CoffeeHouse Angel

by Suzanne Sellars

  "Elizabeth, I know you feel crappy right now, but we both need to stop moping around. Face is history. Vincent is history. And the coffeehouse is going to be history if I don't do something. I need you to get out of bed, get dressed, and meet me down there."

  The crinkle of a plastic wrapper filled the earpiece. "Why?" she asked with a full mouth.

  "Because you're the most talented person I know. Because you have vision. Because you make everything interesting and beautiful. Because without you, this will never work."

  "Really?" She sniffled.

  "I need you."

  "Okay. I'll meet you there."

  Elliott and I left school in the Buick. I pretended to have a stomachache, he forged a note for an allergy appointment. I shared all the coffeehouse details without shame or embarrassment. Grandma Anna would forgive me because facing the truth was the only way forward. I turned onto Main Street. Last night's craft party at Java Heaven had produced hundreds of foam snowflakes. Shopkeepers had hung them in their windows and from their awnings. Ropes of snowflakes dangled across the street and wound around lampposts. We drove past Viking Square, where the blue spruce stood, decked out in snowflakes and lights. Magical. We passed Anna's coffeehouse, the only shop on the street not decorated, unless you consider the Closed by Health Department sign a festive addition.

  There was no time to worry about snowflakes.

  Elizabeth had parked in the back alley and was waiting for us. "What's he doing here?" she whispered when Elliott got out of the car.

  "You'll see."

  Inside, I turned on the heat and lights. Elliott gave Ratcatcher a good scratch while I started the coffeepot. We'd need lots and lots of caffeine. I made a platter of buttered toast and while they ate, I described the plan that was bouncing around in my head.

  "We have three days before the Solstice Festival. I think there's money to be made from Ratcatcher's fame. I want to transform this place into the Ratcatcher Emporium.

  We've got my grandfather's retirement check and about two hundred dollars in my grandmother's checking account to work with and a credit card in case we need it. I've got some cash from tips. What do you think?" I held out my arms and waited for their reaction. They stopped crunching.

  "Is this okay with your grandmother?" Elizabeth asked.

  "She doesn't know anything about it. She'll still be in the hospital. And anyway, she decided to close down the coffeehouse, so I might as well use the space while I can."

  "Won't she get mad if you spend her money?" Elliott asked.

  "Probably, but it's our only chance. That money would only pay a few bills and then we'd still be in debt and without a coffeehouse."

  Elizabeth leaned across the counter and whispered, "Why don't you just get you know who to give you the you know what?"

  "I don't need that third bean. I'm going to do this myself. Everyone still wants to meet Ratcatcher. We can't compete with Java Heaven in the coffee market, so why not do something completely different? Elliott, I need you to work the financial end.

  Elizabeth, I need you to work the marketing end."

  "What about the Health Department?" Elizabeth asked.

  "I'm not serving food, so who cares about them?"

  "It's a risk," Elliott said, wiping crumbs from his mouth. "But every great endeavor begins with risk."

  Elizabeth finally smiled. "The Ratcatcher Emporium. I love it!"

  Elliott set up his laptop in the office and I brought my computer downstairs for Elizabeth. Elliott and I went through all the files and drawers. He created a spreadsheet that listed all the money we owed and current and future expenses.

  Elizabeth and I brainstormed products. We took a photo of Ratcatcher, then e-mailed it to a company that pasted it onto coffee mugs, sticky notes, and cookie tins. We paid for next-day shipping. Elizabeth created a cute logo of Ratcatcher's smiling face and set up a simple Web site, then sent it off to all her blogger friends. She contacted the Nordby News and some local radio stations.

  I answered the messages, then left a message on the phone letting callers know that the Ratcatcher Emporium would officially open on Friday for the Solstice festival.

  Evening came. I called the hospital. Grandma said she'd had way too many visitors and not to worry about stopping by. She hadn't seen Irmgaard and was worried. I called Irmgaard's apartment, but no one answered. I hadn't seen her since the encounter with Malcolm at the hospital. I kept expecting each of them to show up.

  While I would have welcomed Irmgaard's help, it was probably best not to have Malcolm hanging around, clogging up my brain with all those feelings.

