by A. M. Geever
The Mission Church bell began to toll. Almost immediately, people began coming out of buildings in twos and threes.
“Must be lunchtime,” Seffie observed. “Do you want to show us the rest later? I’m starving.”
“Sure.” Connor nodded. “Lunch will be at Benson Center. It’s that way,” Connor said, pointing after the groups of people.
“Good enough for me,” Seffie declared. “You guys coming?”
Mike nodded, but Connor shook his head. “I’m going to go by the Jesuit Residence first. I want to see if Miranda’s around.”
Mike smiled. “Just don’t make the poor girl keel over again,” he said as he and Seffie started off. “Causing concussions is no way to win her heart.”
Connor laughed, finally getting into the spirit of things. “Fuck you, too.”
He headed in the opposite direction, butterflies rising in his stomach. He had not been foolish enough to think that he and Miranda would have a fall-into-each-other’s-arms sort of reunion. But he had not expected her to be sick, and so shocked at seeing him that she passed out and whacked her head. He realized that she was injured already and on painkillers but even so. Not an auspicious sign.
And then there was his cousin Emily. He, Mike, and Seffie spent the better part of the morning with Walter and Doug, debriefing about the trip and what the situation had been in Mazatlán when they’d left. After Seffie finished up, he and Mike filled them in about scouting lab locations.
The conversation had turned to other matters and he tried to find out more about Emily: where she lived, how he could contact her. He knew she was local, but that was it. Both Walter and Doug had been noncommittal to the point of evasiveness. When Connor got more insistent, they outright begged off, citing a pressing engagement that required their presence elsewhere. There was something they didn’t want him to know or did not want to be the ones to tell him, but he didn’t know who else he could ask. If they weren’t talking, it was a sure bet no one else was, either. Maybe if he patched things up with Miranda, she might be more forthcoming.
He crossed the street, then slid the Access card he’d been given and opened the Jesuit Residence door. He headed down the hall to the spacious living room and there she was, sitting on one of the couches. She was by herself, no book, no people, just petting her dog. The dog heard him first and turned her head, then started thumping her tail against the floor.
The dog seems to like me, he thought, that has to count for something.
He took a deep breath and continued forward. Miranda turned toward him. Her face lit up.
“Hey, I’ve been looking for you!” she exclaimed as she made a beeline for him. And then she was in his arms, holding him tight. Time seemed to distort, stretching slow and thick around them.
“I still can’t believe it. I can’t believe you’re alive!” she said, her voice giddy.
She started to laugh. Connor kissed the top of her head and pulled her closer, surprised at how small she seemed. Her hair smelled of soap, and he inhaled the scent like a suffocating man would oxygen. He pulled back to look at her. She glowed. A delighted smile stretched across her face and arced up to her eyes. She was so goddamned beautiful.
“I was so afraid I’d never see you again, Miri.”
His voice wavered, struggling to get through a throat that had become tight. She laid her head on his chest, sighing, and he could feel her smiling against him. He realized he was trembling; he didn’t care. He knew it could not be this simple, but he wasn’t going to worry about that now. She was alive, happy to see him, and in his arms, and that was enough. All the rest—the history, the hurt, the misunderstandings—none of it mattered in this brief, sweetest moment.
Then he felt her stiffen, just a little. She loosened her grip and stepped back. They were still in each other’s arms, but Connor saw an almost calculating look beneath the genuine happiness on her face. She was about to unleash one of her damn-I’m-hilarious-but-I’m-not-really-joking zingers.
“So you’re not a priest,” she said as she stepped away from him. “Nothing like some desperate the-world-is-coming-to-an-end fucking to make you rethink your career path.”
Connor blinked like a mole in the sun as time snapped forward, leaving him whiplashed and disoriented.
“What? I…no!” he stammered, taking a step back. “I mean, yeah— It’s—”
He stood there, dazed, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to form a coherent response. He could not have been more mortified if she’d accused him of molesting an altar boy.
