Fool's Journey

by Comstock, Mary Chase

  Deirdre allowed Manny to gather her up and whisk her away through the night. The steady hum of the wipers held her attention like a soothing, hypnotic voice. She didn't want to think about things now. The daylight would come soon enough. For all her detachment, she knew the need to analyze, react and plan would plague her dreams and wake her in the morning.

  At least she wasn't alone now. And nothing, she sensed, would happen until she was alone again and vulnerable. She glanced at Manny's profile in silhouette as they passed under streetlights. He looked strong, determined and protective. Thank God for Mrs. Ruiz and her sixth sense. This blessed feeling of security couldn't last long, but, for the moment, someone else was taking care of her and it felt good.

  They drove over the top of Queen Anne Hill, down the steep, winding back slope, and finally across the Fremont Bridge into the University District. Strange, she’d never thought of the bridge’s name until this moment. Stranger yet, several years earlier, an artist had modeled an enormous troll under the bridge. It was something of a tourist attraction now. Manny’s car sailed across, however, without even the shadow of a gray arm creeping up over the railings. The Ruiz magic was around her.

  The familiar places where she spent her days as a professor slipped by and faded away into the rest of the night. In a few moments, Manny had driven past the environs of the university and now was entering neighborhoods she was unfamiliar with. Most of what she knew of Seattle was limited to what she had seen from the window of the city bus on her daily route to and from classes. Except for her occasional outings with Panda, her routine was a repetitive one. Little wonder anyone with sufficient curiosity could learn the pattern of her comings and goings so easily.

  Manny turned off the main street and entered a pleasant area of roomy bungalows with large front porches and manicured lawns. It was a pocket of 1920's architecture, a distant yesterday preserved in the glow of amber streetlights. One or two yards even boasted plaster gnomes, smiling self-consciously as if aware of their role as middle-class cultural icons.

  When they passed a red brick school, Manny slowed and broke the silence at last. "That's where I learned English," he said.

  She pictured him, a dark-eyed, intense boy, entering those huge doors. "Good memories?" she asked.

  He shrugged. "As good as anyone's memories are of grade school. Some happiness, some pain. A lot of confusion."

  "Same as adulthood," she commented. "Your aunt's stayed in the neighborhood all these years?"

  "Both of us have. She needs to stay in one place so the people who need her can find her. I need to be there to help, so I live there, too." He glanced over at her and read the questions she knew must have registered on her face. "You'll see what I mean in a minute."

  He eased the car to the curb, in front of a large pink two-story. In the glow from the porch light, she could see well-tended shrubbery and rose bushes pruned back for the winter. At the sound of the brake being set, two cats, one ginger striped and the other black and white spotted, sprang from the darkness and paced expectantly at the front door.

  "This is it," he said. "You go on in. Looks like Aunt Rosa's still up, and the cats think it's time for treats. I'll grab your bag and follow you in a minute."

  The door opened before Deirdre even reached the front steps and Mrs. Ruiz bustled her inside. "Shhh!" she warned, nodding at a sofa where two dark-haired children slept, foot to foot under a crocheted afghan. "Let's go to the kitchen."

  Deirdre glanced at the children curiously, then followed her hostess through a hallway lined with boxes, their contents overflowing: coats, scarves, and jeans. Little tennis shoes. Toys. She didn't know what she had expected to find at Mrs. Ruiz' house—religious pictures, perhaps, lace doilies on tidy tables, anything but this. It was like walking through a thrift store warehouse.

  The kitchen felt right, though. Bright red linoleum, yellow cupboards with white chickens stenciled on them. It smelled like coffee and cinnamon. Good, wholesome smells. She heard the front door open and close again, and knew that Manny had come in now, too.

  "You sit down a minute," Mrs. Ruiz said softly. She placed a hand on Deirdre's head and let it rest there a moment before ruffling the short curls. Deirdre felt a sense of calm wash over her, better than sleep. “I think the haircut is good. A good change. Good to feel different. I make you some special tea. It takes the dreams away—just lets you sleep."