  "This is going to be an all-nighter," Elliott said. He called his parents. His dad stopped by with a bathrobe and sleeping bag and a bunch of packaged snacks because Elliott had this low blood sugar thing. Elizabeth's mom brought us a chicken and rice casserole, which was great.

  I felt energized and it wasn't from the caffeine. Something powerful surged through my veins. Was it confidence? Do confident people walk around feeling like that all the time--like everything will work out? What a great feeling.

  "You know what's missing?" Elizabeth said, drinking her third cup of coffee.

  I shook my head. My answer would have been Vincent, but I didn't say that. While Elizabeth, Elliott, and I made a great team, it wasn't the original three. Vincent didn't know anything about spreadsheets or marketing, but it would have been nice to have him there. He could have passed out flyers in his calm, friendly way. I should have waved to him when he had looked up from his bike. I should have run out there and hugged him and said, It doesn't matter. You broke a promise and I acted like a jealous, insecure idiot. And we both said mean things. Let's just forget it and move on.

  "I'll tell you what's missing. The stupid rat is what's missing," Elizabeth said.

  "Huh?"

  "We need to get that rat back." She pushed her chair away from the desk. "Why did they take it anyway? Seems to me it belongs to you. It was in your shop."

  "You're right," I said, suddenly indignant. "Why did they have to take it? People will want to see that rat. I need to get it back." Then I remembered. "But it smelled disgusting."

  "You can get the rat stuffed," Elliott said. He was stretched out on his sleeping bag, plugging numbers into his laptop. "My dad went hunting last year and had this client of his clean and stuff the deer he shot."

  "That's a great idea." I remembered this place in Seattle called Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe, full of all sorts of weird stuffed dead things. People love those stuffed dead things. I imagined tourists posing with the massive rodent. "That's a really great idea."

  "My dad's an attorney," Elliott said. "I'll call him. I bet he can get the rat back."

  We worked through the night, drifting off around 3:00 a.m. I fell asleep on the desk.

  Elizabeth curled next to Elliott, which didn't surprise me. They'd been working together all day, sharing snacks, talking about art classes. They both snored, but it only woke me up twice. Ratcatcher, completely unaware that she was the center of our universe, gnawed her way into one of Elliott's animal cracker boxes. I wished I had someone to curl up next to-- someone warm.

  The phone woke me up. Expecting another "fan" call, I didn't answer it.

  "Katrina?" The answering machine's speaker muffled Officer Larsen's voice. "I've got a young man down here at the station who says he's a friend of yours. Picked him up for trespassing. I can't locate his family and he's refused to make his one phone call.

  Thought you might be able to clear this up. Says he works as a messenger."

  Twenty-nine

  The last time I was inside the Nordby Police Station was for a fifth-grade field trip.

  We were bored out of our minds because the place was nothing like the movies. No guys in striped pajamas and no drug-sniffing dogs. No prostitutes lurking in the hallways saying things like "Hey, girlie, how 'bout gettin' me a cig?" or "My lawyer's gonna sue ya, pig!"

  Nordby wasn't the kind of
place that overflowed with criminals. Most of the arrests listed in the Police Blotter section of the paper were DWIs, followed by bored teens caught spray painting and blowing up mailboxes. That kind of stuff. As I parked the Buick I thought about the generic coffee invoice, still lying on the backseat. I could accidentally drop it on the police department's floor. Consumer fraud would be an interesting addition to the blotter. But I had already used Grandma's credit card without her permission--I didn't want to break my promise too.

  The small brick building sat next to the hardware store. Two police cars were parked outside. Country music drifted down the hall. A secretary showed me to Officer Larsen's office.

  "Hi, Katrina," he said. He pulled out a chair, but I didn't feel like sitting. Then he poured himself a cup of coffee from a stained Mr. Coffee carafe. "How's Anna?"

  "They're going to discharge her after the weekend."

  "Oh, that's good to hear. But too bad she'll miss the Solstice."

  "She wouldn't be able to enjoy it anyway. They want her to stay in bed for a while."

