks had faint tracks on them, like she'd been crying.
"You're shaking," he said, surprised that he said it out loud. Might as well go all the way. "Are you all right?"
She stopped laughing, her face very serious. "I just need food, Bradley. I'll feel much better. Any way to hurry it along? I can tip extra."
Bradley was shaking his head. "No, ma'am, that's not necessary. Especially since I can't be sure I can deliver. Our chef is a bit like Old Faithful."
"Reliable, is he?"
"Actually, Old Faithful isn't as consistent as people think it is. All depends on how long the last explosion was, but one thing is always certain: it's not comfortable to stand too close."
"He blows up sometimes?"
"Sometimes. Why am I telling you this?"
"I don't know, but I find it very amusing. Of course, that may be due to fatigue."
"Right. I'll get your order in. Chicken, noodles, veggies, all of it spicy?"
"Perfect."
"How spicy?"
"What are my options?"
"Anything from 'forgotten memory of a peppercorn,' to 'melt your eyes' spicy."
"Hmm. Give me a runny nose."
"Nasal drainage spicy it is."
She wrinkled her nose."
"I guess I won't ever use that phrase with a customer again," said Bradley.
"First night waiting tables?"
Bradley put his finger on his nose.
"I won't hold it against you," she said. "Just get him to hurry."
"I'll see what I can do."
He left her, glancing back to see her huddled into her coat. She looked exhausted and energized, both at the same time. It was strange. Attractive, and they were about the same age, but still strange. Also, the height difference would definitely be an issue. They'd have to end any dates close to a stepladder.
Also, what was he even thinking? Why had he spent the whole night noticing if female customers were single or not? Was he that desperate for company? Yeah, he probably was.
Time to talk to the chef. It hadn't been so bad tonight. The chef was at the ideal level of fatigue, not tired enough to be disastrously temperamental, but fatigued enough to seem mellow. He'd probably been up too late playing online. He'd overheard the guy talking about it a time or two. Or twenty. Who knew there could be so much drama over who got to walk away with a particular piece of digital armor? It was like junior high all over again, but with a lot more acronyms. He still had to go look up what, exactly, 'DPS' stood for.
Bradley slipped through the doors into the kitchen, walking over into shouting range with the chef.
"What's up, skinny?" asked the round man. Once again, Bradley was astounded by the man's creativity. He was tempted to call the chef 'fats' in return, but no, he wasn't that stupid.
"I've got an F-three on order, but it needs a little extra care."
"You want extra care? I was up half the night raiding. Finally got my tier-ten shoulder piece, thank you very much. I'm too tired to do special care."
"Hey, I understand, but it's pretty important. The lady has a peanut allergy."
"Oh, right," said the chef. "Sorry. I get it. I'll be careful. F-three, careful on the peanuts."
"Perfect. Thanks, chef. She's also very hungry so," the chef glared, "so I'll take her some bread. Absolutely. No need to bother you. I'm out."
And Bradley backed away, not making eye contact. He'd read somewhere that eye contact provokes male gorillas, and since he'd noticed some similarities in intelligence between mountain gorillas and the chef, he was trying to apply the lessons he'd gleaned from the nature channel. So far it was having some positive effects. No eye contact. Back away.
He still thought it was weird that they served bread as an appetizer at a Thai restaurant. It didn't seem right, but at least it gave him something to bring the woman. He filled two glasses on the way, smiled, asked an older couple if everything were delicious--either it was, or they were too polite to say otherwise--and then he was back at table twelve with the woman in the coat.
"Here's some bread."
She cocked an eyebrow. "At a Thai restaurant?"
Bradley shrugged. "Don't ask me. I've always thought it was weird, too. But it's good bread. Sometimes I snack on it in the back. That's why you only have three pieces. The baskets usually have four."
She looked at him closely.
"You're messing with me."
"I am."
She laughed again while Bradley smiled.
"Deadpan humor, I see. A little refreshing. My husband is like that. Sorry. Was." Her smile vanished.
Bradley rubbed his hand over his mouth. Uh-oh. "I'm sorry. He passed away?" She nodded, and Bradley didn't know whether he should be glad he'd guessed right. "Recently?"
"Recently enough," she said, reaching for a pieces of bread and tearing it in half. "I'm sorry. I don't usually inflict this on others, but it's fresh in my mind tonight. Things keep reminding me of him recently. Like your humor. He'd always joke but never laugh. Just smile. Are you a laugher, Bradley?"
"Not much of one. The world is an amusing place, but not really a funny one."
"That's the kind of thing Gerald would say." She shook her head. "Again, sorry for inflicting this on you. I should eat something. Make myself shut up."
"Nothing to worry about, ma'am. You come here to enjoy good food and be comfortable. So be comfortable. I'll just bring you the food."
"And the jokes?"
"Only bad jokes. For the really funny stuff, you have to get Denise."
"Which is Denise?"
"That server right over there."
The woman turned in her seat to look. "She looks pretty serious."
"Oh no. She's like a barrel full of monkeys. Non-stop yucks."
"Monkeys?"
"Monkeys."
"Also, you just said 'yucks.'"
"Yes, I did."
She was smiling again. "I think I'll stick with you as my server, Bradley. I've been through much worse things today than a few bad jokes. I think I can handle anything you throw at me."
"Except peanuts."
She shook her head. "That one wasn't funny."
"Should I keep trying?"
"Sure. Keep trying."
"I need to go check on my other tables. Wave at me if you need anything, okay?"
She nodded.
"I really mean it. Not in a romantic sense. I'm not trying to come on to you. It's just that you look pretty strung out, and I know what it's like to be tired and have a bad day, so I wanted you to know that I can call you a cab, or whatever. Get you mango with sticky rice. It's good."
