Finding Miranda

by Chacon, Iris

  “I’ma make you my grandmother’s especial torta rustica, with super secret ingredient. You gonna love it,” Pietro spoke from his place at the stove. He wore a red apron that covered him from armpits to knees.

  Miranda translated the Italian words embroidered on the apron: “ ‘Cooking lasts longer than kissing?’ And what, sir chef, do you mean by that, exactly?”

  Pietro looked up from the pot he was stirring and grinned at her. “It means if you smart, you don’t marry the pretty one,” he nodded toward Shepard and winked, “you marry the one who can cook.”

  “Watch it, buddy,” snarled Shepard.

  “Calm down, Thor,” said Pietro. “We just talkin’ about my apron.”

  “Your apron, my a—”

  “Shepard!” Miranda interrupted, feigning outrage. “If you intend to propose to me every time you speak to me, you can hardly complain if someone else does it, too, now can you?” She winked at Pietro.

  Shepard opened his mouth as if to argue, then closed it and pulled back a chair for Miranda. “Have a seat, Castor Bean. What can I get you to drink?”

  “Thank you,” she said, taking her place at the table. As Shep settled her chair, she asked, “What are you two drinking?”

  “Iced tea,” Shep answered. “We have to leave for work after dinner.”

  Pietro announced, “Everybody sit! It’sa perfect right now. In ten minutes will be ruined. Sit! Sit!”

  “You sit! I’m getting the tea,” Shepard said.

  “Velocemente! I’ma serve the plates!” snapped Pietro.

  Shepard said something rude in Italian. Pietro ignored him. Miranda laughed. Dave went to his waiting food dish and sat beside it.

  ....

  As they consumed Pietro’s culinary masterpiece—which indeed it was—they enjoyed talking in first one language, then another. Miranda held her own in four of the languages, though her accent was admittedly imperfect. Pietro and Shepard knew a smattering of Russian, Turkish, even Hebrew, but when they discovered Miranda wasn’t keeping up, they quickly changed to a tongue with which she was familiar.

  They were discussing the mysteries of the game of cricket when Shep suddenly raised a hand for silence.

  “Hear that?” he said.

  “What is it?” asked Pietro.

  “That car,” said Shepard. “Listen.”

  They stilled their forks and listened. A car was idling somewhere on Orchid Street. The neighborhood was otherwise quiet.

  “Whose car is that?” asked Shepard.

  “Who knows?” said Pietro, resuming his dinner. “You think I can tell from just hearing a car that it belongs to a certain person?”

  “Come on, Pietro. There aren’t that many cars on Orchid Street. There aren’t that many cars in all of Minokee. Nobody around here has a car that sounds like that.”

  Pietro shook his head. “You justa showing off in front of the pretty lady.”

  “I am not,” Shep turned toward Miranda. “Bean, I am not showing off. Look, your car sounds like a sewing machine with its teeny engine. Martha’s car rattles. Mr. Barren’s car squeaks. Bernice’s old caddy rumbles like a steam locomotive.” He turned toward Pietro. “Our car purrs like a kitten, because you baby it all the time. But that car,” he gestured toward the outside, “that car sounds like a biker gang. It doesn’t belong in this neighborhood.”

  Miranda put a hand on Shepard’s wrist. “Somebody has company, that’s all. You have a dinner guest. They have one, too. Don’t let it worry you.”

  Shepard smiled and patted her hand. “I’m not worried. I just noticed, is all.”

  “You justa showing off, is all,” muttered Pietro.

  “Stop it,” Miranda said with a chuckle. “You were explaining to me about cricket.”

  With that, Pietro resumed the conversation they had interrupted. Their pleasant dinner continued without further distractions.

  After the meal, Miranda sipped coffee at the table while Pietro and Shep cleaned up the kitchen. Dinner had been extraordinary. In fact, Miranda thought she had never enjoyed such superb food in such marvelous company in her life. If this was an everyday meal at the Krausse household, these friends were very special indeed.

  “You have this down to a science,” she said, watching them wash, dry, and put away the dishes and utensils.

  “Years of practice,” said Shep.

  “I teach him how to run a kitchen,” said Pietro.