  "Tea sounds good," she said, giving Mrs. Ruiz a quick embrace. "How did you know I needed to get away?”

  "The angels woke me up. Said, 'Rosa, someone needs you.'" She smiled at Deirdre and shrugged. "It happens all the time. Those angels—they think I work for them."

  "I think maybe you do."

  “I think maybe they better start paying,” Mrs. Ruiz complained good-naturedly.

  Deirdre sat on a chrome-legged kitchen chair and sighed, feeling at ease for the first time in days. Heated air from the register warmed her feet, and she realized suddenly how cold she had become. One of the cats she had seen outside, the ginger one, strolled into the kitchen, gave a soft mew of greeting, and jumped onto her lap. Automatically, Deirdre scratched under its chin, and the cat gazed up adoringly through slatted eyes, motor going loud and strong. Deirdre knew how she felt: sitting safely in a place far from trouble, being fussed over. If it were possible, she would be purring herself.

  "You go to bed as soon as Manny moves some of his stuff out of his room," Mrs. Ruiz said. "Just take a minute."

  Deirdre straightened at that, feeling suddenly awkward at having come. "Please, just put me on a couch or the floor, Mrs. Ruiz. Manny shouldn't have to move because of me."

  "No, I'm the boss here, Deirdre," Mrs. Ruiz told her firmly. "My room has twin beds. He can sleep there just fine—he’s used to it. We get lots of company."

  Thinking of the children she had seen sleeping in the living room, Deirdre wondered whether to ask questions now, or wait for an explanation. It wasn't her business, but she already felt a part of this household. Did it have something to do with what Manny had hinted at in the car? The people who needed his Aunt Rosa? People like Deirdre?

  "I don't think I can sleep,” she said. “I don't know if I even want to sleep. I just want to sit here and be safe."

  Manny walked in just then. "You need to rest, though. Your heart as much as your body, I think.” He gestured over his shoulder. “Your bag is in the first room on the left down that hall."

  "Look, Manny, I don't like moving you out—"

  "It's no good protesting," he interrupted with a grin. "Nobody's going to listen. Right, Auntie Rosa?"

  The older woman nodded her head. As the teakettle began to sing, she took it off the element and poured the steaming water into a brown crockery teapot. Almost immediately, a soothing aroma filled the room.

  "Sweet sleepy tea,” Manny smiled. "That's what I used to call it when I was a little boy. I think we could all use some."

  He chose three thick mugs from the cupboard and brought them to the table. Then he sat down next to Deirdre.

  "Looks like you've made a friend," he said, reaching over to give the cat a quick scratch on top of the head. "I hope she's not bothering you."

  "No," she murmured. "The purring makes me feel better."

  "Cats are good medicine." He nodded.

  Mrs. Ruiz set the teapot on the table, and she pulled out a chair, but before she could seat herself, a frantic cry came from another part of the house: "Mama! ¿Dónde està Mama?"

  "Sounds like somebody has a bad dream," she said, shaking her head. "Probecito. Sometimes I think there's no end to sorrow. You drink the tea, then try to sleep, Deirdre. We talk in the morning."

  Manny waited till his aunt had left the kitchen, then said, "You see how it is—there are lots of other chicks under Auntie Rosa's wing. You’re one more. Promise me you won't feel like you're putting anyone out."

  "Who are they," she asked, "the children in the living room?"

  His dark, solemn eyes caught
hers for a moment. "I don't know."

  Deirdre frowned. How could he not—?

  "That is," he went on, "I don't know who they are in particular. I know the profile though. Lost kids, no mom, no dad—at least none they can claim right now. It happens a lot in the Hispanic community. Families come up to find work, but they don't have the right papers. If they get caught, sometimes their kids aren't with them. Someone from the community takes care of them, keeps them in school until they hear whether the parents are coming back or not. Then they either hold on to them a little longer, or find a way to send them back home."

  "I didn't know that Seattle . . .” She didn't know quite how to phrase the rest.

