Ms. Zephyr's Notebook

by kc dyer

  Logan sat down at an internet station and tucked his tea carefully into the cup-holder off to one side. He was the only customer using a computer — two others sat idle. He clicked onto the internet and focussed on the screen.

  No new mail. Freakin’ Tom. Logan counted messages in his sent file. Three unanswered messages. Some great friend and supporter Tom turned out to be. And nice of the coach to keep in touch, too. Logan sighed and leaned his head onto his hand for a moment. Sometimes it just felt like too much to deal with. Everything had changed. Nothing was safe or easy anymore. But Cleo wasn’t safe right now either. He sat up and pushed the feelings away for another time. He’d deal with all the crap in his life later. Right now he had a job to do.

  Time to Google. He flipped open the back of Abbie’s notebook. Inside the back cover, she had basic information logged in neat rows. Names, phone numbers, e-mail, family names, next of kin.

  He ran his finger down the column to Cleo’s name.

  Name: Cleopatra Jones. Nickname: Jacqueline. (Abbie had put a little smiley face beside the word. She obviously thought it was cuter than he did.) Special people: Mother — Donna-Fay; Grandmother — (Nona) Sophia Jones.

  Okay, he knew her name already from Cleo’s essay. What about an address or a phone number?

  But there was nothing. Still, how many Sophia Joneses could there be in a tiny place like this? He could probably look her up in the phone book in seconds.

  Logan flipped screens to log into his instant message account. He hit the enter button and immediately there was a message.

  There was a pause while Kip typed his reply. Logan sipped his tea and took a bite of the banana bread he’d bought for breakfast. The kid was a slow typist with too much to say. Deadly combination. A burly man with a heavy beard sat down at the internet station next to Logan’s and started typing at a high rate of speed. That’s what Kip needs to learn, thought Logan as his reply chime finally rang.

  Logan closed his eyes and nearly groaned aloud. So the cops were in the picture after all. How long would it take for them to call the local detachment here and grab Cleo? But he was here and they weren’t — the advantage might not be all theirs just yet. He typed a reply as quickly as he could.

  Logan flipped open his e-mail again. Still nothing. He clicked the “create message” button.

  To: tommykixa$$@coldlist.com

  From: rugbyrox@yowza.com

  Hey, Tom. Howareya? Maybe you heard I missed the tryouts. Coach called me to say I’m off the team. Guess there’s always next year…

  His stomach suddenly sour, he leaned back in his seat to toss the rest of his banana bread in the garbage. What was the use? There wasn’t really any more to say. He had to roll his chair forward a little as someone pushed by to get to the last open internet terminal. Logan stared glumly at the screen for a minute and then reached over and punched the delete key. Tom and the rest of the team had moved on. And next year? What a joke. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Crohn had landed in his gut and had no plans to leave anytime soon. He’d be lucky if he even made team waterboy.

  The chime sounded again.

  Logan leaned forward in his chair.

  Logan leaned back and took a sip of tea. It was tepid, but he hardly noticed. His heart was pounding and he actually felt a little sweaty in his heavy coat. He took a minute to hang it over the back of his chair and pulled Abbie’s notebook, rolled up in its plastic bag, from the large outside pocket. The sounds of people chatting, ruffling newspapers and the pinging of the other computers washed over him. He thought about buying something from the little retail section of the store for Kip. He was a good kid; maybe something from Clearwater would cheer him up — a souvenir of his help in finding Cleo. If he ever found her.

  The chime pinged.

  Great, Logan thought. I go on this big rescue mission and the damsel isn’t even in distress. But hey — I did get to be in a near bus-crash and sleep all night on a freezing wooden bench. But his stomach seemed to unclench just a little. At least she’s not going to do anything crazy. He leaned forward but Kip’s icon flashed again. One of the internet users brushed by him on their way out.

  For the first time in hours, Logan remembered the contents of his inner coat pocket. He leaned back and shrugged into his coat, and dropped his tea cup into the bin.

