Fool's Journey Page 6

  "I think it's used for storage." She shrugged. "There are three other apartments in the house, but they're all on the first and second floors, and they all enter through the main foyer."

  "Where do you park?"

  No use lying about this one, she decided. Her answer would be unusual, but unlikely to raise too much suspicion.

  "I don't drive."

  He looked at her a moment, then blinked and went on. "You're sure there's only the one entrance to yours?" he asked.

  "That's all. The window in my bedroom is big and it opens onto a low roof, so I guess it meets fire code. I'm sure I could get out that way if I ever needed to."

  Manny leaned against the wall for a moment with his arms folded. "This is an interesting layout. What's back here?" he asked, nodding in the other direction.

  "Storage. My bedroom. This used to be the servants' quarters. Sometimes I wonder what they were like, the people who once lived up here. I wonder what they dreamed about, or if they dreamed at all after a long day's work. It couldn't have been an easy life."

  "It never is," he smiled at her, "but usually a person can find ways to be happy, if they look."

  "When I was a little girl," she said, "I used to escape to the kitchen whenever I could. Our cook, Magdalena, would give me a cup of milk and coffee with lots of sugar. I never thought what her life was like. I just treasured the time I could spend with her, watching her knead dough or assemble trays of canapés if my parents were entertaining. She used to make a plate just for me, and she'd use little olive slices and slivers of celery to make little faces on them, smiling faces. She'd say 'Smile, Miss –'"

  Deirdre stopped herself and let the silence fall between them for a moment. "You'd better let me get the lights," she said, leading the way. "They're hard to find."

  He followed her through the cluttered storage rooms to her bedroom. "There isn't much room for anyone to hide," he commented as he looked around.

  Her eyes followed his. She always played a little game with herself when someone saw her home for the first time, looking through their eyes at every picture and book for clues about her personality and past. What did her surroundings tell him? What did he make of the clutter of books and paper, the narrow twin bed? Deirdre was suddenly more aware of her senses. She could smell her own cologne and his leather jacket. Street noises drifted up.

  "The window concerns me," Manny said after a few silent moments. He gave the frame a slight push and the window swung easily open. "Doesn't this thing lock?"

  "It's been painted so often I can't ever get it to shut all the way," Deirdre explained. "Do you think it's a problem?"

  "Come here and take a look."

  Deirdre crossed over to him and together they leaned out the window. "You said you could get out on the roof if there was ever a problem. If you can get out that way, it's pretty easy for somebody to get in, don't you think?"

  "Don't tell me there's a crazed gymnast out there."

  "Maybe not," he laughed, "but there could be a crazed tree climber. That oak there could carry a lot of weight. All someone would have to do is drop from that branch."

  "It must be at least ten feet, though," Deirdre protested, "and another two stories to the ground."

  "Well, maybe a crazed amateur gymnast. Or even some kind of genius who knows how to go get a ladder."

  She didn't find his sarcasm amusing, even though she knew he was doing his best to put her at ease. "So, what should I do?"

  Manny pulled out a pocketknife and began to scrape away at the layers of paint. "We'll see how this works for now."

  Deirdre folded her arms and sat down on the bed. "Is this your special detective pocket knife?"

  "James Bond model. I got it in my Wheaties this morning." He continued scraping for a few moments. "There, I think I got it." He swung the window in and pulled it shut. Then he turned the catch.

  "That should do it for now. What you save on heat should make up for the damage deposit."

  He folded the knife and returned it to his pocket, then brushed his hands on the sides of his pants. Deirdre was sitting cross-legged on her narrow bed, watching him. She wondered what would happen if he sat down with her.

  "How about you, Manny?" she asked. "Do you read cards?"

  He smiled. Three slow steps would take him to her.

  "You crazy? I wouldn't touch them." He leaned back against the window frame. "I just read palms."

  XI.

  Deirdre held out her hand in front of her, palm up, and waited. An offering. Still leaning against the window frame, Manny shook his head.