  Shep elbowed Pietro. “Liar! Your grandmother taught me,” he turned toward Miranda. “His grandmother taught me.”

  “Hah! You forget that I teach my grandmother!” Pietro quipped, elbowing Shep in return.

  Miranda laughed. “Clearly, you’ve known each other for a very long time. What was Shepard like in high school?”

  “Perfect!” said Shepard.

  “Tall,” said Pietro. “And skinny and insecure and a poor student. Everything I was not, that’s what he was.”

  “No,” inserted Shep.

  “And he had no, how can I say, ... skills, no ... finesse with the girls,” Pietro continued.

  “What girls? There were no girls!” Shep turned to Miranda. “There were no girls. It was an all-boys boarding school. No girls.”

  “There are girls in the town,” Pietro insisted. “Plenty of girls, who admire the dark, handsome Italian with the hypnotizing charm.”

  “Oh, right, hypnotizing charm. I suppose you’re referring to yourself, Harry Houdini?”

  “Houdini? Houdini was an escape artist. I no want to escape from pretty girls.”

  “Spare me,” muttered Shep.

  “Fortunately, I take pity on this pathetic oaf—”

  “Pathetic oaf!”

  “—and I give him lessons in romance,” Pietro boasted.

  “Do you realize how awful that sounds?!” Shep said. He turned toward Miranda, “He did not teach me. Nobody had to teach me.” He turned toward Pietro. “You did not teach me, you self-proclaimed little Wop Romeo.”

  “You Norse Neanderthal,” said Pietro.

  Through it all they washed and rinsed, dried and stacked, and never missed a beat. Miranda laughed until tears ran down her cheeks. Dave dozed under the table with his head on Miranda’s feet. He had heard it all before.

  “So, that’s our story,” Shep said. “What was school like for you, Castor Bean?”

  Miranda was quiet a moment, looking into her coffee cup.

  “Oh, you know. Good grades. Teachers liked me; students not so much. People couldn’t remember my name. Nobody mistreated me or bullied me. Mostly people

  were unaware of me. Never had my picture in the yearbook. But it was all good. School was fine.” She looked down at her feet. “What was school like for you, Dave?”

  “Whupf,” Dave snuffled.

  “He’s too modest,” said Shepard. “Dave graduated first in his class, was captain of the Frisbee team, and dated the most beautiful poodle babe on campus.”

  Pietro chimed in, “Dave is so smart, when he graduate they hire him as a professor for two semesters.”

  Miranda laughed. She finished her coffee and rose to hand her empty cup to Pietro. He added it to his dishwater.

  “Thank you for a wonderful meal and for the, um, unusual conversation,” she said. “I need to get home and get to bed early, and you two need to get off to work soon.”

  Shep put down his drying towel and walked her to the kitchen door. “Will you stay with Martha again tonight?” he asked.

  “Oh, no, I’m fine at my place,” she assured him. “Martha spent the day getting doors and windows secured and some of the kitchen mess swept away. She’s kept me on the phone all day with progress reports. We have wonderful neighbors here, don’t we?”

  “I certainly have a wonderful neighbor,” he agreed. He opened the door for her and kissed her on the forehead. “Be safe. Sleep well.”

  “You, too. Thanks again,” she said, and she began walking homeward.

  “Oh, Bean?” he called af
ter her.

  “Yes?”

  “Will you marry me?” he called.

  She laughed. “Not tonight, Shepard.” She kept walking.

  “Okay. G’night,” he called, and shut the door.

  Minokee exploded twenty minutes later.

  20 THE HUNTED

  Miranda had removed her shoes and laid out her work clothing for the next morning. She was covering her charred kitchen with spare bed sheets when a blast of noise and light shook the house and knocked her to her knees.

  An echoing muffled roar followed the first boom. The initial bright light subsided to a wavering red-gold glow emanating from Orchid Street.

  Miranda blinked and pulled in air, but she choked and coughed on suspended dust and ash stirred by the explosion. Sputtering and gasping, she pushed herself to her feet. The flames and smoke were concentrated beyond the roof of her rear-yard neighbor. She knew—but tried desperately to deny—that Shepard Krausse’s front yard was on fire.

