Kiss or Kill Under the Northern Lights

by Susan Johnson

  “Fire! The Bent Fork Cafe is on fire!” I yelled trying to catch my breath.

  When the operator spoke, my mind went blank and I took several seconds to figure out the address.

  “Hurry,” I shouted as I got out of my car. I ran left, then right, and back left again. I yelled another hurry-up in my phone.

  There was nobody around. I couldn't see Henry's white van that was usually parked at the back of the lot, against the wood privacy fence. Only the food truck he was renting for the Chili Cook-off was parked there like a sleeping giant.

  Flames were stabbing at the window. I ran toward the front door. Well, that was a dumb move. The crackling and popping drove me back.

  I dialed Henry on my cell. He was not going to believe this. I couldn't remember if he said he'd be in late today. “Come on. Henry. Pick up.” The recorded message said the mail box was full. “Crap.” The guy didn’t do technology any more than he was forced to. “Damn it, Henry.” I'd have to show him how to delete his messages again.

  In the distance, I heard sirens. “Hurry. Hurry.” Help couldn't get here fast enough.

  Big rigs with screaming sirens, loud enough to wake the dead, ground to a halt spewing men into a flurry of activity.

  I was shocked to see how quickly the red-orange flames grew sending clouds of black smoke sailing up against the dark sky. A mesmerizing moment. I grabbed my Nikon camera from my center console, slid out of my car and started snapping pictures. My teacher from photography class frowned on using auto focus. But heck, even amateurs could get lucky once in a while. I left it on auto setting, clicking away.

  A patrol car stopped yards away from me, cut the siren but left the rotating blue and red lights pulsing around the scene and casting eerie shadows. The mix of color made an interesting image. I raised my camera and clicked off several more shots.

  Boom!

  The explosion slammed me against the hood of my car.

  A large fireball shot up into the sky. For a split second the whole area lit up like it was noon on a summer day. Windows blew out. My ears rang. That was too close for my comfort, even though I was a good ways back from where the front door used to be. “Sweet Jesus!”

  Ear-piercing sirens brought more police cars, more flashing lights. I grunted and rolled off the hood. In the reflected light I saw a dent, the size of my rear end, on my ten-year-old Chevy Malibu. “Oh, Sweet Jeezes!”

  Worse. Where was the camera I had been holding?

  “Are you hurt?” a female officer closing in on me asked.

  “No.” I ran my hands down my thighs and bent over forcing air into my lungs. “I'm fine.” Oh, man, my back hurt. I straightened up and inhaled another shallow breath just to prove I was okay. I stepped to the side of my car. My legs seemed okay.

  The officer asked my name.

  “Jaymie Becker.” As requested, I spelled it for her and answered her questions.

  “I think it's wise EMS checks you out.” She motioned toward her squad car and to another officer standing close to the back door with the bars on the windows. “You can sit there to wait for EMS.”

  “I'm fine. I don't need them.” I rested my arm against my car roof. The idea of getting stuffed in the back of a squad car gave me instant sweats. The cool metal against my arm felt good.

  “Are you sure?” the officer asked.

  “I'm sure.” I vowed never to get in another police car. A ride compliments of the men in blue was still too fresh in my memory. And would probably be for the rest of my life.

  After the officer wrote down my phone number and address in a small notebook, she asked me again if I was okay, said to let her know if I changed my mind about EMS.

  Once she was out of sight, I pressed my fingers to the tender spot on my back and worked my way around to my ribs which surprisingly were tender as well. At least, I could take in longer draws of air and that was a good sign.

  Now where was my camera? I searched a wide arc in the parking lot and finally spotted it at the base of a skinny elm in the grassy boulevard behind me.

  I leaned over. “Owie, owie owie!” This time a sharp pain stabbed me in my back and made my eyes water. Maybe I needed medical help after all. I pressed a fist into the offending spot until the pain eased up. Careful not to bend or twist, I picked up my camera. I had no excuse for not using the neck strap other than it wasn't my habit, so if my camera was broken, well, served me right. Replacing a camera was so far down my imaginary shopping list that it was at the bottom of the next page.

