CoffeeHouse Angel Read online

  The downhill walk from the edge of school to Main Street usually took about fifteen minutes. I passed the new Java Heaven billboard. A picture of the Darling family, made up of Heidi and her mother and father, smiled at pedestrians, golden halos shining above their heads. VOTED MOST HEAVENLY ORGANIC COFFEE IN

  NORDBY. Who had voted? No one had sent me a ballot.

  We didn't have a billboard for our coffeehouse. My grandmother didn't do modern things like advertise, which is one reason we weren't making much money. To top that, we had unknowingly lost a coffee election. My brain went into "I am such a total loser" mode as I stared up at Heidi Darling's perky face. She could add "Billboard Model" to her list of accomplishments.

  "Lovely day."

  "Jeez!" I clutched my backpack straps. The guy from the alley was standing next to me. "You scared me."

  "My apologies." His sweater was beginning to unravel along the edge and his kilt had a few grass stains. I expected someone who slept in an alley to reek, but a nice scent drifted off him, flowery but not familiar. He noticed me looking him over. "Excuse my appearance. I'm usually not so disheveled, but I just came from a celebration in Scotland. Did you know that they toss trees up there? It's a beautiful country. I hope they send me again, but I doubt they will. I stayed much longer than I was supposed to."

  Maybe I should have felt scared. He was a stranger, after all--a very handsome stranger. I'd never seen eyes that dark blue--the kind of blue you'd find on a chart of primary colors. When he blinked, thick lashes brushed against his cheeks. An odd sense of calm washed over me.

  A clump of students passed between us. A few pointed at his kilt. No one at Nordby High wore a kilt, not even the president of the Comic Book Club.

  "What do you want?" I asked, calm turning to embarrassment.

  He folded his arms "What I want, Katrina, is to meet my obligation."

  "Oh. You mean you want to reward me? You don't need to pay me."

  "Pay you? I'm afraid I don't carry currency." He smiled. "I'm here to give you what you most desire."

  Okay. Weirdo alert. I pulled Vincent's slip of paper from my pocket. "Do you need a place to sleep? Here's the address for a shelter. I don't think you need currency for a shelter. It's just that you can't sleep in our alley again. Believe me, if my grandma finds you out there, she'll call Officer Larsen. She will. She calls him about everything."

  He ignored the paper. "I have no plans to sleep in your alley again, but it's not my choice. My job dictates where I sleep. One day I might wake up in the Maharajah's guest bed and the next day I might find myself in a London sewer pipe." He shrugged.

  "Fortunately, wherever I end up, I absorb the language. Makes things so much easier."

  "Uh-huh." The guy was crazy. No matter how nice he smelled, or how charming his smile, he was nuts. I shoved the paper into his hand. "Well, the shelter will probably be a lot warmer than a London sewer pipe. Okay, good-bye." I quickly walked away.

  Don't follow me, don't follow me.

  Of course he followed. Once you're on a crazy person's radar, forget about it.

  "I don't have any money, if that's what you want," I said, trying to keep some distance between us.

  "What / want is irrelevant. I'm here to discuss what it is that you want."

  "Could you please stop following me?"

  "But I must reward your kindness."

  "Don't worry about it." I shifted to power-walker pace.

  "I'm not worried. But there are rules regarding these matters. Your good deed had no selfish intent behind it.

  That is an extremely rare occurrence." His sandals made flop-flop sounds as he matched my pace. "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't ignore your unselfish good deed.

  They'll just keep sending me back until I reward you."

  Who were "they"? Voices in his head?

  "There's no need. Really, it was nothing." At the intersection I punched the crosswalk button. A car crammed with jocks drove by.

  "Hey, it's Coffeehouse Girl and Skirt Boy!" Aaron yelled.

  The guy from the alley didn't seem to hear the insult. He just kept staring at me. I punched the crosswalk button three more times, but the walk sign didn't light up.

  What if he had a knife in that satchel of his? I could be in real danger.

  A school bus drove past, filled with swim teamers on their way to a meet. Vincent smiled at me from a window, then froze in mid-wave when he noticed the guy from the alley. Would Vincent be the last witness to see me alive?

