10

The closer I came to Rachel the pig, the more I regretted it.

The evening was mild and Elliott Bay dotted with water taxis, cargo freighters, tour boats, and a departing Alaska cruise ship. Ferries plied the waters between, giant motorized seagulls sleek and white and solid in their ownership of Puget Sound. Bathed in slanting, butter-yellow sunlight from behind a bank of low-lying clouds, the scene belonged on canvas.

I belonged in custody. What was I doing meeting this young woman, and then what? Unburden myself? Tell her about my latest audible from Coach Almighty? She didn’t need me, and certainly not my schizophrenia. She was being kind, but this would be the end of it. Needed to be the end of it. I was too old to seek validation from someone younger than half my age. Too old to need the flattering of a pretty stranger. Too rattled to say what I had no clue how to say.

As usual, the market teemed with summer shoppers in search of fresh produce, discount jewelry, and impossibly bright bouquets of gladioluses, irises, daisies, and tulips. Hand-held cameras were everywhere, recording the moments. One large contingent of Asian tourists gathered around Rachel, Her Porkness, in jaunty straw hat and purple scarf, were art directed by a frenzied slip of a man festooned with several cameras about his neck. They faced down a single camera on a tripod while their director set the timer and scrambled to join the circle. Shouting something in unison Japanese that sounded like “Shelly has stinky socks,” they waited in frozen grins for a red-light flash signaling the moment had been suitably memorialized, whereupon they erupted in excited chatter and moved on.

In their wake stood Greta in lemon-yellow blouse and pale blue windbreaker, a brass pig in front, a flying salmon tossed by the sure grip of an aproned fishmonger to the rear.

I did not know how to greet her, but I think I bowed slightly and said, “I’m glad you came.” It sounded like a bad line from a cheesy romantic comedy where the crowd freezes, sound muted, and the only two people on earth whose souls match realize they have, against incredible odds, found one another.

We each gave an awkward laugh.

“We should have agreed on a verifying sentence like ‘I hear the brass ham is especially tender this time of year.’”

I nodded. “Whereupon I would respond, ‘It is especially good with a metallic maple glaze.’”

We laughed again, more comfortably this time. We walked away from the roar of the main market to a quieter, less-frequented alcove of homemade whirligigs and leather goods.

I handed her a stick of clover honey from the honey vendor’s. “Thank you for coming, Greta. I just needed to talk to someone about this wild episode in my life. It’s hard not to read things into it. I’ve spun this whole wacky scenario in my head about messages from God. I’m afraid that for a divine purpose way beyond me, He’s decided to use me to accomplish I don’t know what.” I ended with a limp and impotent shrug that said it all. I was pathetic.

“And you always thought what you feared most was being a pawn of evil,” said Greta between licks of honey. “Instead, you are a pawn of God. You didn’t want to go over to the dark side. So you were totally blindsided when the great temptation in your life became to ignore God and run from His bidding.”

I stared at her. How did she know so much? How had she figured me out?

I nodded, relieved I was no longer the only one who knew what I was going through. “I think that’s it. The bus is a curse because it is the source of the messages I seem powerless to resist. Then comes the police, the questions and endless speculation, the media attention and more questions…”

Greta tried a sage-honey stick and moaned softly at its taste. “And now you’re questioning God. Why would He force you to do these things against your will? It’s not that you don’t want to help people; you just want to do so through normal channels. Kids Safari. The mission. You’re no Captain America. You’re low-key, low-profile, low-down James Carter.”

“Hey!” She’d gotten a little close to the bone. I liked the male heroic ideal as much as the next guy. What I didn’t want was all the public attention, all the expectations placed on you when you become pinned in the limelight. And I was no 007. Strictly a lover, not a fighter. Let me work quietly, behind the scenes, one kid, one down-and-outer at a time. Don’t involve me in suicides and bombings and God only knew what else God had up His sleeve.

Don’t take away my freedom to decide to participate or to stay home with the blinds drawn. “I received no messages from the bus today. Is that as deranged as it sounds?”

She looked out the space between vendor booths and cocked her head to one side, almost as if she were listening for something. “If you hear voices, you hear voices; if the next day you don’t hear them, you don’t hear them. Maybe that’s it,” she said, lifting a handsome, hand-tooled purse to her nose and sniffing its rich, leathery newness. “Maybe your direct assistance was needed for a short time and that time has passed.”

I felt her touch on my arm, no more than a light, feathery brush really, and it thrilled me. Ruthie, my love, it’s not sexual. Not for one second. It’s validation. Human warmth and compassion. No more.