"You recommend the mango?"
"With sticky rice. Yes. In fact, you could just skip dinner and go straight to desert. The syrup they put on the rice is to die for."
"You mean it has peanuts in it?"
"I could check--oh. Joke. Actually that was quite clever."
She smiled. "Thank you. And I'll stick with the Kuay-whatever. I need real food in my stomach before I try anything else."
"Absolutely. I'll go see how it's coming."
"Thank you, Bradley."
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 05
[Another section. This book is definitely more serious than other books I've written, so if this puts some of you off, I apologize. I'm afraid this is the course the story is taking, though. We'll have to wait for Lord of the Manor for a more lighthearted tale.]
Vera Mason waited for the oversized hit-man she'd hired to return. Bjorn Baernson. She'd found him through the cousin of the acquaintance of a guy she'd talked to in a bar in part of Northern Lights that, on a normal day (in a normal life) she wouldn't have even dreamed of stepping foot in, let alone sitting over a drink for three hours while she waited for someone to show up and introduce her into a world that frightened her. And excited her, she admitted. There was something visceral and pure in hiring someone like Bjorn. (That's what he'd insisted she call him. Just Bjorn.) Hiring a killer was so primitive and so simple, all wrapped up in modern business language of contracts and targets and clients. Disturbing how easy it had been in the end, to get so much power over another person's life.
But that was then. This was now. She was waiting for him to come back, and her hand was sweaty on the gun that she had inside the pocket of her overstuffed coat. Cold. She was always cold these days.
She paced up and down the alley they'd chosen for the final payout. Did Bjorn suspect anything? She didn't think he could. After all, why would a little woman like Vera try anything with a big, dangerous man like Bjorn Baernson? She was fluff, she was nothing, or at least that's what she'd tried to be every time she'd talked to the man. No reason to tip her hand, to let him know that, assuming he succeeded, the hit-man had to die.
That was him, the big shadow walking into the street light with a flash of blonde hair, then out again. That was him. He looked sad. Did killers look sad? It didn't seem right. Maybe he did think something was up--but how could he? She should pull out. No. She'd planned all this for too long. She couldn't pull out. There wouldn't be another chance like this. All the money they'd put into this, all the bribes, the searching, the guessing just right that Forgotten Zed would be the next target: an opportunity like this might not present itself for another hundred years or more, and she'd be long dead by then. This had to happen now. Vera tightened her grip on the handgun and forced her body to stand still.
Bjorn loomed up next to her. That was probably the only way he could go anywhere, looming to the bathroom, looming to the library, looming to his daughter's birthday party. Oh no. Don't think of him that way. Don't give the man a family. He was a killer, and, for all he knew, he'd just killed an innocent woman. He didn't deserve Vera's pity. He deserved what he was going to get.
"Vera," he said in his faintly nordic accent.
"Bjorn."
"It's done."
She swallowed, her hand tense in her coat. Vera wondered if she'd ever felt this much adrenaline. She tried to keep her voice from shaking. Did she ask about how it happened? Should she show any curiosity? She didn't want to. She didn't have any interest in knowing, even though she had no illusions about who had caused the death of Veronica Sweeps. She also had no doubts about what Miss Sweeps had intended to do with the power she'd collected--the power of a god. And now that power was inside the man in front of her, and Vera needed it. She had to have it.
"You probably want to be paid now, like we agreed."
"I don't."
"Good. Wait. What?"
"I don't want to be paid, Vera. Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?"
"Maybe. Sure."
"What do you have in your pocket?"
Vera swallowed. Did she draw and fire? Did she just shoot through the coat? In an instant the decision was taken away from her as the giant of a man stepped to her side and grabbed her arm. She struggled for a moment then stopped, letting him pull her hand out of her pocket. There was no point in resisting, not a man that size. She was a sparrow, he was a mountain, and there was no question about who would win that fight.
"I thought as much," said Bjorn, smiling. He was even laughing. "I knew I liked you, Vera. So much spunk in you, though you tried to hide it. Oh yes, I knew you were up to something from the moment we first met, though I wasn't completely sure what it was. Now I know. You intend to kill me?"
Vera found herself nodding. She was going to die. Might as well be honest. "I have to."
"You have to? Interesting. Quite the determination you have. May I ask why you couldn't simply kill the woman you sent me after yourself? Clearly you have the courage for it."
Vera swallowed, her arm still swallowed up in the large man's fist, the gun worthless in her hand. "It would be too easy to track me."
"So you needed an expendable middle-man. Is the gun registered to you?"
"No."
"Then how could they track you?"
"It's complicated."
"Does it have anything to do with the strange feelings that I am having? This something new inside of me?"
She nodded.
"I thought it might. Do you know what's happening to me?"
She nodded again.
"Could it cure cancer?"
Vera found herself at even more of a loss for words than she'd been the moment before. "Excuse me?"
"How old do you think I am, Vera?"
"I don't know. Fifty-something?"
"Bless you. I'm sixty-five."
"You don't look it."
"No, I don't. I've always been healthy, always looked young for my age. Fit as a lion and twice as dangerous." He laughed, his face very amused. "I think it has something to do with my great-grandmother. She was a demon, you know."
"I didn't."
"Oh yes. At least that's the story. And so I've lived to this wonderful age through some of the most violent battles of our times. When the militaries stopped wanting me, I got other jobs. Not the kind of work you tell your mother about, but you already knew that, didn't you. I see on your face that you're confused. The point of this story, Vera, is that no gun, knife, or bomb ever came close to killing me. And now, after all that, I'm about to be killed by myself. My own cells, grown out of control. Bone cancer."
Vera swallowed again, her mouth dry. "I've heard that's a painful way to go. I'm sorry."