  Luckily no one saw me. And a bigger surprise came a few moments later after I checked my camera. It seemed to function. Though I'd have to check the memory card to be sure. Thank you, camera gods.

  I set my camera on the passenger seat and before I could close the door, another police officer holding a small notebook and pen approached. Looked like he wrote down my license plate number and then asked for my name, address and phone number. I stifled the urge to tell him I already gave my info to an officer. The quicker he got what he needed, the quicker I could leave. Besides, I know not to irritate someone with a gun and a Taser.

  When he found out I was the one to call 911, he asked more questions and I told him I knew the owner who I was meeting later that morning. I didn't know why Henry wasn't at work yet. His assistant, Star, usually came in later, for the lunch rush. I gave him Henry's contact information. But I didn't have info for Star other than she was attending some culinary school in Minneapolis. She worked part time. Didn't know what her real name was either. Henry gave her the moniker because of the blue star tattoos arcing up the left side of her neck all the way to her temple.

  After the officer walked away, I circled my car and saw something that caught my attention in the boulevard. Gingerly, I picked up the remains of a shadow box that used to hang on the wall near the cash register. Broken and dirty. I shook out the remaining shards of glass. The bent antique fork was a souvenir from when he was in Afghanistan. I've yet to hear the details of how or why he brought it back. Henry adamantly refused to talk about his service days.

  I looked around for the other shadow box. The one that contained three Origami Cranes. At first glance, a person would think they were folded dollar bills, but up close you could see a smidgen of Benjamin Franklin's face on one of them.

  Henry said both these mementos were his reminders of possibilities no matter how bad things got. He often said the day he closed the café, he’d bury the fork and take the money to do something crazy, like go sky diving. I felt sad I couldn't find that other box. Maybe someone else would find it and return it to him. I put the broken piece in my car. At least he had this.

  My tight back muscles told me I should get on my way home for some Advil. But before I left, I needed to call Henry again. Hard to believe he wasn't here already.

  Voices caught my attention before I had a chance to start my car. People had gathered along the sidewalk under the streetlight. Closest to me were two men, one tall, the other short, coffee mugs in hand talking over the noise. The wind must have been from the right direction to carry their conversation to me.

  “I wonder what Henry was cooking up for today,” the tall guy said.

  “Oowah! Must have been some powerful chili to blow like that.” Shortie gestured with his cup before putting it to his lips. He wore a ratty Black Sabbath T-shirt, that didn't quite cover his belly. His grey sweats had baggy knees. Boat shoes covered his bare feet. The duo posed an interesting photo opportunity. I got my camera out again and snapped several photos. Is this how paparazzi worked?

  The tall guy burped and then said, “Maybe he left the cooker on overnight. Testing out that new recipe for the cook-off.”

  “Do you suppose, Henry blew up his own place? Finally had enough? …Take the insurance money and run. Git out of Dodge.”

  Had I heard correctly? Henry wanted to win. Sure, the $40,000 purse was important, but he wanted the added prize more. The guaranteed appearance on TV's Cooking Around The Twin Cities w
ould be a perfect spot to introduce his book.

  The men continued talking. I eavesdropped as best as I could with all the racket that was going on.

  “I heard his ex was putting the pressure on Henry for more dough.”

  Tall-guy coughed then added, “The wife and I ate here yesterday. The pot roast.” His tone changed to a deep sigh before he took another swallow of his coffee. “Still have some left-over pecan pie in the fridge.” He leaned over, let out a grunt before scratching the top of his flip-flopped foot. Coffee spilled over the edge of his mug which he seemed not to notice until the liquid hit his toes. “Would be sad if Henry doesn’t rebuild. Hope he has good insurance. “

  Short guy said, “Henry has a gold mine here … Uh, had a gold mine here.” He scratched his stubbled chin. “Hope he rebuilds fast. Don’t want to miss too many of the Wednesday sit-downs.”