  The guy was still staring.

  "If you follow me any more, I'm going to call the police." I punched the button again.

  WALK. Pumping my arms, I crossed that road at record speed. If he tried anything, I'd flag down a passing car and scream "HELP!" When I reached the sidewalk, I turned to warn him again, but he wasn't there.

  He had disappeared.

  Adjusting my backpack, I started down the steep hill, glad to have gotten rid of him.

  He had issues.

  A cold breeze carried the bay's salty scent up the hill. Winter came to Nordby in October and hung around until April. Week after week of clouds and wind was the norm. I shoved my hands into my pockets. Had that been the shadow of a ponytail next to Vincent on the school bus? What was wrong with me? Why was I worried about Heidi and Vincent? They had the swim team in common, that was it. Just the swim team.

  The nice thing about the Nordby High Swim Team was that most anyone could join.

  You didn't have to be a record-breaker. All you had to do was swim four lengths of the pool without resting in between and without any kind of flotation device. So, if you could do that, you were in. But if you got a side cramp and sank like a rock after the second lap, like I had, then you were out--even if you had bought a brand-new pair of goggles and a subscription to Swim Magazine because you had hoped that swimming would be your thing.

  "Hello." The guy from the alley was sitting on a bus bench just up ahead. When had he passed me? "I just want to make it perfectly clear that I'm not following you. I'm just resting a spell." His long brown hair danced across his shoulders as the breeze kicked up. "You didn't give me the opportunity to explain."

  My inner voice screamed, "Run! He's a freak. Get away from him." If I had listened to that inner voice I would have saved myself a whole lot of trouble, that's for sure. But heeding one's inner voice requires confidence, which I totally lacked. Fortunately an older man sat on the bench, reading a newspaper while waiting for the bus, so I felt safe--for the moment.

  "How do you know my name?"

  "It's part of my job." He reached into his satchel and pulled out a small black book. It was titled, The Law. "I'm afraid I'm not handling this well. You see, I've not been in this situation for a rather long time. I usually just deliver messages."

  "You're a messenger?" I hadn't heard of any messenger services in Nordby.

  "That's correct." He showed me the side of his satchel. Golden letters read: Messenger Service.

  I decided that he was probably around my age, maybe a year older. Where did he go to school? Had he escaped from a mental institution? I looked at my watch. "I've got to get to work."

  "Wait." He leaned forward. "Just listen." He opened the black book and read. " 'If it doth come to pass that during the course of thy travels, an unsolicited, unselfish act of kindness is bestowed upon thee, then thou must reward the act by granting to the bestower that which the bestower most desires.' " He placed the open book on his lap.

  The pages were blank. "I must obey what is written in this book."

  The man with the newspaper looked at the blank book, then scooted away to the far edge of the bench. "RUN!" screamed my inner voice.

  If I ran, he'd probably follow. But if I let him reward me, then this crazy game might end. He could go on his crazy, freaky way and I could get to work. "It was just a few old pastries," I said nicely. "They weren't worth much. You can give me that pencil and we'll call it even." I pointed to a pencil that stuck out fr
om one of his kilt pockets.

  He narrowed his eyes at me, then continued to fake read from his book. " 'Be wary, for the bestower, being neither of selfish nor greedy disposition, may attempt to persuade you that a token or bauble would suffice.' " He cocked his head. "A pencil? I think not. Pencils are quite common in this century."

  A young Hispanic woman strolled up the hill and sat between the man with the newspaper and the guy from the alley. I recognized her from the drugstore where she worked as a cashier. She set a bag of groceries on her lap. Peering over a stalk of celery, she stared at alley guy with a shy smile.

  He returned the smile, then turned his attention back to me. "Well, what will it be?

  What do you most desire?"

  I wasn't about to tell a complete stranger that what I most desired was to not feel like a loser all the time. What I wanted was to be good at something, like Elizabeth with her art, or Vincent with his swimming. Forget good--how about exceptional?

  "I want that pencil."

  "I don't believe you. You're being dishonest."

  "Fine. Then how about that book?"