"It's fine. I don't mind. In fact, when the doctor told me the cancer was incurable, I already knew that it wouldn't be cancer that killed me. I would never let it go that long. I prefer action. But I have a daughter."
"Oh," said Vera. She thought she could see where this was going.
Bjorn was nodding. "Yes. I want to take care of her. Give her something before I go. So when I heard about this job, and what you were offering, I took it. Enough to take care of my girl, or at least for a solid downpayment on a place of her own. I want her to have the money. Could you do that for me? Unless, of course, whatever I have going through me could cure this cancer. In that case, I'd prefer to have the money, though," and the big man shifted, a look of pain flashing across his face, "it certainly doesn't feel comfortable."
What should she say? The power of a god--could it cure the cancer? She had no doubt that it could, but...she needed that power! She was so close. Couldn't she lie to this man now, to this admitted murderer? It was just one more thing, one more small price to pay. She'd do it. Vera opened her mouth, then hesitated.
"Your great-grandmother was a demon?"
"That's the family story."
"Oh. No, then. I don't think this power can cure you. I'm afraid it runs almost opposite to your genetics. In fact, the power is probably making it worse."
Bjorn grimaced, then smiled. "That I would believe. You were about to lie to me, weren't you?"
"I was."
"Tell me it couldn't help me, though you thought it could."
"Yes."
"But you're telling the truth now?"
"I think so."
"I thought that might be the case. Ah well." He reached into his own pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "Here's my daughter's address. She's living in her mother's basement. Could you get the money to her? Not to the mother. Make sure of that. Not a bad woman, but I don't feel any need to provide for her. Understand?"
Vera nodded, taking the paper in her empty hand and putting it in her pocket.
"One final question, Mrs. Mason."
"Yes?"
"Is it important that you be the person who kills me?"
"I think so."
"Understood. In that case, it was a pleasure working with you. I have always admired determined women, and you are no exception. If I were thirty years younger and one-hundred pounds lighter, we might have had something. Make certain to leave here quickly. Goodbye, Vera."
Before she could react, Bjorn had bent down, pulling her hand up next to his head. She involuntarily jerked away, but his grip was solid, and his other hand closed around hers, pushing back on her fingers, pulling the trigger. The bark of the pistol made her jerk again, and she let out a small whimper as the large man slumped to the ground. She was shaking. She was crying. She wanted to scream. Why had he done that? She knew why, but why? He was a murderer, a bad man. He loved his daughter. He was a good man. Vera didn't know what to think.
Shouting from somewhere nearby shocked her into action. The gun went back into her coat and she started walking, quickly, on her someplace, though she couldn't think where. Even as she walked, she could already feel the power flowing into her, making her tears sparkle as they rolled down her cheeks--or perhaps she only imagined that.
Vera was truly trembling now. She hadn't eaten all day and she needed food. There, across the street, was a restaurant. She couldn't even tell what kind of food they served, though it smelled good enough. Food, then she was gone. She glanced around as she walked by a garbage can. She'd worn gloves, so she wasn't worried about prints, so, when she thought no one was looking, the gun went into the garbage. She covered it with a fast food bag and jogged across the street through a break in traffic. Someone was on the way out of the restaurant and held the door for her as she went into Thai for First.
Vera Mason waited for the oversized hit-man she'd hired to return. Bjorn Baernson. She'd found him through the cousin of the acquaintance of a guy she'd talked to in a bar in part of Northern Lights that, on a normal day (in a normal life) she wouldn't have even dreamed of stepping foot in, let alone sitting over a drink for three hours while she waited for someone to show up and introduce her into a world that frightened her. And excited her, she admitted. There was something visceral and pure in hiring someone like Bjorn. (That's what he'd insisted she call him. Just Bjorn.) Hiring a killer was so primitive and so simple, all wrapped up in modern business language of contracts and targets and clients. Disturbing how easy it had been in the end, to get so much power over another person's life.
But that was then. This was now. She was waiting for him to come back, and her hand was sweaty on the gun that she had inside the pocket of her overstuffed coat. Cold. She was always cold these days.
She paced up and down the alley they'd chosen for the final payout. Did Bjorn suspect anything? She didn't think he could. After all, why would a little woman like Vera try anything with a big, dangerous man like Bjorn Baernson? She was fluff, she was nothing, or at least that's what she'd tried to be every time she'd talked to the man. No reason to tip her hand, to let him know that, assuming he succeeded, the hit-man had to die.
That was him, the big shadow walking into the street light with a flash of blonde hair, then out again. That was him. He looked sad. Did killers look sad? It didn't seem right. Maybe he did think something was up--but how could he? She should pull out. No. She'd planned all this for too long. She couldn't pull out. There wouldn't be another chance like this. All the money they'd put into this, all the bribes, the searching, the guessing just right that Forgotten Zed would be the next target: an opportunity like this might not present itself for another hundred years or more, and she'd be long dead by then. This had to happen now. Vera tightened her grip on the handgun and forced her body to stand still.
Bjorn loomed up next to her. That was probably the only way he could go anywhere, looming to the bathroom, looming to the library, looming to his daughter's birthday party. Oh no. Don't think of him that way. Don't give the man a family. He was a killer, and, for all he knew, he'd just killed an innocent woman. He didn't deserve Vera's pity. He deserved what he was going to get.
"Vera," he said in his faintly nordic accent.
"Bjorn."
"It's done."
She swallowed, her hand tense in her coat. Vera wondered if she'd ever felt this much adrenaline. She tried to keep her voice from shaking. Did she ask about how it happened? Should she show any curiosity? She didn't want to. She didn't have any interest in knowing, even though she had no illusions about who had caused the death of Veronica Sweeps. She also had no doubts about what Miss Sweeps had intended to do with the power she'd collected--the power of a god. And now that power was inside the man in front of her, and Vera needed it. She had to have it.
