Hammered [3] (17 page)

“Doesn’t do me much good, does it? You’re still talking. Hold still.”

Jesus put his hand over my mangled left ear, and a pleasant warmth filled my body. The pain melted away and I felt my muscles knitting back together without a fuss. My kidney healed up and the toxins broke down in my blood. He even fixed the holes in my jacket. And, to top it off, my left ear was good as new again.

“Wow, that was so much easier than the way the Morrigan fixed my other one,” I said. “Thank you. Seriously.”

He beamed and gave me a hug, more sincerely than the man hug we’d traded on our first greeting. “You are welcome. Thank you for the lunch and the drinks,” he said pointedly, bobbing his head toward Rúla Búla and my unpaid tab. “And thank you in advance for making wise decisions in the future.”

I began to laugh, and Jesus cocked his head sideways at me. “What’s so funny?”

“The next time someone asks me if I’ve been saved by Jesus, I can tell them truthfully I have. I can tell ’em you’re my savior. And they will misinterpret that so deliciously.”

Jesus sighed and shook his head with one of those boys-will-be-boys expressions. “Druids,” he said. Then he pointed over my shoulder. “Hey, here come the cops.” I looked behind me and saw no one there. When I turned around, Jesus was gone.

“All right, you got me,” I said, looking up. “That was a good one.”

But Jesus hadn’t been kidding. A moment later, two
officers came through the short outdoor hallway that led to Rúla Búla, and they saw me standing in the middle of the courtyard.

“Sir? We need to talk to you,” the first one said.

There are some grassy spots in the Mission Palms courtyard. It’s where the palms grow. I stepped onto one and smiled at the police as I drew power from the earth, replenishing my bear charm. Before they could entrap me into what might possibly be hours of questioning, I cast camouflage on myself and scooted out of there, leaving them bewildered and examining their sunglasses for dirt.

Mindful of my obligations, I crept back into Rúla Búla briefly to settle my bill with Flanagan and leave a generous tip. I figured I needed all the good karma I could get.

There are certain encounters that one knows will never be repeated so long as one lives. The firstborn child can’t be born twice; one’s virginity, once lost, can never be found again; the sheer awe one feels when laying hands on a giant sequoia cannot be rivaled. Other times escape our notice, slipping by while we are preoccupied, and we do not appreciate their enormity until it’s too late to do anything but regret that we had not paid more attention in the present.

For me, the times I always regret are missed opportunities to say farewell to good people, to wish them long life and say to them in all sincerity, “You build and do not destroy; you sow goodwill and reap it; smiles bloom in the wake of your passing, and I will keep your kindness in trust and share it as occasion arises, so that your life will be a quenching draught of calm in a land of drought and stress.” Too often I never get to say that when it should be said. Instead, I leave them with the equivalent of a “Later, dude!” only to discover some time afterward that there would never be a later for us. I did not intend to let that happen with the widow MacDonagh.

But as I walked up to her house, I saw that a moment had already passed me by. The widow wasn’t on her porch, sipping whiskey and greeting me with a smile. For
all that it was painted bright yellow, the house seemed a little forlorn for her absence. A ring of the doorbell and then a knock at the door brought me no welcome. No lights were on in the house—she usually had them on, even at midday—so I told myself that she must be out. Worried that I might have missed my chance to wish her well, I pulled out the lawn mower from the side yard and trimmed her front lawn while I waited for her return. When that was finished and I was still alone, I grabbed a pair of shears and groomed her grapefruit tree, fretting all the while that if she didn’t return by nightfall, I’d have to leave and might never see her again. That would mean my last words to her would be “See you soon,” which I’d said on Wednesday when I dropped Oberon off at her house. That phrase was such an inadequate farewell that I cringed inside to think I might have to let it stand.

She arrived after four, dropped off by Mrs. Murphy in a ponderous minivan. Mrs. Murphy, a neighbor of the widow’s who thought I was nothing more than a punk college kid, seemed relieved to see me waiting on the driveway. She looked a bit harried because her four kids were making plenty of noise in the back, and she might have feared leaving them alone for the brief span it would take to help the widow out of the van.

“Thank you,” she gushed as I opened the door and offered my hand to the widow. She backed up and drove off before we could take three steps away; I deduced from this that somebody in the van must have an urgent need to visit the restroom.