  "Not enough time to do a good job," he said. "Long night tonight. Back alley work. One of my clients has someone they want me to follow. Sound sleazy enough?"

  "Pretty sleazy," she admitted. Then she laughed softly and shook her head. "I'll have to tell you about my job sometime. Bet I can top you."

  He returned her smile. "At last, the truth about the Ivory Tower. That sounds promising. You going to campus tomorrow?"

  "Probably not – I'm on a Monday, Wednesday, Friday teaching schedule. I'm meeting a colleague for lunch near campus, but I haven't decided whether I'll go into the office."

  "How about we get some coffee in the morning?" he asked. "I should probably get some more background information on you anyway, just in case. Could be nothing more will happen, but it's best to be prepared. Afterwards I can drive you wherever it is you're going."

  Deirdre felt the panic rising in her once more. She needed to put him off. Part of her craved the security he offered, but the rest recoiled at the thought of the revelations he would inevitably seek.

  "No, Manny," she said. "I appreciate the offer, but it sounds as if you'll be working late tonight as it is. You've already done too much, gone to too much trouble."

  He shook his head and laughed, a low, rusty chuckle. "You've got it wrong. You want to know what too much trouble is, Deirdre? Too much trouble is explaining to my Aunt Rosa why I let you go running around by yourself. She thinks a lot of you."

  "But even she can't expect a detective to do pro bono work," Deirdre said quickly. "I'm not an official client."

  "Is that all that's worrying you? Well, let's see now. What's this on the floor?" He bent down and picked something up. "A whole quarter. Throwing your money around, eh? Look, I put it in my pocket. Presto! You've got me on retainer."

  She laughed dryly and shook her head. She'd turned down his offer once, but a second time would seem like she was protesting too much. Someone in her situation refusing help would raise even more suspicion than answering his questions.

  "Okay," she agreed, "but I guess I pay your expenses from now on, huh? Coffee's on me tomorrow."

  "Sounds fair. I have to earn my keep, though. I'll tear open the sugar packets."

  "I don't take sugar."

  "Purist. I'll be by around eight."

  "How about afternoon instead of morning?" She needed time to prepare stories. She shot him a wry grin. "I didn't exactly get a wonderful night's sleep last night."

  "What? There was a pea under your mattress?"

  "Something like that."

  "Okay,” he agreed. “You're the boss."

  She led him back to the living room where he paused at the window to watch the glimmer of the nighttime city for a moment.

  "Is this in one of your poems?" he asked.

  "Not in a poem all its own." She stood by his side and looked out over the panorama. "It's an odd mixture. The lights against the water are pretty, but there's something else underneath it. Something sad. A little desperate, maybe. I keep trying, but I can't seem to get it right. Maybe someday."

  He nodded and they stood silently a moment longer. Then he turned to go.

  "Okay. Lock the door after me. I want to hear it catch and the chain slide. And don't open it again unless you're sure who's there. Here's my number," he said, handing her a card. "I've got a pager. Don't hesitate."

  She took the card from him and set it on a table.
"Thanks, Manny."

  Halfway out the door, he stopped and turned back to her. "One more thing. You got a good scream?"

  She looked down. Hers had been a childhood of silence. "I don't really know. I guess I've never needed to —"

  "Sheltered life," he muttered, shaking his head. "It's one of your best weapons. Practice in the shower." Then he lifted his hand and traced a small cross on her forehead with his thumb. "A sign against the evil eye."

  A shiver rushed over her for a moment. "Locks, screams and heavenly protection?"

  "Part of the service," he smiled. "We try to cover all the bases. See you tomorrow."

  As she closed the door, Deirdre could feel the heat of the cross he had traced on her forehead. Manny was interesting. Nice, too. Now that she was more used to him, she liked the way his appearance deceived. So much like hers, but a kinship he would never know.

  It was the first time she'd felt attracted to anyone in a long time. She'd have to be careful, and keep reminding herself of everything she could never have.

  XII.