"You probably want to be paid now, like we agreed."
"I don't."
"Good. Wait. What?"
"I don't want to be paid, Vera. Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?"
"Maybe. Sure."
"What do you have in your pocket?"
Vera swallowed. Did she draw and fire? Did she just shoot through the coat? In an instant the decision was taken away from her as the giant of a man stepped to her side and grabbed her arm. She struggled for a moment then stopped, letting him pull her hand out of her pocket. There was no point in resisting, not a man that size. She was a sparrow, he was a mountain, and there was no question about who would win that fight.
"I thought as much," said Bjorn, smiling. He was even laughing. "I knew I liked you, Vera. So much spunk in you, though you tried to hide it. Oh yes, I knew you were up to something from the moment we first met, though I wasn't completely sure what it was. Now I know. You intend to kill me?"
Vera found herself nodding. She was going to die. Might as well be honest. "I have to."
"You have to? Interesting. Quite the determination you have. May I ask why you couldn't simply kill the woman you sent me after yourself? Clearly you have the courage for it."
Vera swallowed, her arm still swallowed up in the large man's fist, the gun worthless in her hand. "It would be too easy to track me."
"So you needed an expendable middle-man. Is the gun registered to you?"
"No."
"Then how could they track you?"
"It's complicated."
"Does it have anything to do with the strange feelings that I am having? This something new inside of me?"
She nodded.
"I thought it might. Do you know what's happening to me?"
She nodded again.
"Could it cure cancer?"
Vera found herself at even more of a loss for words than she'd been the moment before. "Excuse me?"
"How old do you think I am, Vera?"
"I don't know. Fifty-something?"
"Bless you. I'm sixty-five."
"You don't look it."
"No, I don't. I've always been healthy, always looked young for my age. Fit as a lion and twice as dangerous." He laughed, his face very amused. "I think it has something to do with my great-grandmother. She was a demon, you know."
"I didn't."
"Oh yes. At least that's the story. And so I've lived to this wonderful age through some of the most violent battles of our times. When the militaries stopped wanting me, I got other jobs. Not the kind of work you tell your mother about, but you already knew that, didn't you. I see on your face that you're confused. The point of this story, Vera, is that no gun, knife, or bomb ever came close to killing me. And now, after all that, I'm about to be killed by myself. My own cells, grown out of control. Bone cancer."
Vera swallowed again, her mouth dry. "I've heard that's a painful way to go. I'm sorry."
"It's fine. I don't mind. In fact, when the doctor told me the cancer was incurable, I already knew that it wouldn't be cancer that killed me. I would never let it go that long. I prefer action. But I have a daughter."
"Oh," said Vera. She thought she could see where this was going.
Bjorn was nodding. "Yes. I want to take care of her. Give her something before I go. So when I heard about this job, and what you were offering, I took it. Enough to take care of my girl, or at least for a solid downpayment on a place of her own. I want her to have the money. Could you do that for me? Unless, of course, whatever I have going through me could cure this cancer. In that case, I'd prefer to have the money, though," and the big man shifted, a look of pain flashing across his face, "it certainly doesn't feel comfortable."
What should she say? The power of a god--could it cure the cancer? She had no doubt that it could, but...she needed that power! She was so close. Couldn't she lie to this man now, to this admitted murderer? It was just one more thing, one more small price to pay. She'd do it. Vera opened her mouth, then hesitated.
"Your great-grandmother was a demon?"
"That's the family story."
"Oh. No, then. I don't think this power can cure you. I'm afraid it runs almost opposite to your genetics. In fact, the power is probably making it worse."
Bjorn grimaced, then smiled. "That I would believe. You were about to lie to me, weren't you?"
"I was."
"Tell me it couldn't help me, though you thought it could."
"Yes."
"But you're telling the truth now?"
"I think so."
"I thought that might be the case. Ah well." He reached into his own pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "Here's my daughter's address. She's living in her mother's basement. Could you get the money to her? Not to the mother. Make sure of that. Not a bad woman, but I don't feel any need to provide for her. Understand?"
Vera nodded, taking the paper in her empty hand and putting it in her pocket.
"One final question, Mrs. Mason."
"Yes?"
"Is it important that you be the person who kills me?"
"I think so."
"Understood. In that case, it was a pleasure working with you. I have always admired determined women, and you are no exception. If I were thirty years younger and one-hundred pounds lighter, we might have had something. Make certain to leave here quickly. Goodbye, Vera."
Before she could react, Bjorn had bent down, pulling her hand up next to his head. She involuntarily jerked away, but his grip was solid, and his other hand closed around hers, pushing back on her fingers, pulling the trigger. The bark of the pistol made her jerk again, and she let out a small whimper as the large man slumped to the ground. She was shaking. She was crying. She wanted to scream. Why had he done that? She knew why, but why? He was a murderer, a bad man. He loved his daughter. He was a good man. Vera didn't know what to think.
Shouting from somewhere nearby shocked her into action. The gun went back into her coat and she started walking, quickly, on her someplace, though she couldn't think where. Even as she walked, she could already feel the power flowing into her, making her tears sparkle as they rolled down her cheeks--or perhaps she only imagined that.
Vera was truly trembling now. She hadn't eaten all day and she needed food. There, across the street, was a restaurant. She couldn't even tell what kind of food they served, though it smelled good enough. Food, then she was gone. She glanced around as she walked by a garbage can. She'd worn gloves, so she wasn't worried about prints, so, when she thought no one was looking, the gun went into the garbage. She covered it with a fast food bag and jogged across the street through a break in traffic. Someone was on the way out of the restaurant and held the door for her as she went into Thai for First.
Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 04
[Luther and Atty are back. I think I may have lost my sense of Luther a little in all this, so he may need revisions, but I think their conversation is pretty enjoyable anyway.]
Luther stepped to the side as a teenage boy pushed a shopping cart past, a teenage girl sitting in the cart and calling directions to her date. At least Luther assumed it was a date. It looked fun.
"You should try that," said Atty, standing next to his friend by the cold cereal that filled the shelves.
"Will you push me?" asked Luther.
"No, silly. Dating. You should try dating."
"Yeah. I knew what you meant."
"Hang on. Was that a joke? Did Luther the lugubrious just make a joke?"
"That's quite a vocabulary word. You sure you know what it means?"
"Yes, I know what it means," said Atty, stretching his arms up over his head in a tall, athletic yawn. Atty did everything in a tall and athletic manner. It didn't really bother Luther--he'd long since become reconciled to his five-and-a-half feet--but even so, Atty looked the way Luther had always imagined angels should look. Sure, the guy was wearing jeans and a sweat shirt, but he made that sweat shirt look majestic. Give the man wings and a sword, and he was the perfect avenging angel. Not that Atty would ever pick up a sword. "Lugubrious," continued Luther's friend. "Adjective. Looking or sounding sad or dismal. See also ‘glum.’"
"Expanding your vocabulary?" asked Luther, turning back to the selection of breakfast cereals. Which to choose? None of them appealed.
Atty grabbed a box of something corn-flavored and tossed it into Luther's cart. "Try that stuff. It's good. And yes, I'm expanding my vocabulary. It's a way of expanding my horizons, which I think a person ought to do whenever possible."
"I never buy this cereal," said Luther.
"Expand your horizons."
"I don't feel like dating."
"Please refer to my previous comment."
"I'm tired."
"You can't be tired," said Atty, smiling at the young couple and their baby that politely stepped by the two friends. "It's your birthday. Can't be tired on your birthday."
"It's not really my birthday. It was ten days ago, and you forgot it."
Atty looked exasperated. "Are you still going on about the whole Julian-Gregorian calendar thing? Please, Luther. Just because you were born before the change is no reason to make things strange and confusing for the rest of us. If George Washington was willing to adjust, you should do the same."
"Washington changed his birthday?"
Atty shrugged. "I think so. Read it someplace. Anyway, how old are you now?"
"Old."
"Come on. Really. How old?"
"One-thousand-two-hundred-seventeen."
"Wow. That is old."
"And ten days," added Luther.
Atty looked at him closely. "Another joke. Dude, that's two in two minutes. You're on a role. See? You're expanding your horizons. This whole job change is good for you--don't put that back."
Luther hesitated, the box of cereal in his hand. "But I don't want it."
"Try it."
"It looks like it would get soggy. I don't like soggy cereal."
"Try it and like it."
"What if I don't like it?"
"Then I'll eat it." Atty took the box out of Luther's hand and put it back in the cart. "We're moving on now."
Luther sighed and started pushing the cart. Moving on. What a concept. He was certainly having a hard time moving on. A month since he'd been fired and what had he accomplished in that time? He was tempted to think that he'd caught up on his TV watching, but from what he'd seen, that was impossible. There was always more, and with the very rare exception, each show was blander than the last. It wasn't that they were bad, since most of them weren't. They were just like flavorless Jell-O: kept you busy for a minute or two, but in the end there really wasn't much to say about the experience.
"Uh oh," said Atty.
"What's that?"
"You're thinking again."
"Something wrong with that?" Luther looked around to find out what row he was on--he'd lost track--and turned down the width of the store, looking for the pasta section. Pasta was easy to cook, and that mattered to him recently.
"There's a problem when you're thinking lugubriously."
"Ugh. Sounds like I'm coughing up something green and phlegmy."
"Yeah, that's a pretty good description of your life," agreed Atty.
"My life is not phlegm."
"Looks like it from where I'm standing."
"You could always stand somewhere else."
"No can do." Atty grabbed some sports drinks and tossed them into the cart. "Don’t worry, those are for me, and no, I absolutely cannot go stand somewhere else. I had to pry you out of your apartment like I was an octopus working on a clam."
"You saying I'm a pearl?"
"I'm saying your life looks all gray and phlegmy inside. What happened to you? You were the powerhouse behind Heartbreak Hal's entire divine operation. You were his archangel. You don't become an archangel by being a TV watching lump."
"I'm not a lump. Just having a down spell. A break. An hiatus."
"'An hiatus?' Now who's being snooty about vocabulary. And grammar."
"It's not snooty if it comes naturally."
"Then you're naturally snooty."
"I'm trying to buy pasta here," said Luther, looking at the rows of bags and boxes. Did any of the twists, curls, tubes or bow ties actually taste different from any of the sticks or elbows or diagonally cut tubes? He knew how to cook the stuff, but he realized that the finer points of pasta were lost on him.
"No," said Atty. "You're shopping for food with me in a pathetic and futile attempt to convince me that you're okay so that I will leave you alone and you can go back to your room and your TV that is sucking the life out of you."
"I don't just watch TV. I read books, too." Luther didn't bother to mention that TV really was about all he'd done for the first three weeks. It was only during the last few days that he'd become so disgusted with his own inactivity that he'd pulled out some old non-fiction he'd been meaning to get to for a long time. The history of cotton was surprisingly compelling.
"Okay, so you read books. Try the manicotti."
"Which is that?"
"The big tubes."
"The box says it's cannelloni."
"Who cares? Everyone calls it manicotti, and you should try it."
"How do I eat it?"