  If Logan had typed another word he would have missed the flash of red. But he’d logged off and stood up to pull money out of his pocket to pay for the internet time. And that’s when he saw it: a giant red sweater on the back of a tiny female who was running out the door. He knew both the sweater and the person inside it instantly.

  Crap. He looked over at the other internet stations. The burly guy in the big coat was just getting to his feet. The other one was empty. She’d been typing practically right beside him and he hadn’t even noticed.

  He dropped a ten-dollar bill on the counter and roared out the door after her. He was only five feet out of the store when he remembered he’d left Abbie’s notebook at the internet station and ran back.

  “You want your change, sir?” the attendant called.

  “Keep it,” he puffed, grabbing the notebook and plastic bag and bolting for the door again. He ran down the street in the direction she’d headed, but she was gone. That’s the way these things happen, he thought. You nearly get what you want and then it just slips away.

  Logan leaned against a lamppost to force himself to actually stop and think a moment. He didn’t have to chase her. He knew where she was going. And how many old-age homes could there be in Clearwater? The town had a population of less than three thousand people. How many of them would have little old ladies named Sophia? It should only take a minute to figure it out. Just use a little logic, Logan, he thought. When Plan B evaporates in your face, go back to Plan A.

  He turned on his heel and headed back to the coffee shop. The attendant beamed at him and handed the local telephone directory over as soon as he asked for it.

  He sat down with the yellow pages and looked up Old Folks. Nothing. A chill came over him. What if she was in someone’s private home? What if she was dying in her own house? He looked up Sophia Jones. Nothing. S. Jones. Nothing. In desperation, he even looked up Nona Jones. That time he knew there’d be nothing. Where was she, anyway?

  Dead end. He slumped back in his chair. Abbie wouldn’t let you quit like this, he thought. She’d want you to figure it out.

  He rubbed his eyes. I can do this. Cleo might not know she needs me — but I’ve come this far. I’ve got to try.

  He waved at the attendant and logged back on to the nearest computer.

  Something would happen to help him. He looked to the sky for a bolt of lightning, but the ceiling of The Bean and Gone just looked ordinary. A little brown water stain in one corner — that was all. He turned his attention to the screen. It had defaulted to some local homepage for Clearwater. No help there.

  He was just about to log off the computer when a pop-up ad emerged.

  Sheesh. He picked up the yellow pages and flipped through until he found Retirement Communities and Homes. Okay, so they weren’t listed as old folks’ homes after all. And he was Logan, King of the Idiots.

  There were three listed. He tore out the page, threw the directory at the startled attendant, and ran out the door.

  Logan’s Rule of Three: if you have three places to look, you’ll look in the wrong two first. But his luck must have been changing — he hit it on the second try. The first place, Sunrise Manor, had been an immediate washout. Sunrise Manor — who named these places, anyhow? And who did they think they were kidding? Maybe Sunset Manor had been taken. A quick conversation with the clerk at the front desk only confirmed that a Mrs. Jones did not reside there.

  But…

  “Mrs. Sophia Jones?” the clerk asked.

  Logan took a quick peek at Cleo’s essay in the notebook. He didn’t want to make another stupid mistake. “Yeah — that’s her.”

  “Oh, I know Mrs. Jones. She’s
one of my neighbours, just down Front Street.”

  Thank God for small town nosiness, thought Logan.

  “She’s resting at Shady Pines. It’s over on the other side of town, on Logan.”

  Logan nodded and stuffed the notebook back in the bag, before turning back to the clerk. “What street did you say?”

  The clerk nodded, patience clearly one of her strong suits. “Logan Street, young man. Shady Pines is on Logan. You just follow Front Street round to the other side of the lake and you can’t miss it. Are you one of her relatives? A grandson, perhaps?”

  “Uh… no. Not a grandson. I’m… uh… friends with her granddaughter. Thanks for your help.” He stumbled out the door. Nona was resting on Logan Street. Logan Street!

  He doubted Nona was doing much resting. She seemed more like the fighter type. But you couldn’t beat the address.

  He poked his head back in the door. “Is there a bus to get there? It’s pretty cold outside.”

