According to the doctor, the walking had improved Lars's health.
So every afternoon he walked the mile. He'd stop at Anna's for coffee and soup (Officer Larsen kept a tab there) and every other day he'd play a game of Hnefatafl.
Then he'd end each evening at the pub. His son would pick him up on his way home from patrol.
But on that particular Wednesday afternoon, Lars had mutiny on his mind. When the bus pulled up, he hobbled forward. As the door hissed open he reached for the handrail. Millie heaved herself from the driver's seat and blocked the entrance. "Just what do you think you're doing?"
"I'm riding the bus today," Lars said. "So get out of my way."
"Now Lars, you know I can't let you on." Millie would have made a great drill sergeant, the way her voice slammed right into your head.
"Look here, woman, this is public transportation."
"I promised your son. You know that."
"My son's an idiot. Move aside!"
"Walking's good for you."
Lars yanked his hat off his head and shook it at her. "My legs can't take it. I'm gonna fall. Mark my words--I'm gonna fall, and then I'll sue you and everybody else."
I felt embarrassed for him. Not because we all knew he was an alcoholic, but because he knew that he wasn't as strong as he used to be. That had to be one of the worst parts of getting old.
"You need to get yourself a walker," Millie said. "My aunt uses one and she can go up and down a hill, no problem.
"I don't need a walker."
"You need something." Millie leaned out the door. "Hey, Katrina. Help Lars get down the hill, will ya?"
"Sure," I said.
Lars shook his hat again. "You think I need help? Look here, woman, this body used to haul two-hundred-pound crab pots from the ocean. These legs have fought storms that would break you like a wishbone. I don't need help."
"Look, old man, don't you call me woman," Millie said. "Hey, Katrina." I ran to the door. "Stop in at the pharmacy on your way home and see if they have any walkers."
"Walkers?" Spit flew from Lars's thin lips. "I don't need a damn walker."
"You're a stubborn one," Millie said. "You won't use a walker and you won't take Katrina's help."
"Lars," I said gently. "You should let someone help you."
"I'd be happy to help."
Millie sucked in her belly as Malcolm squeezed past her and down the bus's steps.
"Where'd you come from?" she asked. "I don't remember picking you up."
He paused on the lower step and smiled. "And I don't remember ever laying eyes on a lovelier bus driver."
If people could melt like ice cream, that's what would have happened--Millie would just be a big puddle of rocky road. As Malcolm stepped off the bus his kilt slipped up his thigh--muscular, just like his calves. Millie patted her hair, smiling as if she'd been sipping Lars's whiskey.
"Hey lady, I'm gonna be late," someone hollered from the back of the bus. Millie returned to her seat. Malcolm waved as the bus door hissed closed.
I shouldn't have been surprised to see him. He had told me that he'd be back after he'd delivered a message. Maybe with Lars around, he wouldn't start in on all that good deed stuff.
We stood on the sidewalk as the bus drove off. Lars stuck his hat on his head, then gave Malcolm the once-over. "Whatcha wearing a skirt for?"
Malcolm slung his satchel over his hip. "I find I'm partial to it. Quite comfortable." He offered his arm. "I'm happy to help you down the hill."
"You some kind of fairy?" Lars asked, stepping back. "Is that why you're wearing a skirt?"
I rolled my eyes. "Lars, he's offering to help you down the hill."
"I assure you that I'm not a fairy. Fairies are fictional beings, manifestations of mankind's primal fear of nature. I am a messenger."
Lars narrowed his eyes. "Whoopdedoo. I used to be a captain. Everyone called me Captain Lars. Now I'm a drunk, but I've still got my dignity. I don't need your help."
He started limping down the hill, his legs slightly bowed. We followed, flanking him like bodyguards.
"Did you know that Hemingway was a drunk?" Malcolm asked. Lars eyed him suspiciously. "So were Mozart and Dean Martin. But they had their dignity too."
Malcolm had a nice way about him--a gentleness I hadn't noticed until that moment.
