by Crowe, Stan
Lindsay smiled, but didn’t look at him. “Thank you, Mister Reaves.”
“We could talk about it over drinks. My treat. What do you say?”
Lindsay pasted on her best “Aren’t you cute?” grin and straightened. “I appreciate your offer, Counselor, but I’d be rather ungrateful to abandon Fuller, Winston and Silverman so abruptly. They’ve been most helpful. I feel I’m in their debt.
“If nothing else,” she added, turning back to close her briefcase, “I’m not certain how your firm would feel about you courting the ‘enemy.’” She gave him a killer smile.
Reaves looked around nervously. “Uh, of course, of course. I… apologize if I came across as anything less than professional.”
“Not at all, Mister Reaves. You were looking out for the best interests of your firm. I am unavailable, but I suspect that the stenographer may not be. Good day.”
“Yes. Uh… right.”
With that, Lindsay closed her briefcase and fairly skipped out of the courthouse.
That evening, after her usual jog and exercise routine, Lindsay showered, made a light dinner which she ate on her balcony, and laid down on her couch with her case notes and a bottle of spring water. She reviewed the notes thoroughly, amended them as necessary, and filed them away for an after-action report to be presented in the morning. She made some business calls, wrote at least a dozen e-mails, and called it a day.
Before lying down for the night, she pulled out her diary and flipped to the first blank page. Walking out onto her balcony, she gazed toward the glow of downtown Phoenix. Arizona had sunshine in spades, gorgeous desert scenery (especially when the monsoons rolled in), and was perfect for her active, outdoor lifestyle. And yet, desert sand was not the beach; the scent of dusty rain wasn’t the smell of the ocean; and nothing here replaced the morning fog over the bay. Arizona wasn’t home; it was merely far enough away that Mom and Dad couldn’t be bothered to actually visit her and fret about how Lindsay had been “kidnapped,” and how “that hoodlum would drown in litigation and then rot in prison.” Even Uncle Tom had been a bit over the top in response to her unexpected road trip to Washington. But that was in the past—a past she kept tucked away in this little book.
She slid the pen from its elastic holder, and jotted what few words tickled her fancy. It was unsatisfying drivel, really. She’d tried cute; she’d tried memoir-style; she’d tried poetic. All flat. Every night she’d tell herself that someday, this little diary would be worth it. Someday.
And so she wrote, and occasionally even took a peek back at the whirlwind of her life since moving away from home for the first time. Her parents had been livid upon her return to San Francisco. It took just one week of her mom stopping by every night to scream at her before Lindsay relocated without notification. After decidedly rejecting the offer from Stearns finally (Dad was furious when she told him she’d turned the man down because of his unflagging chauvinism), a series of events led her to a law firm in Phoenix, where she climbed the career ladder in record time. She found fulfillment in caging criminals like the dangerous animals they were. She’d also joined local civic groups that conducted regular community service, and signed up for a gym membership. Her apartment had been carefully selected to provide both a view of the city and a view of the night sky, inasmuch as anyone could see the stars in the greater Phoenix area. She didn’t mind the commute in exchange for a darker evening. Everything was as it should be.
So why did she still feel so empty?
Lindsay looked up into the pale, purple haze that radiated out from downtown, and locked on to the first star she could see. “Star light, star bright,” she began. She laughed to herself, and shook her head.
This is silly.
And yet…
“First star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might…”
She finished the rhyme in her head, closed her eyes tightly, and wished with all her might. She opened her eyes to the same scene as before. No surprise. She laughed again at her own foolishness, and went to bed.
In case the ancient motor hadn’t been enough to ruin her sleep, the shotgun-blast backfire of the engine would do it. Lindsay bolted upright in her bed with a gasp. She glanced at her clock: 1:30 a.m. After a few moments to orient herself and realize she wasn’t under attack, she stomped to the window to see who she needed to turn her wrath upon for violating noise ordinances, to say nothing of her sleep. Shoving aside her curtain, Lindsay froze.
“No… possible… way.”