  "It'll be hard keeping that woman in bed." He sipped. "So, Katrina, how do you know this messenger kid? I can't get any information out of him."

  "His name is Malcolm. He just came from Scotland. The Highlands. I met him last week and he's been helping out at the coffeehouse." I fiddled with my coat hem. What else could I say? "He's real nice." Malcolm's satchel sat on the floor. The words Messenger Service no longer twinkled. They had turned from gold to gray, as if written in soot.

  "He won't give me a last name."

  I didn't have a clue about his last name. "Is he under arrest?"

  "He was loitering outside Irmgaard's apartment, calling out her name. The manager complained. Said he'd been coming around a lot, especially at night."

  "Is that against the law?"

  "We have a curfew for minors here in Nordby. Under eighteen and you're supposed to be off the streets after ten p.m.

  "Really?" I'd never heard that. Vincent was out late all the time and no one had ever arrested him.

  "If Irmgaard's willing to sign a statement saying that he's been harassing her, then I've got good reason to keep him."

  "If Irmgaard doesn't sign the statement, will you let him go?"

  Officer Larsen set down the coffee mug. "We may have a larger issue. He doesn't appear to have any identification. You say he's from Scotland? Without a visa or a passport, I might have to turn him over to immigration."

  Did angels carry driver's licenses, or passports, or labor union cards? "I'm sure he has identification. It's probably back at the coffeehouse. Can I see him?"

  Officer Larsen led me down the hall to an honest-to-God jail cell, in which sat an honest-to-God angel. Well, Malcolm wasn't exactly sitting, he was spread out on a bench, his arm flung across his face like the first time I had seen him, which felt like a million years ago. "You can have a few minutes," Officer Larsen said.

  I watched him walk back down the hall, then I threw myself at the bars. "Malcolm?

  What are you doing in here? Why don't you just leave? You can leave, can't you?"

  "Where would I go?" He lay perfectly still.

  "You can come back to the coffeehouse."

  "Why? So I can continue to mess up your life? I should have known what you most desired. Any other messenger could have done it with his eyes closed. But I got it wrong with the first bean, and that's why you're not speaking to your best friend. Then I got it wrong with the second bean, and that's why your shop is closed."

  I clutched the bars with both hands. "Malcolm, none of this was your fault. Vincent and Heidi would have gotten together anyway, even if he hadn't become a hero. They swim together and she's real...cute. And the coffeehouse was losing money long before you showed up. It would have closed even without the rat. Grandma's a great person, but she stinks at business."

  "I stink at being a messenger."

  As far as I knew, he was telling the truth. He did seem to be having a lot of trouble. I cleared my throat, searching for the right words. After all, it's not every day that you find yourself giving an angel a pep talk. "Look, Malcolm, think of all the other messages that you've delivered. Those worked out, right?"

  He said nothing. Oops. I tried another tactic.

  "Irmgaard's hard to figure out. I mean, she hasn't spoken a word in all the time that I've known her. You've got to be really stubborn to keep a vow of silence, don't you think? That's why you're having trouble with her. When she decides to do something, then forget about changing her mind." But I couldn't come up with an example of Irmgaard's stubbornness, other than the vow of silence. She was usually easy to work with, almost submissive. My pep talk was a dismal failure.

  He didn't move or say anything, sinking deeper and deeper into the dark pit that I knew so well. Earlier that morning I would have joined him, and our combined brooding could have been the sulkfest of the century. But I had snapped out of it, so he could too. Angels were supposed to fall out of grace, not into bouts of self-pity.

  Oh, what did I know? He wasn't anything like a storybook angel. He was himself. I wanted to throw my arms around him and tell him that things would get better.

  "Malcolm, let's worry about the message later. I'll talk to Irmgaard. It'll work out.

  Come on, let's get out of here. Can't you just slip through the wall or something? I could really use your help at the coffeehouse. And you still owe me that third bean, right? So until I figure out what I most desire, you're stuck with me."

  Slowly, his face straining, he sat up and looked at me. His vibrant blue eyes had faded to gray. Sweat laced his upper lip. He groaned and leaned against the cell wall.

  "Malcolm, are you sick?"