Maybe my happy mood had clouded my judgment, the way ice cream can mask a sore throat. But here's something odd. Though Malcolm had spoken to Lars, and though his pupils had been fixed on Lars's face, I had felt his gaze on me. Felt it. He wasn't looking at me the way we look at people walking down the street, or food on a plate, or words in a book. He was seeing me. I shivered.
"May I carry that for you?" he asked, pointing to my backpack. "It looks heavy."
I still didn't know much about him. Would he try to steal my backpack? My wallet was inside. I only had ten dollars, but still. Yet this time my inner voice didn't scream at me. It didn't say, "Run!" Part of me wanted to move closer to him--to feel him looking at me. "No thanks. I'm used to carrying it."
Lars's limp made the going slow. I thought about running ahead to tell my grandmother all about how Vincent was going to help us. But I stayed, lingering in Malcolm's flowery scent. Lingering in the strange sensation of being noticed.
"What's wrong with your leg?" Malcolm asked Lars.
"I'm old. That's what's wrong. Everything's falling apart. You'll find out."
"I won't get old." He said that without any hint of humor. What did he mean? Was he suicidal? One of Mr. Prince's posters popped into my head: Know the Warning Signs of Suicide. I hadn't bothered to read any further.
"Kids never think they'll get old," Lars grumbled. "But life goes by fast--real fast."
The sudden rush of emotion made Lars stumble. Malcolm caught him by the arm.
"Let go," Lars snarled after regaining his balance. "I don't need help. And I don't need a walker. No dignity in using a walker. Bad enough the whole town knows I'm a drunk."
We started walking again, but this time Lars hobbled ahead.
"Katrina, you promised that when I returned, you would tell me what you most desire.
I still need to reward your good deed."
Oh great, back to that again. I grabbed a tissue from my pocket. Cold air always made my nose run. What could I tell him?
"Hold on now." Lars stopped walking. He turned and peered up at Malcolm, his eyes half-hidden by his knit hat. " You want to give Katrina what she most desires?"
Malcolm nodded. "I've tried, but she won't tell me what it is."
Lars shook his head. "She'll never tell you. No woman ever tells. And no man's ever been able to figure it out. You'll be guessing for the rest of your life and you'll always guess wrong. Women like it that way because it gives them something to complain about."
"That's ridiculous," I said, crumpling the tissue and dropping it into a garbage can.
Malcolm gripped his satchel. "I can't guess for the rest of my life. That's not possible.
And I can't be on my way until I reward her. She's imprisoned me, you see."
"Imprisoned?" Lars glared at me. "You should be ashamed, Katrina, playing with this boy's heart."
"What?" I just about choked on my own spit. They were both crazy.
"It's all in this book." Malcolm opened his satchel and pulled out the black book.
"You studying to be a lawyer?" Lars asked after reading the book's title. "I want you to sue the city for me. That's a public bus and I'm the public."
"I'm not a lawyer. I'm a messenger." Malcolm opened the 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.' "
Lars scratched his head. "You don't say?"
"I don't want to guess. I've had some troubles in the past, made some guesses that didn't quite work out. I can't afford to make ano
ther mistake."
Lars screwed up his face. "Uh-huh."
Malcolm turned to a new page. "There's a handy chart in here. It says that the most common thing people ask for is fortune. But Katrina didn't want that. She gave it to her friend. The second-most common thing people ask for is fame." Lars and Malcolm turned and looked at me. Yep, that's right, I was still standing there. I don't know why. I should have left those two idiots in the dust. "Could fame be what you most desire?" Malcolm asked.
Fame.
Seemed like famous people were mostly miserable, spending their time denying rumors, punching photographers, checking themselves into rehab. What good were billions of dollars and a recognizable face if you couldn't even walk your dog in your pajama bottoms without some jerk following you and then plastering your picture across every grocery store tabloid so people in checkout lines could stand around and talk about you as if they knew you? Look how fat she's gotten. She's not so pretty.
She's so tall, she should join the Masai tribe.
"Katrina?" Malcolm's inky blue gaze swept over me like a feather duster. I shivered again. "Do you desire fame?" Vincent seemed to be enjoying his fame, and it couldn't hurt our coffeehouse if I became the world's most famous person. What would I be famous for? Filling jam pots? Not that I believed in the whole magic bean thing. But I'd never get rid of this guy if I didn't finish his game. "I'll choose fame."