Without wasting another moment, she threw on her shoes, grabbed her keys, and flew down three flights of stairs. She raced across the groomed desert landscaping, heedless of whatever creatures might be out at night, and hurried to where the noise was coming from. The derelict vehicle had stopped and (mercifully) shut off its engine. A dim, crimson glow was the only thing that differentiated the windows from the darkness of the night, though even without daylight Lindsay could clearly make out the mad paint job splayed all over the bus. Lindsay stopped to stare at the thing for a long moment, all the while wondering whether she was actually in some strange dream. At last, she squared her shoulders, and marched up to the side door to knock. Even as she raised her fist, the door burst open, and a small, speckled goat leapt out, nearly knocking her over in the process. The goat galloped off into her apartment complex, leaving a stunned attorney in its wake.
“Get back here, Altimus!” The scratchy, accented voice matched perfectly with the image of the aged woman who scrambled out the door of the RV in pursuit of the animal.
Lindsay watched after the woman until she disappeared behind an apartment building, and then stood and dusted herself off. The faint sounds of the old lady’s screaming echoed among the residences and Lindsay knew the stranger would be back sooner or later. Glancing at the open door, the dusky interior of Aunt Fey’s Roadside Wishouse was shrouded in ebbing mists. Though she had no interest in breaking and entering, Lindsay still thought it no crime to peek inside, and get some advance warning of what she’d face when Fey returned.
First, she circled the bus, searching for signs of the conflagration that had destroyed the bus and its occupant three years before. The closest thing she found was the black smudges of exhaust around the tailpipe and around the Tennessee license plates. Aside from its clearly aged condition, the bus looked perfect. She made her way back to the open door, and gagged at the smell. Still unable to see much, she took a step back to get some air, and then stuck her head through the opening. When her eyes adjusted, they widened at what she saw. Strings of Christmas lights like jungle vines crisscrossed the ceiling and dangled at random, all across the interior. Under the multi-colored caress of light, mostly-unidentifiable items were stacked in piles that seemed to grow from the narrow, linoleum walkway and vinyl countertops like strange weeds. A powerful odor of animal mingled with incense and… beef stew…? assaulted her nose, but she adjusted to it faster than she thought possible. Small, sparkling charms danced and twirled on thin chains suspended from the ceiling, mimicking the starry sky Lindsay wished she had a better view of. Finger-sized figurines and a menagerie of religious icons and symbols were scattered about. Airy, transcendent music rounded out the mystical ambiance. Worry shivered down her spine, but she stood her ground. She could face the old woman when she returned. She hoped.
“So what do I do,” she said, looking up to find her wishing star again. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. I put that all behind me.”
No answer.
“I haven’t given him a moment’s thought since that summer. Besides,” she chuckled bitterly, “he’s probably married to Molly by now. Or maybe dead?” The image of a horde of women dog piling him popped to mind. One of Clint’s hands waved desperately above the rabid crowd, and she giggled despite herself.
She immediately remembered why she’d forced herself to evict his memory—even the barest thought of him woke that old dragon inside. If this whole wish business was real, could she wish that he would appear of
out nowhere and be her personal love slave? She could wish Molly right out of the picture, and wish that Clint were actually happy with her, instead of merely pretending, the way he had on that beach on Bainbridge. She could wish—
“Stop it, Lindsay,” she chided aloud. And yet, what did Fey’s appearance imply? She’d left Clint on the excuse that her services were no longer needed. That was true, had the gypsy actually been cremated in the RV fire. Did she still owe Clint the closure of finding Fey? Did she still owe him anything? She thought about the ethics class she’d taken her sophomore year, but that seemed to be a cop out—in her heart, she knew what she really should do.
But how could she ever face him again?
She shook her head, and sat sullenly on the curb next to the Wishouse, losing herself in a modicum of star gazing while she waited.
Fey returned sooner than Lindsay expected. The hedge in front of her exploded in a splinter of twig fragments and tiny leaves as the goat she’d seen earlier burst into view. It was headed directly at her.