  The clerk smiled and walked around the front of the desk. “Well young man, I’m heading home for a cup of tea right now. Let me give you a lift.”

  And, in the end, it was easy as that.

  11

  This time he wasn’t taking any chances. He gave a cheery wave to the nice desk clerk as she drove off. Too bad she’s stuck with a lousy Isuzu, he thought. Crappy vehicle. By the time he walked into Shady Pines he’d decided that they would be more likely to let him in if he became Cleo’s long lost cousin.

  “Oh… I thought the family were not able to arrive until tomorrow,” the newest front desk clerk said, checking her notes after he’d made his request. Her name tag gleamed under the fluorescent lights: Mrs. Beadle.

  “That would be her daughter,” Logan said, with a smile. “But I was in town today so I thought I’d take the opportunity…”

  Mrs. Beadle nodded, her head at a sorrowful tilt. “It’s well you have come today,” she said quietly, and he was surprised to see her eyes fill with tears. Maybe this was more than just a job after all.

  “The whole town knows Mrs. Jones,” she said as she led Logan down the hall. “We will all miss her terribly. She’s a wonderful woman.”

  Mrs. Beadle stopped at the last door in the hall, her hand on the knob. “Don’t be alarmed if a nurse pops her head in,” she said. “We’ve been checking every half hour or so. It won’t be long now, I’m afraid.”

  She swung open the door and gave a little gasp of shock. Cleo was sitting, her head bowed at the side of the bed, holding her Nona’s hand.

  “Why… who are you?” asked Mrs. Beadle, clearly startled.

  “She’s my cousin. Sophia’s granddaughter,” blurted Logan, praying Cleo would play along.

  But when she spoke, Cleo’s voice was filled with an indescribable sadness. “I’m Cleo Jones. I just slipped in the back door,” she said quietly. “This is… was… my Nona.”

  “Oh my dear,” said Mrs. Beadle. “Let me call the nurse.”

  But Cleo shook her head, her eyes on Logan. She stood up and placed Nona’s hand gently on the bedspread.

  “I think maybe we’d like a moment alone with Nona,” said Logan, his voice cracking only a little. He felt a bit dizzy but was not about to admit it to anyone.

  Mrs. Beadle nodded immediately. “Please take all the time you need. We have everything set as soon as you are ready.”

  She patted Logan gently on the back and quietly withdrew, closing the door behind her.

  “How did you find me?” asked Cleo, sitting back down in the chair beside the bed.

  Logan couldn’t tear his eyes away from Sophia. This was the first dead person he had ever shared a room with and she most definitely did not look like she was sleeping. He tried to pull himself together for Cleo’s sake.

  “I just figured you’d need to see your grandmother since she was… uh …,” he said. His mouth felt strangely dry. He tried again. “And this is a small town. Everyone knows her. She wasn’t hard to find.”

  “Logan, you don’t look so well,” Cleo said. She stood up and turned towards him just in time to bear the full weight of the former rugby player as he fell into her arms.

  “You sure you’re all right young man?” Mrs. Beadle gave a final wipe to Logan’s forehead with a damp towel.

  He nodded, more embarrassed than he could ever remember being in his life. “I’m fine, really. It’s just been a long couple of days and I didn’t sleep very well last night,” he said.

  “Thank you for all your help, Mrs. Beadle,” said Cleo, her voice muffled by the wad of cloth she still held to her own face. “We’ll be fine now.” The clerk smiled again, but left the door open this time. “Just call if you need me,” she said.

  “Please tell me I haven’t broken your nose,” said Logan, eyeing the bloody rag in Cleo’s hand.

  “It’s pretty sore, but I don’t think it’s actually broken,” she said, examining the rag critically. “Lots of blood, though.” She raised a sarcastic eyebrow at him. “I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’ve come to help out.”

  “Yeah, well, sorry about that,” he said.

  “I’m just kidding, Logan, you know that. I can’t really think of anyone I’d rather have here right now.”