He pulled the packet of chocolate-covered coffee beans from his satchel. "I've only got two left. They were very tasty." He picked out a bean, then closed his eyes.
Everything went quiet--no cars, no seagulls, even Lars held his wheezy breath. The world froze. But I didn't freeze. My heart pounded. I looked left, then right. Nothing else moved. I stood there, out of sync with a world suspended. "What's happening?" I whispered.
Malcolm's thick lashes rested on his cheeks. He seemed frozen too. I stared at his face, my gaze drawn to his mouth. Some guys had pencil-thin lips, but his lower lip was as perfect as his upper lip. What would it be like to kiss him? That thought, which popped into my head without an invitation, surprised me with its vividness.
Malcolm's eyes flew open and he smiled.
I stepped away and the world came back to life.
"Here you go." He held out the bean. "And don't pretend to eat it like you did last time. I'm not stupid."
What had just happened? I felt a bit dizzy. And frightened. Maybe it was a blood sugar thing and I just needed to eat a cookie. I needed to get back to the coffeehouse and sit down. "If I eat this now, will fame come right away?"
"I believe so."
"Then I'd like to wait. I mean, look at me. If I'm going to be famous, I'd like to fix my hair, maybe put on something nice."
"You should put on a dress," Lars said. "A nice dress. Girls don't wear dresses anymore."
"Yeah, I should put on a nice dress."
Malcolm frowned. "You won't eat it now?"
"I'll eat it later."
"You wouldn't be trying to trick me?"
"No."
"I'm freezing my nuts off," Lars said. "Take the bean."
I took the bean and put it into my pocket.
"Well then, I guess I'm done. I guess I won't be seeing you again." For a moment, his blue eyes, so deep and vivid, faded to gray. When he sighed, a cold breeze slid down my spine. "Time to be on my way or I'll get into trouble. I wish you a long and healthy life, Katrina Svensen. And to you, Lars Larsen, I wish you dignity." Up the hill he went, just like last time, except he stopped to look back, sadness clearly imprinted on his face. Then he was gone.
"I don't think that boy's right in the head," Lars said. "The pages in his book were blank."
Maybe I wasn't right in the head. The pharmacy sat across the street. "Wait here," I told Lars. They didn't have any walkers in stock. They'd have to order one and it was real expensive. I told the counter person I'd get back to him. I thought about asking if he knew anything about hallucinations, but decided against it. When I caught up to Lars, he was almost to Anna's. His limp had improved.
"Hey, Katrina." He held up a cane. "Isn't it a beauty?
Look, the handle's carved like a fish. And my name's right on it. Captain Lars."
"Where'd you get it?"
"I just found it." He waved it above his head and smiled. "Now, this has some dignity."
Thirteen
Odin sat alone at the corner table, staring forlornly at his game board. Ralph and Ingvar had abandoned him because Irmgaard was making krumkake--little rolled cookies flavored with almond, lemon, and cardamom. They watched as she poured yellow batter onto an iron. The batter sank into the iron's grooves, sizzling to a golden brown. The Boys waited with anticipation as she lifted the soft cookie with a spatula, then rolled it around a metal cone.
Irmgaard's silence and her graceful, repetitive movements could lull anyone into a trance. The steam from the hot iron had turned her cheeks pink. One might think that grown men would have better things to do on a Wednesday afternoon. But Ingvar would say, "What's better than a beautiful woman and a plate of warm cookies?"
"Katrina's got a boyfriend," Lars announced as we stepped inside.
"What? No I don't."
"What's that?" My grandmother barreled across the room, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her lower lip actually trembled. "A boyfriend? Who is he?" Her enthusiasm was embarrassing. You'd think I'd discovered a cure for cellulite or something.
"No one."
"He's a foreigner," Lars said, unbuttoning his coat. "And he's not all there, if you know what I mean."
My grandmother pursed her lips. "He's not Swedish, is he?"
"He wears a skirt," Lars added, taking a seat across from Odin.