Lindsay yelped, and threw herself aside. The goat charged through the space she’d barely vacated, and shot past the bus. Lindsay got upright again, only to be plowed over by a shrieking gypsy. Lindsay recovered quickly, and watched as the pair did several laps around the bus.
The goat got smart first.
Lindsay cocked an eyebrow as she watched the animal skid to a halt at the rear of the bus, quickly flip around, and then lower its horned head to roughly where Fey’s midsection would be. Lindsay held her breath in anticipation of Fey screaming around the bus and into an injury waiting to happen.
She was disappointed. So was the goat.
“Gotcha!”
Lindsay gasped as a small, haggard form plummeted from the roof of the RV, directly onto the goat. The poor thing bleated in surprise, and went down.
“This’ll teach you to run from your Auntie, now, won’t it?” Fey cackled as she put the goat in an odd sort of headlock. A struggle ensued, but Fey showed surprising strength for someone of her size and apparent age. In less than a minute, she had the creature halfway back in the vehicle.
“Um, excuse me,” Lindsay ventured. The old woman ignored her, and continued wrangling her pet. “Pardon me, but… are you Alfeyra Belkin? A-kay-a ‘Aunt Fey’?” Still no response. Instead, the goat was finally swallowed by the dark maw of the bus, its pleading bleats still slipping through the doorway. Fey followed the goat inside a moment later, slamming the door shut behind her.
Lindsay stood, confused and slightly stunned, for some time. Did she knock? Did she come back in the morning? What was the proper protocol for dealing with insane spinsters who showed up randomly in front of your apartment in the middle of the night? Ultimately, she decided to try knocking again. The first raps went unanswered. She tried again with the same results, and twice more, to no avail.
“Well,” Lindsay said to herself, “I guess the doctor is out for the evening.” She turned to leave, but a feeling that she should wait stopped her. She waited for what seemed like an hour before finally deciding the old woman must have fallen asleep. Hopefully Fey would still be there in the morning. Lindsay considered sleeping on the curb, but one look at the rocky ground and rough, dry shrubs persuaded her that her bed was the better option she’d just sleep with her ears open in case the goat-wrangling gypsy decided to drive away early. She stood, stretched, and started for her apartment again. A click and a sharp creaking sounded behind her. “So you’re going to bang on my door like a crazy person and run away? Are you one of those punk high school kids that always try spraying words all over my house?”
Lindsay spun around. Protruding from the RV was a small, slightly upturned nose. A shadowed face trailed in its wake, but Lindsay could see the pair of faintly gleaming eyes set in the dark recesses of the eye sockets. Though the very idea was ridiculous, Lindsay had the feeling that the old woman should be luminescent.
“Well?” the woman said. “Answer me!”
Lindsay stared for a moment, and then swallowed. “You… are you Alfeyra Belkin? Late or otherwise?”
The gypsy snorted. “I’m never late. People think time’s supposed to mean something. ‘Be here!’ Or ‘Do such and such now!’ Or ‘Hurry up, moron! I’m late for work!’ Always in a rush to do the same, stupid thing every day.”
“No, I’m sorry,” Lindsay replied. “I meant, ‘late’ as in ‘deceased.’”
At that, Fey let loose a howl of laughter, and then spit Lindsay with a stare. “Do I look dead? Public schools. What are they teaching kids these days? ‘Are you dead?’ she asks. What an imbecile.” She resumed chortling.
“I’m sorry, but are you Alfeyra Belkin? Aunt Fey?”
The old woman stopped. “Oh, so you can read huh?” She stuck her head and an arm out, and waved at the title emblazoned on her mobile home. “Yeah. That’s me.”
Lindsay made to speak, but the old woman ducked back inside, and yanked the door shut. Lindsay stood agape for some time. Protocol be hanged. If this was how the crone was going to treat her, then she was going back to bed, thank you very much. She whirled and stalked back toward her apartment.
The door creaked and groaned again before she’d taken three steps. “Well, are you just going to pace in the dark like an idiot, or are you going to come in?” Fey called at her back. Lindsay stopped, and slowly looked back over her shoulder. The old woman was stooped in the doorway, and was straightening a small, wooden stepstool in front of her door. As Lindsay turned around, Fey flopped a tiny, blood red rug on the steps, and bowed almost mockingly before backing into the void of her motor home. Lindsay peered carefully at the stepstool and its ominous rug, and shuddered slightly. She knew what was beyond that door; it wasn’t encouraging.