“I’m just fucking with you, Connor.” Miranda started to laugh. “You should see the look on your face!”
She retreated a few more steps and leaned against one of the architectural columns that lined either side of the room, making no pretense of trying to get her laughter under control. On one level, he knew he deserved it but still felt ambushed and blindsided. Nothing like coming two thousand plus miles, risking life and limb, to be mocked and ridiculed. Probably best to just get it over with.
“I know I owe you an explanation,” he began.
“Don’t, Connor. Don’t,” she implored, shaking her head, eyes wide and abruptly serious. “That was mean; I shouldn’t have said it.” The words tumbled out of her mouth. She looked shocked, like she could not believe what had just transpired. She looked like she might burst into tears. “Can we please not do this now? I’m so happy you’re alive, but I don’t want to do this.”
She was only a step away, but he felt like he was approaching a wounded animal. Gently, slowly, so as not to spook her.
“Sure, Miri,” he whispered. “We don’t have to talk about it.” He started to put his hand on her cheek before hesitating and withdrawing it. They just stood there, looking at each other.
“I have something for you,” he said. “Hold on a sec, I’ll be right back.”
11
Like a will-o'-the-wisp, he vanished. Miranda crumpled to the couch.
What the hell was that? Had she actually said that out loud?
He must think I’m crazy. I think I’m crazy, she thought, horrified. Leaning against him had felt so right, so familiar. A million happy moments spent with Connor had flashed through her mind. He’d held her too tight around her injured shoulder, but she hadn’t protested, hadn’t cared.
This is the jerk who left you high and dry, her brain shouted as it struggled to establish a toehold against the sensory overload, but her body had not listened. Instead, it had nestled against him, responded to him, started to have its own ideas of what it wanted, of what it needed, and she panicked. The warmth of his body against hers went from wonderful to terrifying, and then she said what she said.
Christ on a bike, she thought, pull yourself together.
She felt a warm weight on her knee: Delilah, ever faithful. She rubbed the pit bull’s snout.
“Hey, little dog.”
At least Delilah didn’t care if she was unhinged. Encouraged by the petting, she put her paws on Miranda’s legs and with an efficient hop, settled into her lap. Miranda snuggled her face into Delilah’s neck, feeling buoyed by her unconditional acceptance. She had yet to meet a pittie that did not consider itself a lap dog, no matter its size.
After a few moments, she heard footsteps in the hall. Connor returned carrying a small beaten-up paper bag in his hand. He held it out to her.
“I found this a few years ago. You might still have it, but I couldn’t think of anyone who’d appreciate it more than you.”
Miranda shifted Delilah from her lap and reached into the bag to find a battered CD case. The jewel case was cracked diagonally across the front, but the liner notes were intact. The cover featured a three-quarter profile of a man wearing an orange striped shirt. A cigarette dangled from his lips. Pass the dust, I think I’m Bowie, was printed below him. Above was the name of the band: Black Randy and the Metro Squad.
“Oh my God!” Miranda cried, “Black Randy? Where did you find this?”
&
nbsp; “In a backpack, lying by the road outside San Salvador,” Connor said. “I couldn’t believe it. Who finds a Black Randy CD in Central America?”
Miranda gave him a look of frank disbelief. “And you never listened to it? Jesus, Connor!” She turned the CD over and squealed. “‘I Slept in an Arcade’… ‘Marlon Brando’… ‘Loner with a Boner’! Oh my God, this is great!”
“I didn’t have any way to play it, not at first, and then I couldn’t waste batteries on a CD. I figured it’d be safer in the case.”
“Come on, we’re playing this right now!” Miranda jumped up, then grabbed his shoulder. She felt a little dizzy. She started across the room, Delilah following in her wake. She turned back when she realized Connor had not moved. “Are you coming?”
He just looked at her for a moment, then almost jumped up from the couch. “Yeah, absolutely.”