“You are cut from a different cloth, Mr. Carter. My Randy’s a good, ordinary, meat-and-potatoes guy. Works hard. A couple of beers now and then. Utters the odd epithet, always appropriate to the occasion. Follows the NBA. Thinks colored T-shirts are a fashion statement. A good provider, but not in any spiritual sense. I’m afraid he does not hear voices.” She looked as if in some unseen record book, she had slapped him with a demerit. “We all have our mysteries, all our secrets to keep.” Greta watched thunderclouds piling on the horizon and I saw great longing in those dark eyes. “You, though, there’s something more about you than meets first inspection. I think you and your wife must have been a force once upon a time. I think maybe you don’t know what to do with your half of that faith force now that the woman who completed you is gone.”

I dropped my honey stick in the trash receptacle. Its smooth goodness had gone grainy in my mouth. I looked away, hot tears welling in my eyes. “How? How do you know so much about me? About my wife, Ruth, and what we had? I didn’t tell you all those things.”

“You didn’t have to,” she said. “Some things you sense about a person without having to be told.”

I again met her gaze and knew I wanted her happiness more than anyone since you, Ruth Anne.

My heart ached for her. Greta’s chances were fifty percent or less that she would marry for life, that her children would be whole and healthy all their days. I didn’t like those odds any more than I liked getting messages from the 17. How could the human race mess up so badly and ruin so thoroughly? And why did Greta, why did any of us, have to eat the bitter fruit of so much rebellion?

Her eyes read me with as much comprehension as yours, dear Ruth. And she did not turn away.

God does not turn away.

Startled, I looked around for the source of the voice. “Did you hear that? Just now, Someone else spoke to me.”

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Now she’d know I’d escaped from the asylum.

“I have to go, James.” There was a trace of anxiety in her voice, as if I had come too close with a running chainsaw. “Perhaps I can let you know when the wedding is. You’d be welcome, although if I know my Randy, it’s as likely to be a small, private ceremony at a stock-car speedway as at a church or hall. I’m trying to talk him into a pretty little garden on Vashon Island, but he’s not keen on the expense. Wish me luck.” She stuck out a hand and waited.

I enfolded her hand in both of mine, a bit more warmly than intended. “Good luck, Greta. I don’t even know your last name but now I may as well wait until you take a new one.”

She laughed. “I was thinking of retaining my own name.”

Young people do that nowadays. And sometimes they go so far as to take a third identity that is different from either of their last names. Gives me the willies, Ruthie.

I reached into my inside jacket pocket and withdrew a brand-new umbrella in a spotted leopard-skin pattern. “To go with your coat,” I said.

Greta looked pleased. “Well, James Carter, this is where I came in.” She opened the umbrella, gave it a saucy twirl, and with a wave and not another word, she sashayed off in Rachel’s direction.

How I hated to see her go.

I sat on the seawall until dark. Watched the water, the sunset, the arrival and departure of half a dozen ferries. Breathed the smell of brine. Couples arm in arm, families laughing, everyone soaking up the pleasant sea air. Enjoyed a waffle cone with two scoops of huckleberry ice cream. Didn’t attempt to talk to God, but whispered good thoughts on behalf of Greta and Randy. Even threw Doomie and Shy Stella into the mix.

Most of the walk home was uneventful. No pushing my luck riding buses. No expensive cab rides I couldn’t afford. Petted three dogs out with their masters for the evening’s constitutional, stuck my head in at Jake’s and called him Popeye, and stopped to listen to an accomplished street musician play his steel drum for strollers young and old. I tossed two dollars into a plastic cup after he took my request for a lively Jamaican rendition of “Music Box Dancer.”

It felt good to just do normal-people things. Sane things. Felt good all the way to Third Street Deli.

I now had everything needed for tomorrow night’s meal with Bill. Stouffer’s, said my neighbor, Lillian Pryor, this afternoon, makes a quite respectable meatloaf. She took pity and gave me one from her freezer. With enough catsup, Bill’s bread, and a mostly fresh bag of shredded lettuce doused in sweet sesame dressing, we were in business. Did I mention the rocky-road ice cream?

Go inside the deli and get a gallon of milk.

I walked faster, the gaudy neon of the deli bathing me in a garish blue glow. My heart was in hyperdrive.

Go inside the deli and get a gallon of milk.

This wasn’t happening.

I stopped at the newspaper rack just inside the deli’s front door and studied the front page. Auto sales up. Home prices down. A wildfire burning uncontained in Idaho.

A gallon of milk.