“Thank the Lord yer here, Atticus,” the widow said weakly. She looked frail and stooped, her cheeks sunken in and her eyes weighted with fatigue. “That Murphy lass is a decent soul, but she’s raisin’ a right pack o’ brats, if ye ask me.”

“Well, at least they’re Irish brats,” I observed. “They could be British.”

“Aye, we need to count our blessings, don’t we?” She chuckled softly, and the laugh seemed to restore her somewhat. “I see ye mowed me lawn an’ trimmed the tree. Yer a dear lad.” She patted my shoulder. “Thank ye.”

“You’re very welcome, Mrs. MacDonagh.”

She put her hand on my shoulder for support. “Would ye mind givin’ an’ old lady a hand up to the porch? I’m not as spry as I used t’be.”

“Sure, Mrs. MacDonagh.” She favored her left leg as we slowly made our way to her customary chair. “Where have you been? Haven’t seen you since I left.”

“I’ve been to the bloody doctor for days on end. He’s been stabbin’ me with this and scannin’ me with that and chargin’ me a fortune to tell me I’m not well, which I already bloody knew before I walked through his door.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m older’n Methuselah is what’s wrong. Me body’s breakin’ down, Atticus. It’s tellin’ me it’s tired of bein’ so sexy all the time, hee hee.”

“Seriously, Mrs. MacDonagh, what’s the matter?”

“ ’Tis no matter at all.” She groaned a little as I eased her into her chair and relieved the weight on her legs. “I’ll not trouble ye with it. The list o’ me plagues an’ agues is a fair mile long, an’ the best medicine for me right now is to talk of somethin’ else. Will ye be havin’ a glass o’ the Irish with me?”

“Sure, I have a little bit of time to spend, and there’s nowhere else I’d rather spend it.”

The widow beamed at me and her eyes glistened with gratitude. “Attaboy. I’ll give ye me keys.” She fished them out of her purse and handed them to me, and I went inside to pour two glasses of Tullamore Dew on the rocks.

“Ah, that’s grand,” she said, taking the proffered glass
from my fingers. She took a sip and sighed, her peace of mind restored. “Atticus, I need t’tell ye something. I don’t think I’m long for this world. Soon I’ll finally be with me Sean, God rest his merry soul. Every third thought is of the grave.” She peered at me over her whiskey glass. “That Shakespeare bloke wrote that, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did. You’re paraphrasing Prospero from
The Tempest.
”

“Hmph. I think he might have been the only Brit to have ever been worth the milk he sucked from his mother’s tit. Wise man.”

“Can’t argue with that,” I agreed.

“Right, well, what I’m tryin’ to say is that ye’ve been a blessing to me in my dotage. I thank the Lord for ye and pray for ye, even though ye don’t believe in our savior.”

“Oh, I believe in him,” I corrected her. “I know he works miracles too.” I thought of my healed wounds, the multiplying fish and chips, and the guitar case full of dollar bills. “I simply don’t worship him.”

The widow stared at me, bemused. “Yer an odd duck, lad. I don’t know what to think sometimes.”

“You know everything you need to know. Jesus was real and still is. Hold on to that and don’t let go.”

“I’ve been holdin’ on to it for me whole life, Atticus. I’m not going to let it go now.”

“Good.”

“Me children ought to be comin’ to visit soon, figurin’ if they can get in one last good suck-up, I’ll change me will in their favor. I’m in for a world o’ coddlin’ and pamperin’ if ever I live that long. But if I bugger off before they get here, will ye let ’em know? I’ll leave their numbers posted on me fridge.”

“Oh.” I looked down at my feet. “Mrs. MacDonagh, I don’t think I’ll be able to do that. I’ve actually come here to say good-bye.”

She set down her glass and looked at me sharply. “Good-bye?”

“I’m buggering off, I guess,” I said. “I plan on coming back, but there’s a chance I might not, so I wanted to say a couple of things first.”

“Where ye goin’ to, lad? Didn’t ye jest come back from somewhere?”

“Aye, but I have to return for another job, and it’s more dangerous than the first one. Granuaile’s got Oberon with her right now and they’ll be gone for a few days, but when she returns she’ll leave Oberon with you, if that’s all right.”

“Well, how long d’ye think ye’ll be gone?”

“At least a week, but up to three months. If I’m not back after that, I’m not coming back.”

“Oh, now I’ll be worryin’ about ye,” she fretted. “I’ll be watching me
Wheel of Fortune
and some daft man will buy a vowel, and it’ll be an
A
, and then I’ll wonder where that mad boy Atticus is and what frightful things he’s up to now.”