  "You're right. Seattle itself doesn't have much of a migrant community, but it's surrounded by farmland. There's a long growing season and lots of picking. Anyway, it's best to get the kids away from where their parents were picked up, get them to a location where no one's checking to see if they've got papers. It's not good for kids to worry about this stuff.

  "Aunt Rosa's part of a network that helps," he continued. "When the parents come back, with or without papers, they know how to find their kids again."

  He took a deep sip of his tea, and Deirdre wondered how often this home became someone else's haven, as it was for her tonight. It certainly explained the boxes of clothing and toys. But the instinct, the need to take care of others—where did that come from?

  "You're good people," she said. "You and your aunt."

  He shrugged as if to say this was nothing special. "We have a lot to be thankful for. People have taken care of us. We try to pass it along. This house, for instance," he said, glancing around the bright kitchen. "It belonged to one of the first people Aunt Rosa worked for when she came here. An old man, bad-tempered, even cruel with his words sometimes. He used to scare the pee out of me when I had to come along to help out with the house cleaning. When he died, though, he left us the house. Later, we found out he'd been dying of cancer all the time, was in terrible pain, but he didn't want the morphine. He wanted his head clear till the end."

  "Most people would just accept a windfall like this as their good luck," she said, "and not bother to reciprocate."

  He smiled and glanced in the direction his aunt had gone. "Most people don't have angels dropping in and out of their lives either. It tends to make you more responsible."

  Did he mean it literally or figuratively? It didn't matter, of course. The result was the same. "I wonder if there's the other kind of people," she mused quietly.

  "What do you mean?"

  She took a sip of her tea, not wanting to even voice the thought which had occurred to her. After a moment she said, "The kind of people who attract . . .demons instead."

  Manny reached across the table and gave her hand a firm, reassuring grip. "If there are, they can't come here. St. Michael’s posted at the front door and St. Barbara at the back. Come on, Deirdre. I think it's time you went to bed."

  Manny led her down the hall a few feet, opened a door and switched on a light. She had been reluctant to leave the glowing warmth of the kitchen, but in this small bedroom there was another kind of security, a masculinity that seemed at once to protect and embrace. It was a comfortable room, not at all Spartan. Lots of books, a desk as littered with papers as her own at home. She sat down on the bed cross-legged, and watched as he checked to make sure the windows were locked. It was a show for her sake, she knew, not something he normally did. It was almost a replay of his actions at her apartment. Only a few days ago, she had sat on her own bed and watched as he repaired her window and swung it to a locked position. So much had happened between. Nothing was over yet. Freemont Willard had made that plain. If anything, her troubles had just begun.

  "I don't want to go to sleep," she said softly. "I don't want to dream."

  He didn't try to argue with her, but picked up a quilt and tucked it around her. "Just lean back and try to relax then," he said. "I'll sit with you for a little while, if you like."

  She scooted into a pile of pillows in the corner, making room for him on the bed. He sat down next to her, and draped an arm around her shoulder. It felt warm and natural. The ginger cat pranced in from the kitchen, leaped gracefully to the bed and made a nest between them.

  "And here's Señora Cala to play duenna for us," he laughed.

  "Cala?" she asked.

  "Short for Calabaza—it means pumpkin. When she was a kitten she was very round."

  "And her eyes glow in the dark, like a jack-o-lantern. I noticed when we drove up." She caressed the cat and leaned back into the pillows. "You have lots of books," she commented. "Looks like some of them are law books. I'd forgotten—detective work isn't your main interest."

  He nodded. "I'm taking this semester off from school," he said. "I had to take a sudden trip to Mexico at the beginning of September and missed the start, but I'll finish up next year. I work for the detective firm during the summer and they let me stay on. It's interesting sometimes—shows me the unraveling underside of the law they don’t tell you about in school."

  "Are you specializing?"

  "Immigration and Family Law. No surprise, right?"

  "Right," she yawned. She could feel the spell of sleep creeping over her like a cat in the shadows. Maybe she could shut her eyes for just a little bit while he was here. Sleep for just a moment and let Mrs. Ruiz's angels do their work.

  XXVII.