  Manny Ruiz sat behind the wheel of his car, frowning up at the dim window of Deirdre's apartment. He'd meant to drive off immediately, get going on the job, but here he sat anyway. Something kept him there, the thought that maybe, just maybe ...

  Thought nothing! He had hoped she would open the door and beckon to him. Hope, fear, and yes, desire had frozen him. Primal feelings all of them, over-ridden with surprise at himself. Surprise that his ordinarily level head had been sent spinning at the sight of a pretty face.

  He shook himself. Pretty was too mundane a word to describe Deirdre Kildeer. When Aunt Rosa had first told him about her three years ago, he had automatically envisioned the statue of the Madonna in church, serene, beautiful and distant. But now that he had seen her for himself, he felt otherwise. She conjured images of mythic tales, true enough, but she was flesh and bones nonetheless. He could still see her, perched nervously on the edge of that single bed, reaching her hand out to him, as if to …

  No. Her gesture had been innocent. His thoughts were not. Here he was, fantasizing like a dreamy adolescent.

  And if she had this effect on someone who had considered himself immune, what must it be like for her students? Those wet behind the ears niños lounging around campus, sporting the growth of their first unpromising beards. Madre de Dios! They didn't have a prayer.

  It reminded him of the time just after he had come to the United States. The school in rural Oregon hadn't had any English as a Second Language program, so he'd been assigned to a "special" classroom. Other students called it the "retard room." He'd despised it, despised the way the teacher's bright red lips formed big words, loud and slow, as if he were deaf or stupid. Then, one day, a student teacher had arrived from the state college. She looked like an angel from heaven, long golden hair and impossibly blue eyes. She'd spoken to him in Spanish and he'd fallen in love.

  The other students had been quick to notice how his eyes followed her when she walked into the cafeteria, how he blushed when she stopped by his table to say hello. "The beaner's got himself a girlfriend," they'd smirked. Then they made loud kissing noises on the backs of their hands that made him want to beat them senseless. But he knew he couldn't cause trouble, draw attention to himself. He'd barely made it across the border with Aunt Rosa and, until she found a way for them to stay, they both had to be as inconspicuous to authority figures as possible.

  He shook his head, remembering those times and the torture of unrequited, adolescent love, made all the more noble by its impossibility. There was no doubt in his mind of Deirdre's effect on male students—any male for that matter. Here he sat, as smitten as any teenager. And if someone was a little twisted—as one of those who surrounded Deirdre clearly was—he didn't like to think of the possibilities.

  Still, it wasn't just attraction that held him here. Something nagged at him in a way he didn't quite understand. Maybe it was her tone as she'd explained her fears, maybe the tarot cards she'd drawn, maybe that first sight of her, stricken with fear on her own doorstep.

  Deirdre's refusal to go to the police puzzled him. He knew all kinds of people who would no more step into a precinct office than they would comb their hair with pruning shears, but they had good reasons: outstanding warrants. Deirdre acted like a criminal on the lam, which, for someone who looked like she'd just walked out of finishing school, was pretty weird. His aunt had warned him this might be the case, but she hadn't said why.

  Whatever secrets Deirdre held, he was more worried about her than he had let on. He glanced up at the window again and felt the fear scurry across his heart.

  XIII.

  The next morning, Deirdre slept in and awoke surprised that she had. Forget-time. That’s what she had called sleep as a child. Nightmares hadn't bothered her then. Those had come when she was awake. It was different now. The nights were full of memories viewed through dreams, jumbled and disproportionate.

  As she stretched in the pale autumn light, she thought of the sign Manny had made on her forehead the night before: protection against the evil eye. Perhaps that accounted for the peaceful night. Once awake, however, there was no returning to the dreamless refuge of sleep.

  She had a plan for the morning. Though not fully formed, it was the seedling of an agenda. She had a visit to make, but on the way she wanted to stop at the New Age bookstore at the top of the hill. She'd been thinking about it ever since Mrs. Ruiz had read her cards two days ago. A book on tarot might tell her some of the things that had been left unsaid then. The Fool! She wanted to know more about The Fool.