“Doug told me they brought my car over,” she said as she walked through the front door. “Do you see it? It’s a green Range Rover.”
Connor looked down the block toward Lafayette Street but did not see anything matching her description.
“Oh! There it is, come on!” she answered her own question and headed for a vehicle that looked like it had seen the wrong side of an incinerator.
“I’ve seen a lot of shades of green, Miri, but this isn’t one of them,” Connor said as he looked at the charred sides of the vehicle. “What the hell have you been doing?”
Miranda paused, her hand on the front door handle, and considered the Rover.
“Well, it used to be. It still is on the hood. That,” she continued, pointing to the bubbling, charred paint and exposed steel of the doors, “is from the flamethrowers. I’ll show them to you later.”
She hopped in the driver’s seat. Connor went around the other side. Delilah, forgotten for the moment, sat on the curb. Miranda turned the ignition enough to engage the electrical system amid beeps and radio static. Just as she went to slide the CD into the player, Miranda paused.
“You found it; you get to pick. What first?”
She needn’t have asked. She already knew what his answer would be.
Connor smiled. “You know it’s ‘Marlon Brando.’”
She turned up the volume and queued up the track. Blatantly politically incorrect ‘oh woh woh woh… oh woh woh woh’ “American Indian”-style chanting blared from the speakers, followed by a high, tinny synthesizer. And then Black Randy himself, belting out the melody like a punk rock Sinatra. They began to laugh, sharing the joy of rediscovering a lost pleasure. Black Randy and the fucking Metrosquad, she thought, awestruck. Never thought I’d hear this again.
She lay her head against the headrest and listened, then sneaked a sideways glance at Connor. He caught her looking and flashed a smile that made her pulse speed up.
He carried this around for years, for me, on the off chance he’d see me again. Or did he just not want to listen without me?
The thought startled, pleased, and freaked her out. It had been a long time, but Miranda knew Connor MacGuire. If she’d had any doubts about his intentions, she didn’t anymore.
12
Since she didn’t know what to do about Connor, Miranda did something she had not done since high school, zombies excepted.
She hid.
There had been a meeting about the upcoming mission a few days after Connor gave her the Black Randy CD. He had tried to talk to her afterward but she shut him down. Doug had suggested they all go get a beer, which pissed her off. She did not appreciate Doug meddling in something he knew nothing about.
She had decided that apart from the mission, there was no now for her and Connor. She had promised Father Walter she would work with him, and she would, but she was not prepared to go any further. She wasn’t interested in anything Connor had to say about before. It was nice to see him, but she did not want to examine their history together. What was the point?
She was home today, with too much time on her hands. Harold had all but chased her out of the Farm at lunchtime, saying she looked like death warmed over. She could hardly argue since she could pack for a six-month-long trip using just the bags under her eyes, and she still suffered from concussion symptoms. Sometimes she used the wrong word, like when she’d said ‘book’ when she meant ‘cat’ just this morning. She still got dizzy, and the room spun a little when she turned her head too fast. She had not bounced back from the scuffs and scrapes and burns she got saving those dumbass kids like she normally did. Maybe she was coming down with a cold.
Yeah, right, a little voice mocked her, or maybe seeing Connor MacGuire again is too much for your immune system.
She never expected an old boyfriend to show up, much less the first man she had ever fallen hard for before blindsiding her with his decision to become a priest. Connor’s reappearance had shaken Miranda’s equilibrium. Finding out he had changed his mind about being a priest before the ZA made it worse. Had he backed out because of her or for another reason? Did she even want to know? No matter what scenario played out in her mind, she ended up filled with an undirected anger. That the whole exercise was too stupid to begin with made her angrier still.
She watched through her front window as the gate closed behind Karen’s car. Karen had regrouped since last week’s breakup and was once again on the prowl. That the next guy would be as forgettable as the last was unfortunate, but at least she was not wallowing in self-pity.