  When Deirdre awoke, she was alone, except for the cat, Cala, who smiled up at her from a square of sunlight at the edge of the bed. Her eyes followed the sunbeam up to the window where a patch of golden leaves splashed against the clear blue sky.

  Deirdre’s heart lifted. If only every day could begin like this, without darkness, remembered or otherwise. This must be how some people spent their childhoods. This must be what it felt like to awaken in a happy home.

  She had slept in her clothes under the quilt Manny had tucked around her, but feeling rumpled was a small price to pay for the blessed sleep she’d enjoyed. From the kitchen, she could hear the low murmur of conversation: Mrs. Ruiz’s voice, and Manny’s.

  How late was it, she wondered? She sprang from the bed, and Cala gave a disgruntled mew before resettling herself. Deirdre peered into a small mirror that hung on the wall and ran her fingers through her short curls. She looked like a discarded troll doll, she thought with a wry smile. It was a good thing she was among friends.

  Out in the hall, she almost collided with the two children she’d spotted the night before. As they emerged from the bathroom directly across from her room, the sweet scent of bubble bath swirled about them. They glanced up at her shyly and grinned. Poor little sweeties, she thought. She wished she knew more Spanish, but she only had a few phrases at her disposal.

  “Buenas días,” she said tentatively. The children exchanged a quick, conspiratorial glance.

  “Good morning, lady!” one of them crowed. His sister giggled and they ran off together toward the front of the house. She shook her head, feeling a little chagrined. So much for expectations.

  At the kitchen doorway, Deirdre paused for a moment, taking in the scene. Mrs. Ruiz shuffled her deck of tarot cards with seeming unconcern. Manny stood at the stove, cooking something that smelled marvelous.

  “How’d you sleep?” he asked without even glancing over his shoulder. He must have heard her in the hall with the children.

  “Great!” She smiled in his direction. “And not a single dream, good or bad.”

  Manny poured her a cup of coffee and handed it to her. The warmth crept through the pottery, right to the bone.

  “You look better.” He smiled. “No ghosts in your eyes.”

  She smiled foolishly in return, as if he had paid her some extravagant compliment. Maybe everything would be all right. Seating herself at the table, she breathed in the rich aroma of coffee. Like everything else this morning, it seemed to bolster her.

  “Good morning, Deirdre,” Mrs. Ruiz greeted her. She turned th
e cards idly, then gathered them up and shuffled them again. “The cards – they’re quiet this morning,” she said, hearing Deirdre’s unspoken question. “Nothing to say to me. Sometimes it’s like that.”

  “Maybe it’s a good sign,” Deirdre ventured.

  Mrs. Ruiz shrugged. “Too early to tell,” was all she said.

  Manny brought their plates to the table, piled with huevos rancheros and fried potatoes. While they ate, Mrs. Ruiz gave him a few details about the new children. Like the others Deirdre had heard about the night before, this pair had been separated from their parents and had been shuttled among a number of safe houses until they had ended here.

  “During the day, they laugh and play like regular kids. The nights, though . . .” Mrs. Ruiz shook her head. “Maybe it’s better if their papa didn’t come back here.”

  “Well, they’re safe for now,” Manny said. “We’ve got more pressing problems. Deirdre? Do you feel up to telling us what happened last night?”

  Deirdre pushed her plate away and took a long sip of coffee before she answered. “How do I describe what happened last night?” she mused. “Bad, sad and dangerous, I guess. I can encapsulate it for you, though: When I got home last night, Freemont Willard was inside my apartment waiting for me.”

  Mrs. Ruiz drew in her breath sharply and Manny reached across the table to take Deirdre’s hand in his.

  “It was worse than horrible,” Deirdre went on. “To feel outraged and invaded in your own home . . . No, I can’t say that. It will never be home to me again.”

  “How did he get in?” Manny asked.

  Deirdre laughed and shook her head. “That’s the funniest part. He told the manager he was my father—my father! And he stepped right into my life as if the past had never happened. You were right, Manny. Nothing stays in its grave that’s not really dead. It was like a horror film: you can shoot a monster to pieces and it just reforms, more dangerous than ever.”