"You stuff things in it. Italian pasta-like things. Then you use a fork. Also, reading books doesn't quite count. When was the last time you talked with a person? An angel? Human? Heck, I'd take a demon."
"Right now," said Luther, sighing inwardly and grabbing a box of cannelloni. Maybe it would be good, but figuring out how to stuff it sounded complicated.
"When was the time before that?"
"Rae called after I got fired."
"That's nice of her. How long did you talk?"
"Ten minutes?"
"Are you asking me or telling me?"
"It was ten minutes. Not much more, if any."
"And that was when?"
"I told you. After I got fired."
"And who have you talked to since then?"
"Mr. and Mrs. Farkas."
"Who are they?"
"My neighbors."
"Those people? Dude, that's not a conversation. That's listening to Mr. Farkas tell you what's wrong with the government and Mrs. Farkas telling him to shut up. As I suspected, you have done nothing involving human interaction in the last four weeks."
"I'm not like you," said Luther, pushing his cart down the aisle again and looking for more food. He didn't know what he wanted--ah, had to grab spaghetti sauce--but he knew he needed more food. Eating out all the time was starting to get to his digestion. "I don't feel a need to be with people all the time. I don't mind being alone."
"But this isn't being alone," protested Atty. "This is depression. This is hiding yourself in the hole of your apartment and hoping time and television will bury you there." Atty grabbed Luther by the shoulder and stopped him, looking in his face. "I know I'm not the most sensitive or thoughtful angel around--Divine Chuck sure doesn't expect me to help people out with counseling duties--but even I know this is bad for you. You look bad. You look sunken and wan."
"Wan?"
"Another vocabulary word."
"Oh, I got it. I just don't know that I look wan."
"And sunken. When was the last time you looked in a mirror?"
"This morning."
"Really?"
Luther opened his mouth, thought, and closed it. Had he looked at himself? He couldn't remember if he had. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he'd looked at himself. After more than a millennium, he knew how he liked his hair--simple and ignorable--and he had no illusions about what his face looked like. A little old, a little gray on top, and what else was there to see? Wrinkles, maybe--even angels get a few after a while--but what need was there to keep track of every little change? And who would he be trying to look good for? Not his former boss, certainly. Heartbreak Hal had stopped paying attention to much of anything over a hundred years before. It had been up to Luther, then, to step in, to take care of people. Hal kept giving out the divine power for miracles, so Luther kept performing them. But you didn't need to look good to hand out miracles. No need to be dashing or fashionable to make someone's feet feel better, ease their back pain, make their hips ache less.
"I guess I don't know the last time I looked at myself."
"It's because you don't know who you are."
Luther wrinkled his forehead. "But if I didn't know who I am, wouldn't I look in the mirror more often?"
"You do know I'm talking metaphorically," said Atty.
"So was I. Feeling comfortable with who I am would mean I would need to keep checking on myself less, not more."
"Oh, you knew who you WERE, but you don't know who you ARE. Not now. You were the guy who took care of people and who had no life of his own.”
"I had a life."
"What?"
"I did stuff."
"Such as?"
"Fifteen years ago. I took a break and got another degree."
"The degree was in what?"
"Why does it matter?"
"Tell me, or I start singing Abba."
"I'm not a fan of Abba."
"Dancing Queen--"
"Okay. It was in Theological Philosophy."
"So work related."
"Anything wrong with that?"
"Not at all. Luther, I'm not trying to say that who you were was bad. Just the opposite. I thought you were awesome. That's why I wanted to be your friend in the first place. And why I didn't let you drive me away."
Luther was about to argue that he hadn't tried to drive Atty away, but that would have been a lie. "I'm not very good at making new friends."
"I could tell. Which is why I made friends with you. Don't kid yourself. It was like trying to hug a cactapus."
"A what?"
"A cactapus."
"There is no such thing."
"Isn't there? I could have sworn there was some demonic creature out there called a cactapus."
"No."
"Fine. Doesn't change the point of my story. Your work has been your life for at least the one-hundred years I've known you, and I was okay with that. Totally supportive, in fact, because you were good at it, dedicated, helping people, and I admired that. Plenty of time for a life outside of work later, I figured. Well, now you're definitely outside of work. Where's the life?"
Luther started pushing the cart again. "I'll find it."
"Where?"
"I'll take up cooking." He grabbed something and tossed it into his cart. "I'll learn how to cook that."
"Scouring pads?"
"Is that what I put in?"
"Yes. Cleaning aisle."
"Darn it. No, don't put those back. I need to clean my bathroom. Also, I think I'm starting to see your point."
"Which is?"
"I have no life."
Atty sighed. "That wasn't my point at all. My point was that you had a wonderful life, all due apologies to Frank Capra, but it was all defined around one thing. Now you get to redefine yourself. It's like the universe has conspired to offer you a midlife crisis, free of charge."
Luther wrinkled his nose. "Do I have to buy a motorcycle?"
"Only if you want to."
"Do I want to?"
"See what I mean? Here," said Atty, dropping a box of snack cakes into the cart.
"Do I like those?"
"Stop it."
"But you said I don't know who I am, so I'm not sure if I like Twinkies."
Atty was laughing. "Knock it off."
"I would, if I knew whether I wanted to knock it off or not. I'm so confused."
"Fine," said his friend, holding up his hands in surrender. "I get it. You're done talking with me about this. I can take a hint."
"Can you?"
"When you smash it into my face like a cream pie, yes. Can I ask one more thing, though?"
"Have I ever been able to stop you?"
"No. So I'm asking. Will you talk with someone about this?"
Luther looked into his cart. Twinkies, corn cereal he didn't want, scouring pads, cannelloni, and one bottle of spaghetti sauce. And Atty's energy drinks. Did he really want any of this stuff? Distressingly, he didn't know.