I couldn’t drink that much milk before it went bad. Bill didn’t strike me as the dairy type. What was I supposed to do, wash my hair in it? My blood pressure rose along with my temper. This was ridiculous. Now I was God’s grocery boy? And wouldn’t the real voice of God say delicatessen instead of the more colloquial deli?

I stormed down the aisle to the eggs-and-dairy case, yanked open the door, grabbed a plastic gallon of whole milk, checked the expiration date, and practically hurled it onto the counter in front of the frowning cashier.

“Three dollars and sixty-nine cents,” he said, ringing it up.

I slapped the money on the counter, threw the change into a charitable-donation jar in the fight against some dreaded something, and nearly collided with the next customer coming into the store. With muttered apology, I straight-armed the door open and stood on the sidewalk, breathing deeply of my irritation, the refrigerated cold penetrating my fingertips.

I turned toward home and stopped. Nobody wanted to be in the safety and sanity of his own apartment more than I, but I could not move. Not a muscle. It had to be fifteen minutes I stood there. The funny looks I got from passersby weren’t funny. My fingers were numb from the cold, yet I couldn’t switch the milk to the other hand. Was I having a stroke? Instead of panicking, I waited. Expectantly. As if any minute, the mother ship would hover overhead and all would be revealed. And I did something I hadn’t done in weeks. I prayed.

Father in heaven, what in blazes is going on?

I didn’t say it was a noble prayer.

Will You please tell me how to get home?

Nothing.

Would You please help my legs to work again?

Nothing.

Should I ask for help?

Again nothing, and when I tried to ask a pedestrian to call 911, the words would not come, but again I wasn’t worried. I waited and knew beyond the shadow of a single doubt that my answer would come. What am I supposed to do with this milk?

Second and Fairhaven.

That is a sketchy part of town, Lord. Why there?

Nothing.

Lord?

Second and Fairhaven.

That area is always in the news, God. Muggings. Shootings. Drugs. I couldn’t go there.

I tried again to move my feet and couldn’t. There was no pain, no paralysis, just zero mobility. It was as if my shoes were glued to the sidewalk.

Help, Lord.

Nothing.

What is that address again?

Second and Fairhaven.

OK, let’s go.

I pulled hard on my right foot and nearly fell over backward as it came off the ground as naturally as you please. The cashier from the deli came out to stare at me. “Do you need assistance, sir?”

“And good night to you as well. Thank you for the milk.” It was not the most elegant of exits, but it was all I had.

Ten minutes later, I was at Second and Fairhaven. There was much less traffic. Abandoned businesses. Two people sleeping under cardboard in the doorways of a dry cleaners and a print shop closed for the night. It was past ten, and the hodgepodge of houses and dilapidated apartment buildings were for the most part dark, any inhabitants out or gone to bed.

Two thirteen Fairhaven.

I stood in front of that address and saw the barest glow seeping from behind the window curtains. The aged car at the curb looked as if it had gone there to die. Even the air was still with disappointment.

Lord, I cannot go up to that door this time of night. Those people are asleep. I might get shot. At the very least, they’ll think I’m an idiot.

As much as I tried to keep the whine out of my voice, there it was.

Deliver the milk.

I wondered if I ended up in the morgue, who would mourn my passing? The list was depressing in its brevity.

The milk.

I approached the door, a dim street lamp accenting the dirt and neglect.

Hands trembling, I knocked.

Again.

It was some time before the door opened a crack, held back by a chain lock.

“What?”

The word hung there between us. Either of us could as easily have asked it. What in the name of all that was sane were we doing?

Feeling as stupid and unsure as I’d ever felt, I said, “I’ve come to give you this milk.”

The chain came off the door and swung wide. Standing there in boxers and a muscle shirt, feet and legs bare, a freckled young man of nineteen or twenty ran a shaky hand through a thick thatch of red hair. “Milk?”

I lifted the gallon container into the lamplight as if it was the Holy Grail.

Eyes wide, he snatched the milk from my grasp, turned, and leaving the door wide, all but ran down a dimly lit hallway to the back of the small house, from which the tiny sounds of a crying baby were emitted.

A young girl in tank top and cutoff shorts rushed to the front of the house, the baby cradled in one arm, the milk in the other. Right behind them was the young man. All were crying.

“Our prayers are answered! Our prayers are answered!” the man shouted over and over.

From the kitchen where the girl went came the rattle of pans. She was warming the milk. “We prayed for milk for the baby! Every last dime we had went for the rent and into that danged car. How were we going to feed our baby? So we got down on our knees and we asked God for milk. Milk for our little Carrie. And here you come, mister, here you come with exactly what we asked for!”

I ended the night two hundred dollars poorer and another hundred questions in my repertoire.