  He hugged the book to his chest. "You can't have this book. It's only for messengers."

  "Look, I don't have time for this game." I pointed to my watch. "I'm going to be late.

  Why don't you just give me whatever you want to give me so we can both get to work?"

  He shrugged. "If I knew what you most desired, I would have given it to you already."

  I felt like a swimmer with one fin, going round and round and round. I'm outta here.

  "Good-bye."

  But just as I took a step, he jumped to his feet. This was it, the moment between life and death. The flash of a knife blade, the click of a trigger. I opened my mouth to scream.

  If Elizabeth were here she'd kick him right in the balls. Should I kick him in the balls?

  Is it easier to kick a guy in the balls if he's wearing a kilt? The man with the newspaper tensed. The woman with the groceries clutched her bag tightly.

  But he didn't attack. He just scratched his head. "All right then. If you won't tell me, I'll figure it out myself." His gaze swept my body. "You appear to be dressed in the same fashion as the other students whom I observed at your school. Nothing out of the ordinary, so I'm guessing that you consider yourself to be an average sort of person."

  He was getting on my nerves. "Please hurry up."

  "Being an average sort of person, you probably desire the same thing that other average people desire."

  "Whatever." Grandma Anna would start to worry. She'd probably call Officer Larsen, which might be a good thing, considering the circumstances.

  He fanned the pages of his book, looking for something. "Now, what does the average person desire? That is the question."

  The Hispanic woman spoke. "I think that it is peace for the world."

  Alley Guy shook his head. "Only a few ask for world peace. And they are as rare as a sunny day in Nordby. There's a chart in here somewhere. Here it is." He ran his finger down a page. "I should have known. Fortune is what most people desire." He returned the book to his satchel and looked at me, his eyes widening hopefully. "Is that what you most desire, Katrina? Do you want fortune?"

  Play the game, get rid of the crazy guy. "Fine. I'll take it."

  I stepped away as he fumbled in his pockets. "Now to find the perfect object in which to contain the desire." He pulled out a roll of twine, a handful of bottle caps, all sorts of junk. Then he pulled out the packet of chocolate-covered coffee beans. "A wee bean will do. That's how they say it in Scotland, you know. Wee this and wee that.

  Wid ya be likin' a wee bit a magic wit yir coffee bean, lassie?" Smiling, he shook a single bean onto his open palm.

  The woman leaned close. "A coffee bean? I love coffee, but so expensive. I do not buy."

  "I'm sorry to hear that," he told her. Then he pinched the bean between his fingers and held it at arm's length, way too close to my face. "I contained your desire in this coffee bean. Clever of me, don't you think?"

  I raised my eyebrows, feigning amazement.

  "Go on. Take it."

  "If I take it, will you leave me alone?"

  "I suppose I must. I have a message to deliver." I held out my hand and he dropped the bean into it. "Go on. Eat it."

  As if I'm going to eat a bean that's been sitting in a crazy homeless guy's pocket. Who knew what kind of germs lurked in there--maybe a few from that London sewer pipe.

  If I ate it, I'd get E. coli or dysentery or a huge tapeworm.

  "Go on."

  His wonderful, unidentifiable scent blew over me-- spicy and flowery at the same time. But even the world's best scent can't kill E. coli germs. I pretended to pop the bean into my mouth but kept it in my hand, an old trick from childhood when Grandma Anna used to give me cod liver oil capsules. While chewing air, I secretly slid the bean into my jean pocket. Then I fake swallowed.

  Alley Guy scratched his head. "Well, since I have no more business with you, I guess I should be leaving."

  "Okay. Good-bye."

  He collected his satchel and, to my relief, started up the steep hill. "Farewell," he called, his kilt swaying with each step. "Have a long and healthy life, Katrina Svensen."

  Along with the man reading the newspaper and the woman holding the grocery bag, I watched as he walked away. No doubt about it, that had been the strangest encounter of my life.

  "His eyes shine like the moon," the Hispanic woman said. Then she reached into her grocery bag and pulled out an enormous tin of coffee. She looked at the tin as if she had never seen it before.