“Grow up, girl,” she muttered. Setting her jaw, she stepped resolutely into the bus.
TWENTY-FOUR
Using a goat as a seat was distinctly uncomfortable on several levels. Lindsay shifted and fidgeted, feeling guilty as the creature bleated softly beneath her. Against Lindsay’s protestation that sitting on a goat was cruelty to animals, Fey had insisted that, “Altimus applied for that job and got it.” After that, Lindsay was instructed to sit quietly while Fey “handled a few things”; notwithstanding the discomfort, Lindsay got the distinct impression it was best not to resist.
As Lindsay maintained her precarious perch, Fey busied herself in the small kitchen near the middle of the bus. “You’re not an easy woman to find,” Lindsay said conversationally.
“I travel. That’s why I have wheels on my house.”
“You prefer to live alone?”
“Of course not. Why do you think I’ve kept Altimus with me all this time?”
Lindsay had nothing to say to that. Instead, she watched quietly as the gypsy set a slightly-rusted kettle to boil on an electric stove that could have been new when her Grandma Wistisen was a teenager. Fey waited until a spear of steam came shrilling out, and then dropped in a handful of dried leaves. With that, she excused herself to the restroom at the back of the bus, made rather un-ladylike noises for a full five minutes, and then emerged to clean her hands. She returned to the kettle, opened the lid, and peered inside. A heaping tablespoon of sugar went into the kettle, and then another. Fey stirred the liquid violently and then unhooked a mismatched pair of mugs from the rack above the stove. She poured tea into each mug, before sipping lightly at one of them. Even in the umbra, Lindsay could see the sour face the old woman made. There followed the addition of three times as much sugar, as well as some additives Lindsay wasn’t certain she wanted to guess at. At last, Fey sipped her tea again, smiled, and let out a great sigh of satisfaction. She repeated the ritual with the other cup, and brought it to Lindsay.
“Thank you,” Lindsay said, “but I’m not much of a tea…”
As if she hadn’t heard the young attorney, Fey stooped down next to her, and held the tea up to the goat’s lips. The creature made a noise that sounded eerily pleased, and began lappi
ng the tea vigorously, jerking its head up and down, roughly jostling Lindsay. This continued until Altimus gave an annoyed goat scream. Lindsay jerked in surprise.
“No,” Fey scolded. “You already had one.”
The goat screamed again. Lindsay found herself very unnerved.
“Fine. But only one more.” Fey got the goat a second cup of tea, and then dropped the mugs in an over-filled sink not much larger around than Lindsay’s face. She turned back to Lindsay and flashed dingy teeth. “Now, where were we, dear?”
“I’m Lindsay.”
“That’s nice. Rolling Stones?”
Lindsay blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Let me guess. You’re more of a Pink Floyd fan.”
“I… don’t follow.”
“Neil Diamond? AC/DC? The Mormon Tabernacle Choir?”
“I’m sorry, but you’ve completely lost me, Aunt Fey.”
“Fine!” Fey huffed. “Wild card then. And you’ll just have to deal with it.” She reached over to the counter, knocking several odds and ends to the floor, and mashed a button on a half-buried CD player. A cheerful male voice replaced the previous eclectic music with a song about a nationwide club for young men. Lindsay developed a sudden, strange urge to form letters with her arms.
“Happy now?” Fey asked testily.
“I was fine with the ambient-style stuff.”
“Will you make up your mind?” Fey nearly yelled. She plopped herself on a small stool an arm’s length from her guest. “Let’s get on with this, then, and then you can go play whatever music you like on your own time. So go on. Tell me.”
Lindsay arched an eyebrow, and shifted her rear end to a different spot on the animal. “Tell you what?”
“What do you mean ‘tell you what’? People don’t come here for the rousing company or intellectual stimulation.”