Odin raised an eyebrow. "A skirt?"
"You're dating a homosexual?" my grandmother asked.
"He says he's not a fairy," Lars said.
"What are you talking about? I'm not dating anyone." I dropped my backpack, then grabbed a krumkake. "And Malcolm wears a kilt, not a skirt. Lots of guys wear kilts.
It has nothing to do with being gay."
"She's right. Romans wore skirts," Ingvar said.
"Romans didn't wear skirts. They wore tunics," Ralph said, crumbs falling from his mouth.
"They wore skirts," Ingvar insisted. "With pleats."
Ralph grabbed another cookie. "I'll tell you who wore a skirt. Mel Gibson wore one in that movie."
"Yeah well, he's an actor, and everyone knows that actors are fairies," Odin said.
The wisdom of the aged. I ate my cookie, then poured milk into a tall glass. The cookie helped me feel better after the whole "world freezing" episode. Maybe I'd just been tired, or hormonal.
"Where'd you get that cane?" Odin asked.
"Found it," Lars said.
Great, we were off the subject of boyfriends. My shoulders relaxed as I drank the milk. Why was it such a big deal whether or not I had a boyfriend? Of course, I wouldn't feel so defensive if I had purposefully chosen to be boyfriendless.
Lars moved one of the playing pieces. "Katrina's boyfriend said he was imprisoned.
That's what he said. That Katrina had imprisoned him."
Everyone stopped eating and cooking and playing, and grinned at me. Goofy little grins as if I had just said my first word or taken my first step. My face felt like it was on fire. I bolted into the office, but Grandma Anna, despite her arthritic knees, stayed hot on my heels. "Is that what the boy said?" she asked, blinking excitedly.
"Imprisoned?"
"I don't know." I looked around for the order sheets, trying to seem busy. One of my jobs was to place the orders for food and supplies. An unruly pile of papers covered my grandmother's desk. Shoe boxes overflowing with receipts lay on the floor. The desk drawers sat open. "What happened in here?"
She fiddled with some papers. "I'm trying to find the receipt for the television."
"The new one?"
She looked away. "I thought we could sell it on eBay. We don't really ne
ed it."
My stomach clenched. She loved that new television because she could watch two shows at once. Had we reached the point of having to sell our belongings? "Are things that bad?"
"We need a new dishwasher. It's a matter of necessity."
"Don't get rid of the television," I said. "We could have a garage sale. I've got all that stuff in the upstairs closet."
"We'll talk about it later." She turned her round face up at me, her eyebrows arched with hope. "Are you going to ask this boy to the Solstice Festival?" We were out of money and she was worried about my love life. Should I have been worried too? Does not having a boyfriend at sixteen put you on the fast track to spinsterhood? Did this mean I would spend the rest of my life alone, childless, dried up?
Aaron could start calling me Coffeehouse Crone.
"I'm not asking him to the Solstice Festival. I really don't know him." I picked up a bill from the power company. "Grandma, how much money do we need?"
"That's none of your concern." She whisked the bill from my hand. "How did you meet this boy?"
"He just showed up. He keeps following me."
She nodded. "That's what they do. Believe me, once a man falls in love, he follows you everywhere. He sends flowers, he calls, he takes you out to dinner, to the movies.
He embeds himself like a tick." She sighed. "So romantic."
"Well, I don't want a tick."
Her dazed expression faded and her down-to-earth, commonsense nature reappeared.
"Then you'll have to make that clear. If you don't love him, you don't love him. No good leading him on. Tell him that you appreciate his feelings, but you're just not interested." She patted my hand. "Your time will come." She went back to the kitchen.
I wouldn't have to tell Malcolm that I wasn't interested, because he had left Nordby.
He had wished me a long and healthy life. Even if he turned out to be sane it didn't matter. He had gone.
I picked up another bill, this one from Acme Supply Company. Thirty days overdue.
Another from Visa was also thirty days overdue. If only we could just throw them in the trash and be done with them, like bad sardines.
"Good-bye, Katrina. Good-bye, Anna. Good-bye, Irmgaard," The Boys called, the front door closing behind them.
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