  Five

  Why do we drink coffee?

  As kids we hate it. It's disgusting. But somewhere along the way we learn to accept the bitter flavor, even crave it. When does that happen exactly? I think it happens right around the time we realize that maybe nothing exceptional will ever come our way. That maybe we should just forget about Shirley Temples and pineapple punch and limeade, throw away the festive paper umbrellas and the maraschino cherries, and settle for a mug of brown liquid.

  On that winter afternoon, condensation coated the picture windows at Anna's Old World Scandinavian Coffeehouse. A wave of muggy air hit me as I stepped inside.

  "There you are," Grandma Anna called. She stood behind the counter holding an armful of wet towels. "I was worried about you. I almost called Officer Larsen."

  "Sorry."

  "Hello, Katrina." Four men waved from the corner table--Ingvar, Odin, Lars, and Ralph. Burly, wind-worn men who had captained fishing boats in the years when king crab had ruled the Bering Sea. Ralph was the only Native American in the group, and though an occasional argument arose about Native fishing rights, they were a solid bunch of friends. Retired, they met every other day to play an ancient Viking board game called Hnefatafl, which means "King's Table." My grandmother called these men The Boys.

  "Why's it so warm in here?" I asked.

  "Dishwasher went kapoot," Ingvar explained, an unlit pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth. "Spewed steam like a farting dragon."

  "Made a real mess," Odin said, moving one of the white pieces across the board. "Hey Anna, where's those sandwiches?"

  I followed my grandmother to the back room, where she dumped the towels into a basket. Her loafers squelched, soggy with sudsy water. "You didn't call Officer Larsen about the dishwasher, did you?" I asked.

  She smoothed her short gray hair. "Officer Larsen doesn't understand appliances.

  Ralph looked it over. He said it blew a pump and I'll have to order a new one. That's two dead appliances this month. I don't know how I'm going to pay for them." She sighed, then gave me a hug as she always did when I came in after school, squishing me with her big soft stomach.

  "Are we still broke?"

  "Now don't you worry about that." Grandma Anna shook a finger at me. "That's my concern, not yours."

  "Anna!" Odin cried. "You want a man to starve to death?"

  "You
're too fat to starve to death," she yelled back. She grabbed the mop from the corner. "Could you make The Boys some sardine sandwiches? There's still a puddle to clean."

  Sardine sandwiches.

  Since we catered to the Scandinavian crowd and to tourists who wanted a taste of the Old World, we served open-faced sandwiches on dense dark breads, layered with things like red onions, pickled herring, and tomatoes. And sardines. Those little fish are supposed to be good for you and they don't taste too bad, once you get used to the fact that you're also eating skin and bones.

  I set my backpack on a shelf and pulled an apron over my head. After washing my hands, I grabbed a loaf of pumpernickel and joined Irmgaard at the counter. She had worked at Anna's for as long as I could remember--always there when we opened, always there when we closed. Other than myself, Irmgaard was the coffeehouse's only employee. We knew that she lived alone in an apartment complex at the edge of town.

  We knew that she could make great soup. And we knew that she was heart-stoppingly beautiful even though she never wore makeup; only wore plain, dark clothes; and kept her hair cut super short. Her beauty was the reason, I suspected, that The Boys spent so much time at Anna's Coffeehouse.

  But no one knew where she had lived before coming to Nordby. No one knew her age--we guessed about forty. And no one knew why she had taken a vow of silence.

  Irmgaard dropped a block of butter into a tall soup pot, then stirred gracefully while I built the sandwiches. She dumped two handfuls of chopped onions into the pot. They sizzled and filled the coffeehouse with their aroma. I didn't mind her silence. It never felt awkward, the way it can with other people. It seeped into me, in a hypnotic way.

  Odin bellowed again. I stacked the sandwiches onto a tray and hurried to the corner table. Big calloused hands grabbed the salty treats.

  "Thanks," The Boys said.

  I gathered their mugs and filled them at the percolator. "Would you like anything else?" I asked a woman whose little boy was writing "poop" on the foggy window.

  Other than The Boys, they were the only customers, typical for a December afternoon.