  She fumbled into the flip-flops beside the door. In a millisecond she raced through the rear hedge. The red glow blossomed higher into the air beyond the Krausse rooftop. Neighbors’ doors slammed, dogs barked, people shouted as all Minokee rushed to help. Some woman was screaming hysterically; Miranda decided the voice was her own.

  She careened around the side of the house and froze in shock. At the curb a massive conflagration devoured twisted, blackened pieces of Pietro’s car. In the street beyond, shadows of frantic neighbors fought the fire with buckets, garden hoses, and kitchen fire extinguishers. People shouted into cell phones and at each other. What air was not sucked away by the holocaust was searing to the lungs. A wall of unbearable heat shoved would-be rescuers back from the white-hot steel skeleton of the car.

  Squinting into the blinding glare, Miranda made out a silhouette no one else had yet seen: a body on the lawn, and it was on fire.

  “Shepard!” she screamed. “Shepard!”

  She ran and threw her body across the burning one. She rolled him in the grass, she beat out flames with her hands, ripped off her blouse and skirt and smothered the fire. His pant legs were shredded and black. Now in her underwear, Miranda wrapped her singed outer clothing around his calves and leaped to grasp his wrists and drag him toward safety. A gnarled, claw like hand covered Miranda’s hand. She jumped and screamed.

  “Let me help!” shouted Martha Cleary over the hideous cacophony surrounding them.

  Miranda pulled one arm and Martha the other. Together they heaved the big man to and through the front door of his house. Martha slammed the door, blocking out most of the heat and light, but the two women had no trouble seeing each other’s terrified faces in the fire’s glare through the windows. They slumped onto the floor beside the unconscious Shepard. Martha wore pin curls, a bathrobe, and ruined pink chenille bedroom slippers. Miranda wore bra, panties, half-slip, one flip-flop, and a coating of soot marred by tear tracks down her face. She made no sound and took no notice as tiny salty drops fell from her chin.

  “Gonna take the Rescue a bit ta git out here,” said Martha, hauling herself to her feet. “Better get some cool water on these burns.” She gestured to Shepard’s lower legs encased in Miranda’s erstwhile clothing. “I’ll git a bowl of cool water from the kitchen.”

  “I’ll get some towels,” Miranda said with a sniff. She wiped her chin absently on the back of her hand as she rose and went to find a linen closet.

  Moments later the women were again seated alongside the man who lay facedown, silent, on the floor. Gently they lifted away the clothing on his calves, placed towels beneath him, and began drizzling cooling water over his reddened skin.

  Outside someone shouted, “Everybody get back! Get back!” Unable to put out the flames, neighbors retreated to what they hoped was a safe distance. Some wept. Some joined hands and prayed. Everyone lurched backward when a second, smaller explosion blasted new flames high into the air.

  “Prolly the gas tank,” said Martha when Miranda pulled back and squeaked with alarm. Miranda took a deep breath, let it out, and resumed the gentle rinsing of the man’s burns. Martha never broke rhythm. For a minute they worked in silence, with the decreasing glow and fading fiery roar coming to them through the closed front door and the living room windows.

  Miranda cleared her throat and asked hoarsely, “Martha?”

  “Yeah, darlin’.”

  “Wh-where is Dave? Where is Pietro? Is, is somebody helping them?”

  Martha took a couple of calming breaths before she answered, as kindly as she could, “I think they’re still in the car.”

  “Oh, God! Dear God, have mercy!” Miranda whispered.

  Shepard groaned. His shoulders tensed, and he turned his head toward Miranda.

  She wiped his face with a cool, damp cloth. “Shhhhh,” she said, leaning near his ear. “It’s all right. You’re gonna be all right.”

  His eyes were closed, but his lips moved. Miranda said, “What, Shep? What do you want?”

  He worked harder, and this time they heard him. “Dave,” he rasped. “Where’s Dave?”

  No one answered.

  Unconsciousness reclaimed him.

  The next fifteen minutes dragged on for decades. Miranda looked at her watch, thumped it with her fingers, held it to her ear, certain that it had stopped. The noise outside had subsided. The fire had decreased from open flames to glowing edges of unrecognizable shapes. Most neighbors had gone home; only a few waited for the police and fire/rescue vehicles.