"Yeah. I'll talk with someone."
Luther stepped to the side as a teenage boy pushed a shopping cart past, a teenage girl sitting in the cart and calling directions to her date. At least Luther assumed it was a date. It looked fun.
"You should try that," said Atty, standing next to his friend by the cold cereal that filled the shelves.
"Will you push me?" asked Luther.
"No, silly. Dating. You should try dating."
"Yeah. I knew what you meant."
"Hang on. Was that a joke? Did Luther the lugubrious just make a joke?"
"That's quite a vocabulary word. You sure you know what it means?"
"Yes, I know what it means," said Atty, stretching his arms up over his head in a tall, athletic yawn. Atty did everything in a tall and athletic manner. It didn't really bother Luther--he'd long since become reconciled to his five-and-a-half feet--but even so, Atty looked the way Luther had always imagined angels should look. Sure, the guy was wearing jeans and a sweat shirt, but he made that sweat shirt look majestic. Give the man wings and a sword, and he was the perfect avenging angel. Not that Atty would ever pick up a sword. "Lugubrious," continued Luther's friend. "Adjective. Looking or sounding sad or dismal. See also ‘glum.’"
"Expanding your vocabulary?" asked Luther, turning back to the selection of breakfast cereals. Which to choose? None of them appealed.
Atty grabbed a box of something corn-flavored and tossed it into Luther's cart. "Try that stuff. It's good. And yes, I'm expanding my vocabulary. It's a way of expanding my horizons, which I think a person ought to do whenever possible."
"I never buy this cereal," said Luther.
"Expand your horizons."
"I don't feel like dating."
"Please refer to my previous comment."
"I'm tired."
"You can't be tired," said Atty, smiling at the young couple and their baby that politely stepped by the two friends. "It's your birthday. Can't be tired on your birthday."
"It's not really my birthday. It was ten days ago, and you forgot it."
Atty looked exasperated. "Are you still going on about the whole Julian-Gregorian calendar thing? Please, Luther. Just because you were born before the change is no reason to make things strange and confusing for the rest of us. If George Washington was willing to adjust, you should do the same."
"Washington changed his birthday?"
Atty shrugged. "I think so. Read it someplace. Anyway, how old are you now?"
"Old."
"Come on. Really. How old?"
"One-thousand-two-hundred-seventeen."
"Wow. That is old."
"And ten days," added Luther.
Atty looked at him closely. "Another joke. Dude, that's two in two minutes. You're on a role. See? You're expanding your horizons. This whole job change is good for you--don't put that back."
Luther hesitated, the box of cereal in his hand. "But I don't want it."
"Try it."
"It looks like it would get soggy. I don't like soggy cereal."
"Try it and like it."
"What if I don't like it?"
"Then I'll eat it." Atty took the box out of Luther's hand and put it back in the cart. "We're moving on now."
Luther sighed and started pushing the cart. Moving on. What a concept. He was certainly having a hard time moving on. A month since he'd been fired and what had he accomplished in that time? He was tempted to think that he'd caught up on his TV watching, but from what he'd seen, that was impossible. There was always more, and with the very rare exception, each show was blander than the last. It wasn't that they were bad, since most of them weren't. They were just like flavorless Jell-O: kept you busy for a minute or two, but in the end there really wasn't much to say about the experience.
"Uh oh," said Atty.
"What's that?"
"You're thinking again."
"Something wrong with that?" Luther looked around to find out what row he was on--he'd lost track--and turned down the width of the store, looking for the pasta section. Pasta was easy to cook, and that mattered to him recently.
"There's a problem when you're thinking lugubriously."
"Ugh. Sounds like I'm coughing up something green and phlegmy."
"Yeah, that's a pretty good description of your life," agreed Atty.
"My life is not phlegm."
"Looks like it from where I'm standing."
"You could always stand somewhere else."
"No can do." Atty grabbed some sports drinks and tossed them into the cart. "Don’t worry, those are for me, and no, I absolutely cannot go stand somewhere else. I had to pry you out of your apartment like I was an octopus working on a clam."
"You saying I'm a pearl?"
"I'm saying your life looks all gray and phlegmy inside. What happened to you? You were the powerhouse behind Heartbreak Hal's entire divine operation. You were his archangel. You don't become an archangel by being a TV watching lump."
"I'm not a lump. Just having a down spell. A break. An hiatus."
"'An hiatus?' Now who's being snooty about vocabulary. And grammar."
"It's not snooty if it comes naturally."
"Then you're naturally snooty."
"I'm trying to buy pasta here," said Luther, looking at the rows of bags and boxes. Did any of the twists, curls, tubes or bow ties actually taste different from any of the sticks or elbows or diagonally cut tubes? He knew how to cook the stuff, but he realized that the finer points of pasta were lost on him.
"No," said Atty. "You're shopping for food with me in a pathetic and futile attempt to convince me that you're okay so that I will leave you alone and you can go back to your room and your TV that is sucking the life out of you."
"I don't just watch TV. I read books, too." Luther didn't bother to mention that TV really was about all he'd done for the first three weeks. It was only during the last few days that he'd become so disgusted with his own inactivity that he'd pulled out some old non-fiction he'd been meaning to get to for a long time. The history of cotton was surprisingly compelling.
"Okay, so you read books. Try the manicotti."
"Which is that?"
"The big tubes."
"The box says it's cannelloni."
"Who cares? Everyone calls it manicotti, and you should try it."
"How do I eat it?"
"You stuff things in it. Italian pasta-like things. Then you use a fork. Also, reading books doesn't quite count. When was the last time you talked with a person? An angel? Human? Heck, I'd take a demon."