“You didn’t used to think I was mad,” I said.

“Well, that was before ye went around losin’ yer ears and growin’ ’em back again, growin’ so fast it’s like one o’ those bloody Chia Pet commercials.”

“Heh!” I grinned.

“Oh, aye, did ye think that I didn’t notice? I might have a gamy leg, but there’s nothing wrong with me eyes.”

“Nothing wrong with you at all, Mrs. MacDonagh,” I said, and my smile was bittersweet. “You’re a rare girl.”

“Tish, I’m hardly a girl anymore.”

“At heart you are. You have a soul as light as a flower petal and a conscience as clear as crystal.”

“Oooh, you’re spreadin’ it on thick, me boy,” the widow chuckled.

“Perhaps,” I admitted, tilting my head from side to side in an expression of equivocation. We listened to mourning doves cooing in the grapefruit tree for the space of a few heartbeats, and then I turned to her in all seriousness. “But it’s been an honor knowing you. That’s no lie, not even the white kind. I’ve known many people, you understand? Untold thousands in my long life. And you … well. The world is better for you having lived in it. I wanted you to know.”

The widow reached over and patted my hand. “Oh, Atticus, that’s awfully sweet of ye t’say.”

I covered her hand with mine and squeezed it gently. Then I sighed, relaxed, and enjoyed the cool burn of whiskey on the rocks tumbling down my throat.

Saying good-bye properly afforded me a measure of peace. It was a binding of a different sort, absent of the earth’s power, but still hard proof that there is magic yet in the world.

My hours with the widow passed quickly. I remained with her until sundown, when Leif called me. He and Gunnar picked me up at the widow’s house in a rented Ford Mustang GT, since the three of us wouldn’t fit into either of their two-seat sports cars. I noticed that it was black instead of silver: Leif must have paid for it.

The tableau made me miss Oberon. He would have had some comment to make about the three-way olfactory deathmatch in the car: Industrial Air Freshener vs. Wet Dog vs. Bouquet of Ancient Corpse. I wished the widow well, gave her a kiss on each cheek, and squeezed myself into the diminutive backseat. Gunnar’s hackles were raised already.

“Buckle up, he drives like a maniac,” Gunnar advised me. He and Leif were both dressed more practically than they had been the night before, but they still managed to look slightly ridiculous and out of touch. Gunnar had eschewed silver, presumably because he would not be seen by his pack anytime soon. He wore a blue-and-white-striped rugby shirt, which was tight across the chest and shoulders, and a pair of jeans over those clunky tan work shoes one sees on construction laborers. Leif looked fine—black leather jacket, black T-shirt, and black jeans—until you got to his footwear. His jeans were tucked down into lug-soled combat boots that rose to
mid-calf and zipped up the side. Without the boots, he could have passed for a hip graphic designer; instead, he looked like an aging wannabe punk rocker who failed to realize his youthful days of rebellion were long past. He also wore the first jewelry I’d ever seen him wear: a necklace with a finely wrought silver pendant dangling in the center of his chest. It was Thor’s hammer, the ancient pagan symbol worn throughout Scandinavia at one time the way Christians wore crosses.

“What Mr. Magnusson means is that maniacs drive like vampires,” Leif explained. “The esteemed leader of our law firm fails to give me proper credit.”

“What are you talking about? I’ve already given you credit for running four red lights,” Gunnar said.

Leif ignored this. “Where to?” he asked me.

“Swing by my house; I need to pick up a quiver of arrows there.”

“Very well,” Leif said, and he accelerated gently, almost funereally, and I felt a smile coming on. He was making a point to Gunnar, and I had no doubt he would proceed at this snail’s pace until Gunnar told him to speed up.

Gunnar was nearly out of patience by the time we made it down to 11th Street, but I was glad we were going as slowly as we were. Once we turned the corner, Leif braked the car and stared down the street. He and Gunnar both sensed something. I flicked on my faerie specs and then I saw it too: Someone with major mojo was messing with my house. The magical spectrum showed me a shining white humanoid standing near my mesquite tree, gesturing with his hands to encourage ivy to shoot out of the ground and engulf my house. Judging by the sheer amount of white noise in his aura, he was probably a god. Waiting in the street, two leopards harnessed to a chariot pricked up their ears at us. They had a bit of white magical interference around their auras too.