  The short man looked like he could skip a few meals. But even I had to agree that the specials Henry served family style were worth standing in line for. He cooked what he felt like making. And no one complained.

  Another man joined the duo, saying, “I heard his ex was looking for more alimony. Even filed court papers.”

  “How’d you find that out?”

  “Henry. He told me he was tired of getting squeezed in the pocket book. Wished the old bat would move back to Washington and get out of his hair.”

  I smiled because Henry had no hair. And then wondered how truthful the guy was because Henry never spoke to me about his ex. Was that something he made up ... for guy-talk?

  The conversation continued. “Wasn't she satisfied with the house? Heard she sold it at a mighty nice profit.”

  “Apparently not. My friend thinks she wants the business to go down the dumper, so she can get her mitts on the building. Force Henry out. Take her cut of the assets.”

  “She doesn't have a case.”

  He scratched his chest, “Maybe her lawyer found a loophole.”

  “Not ever goin’ to happen. She got what she’s goin’ to get. Besides a burned out building can’t be worth much.”

  Sidewalk conversations are almost as interesting as bar-talk. I wished Henry would show up. Then I realized, I could drive over to his house. I took three more pictures of the firefighters and a fourth—an angled shot of a police car. Maybe Henry would want to use a few of these pictures in his book. Since it was more of a memoir than a typical cookbook, working in a chapter about the fire would be interesting.

  4

  Pressing my back against the seat felt good as long as I didn't twist. The sun inched up over the horizon promising a beautiful day.

  Ten minutes later, I turned into the Twin Pines Park, a mobile home development Henry had moved to when he split from his wife. As I slowed to number 51, I didn't see his white van, so I continued around the loop and drove out. Our paths probably crossed and besides I needed to finish my paper route.

  I'd have to catch up with him back at the cafe. No doubt he knew by now. Bad news travels fast.

  When I finished, I took a detour through Starbucks' drive-thru and while waiting for my coffee, placed another call to Henry's cell. Same mailbox full message. My stomach growled at the thought of missing out one of Henry's caramel pecan rolls. Service was fast, and the hot liquid settled my stomach even though it wasn't as good as Henry's brew.

  Would Henry work out of his food truck while he rebuilt The Bent Fork? I was glad I found the antique utensil. Maybe he'd call the restored place The Bent Fork Two. I went back to see what was going on.

  More cars and more people had collected, and the road was blocked. “What the hell?” The police had cordoned off the entire block with sawhorse construction signs sporting flashing orange beacons. Yellow Do Not Enter tape rimmed the perimeter. A lone fire truck was parked down the block. I still saw no sign of Henry's Honda Odyssey.

  People were in clusters around the perimeter. I spotted a large grey RV inside the yellow border. Why was the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension here? My heart pounded so loudly that sounds became muffled around me.

  Someone grabbed my elbow and I turned.

  “Hold up there, honey,” the man said. It was the bald guy with the Black Sabbath T-shirt I had seen earlier. “They're not gonna let you get closer.” He nodded toward the ruins. In the morning light, his face looked strained.

  “What's going on?” I tensed.

  “They found a body.”

  I felt dizzy, could hardly speak, “Who?”

  Before he spoke, a female broke in with an insistent, “Excuse me.” There eyeball to eyeball stood the heavily made-up Channel 5 news reporter, Carley Swain, poking a microphone between us. “Did you know the deceased?”

  “What?” slipped across my lips.

  “The owner. It's not confirmed...”

  Through a heavy fog, I heard, “Are you okay?” Someone grabbed me around the shoulders. My legs felt strange, barely connected to my body. Carley Swain handed me a bottle of chilled spring water which I gladly accepted.

  I have no idea how I managed to drive the five miles to my townhouse. And by the time I parked in front of my tuck-under garage, my sinuses were stuffed, and my eyelids swollen. Wads of used tissue on the passenger seat next to my camera attested to my having worked my way through a box of Kleenex that I kept in the center console.