  Miranda and Martha continued rinsing Shepard’s calves. Martha declared the burns were superficial and limited to his lower legs. Miranda examined them closely and agreed.

  When Shepard stirred and opened his eyes, the women helped him stand and move to the nearby sofa. They propped his feet on an ottoman and draped wet towels over his shins to cool his burns. Martha fetched a glass of water, and Miranda fed it to him.

  Silently, Miranda thanked God that Shepard could not see the devastation outside his front window. She could not keep her eyes off it. She yearned to see—and at the same time prayed not to see—the shapes of a man and a large dog inside the twisted metal.

  Shepard had lost his sunglasses in the blast, and his blue eyes stared unblinking into middle space. His head ached—from concussion, he surmised—and his calves felt like the time he had fallen asleep on the white-sand beach at Destin. Unforgettable second-degree sunburn. At least this time it was only his legs, not the backside of his entire body.

  Martha went outside to confer with neighbors and watch for the authorities. Shepard and Miranda sat in silence.

  “Would you like me to call your mother?” Miranda asked softly.

  He shook his head carefully, as if it hurt to move. They sat isolated in their own thoughts a little longer. Then Shepard said, “Bean, I need to call Carlo.”

  “Carlo?” she said. “Who is Carlo? Never mind. Doesn’t matter. Do you have his number?”

  “It’s in my phone. But I have no idea where my phone is.”

  “It’s on your coffee table. I found it in your pocket.”

  He groaned and dropped his face into his hands.

  She rose, retrieved the phone, and when he sat up again placed it in his hand. He held it. He thumbed it on, then flicked it off again. He lifted it toward Miranda.

  “I can’t,” he said. “Would you?”

  “Sure,” she said, taking the phone. She turned on the device and scrolled through the contacts directory. She found “Carlo” in the directory and activated the call button. “It’s ringing,” she said. “What do you want me to say?”

  Shep cleared his throat. “Tell him his brother has been murdered,” he said, then seemed to choke. He coughed and continued, “And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” He clamped his jaws shut and swallowed hard. Tears pooled in his eerie blue eyes and rolled unchecked down into his beard.

  Miranda steeled herself for the conversation, and when Carlo answered she was able to speak almos
t normally. His Italian accent was nearly identical to Pietro’s, and that tore at her heart. Still, she managed to introduce herself as a friend and neighbor of Shepard’s and to tell him Shepard’s message more-or-less verbatim.

  Carlo was quiet a moment. Miranda put the call on Speaker and held it between herself and Shepard.

  “Who?” said Carlo. The single word spoke sorrow, fury, determination, and inescapable vengeance.

  Shepard managed to force from his constricted throat: “Iggy. Has to be Iggy.”

  “And madam?” said the voice of vengeance.

  Miranda’s brow furrowed in confusion.

  Shepard answered, more strongly now, “I am certain madam knows nothing of this. She is not part of it. I caused this, Carlo. Pietro warned me, but I didn’t listen. I thought I was risking only myself. I should have realized there was as much danger to the people around me.” Shep’s chest heaved with his weeping. “I’m sorry,” he rasped.

  For a few seconds Miranda heard only Shepard sobbing. She slipped her arm across his wide shoulders and hugged him.

  Finally, Carlo spoke again. If Death could speak, it would be in that voice. “Is not for you be sorry. Is for Iggy. Iggy will be the most sorry.” He disconnected.

  Shepard stared straight ahead, gaining control of himself. Miranda’s hand slid soothingly back and forth across his shoulders. Only eighteen minutes had passed since life had changed forever in a ball of fire. In another ten minutes the outside world would arrive with flashing lights and helping hands.

  Suddenly Shepard stiffened. “Hear that?” he whispered.

  Miranda wiped at her wet cheeks and listened. Outside, a car approached and idled to a stop near the wreckage. A man called out, “What the hell happened here?!”

  “Car fire,” a neighbor shouted back, in a tone that also said, as any fool can see.

  “Damn! Anybody hurt?” the newcomer yelled.

  “One got out,” Martha Cleary shouted. “You lost or somethin’?”