Karen made her way to the door, hands laden with take-out containers. Her sparkly smile accentuated her perfect hair, makeup, and outfit. She had a spring in her step and even wore sensible shoes. Miranda suspected a pair of death-trap heels lurked in Karen’s car and her current footwear was a temporary concession to avoid a lecture. Miranda opened the door and watched Karen’s brow furrow.
“What kind of zombies did you run into, Miri? You look terrible!”
Miranda shrugged. “Just the regular kind—undead, mindless, wanting to eat me.”
“Let’s get you fed,” Karen said as she made her way to the kitchen. She set the containers down and opened the cupboard, retrieving two large bowls. “I got chicken wonton soup from Chef Chu’s. If that doesn’t fix you up, I don’t know what will.”
Karen thrust a steaming bowl into Miranda’s hands and set about fixing another while Miranda retreated to the living room and sat on the couch. The clink of silverware and low squeak of the cupboard hinges coming from the kitchen were comforting. Karen breezed in and settled into an overstuffed chair, setting her soup on the coffee table. A blissful expression settled over her face with the first spoonful.
“I swear to God their secret ingredient is crack. I don’t know how they make soup taste like this.”
“Thanks for bringing it over.”
“Of course. When Harold called to say you still looked terrible and that he’d sent you home, I figured cooking was the last thing on your mind.”
Miranda Tucci: Charity Project.
She shoved the ungrateful thought aside and began relating the story of the dumbass kids’ rescue as best she could. Karen kept interrupting with exclamations of “Oh my God!” and “Miri!” and “They did what?” Karen was always an enthusiastic listener, especially if the story or scandal was good. When Miranda’s tale was finished, Karen started telling her about a great sale at her favorite boutique, but Miranda had a hard time paying attention. She could not stop thinking about Connor.
“So then I punched the clerk, cleared out the register, and took all the clothes without paying. It was such a good deal.”
“That’s great.” A second later, Karen’s words actually registered. “Did you just say you punched the clerk?”
“You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said. What’s up?”
“It’s nothing,” Miranda said. Karen looked at her skeptically. “Really, it’s less than nothing.”
Karen looked at her with an expression that made Miranda nervous. Karen had a knack for going silent when she wanted informat
ion that was not being readily supplied. She could keep it up for hours. Discomfort with the lengthy silence usually made the other person talk much sooner.
The second she knows, she’ll start scheming and matchmaking, Miranda thought. She’ll decide his being back is divine intervention that we should get back together. But who else am I going to talk to who might understand?
Miranda bit her lip. The silence was deafening.
“You have to promise to not get mad at me.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it. You cannot get mad at me. I have a concussion.”
“Okay, Miranda. I promise.”
“Like pinky swear promise?”
“I’m going to get mad if you keep this up!”
Fuck, Miranda thought, but she’d already made a fundamental tactical error. Now that Karen knew there was something worth knowing, she’d never let it go. She’d hang on like a zombie.
“So…you know how sometimes people we think are dead are actually alive, and it’s been a really long time and they just show up?”
Karen made an impatient, pained face. “I am not playing twenty thousand questions with you, Miranda. Who is it?”
“You promise you won’t get mad?”
“For Christ’s sake!” Karen cried. “Who is it?
“It’s Connor.”
“Connor?” Karen repeated, puzzled. “Our Connor?”
Miranda nodded. “He’s at SCU, hale and hearty.”
“Since when?”
“The day after the zombie was on the Expressway.”
“And you’re only telling me now?”
“I haven’t been feeling so hot. And I didn’t want to deal with you going into matchmaker mode.”
“Matchmaker? Last I heard he was going to be a priest.”
“Me too, but it didn’t take.”
Karen’s face lit up with a conspiratorial smile. “He’s not a priest and he just happens to end up here? Oh, Miri, that’s so romantic!”
“He’s here to do something for Father Walter.”