  It was still raining this morning, a desultory curtain of gray moisture. She showered quickly, threw on her clothes and an old parka, and headed up Queen Anne Hill, a strenuous hike at slightly less than a forty-five degree angle. She was used to it by now, but the sight of ten blocks straight up was always daunting, especially before she’d had her coffee.

  It had been a long time since she’d been in a store like “Forbidden Phoenix.” The fragrance of sandalwood mingled with the fresh rain each time the door opened to admit new patrons. If Merlin had been reborn and sent through an MBA program, he’d have had a store like this. There were racks of slick postcards depicting glowing orbs dancing on the horizon, aliens proffering elongated hands in friendship, and unicorns prancing on hillsides. Dreamcatchers hung from the ceiling, bells jangled on the door and bins of crystals glittered beneath well-placed track lighting.

  Like most Seattle bookstores with aspirations to survival, it included a latté bar wedged between the sections on Pure and Natural Living and Addiction. She ordered a double shot of espresso, straight, and headed for the stacks of books.

  The store’s books seemed less commercial than the gift items and psychic paraphernalia. Some were even obviously handmade, photocopied and stapled together between sheets of tag board. These she could give more credence to. She knew of poets who published the same way. Their books were labors of love and an outgrowth of the need to share.

  Four entire shelves were devoted to tarot. Some purported to reflect a traditional stance. Others combined the cards with another interpretive angle: feminism, dream work, reincarnation. She picked up one of the latter, Tarot: A Guide to Karmic Debt, and flipped through the pages until she spotted an illustration of the Fool. A young man in a medieval parti-colored costume stood poised at a fork in the road with a bemused look on his face. At his feet, a small white dog looked up at him expectantly. The text beneath read:

  The Fool warns us of a juncture when all our dreams betray us. Like an infant cut loose from its umbilical cord, we are unleashed into the chaos of the universe each time we are reborn. There will be no permanent return to the womb of self-delusion, for remember, security is an invention of the mind. Only through our own efforts and faith in powers greater than our own will we be rescued from the perils that await us along life’s road. Do not forget that we have been sent here to learn. We cannot accomplish that goal in a sta
te of comfort. Only by facing fear, and doing battle with it, do we advance.

  This was not what she had hoped to see, although the words struck her with the force of truth. Tarot reading or psychiatric session, it made no difference. The message was the same: face fear. She had done battle with fear once before and had nearly lost herself in the process. She didn’t know if there was enough of her left to confront the enemy once again. But there would have to be if she were ever to take control, to live a life that mattered.

  She closed the book and returned it to the shelf. In her heart, she knew there was nothing between its pages that would release her from the battle she sensed was coming. It had been a slim hope at best, the sort of hope children have as they fall asleep in the first chill of winter, wishing for snow before its time.

  As she turned to go, a chime rang out and a door she had not noticed before opened and a small, elegantly dressed woman emerged, followed by an enormous man wearing a yarmulke and prayer shawl. An incongruous ankh hung about his neck from a heavy gold chain.

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” the woman was saying, tears welling in her eyes. Odd, since at the same time the woman was pressing several crisp bills into the man’s hand. That surely was thanks enough.

  Everyone was grasping for something. She was no better, for all her years of struggling. No degree on a piece of paper would ensure that she had learned the lessons that counted. In the end, was everyone a helpless petitioner, all left empty-handed?

  To her surprise, the man approached her.

  “I have a message for you, my dear,” he whispered as he came beside her. His smile seemed real enough, but his eyes were as pale as a goat’s. He reached out a plump hand and captured hers between his bejeweled fingers. "A message from beyond the grave," he whispered.

  Deirdre backed away abruptly and shoved her hand into her pocket. She didn't need a psychic to tell her the dead still spoke. She didn’t want to look into those pale eyes or hear what he had to say. The messages from the living were more than she could handle already. She turned on her heel and stepped out the door into the clean rain, leaving the cloying scent of incense behind her.