  I grabbed the stuff out of my car and then hiked up the steps to my house moving as gingerly as my back allowed. Once inside, I set the broken shadow box next to my laptop on my make-shift desk in the living room. Full-on daylight streamed through the large picture window creating a warm patch that air conditioning didn't affect.

  My stomach growled. The refrigerator summoned me. The only problem was that no matter how long I perused the shelves, nothing inspired me. Then when the alarm for “door open” caught my attention, I closed the door and started the coffee pot. Stupid move. The aroma of coffee switched on another memory. Henry made the best coffee and fresh caramel rolls.

  Drying my eyes and blowing my nose for the bajillionth time, I called my boss at the bar. When he said, “Take whatever time off you need,” the tears started anew.

  As soon as I hung up, the phone rang. Since I didn't recognize the number, I ignored it and took a sip of coffee that left me gagging. Now a scalded throat was added to the mix of my emotions taking me to my knees and bawling my head off.

  Eventually I got off the floor and pulled myself to a chair at the table thankful that I lived alone so no one saw my melt-down.

  Some time passed when I got an idea for the perfect soother and headed to the bathroom. The phone rang again. I ignored it, again.

  “Oh, Henry. Why?” I grumbled.

  I didn't like the man at first. When his daughter, my college roommate, suggested we could make some extra cash by waiting tables at her dad's new restaurant, I didn't want to commit to working weekends. But she twisted my arm saying we'd only try it for a month. Henry was grouchy and threatened to fire us when we showed up late. Other times, I thought he was cold and detached and didn't make small talk or joke around. Funny how life turns out. Claire left the cafe gig after a few weeks, dropped out of college and moved to New Mexico. But I stuck it out at the job and finished college. That's me. Strong in the determination department. Henry turned out to be an okay guy, as in a friend type of way.

  Then, when I hit my total rock bottom, and my dad refused to answer my phone calls, Henry helped me.

  For the past two years, I managed to resist temptation. But now I wanted, needed something to take away the pain. I pulled out the vanity drawer and removed the key that was taped at the back. After sliding the drawer back, I sat on the toilet and looked at the key debating with myself. Henry would not approve of what I was considering. There were a few things I did that he didn't exactly approve of, but at least he kept the door open and offered words of encouragement whenever I needed a bit of support. Not like my dad, who refused any contact with me the day I crashed my car into a house and almost killed
a baby in a crib that got pushed against the wall.

  Dad never visited me in the hospital all those weeks while I recovered. Henry was the one who hired a lawyer and bailed me out of jail. He offered me a lifeline.

  My tears welled up again. My back hurt with every step back to the kitchen. It took an effort to climb on the chair to unlock the cabinet over the refrigerator. My hand shook when I clutched the bottle. I never thought I'd ever see my old pal, Jim Beam, again. But there he was, inviting me in.

  “Jaymie Allison Becker! What the hell are you doing?” Brooke screamed while rushing at me.

  I hadn't managed to get the cap unscrewed when she grabbed the liquor bottle out of my hand.

  “How'd you get in here?” I reached for the bottle. “Give me that.”

  “Hell, no.” Brooke yelled. “You want to go back to rehab? Back to jail?”

  “Give it.” I bumped into the chair. Ouch! A back spasm slowed me. Brooke was at the sink pouring the bourbon down the drain. I grabbed for it. Brooke tightened her grip. Then her elbow jabbed into my ribs causing me to fall back against the counter. “You bitch!” I lunged at her and this time I got a good hold of the bottle. She held tight. I tried twisting it out of her grip.

  “All right then, have it your way,” she yelled and let go.

  The bottle flew out of my hand and shattered on the floor with a loud crack.

  Then when she threw her hands up as if to hit me, I moved a half step to the side. Not far enough. She gave me a shove and yelled, “Sit down!”

  We both started crying.

  “I know about Henry.” After plopping a box of tissues on the table in front of me, she got the broom to sweep up the broken shards.

  I curbed my desire to throw a dinner plate into the mix as I watched her wipe up the wet spots. She dabbed at the top of her red sandals.

  “You had no right to barge in here.” I yelled at her.