  They sat together quietly for a moment. “Did you get a chance to talk with her at all?” he asked at last

  “A bit, I guess,” said Cleo, setting the cloth aside. The blood flow had finally stopped. “But she wasn’t herself, really. I think she was mostly gone, to tell you the truth. She wasn’t coherent — not the way she always used to be.”

  Cleo looked at him and for the first time her eyes showed the traces of tears. “I wanted to tell her about everything that has happened and to confess about losing the astrolabe. But she left me before I could even apologize.”

  The astrolabe. Logan opened his mouth to speak, but just then Mrs. Beadle put her head through the door and looked from Logan to Cleo and back again. “The funeral home director is here. Would you like to speak with him now?”

  Cleo shook her head. “Perhaps a little later,” she said. “I need to talk a little with my… my cousin first.”

  “Whatever you’d like, dear,” said Mrs. Beadle. Cleo nodded at the clerk as she left the room and turned away from the bed.

  “Let’s go home,” she said, and she took Logan firmly by the hand.

  “Home?”

  “Nona’s place, of course.”

  Cleo smiled a little and gestured to the body of her grandmother. “That’s not her anymore. She’s gone — and I want to see her place before she’s gone from there, too.” She picked up her own coat and stuffed Logan’s things into his hands.

  Logan felt puzzled, but keeping his eyes carefully averted from the bed, he followed Cleo out the back door. “No need to run into the staff again,” she said by way of explanation, “and it’s a shorter walk this way.” She pulled her hat right down to her eyes and pushed her hands into red mittens as she started off down the street. Logan shrugged into his coat and followed her, jogging a little to catch up.

  The snow had stopped and the air was quiet. A single set of tire tracks marked the way along the silent road where they walked.

  It took a moment before Logan noticed the small black bag dangling from Cleo’s wrist.

  “It’s Nona’s purse,” she said when he asked. “It was the only thing she was clear about when she spoke to me. She made me take it, so I hid it in the sleeve of my sweater so the staff wouldn’t think I was stealing from my dead grandmother.”

  Logan was feeling a momentary rush of admiration for Cleo’s felonious behaviour when he nearly tripped over her. She had stopped suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk and he realized she was crying. Full out — not just leaking a little around the eyes. In seconds it progressed to heavy sobs, tears pouring down her face, hiccupping breath — the whole package. A moment after that her legs started to wobble so much he feared she might fall onto the frozen ground.

  He put an arm a
round her to steady her and looked desperately about for somewhere to take her. They were only a few strides from a bus shelter, so he pulled her inside and helped her down onto the bench before she could fall.

  He didn’t know what else to do, so he took one of her red mittens in his hands and waited.

  She leaned against his shoulder and cried.

  The snow had almost stopped and the cold had lost some of its sharpness — somehow muted a little. The girl beside him cried on. Logan just sat there and looked out at the day.

  A bus pulled up, but he waved it away. The bus driver gave him a cheery wave back.

  Cleo kept crying.

  Logan wondered how long one person could continue to produce tears at this rate. He’d never seen anything like it.

  After what felt like hours, she started to hiccup. He passed her a crumpled napkin covered in banana bread crumbs to clean her face. It was all he had in his pocket.

  “Thank you,” she said, and blew her nose. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why that happened. I guess I’ve just never thought of Nona as my dead grandmother before.”

  Logan nodded. He wasn’t sure that there was anything he could safely say, so for once he kept his mouth closed.

  It was the right thing to do.

  Ten minutes later, Cleo led them up the front walk of a neat bungalow on Front Street. Only a thin skim of snow lined the walk.

  “The neighbours keep the sidewalks clear,” Cleo said. She opened Nona’s purse and drew out the house key, attached to a little chain with a house dangling from it.

  “Are you really okay?” Logan asked as she opened the front door. He was feeling a little worried about the possibility of another crying jag.

  “Yeah. I’m fine,” she said. And in they walked.

  “Wouldja look at this place? It’s like some kind of museum.”

  Logan saw Cleo smile a little at that, though her eyes and nose were still bright red. It was good to see some colour in her face, if only from crying.