"Right now," said Luther, sighing inwardly and grabbing a box of cannelloni. Maybe it would be good, but figuring out how to stuff it sounded complicated.
"When was the time before that?"
"Rae called after I got fired."
"That's nice of her. How long did you talk?"
"Ten minutes?"
"Are you asking me or telling me?"
"It was ten minutes. Not much more, if any."
"And that was when?"
"I told you. After I got fired."
"And who have you talked to since then?"
"Mr. and Mrs. Farkas."
"Who are they?"
"My neighbors."
"Those people? Dude, that's not a conversation. That's listening to Mr. Farkas tell you what's wrong with the government and Mrs. Farkas telling him to shut up. As I suspected, you have done nothing involving human interaction in the last four weeks."
"I'm not like you," said Luther, pushing his cart down the aisle again and looking for more food. He didn't know what he wanted--ah, had to grab spaghetti sauce--but he knew he needed more food. Eating out all the time was starting to get to his digestion. "I don't feel a need to be with people all the time. I don't mind being alone."
"But this isn't being alone," protested Atty. "This is depression. This is hiding yourself in the hole of your apartment and hoping time and television will bury you there." Atty grabbed Luther by the shoulder and stopped him, looking in his face. "I know I'm not the most sensitive or thoughtful angel around--Divine Chuck sure doesn't expect me to help people out with counseling duties--but even I know this is bad for you. You look bad. You look sunken and wan."
"Wan?"
"Another vocabulary word."
"Oh, I got it. I just don't know that I look wan."
"And sunken. When was the last time you looked in a mirror?"
"This morning."
"Really?"
Luther opened his mouth, thought, and closed it. Had he looked at himself? He couldn't remember if he had. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he'd looked at himself. After more than a millennium, he knew how he liked his hair--simple and ignorable--and he had no illusions about what his face looked like. A little old, a little gray on top, and what else was there to see? Wrinkles, maybe--even angels get a few after a while--but what need was there to keep track of every little change? And who would he be trying to look good for? Not his former boss, certainly. Heartbreak Hal had stopped paying attention to much of anything over a hundred years before. It had been up to Luther, then, to step in, to take care of people. Hal kept giving out the divine power for miracles, so Luther kept performing them. But you didn't need to look good to hand out miracles. No need to be dashing or fashionable to make someone's feet feel better, ease their back pain, make their hips ache less.
"I guess I don't know the last time I looked at myself."
"It's because you don't know who you are."
Luther wrinkled his forehead. "But if I didn't know who I am, wouldn't I look in the mirror more often?"
"You do know I'm talking metaphorically," said Atty.
"So was I. Feeling comfortable with who I am would mean I would need to keep checking on myself less, not more."
"Oh, you knew who you WERE, but you don't know who you ARE. Not now. You were the guy who took care of people and who had no life of his own.”
"I had a life."
"What?"
"I did stuff."
"Such as?"
"Fifteen years ago. I took a break and got another degree."
"The degree was in what?"
"Why does it matter?"
"Tell me, or I start singing Abba."
"I'm not a fan of Abba."
"Dancing Queen--"
"Okay. It was in Theological Philosophy."
"So work related."
"Anything wrong with that?"
"Not at all. Luther, I'm not trying to say that who you were was bad. Just the opposite. I thought you were awesome. That's why I wanted to be your friend in the first place. And why I didn't let you drive me away."
Luther was about to argue that he hadn't tried to drive Atty away, but that would have been a lie. "I'm not very good at making new friends."
"I could tell. Which is why I made friends with you. Don't kid yourself. It was like trying to hug a cactapus."
"A what?"
"A cactapus."
"There is no such thing."
"Isn't there? I could have sworn there was some demonic creature out there called a cactapus."
"No."
"Fine. Doesn't change the point of my story. Your work has been your life for at least the one-hundred years I've known you, and I was okay with that. Totally supportive, in fact, because you were good at it, dedicated, helping people, and I admired that. Plenty of time for a life outside of work later, I figured. Well, now you're definitely outside of work. Where's the life?"
Luther started pushing the cart again. "I'll find it."
"Where?"
"I'll take up cooking." He grabbed something and tossed it into his cart. "I'll learn how to cook that."
"Scouring pads?"
"Is that what I put in?"
"Yes. Cleaning aisle."
"Darn it. No, don't put those back. I need to clean my bathroom. Also, I think I'm starting to see your point."
"Which is?"
"I have no life."
Atty sighed. "That wasn't my point at all. My point was that you had a wonderful life, all due apologies to Frank Capra, but it was all defined around one thing. Now you get to redefine yourself. It's like the universe has conspired to offer you a midlife crisis, free of charge."
Luther wrinkled his nose. "Do I have to buy a motorcycle?"
"Only if you want to."
"Do I want to?"
"See what I mean? Here," said Atty, dropping a box of snack cakes into the cart.
"Do I like those?"
"Stop it."
"But you said I don't know who I am, so I'm not sure if I like Twinkies."
Atty was laughing. "Knock it off."
"I would, if I knew whether I wanted to knock it off or not. I'm so confused."
"Fine," said his friend, holding up his hands in surrender. "I get it. You're done talking with me about this. I can take a hint."
"Can you?"
"When you smash it into my face like a cream pie, yes. Can I ask one more thing, though?"
"Have I ever been able to stop you?"
"No. So I'm asking. Will you talk with someone about this?"
Luther looked into his cart. Twinkies, corn cereal he didn't want, scouring pads, cannelloni, and one bottle of spaghetti sauce. And Atty's energy drinks. Did he really want any of this stuff? Distressingly, he didn't know.
"Yeah. I'll talk with someone."
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