  He lifted the hem of my grandfather's sweater. The golden envelope was tucked under his belt. "I hid it from the officer. It's heavier. In a few more hours I won't be able to move."

  Won't be able to move? He wasn't sulking. He was in serious pain! "Then get rid of it.

  Put it on the ground."

  "I cannot. It's my burden to bear." He grimaced. "Katrina, I can't be seen like this. I need your help."

  He was trapped in that cell. What would happen if the world found out about him?

  He'd get into serious trouble. I ran back to the office. "Officer Larsen?" I cried. He was doing some paperwork. "I need to take Malcolm back to the coffeehouse. He's sick."

  "I can't release him yet."

  "Irmgaard's not going to press charges. I'll talk to her. I know she won't. And Malcolm will go back home as soon as he's better. I promise he will."

  Officer Larsen stroked his chin. He was a man of rules. I'd never known him to make exceptions.

  "Please." I paced in front of his desk. Vincent's and Ratcatcher's media coverage would be nothing compared to the frenzy a real angel would cause. "You've known me my entire life. I promise you that he's not a terrorist or a criminal of any kind. He's just here on vacation, but he's real sick."

  "Are you sure he's sick? He didn't look sick when I brought him in. Let's take a look."

  He unhooked a set of keys from his belt and led me back to the jail cell. "You're right, he sure doesn't look well," which was a total understatement because Malcolm had turned a light shade of green. "Maybe we should get him to the hospital."

  "It's just the flu," I said. "It's going around. Maybe you shouldn't get too close. It's very contagious."

  Officer Larsen stepped away from the cell. "The flu can bring a man to his knees. Last time I caught it, my fever went to a hundred and three."

  "I've already been exposed, so I'll take him back to the coffeehouse and Irmgaard will make him some soup." Come on, come on, just let him go. Malcolm's eyes had closed again. I think he was trying to hide his pain. "Please, Officer Larsen."

  "Well, I guess until I hear from Irmgaard I have no real reason to keep him. And, as far as I can tell, there's no warrant out for his arrest."

  "He can go?"

  Officer Larsen nodded
. "Consider it a favor to you, Katrina. I appreciate all the times you've helped my father. I have your word that you'll get this boy's passport sorted out?"

  "Yes." What else could I say?

  He unlocked the gate. I rushed in. It took all my strength and still I couldn't get Malcolm to his feel. "Malcolm," I whispered in his ear. "You've got to help me get you out of here." He opened his eyes, groaned, then stood on shaky legs. "Don't get too close," I told Officer Larsen. Though I could have used his help, how would I explain the fact that Malcolm weighed as much as an elephant? And what if he found the envelope? "Be sure to disinfect this place after we leave."

  Malcolm stumbled. I swung his arm over my shoulder, then we hobbled down the hall. "Thank you," I said as Officer Larsen slid the satchel over my arm. Then he held open the front door.

  It took forever to get Malcolm to the Buick. Despite the winter wind, I started to sweat. The car tipped when he finally fell onto the passenger seat. The tires went a bit flat, but they held up as we drove off like a car in a cartoon. Malcolm groaned again and doubled over.

  "What will happen if she doesn't take the message?" I asked.

  "It will crush me," he said quietly. "Crush you?"

  "Like a bug under your foot."

  I stepped on the gas. "We're almost there."

  We screeched into the apartment's parking lot. It's not easy to maneuver a lopsided car. I'd been to the building a few times, but I'd never gone inside. Irmgaard had never invited us over for dinner or to watch a movie. Her life outside the coffeehouse was a total mystery.

  The building sat on a really depressing corner, at the exact spot where the Scandinavian charm of Nordby ended and the strip malls began. Beyond stretched the shared landscape of America--cheap nail salons, fast-food restaurants, and outlet stores. I parked crooked, taking up two spaces. "Wait here." He wasn't going anywhere and there was no way I could get him up the stairs.

  Malcolm nodded. His long hair fell over his face.

  I didn't want anything to happen to him. He was the only angel I'd ever met--maybe the only one I'd ever meet. He was kind, and honest, and handsome, and I was the only person who could help him. Imagine that.