"Can't have Anna worrying about these things," Ralph said. "Worry is bad for the heart."
Ingvar dipped a sponge into a bucket of sudsy water. "We've cleaned plenty of boats in our day. Kitchen grease is a breeze compared to fish guts. This place will be spotless. That inspector won't find a single rat turd."
If we moved to Florida, I'd probably never see these men again. They were like the uncles I never had. The grandfather I missed. The father who got taken away. I couldn't bear to tell them that my grandmother had decided to close.
"Where's Irmgaard?" Odin asked. "Is she at the hospital?"
"I don't know," I told him.
He handed me a postal box filled with mail. "All this came today. Most of it's for Ratcatcher."
"The phone's been ringing all day too," Ralph said. "Took a bunch of messages.
Everyone wants to talk to the cat."
"Lots of people been stopping by too," Lars said.
"Thanks." I carried the box into the office and set it on the desk. I opened one of the cards. A little girl had drawn a picture of Ratcatcher and the rat. They were sitting together, smiling. Ratcatcher had a pink bow on her head and the rat wore a purple bowtie. The girl wanted to know if Ratcatcher would write back. I shuffled through the box and found three more bills, each past due. They came to over four hundred dollars. Grandma had said she had two hundred in her checking account. My backpack slid off my shoulder and fell to the floor with a thunk. I felt like falling beside it and curling into a little ball. Honest to God, a sixteen-year-old is not supposed to have so many problems at once.
Ingvar stuck his head into the office. "I told him he could use your shower. I hope you don't mind."
"Who?"
"Your boyfriend. The kid with the skirt."
"Malcolm's using my shower?"
"It was my suggestion. He was soaked to the bone. Said he'd been sitting in the rain all night. If you don't mind my saying, Katrina, he could use some new clothes.
Maybe you could lend him some of your grandfather's?"
I smelled him before I saw him, following the scent up the stairs and down the hallway to the kitchen. He sat at the Formica table, eating Cheerios out of the box. His hair was wet and slicked back, his torso perfectly clean and sculpted. That's right, his torso. I couldn't tell since the tablecloth hid his lower half, but he appeared to be naked.
"Uh, hi," I said.
"Hello." He smiled in that nice way, giving me his full attention, as if I were the center of the universe. Then he reached across the table and took an apple from the fruit bowl. "You know, there was a time when this was considered to be a very dangerous piece of fruit."
"What did you do with your clothes?" I asked.
"They're gone." He rolled the apple in his hand.
"You threw them away?"
"I took them off and now they're gone. It's for the best. I'm supposed to blend in wherever I go like a chameleon. It doesn't appear that kilts are popular in these parts, so I might as well wear something more befitting your little corner of the world." He started to get up.
"Uh, don't do that."
"Don't do what?"
"Just sit right there and I'll get you some clothes." While going on a date with an angel might not break some kind of cosmic law, I was certain that seeing one naked would get me sent straight to hell or something. Or many, many years in a psychotherapist's office.
My grandmother was one of those people who had trouble getting rid of things--hence the crowded Closet of Failure. "You just might need those things someday," she always said. So, in the back of her closet, some of my grandfather's clothes still hung, including his police uniform. Some of his other clothes were neatly folded in the bottom drawer of her dresser. Malcolm was tall, like my grandfather, and lean like him too. I found a pair of khaki pants, a navy blue T-shirt, and a pullover white Icelandic sweater. Would he need underwear? I didn't want to have that conversation with an angel, so I grabbed a pair of boxers. "I couldn't find any shoes," I said as I went back to the kitchen.
"I don't need any. I have my sandals. They go everywhere I go."
"Here," I said, closing my eyes as he stood. "You can change in the bathroom."
When he emerged, he looked like a model for Ralph Lauren. And all I could think about at that moment were his broad naked shoulders and his hairless chest--a million times nicer than naked Catering Guy.
"Katrina?" He stood close to me. "What's on your mind?"
Like he didn't know. I stepped back and took a long breath. "Can you give me that bean now?"
"Only if you're ready to be honest."
"I want things back the way they used to be," I said. "I want Java Heaven to never have opened. Then we would still have all our old customers and Grandma wouldn't have gotten stressed out and had that heart attack. And Vincent and I would still be friends and I wouldn't have to go tell Mr. Darling that we're willing to leave." I sat on one of the kitchen chairs. "I don't want to go over there. I just want Java Heaven to disappear."
At some point while I was talking, Malcolm's hair had dried. It fell in soft waves and was so shiny that if you saw him walking down the street, you'd think, "I wonder what kind of shampoo that guy uses."
"Are you certain that this is what you desire?"
"Yes."
He reached into his satchel and pulled out the coffee bean packet. He dumped the last bean into his hand, then sat on the edge of the kitchen table, right next to me. "Are you certain, Katrina? Because this will change your life."
"I'm certain," I said.
"I hope so, because both our futures are riding on this."
"I am." I hated that place. I wanted it gone. Gone forever. "I'm certain."
Malcolm closed his eyes and everything went quiet, just like before. No cars driving down the street, no Ingvar singing "Blow the Man Down," no Ratcatcher digging her claws into the couch. The clock stopped ticking, the refrigerator stopped humming.
One wish would change it all back. Everything would be good again. But for how long? Another coffeehouse would open on Main Street. Malcolm would get another girlfriend. Grandma would have to retire eventually. I'd still have to fill out that stupid checklist.
"Wait," I said.
Malcolm's eyes popped open and the world went back to normal.
"What do you mean that both our futures are riding on this?"
"I only have one more chance to make this right. If I mess up again, I'll never get that promotion I want. They'll be sending me away. They'll be demoting me."
"They will?" Who was I kidding? I wasn't any more certain about this wish than about anything in my life. I laid my head on the table. "I don't know what I truly desire. I can't figure it out. It's too hard."
Malcolm returned the coffee bean to its package and tucked it back into the satchel.
"Everyone knows what they most desire."
"Do you?"
"I'm not supposed to have any desires."
I sat up. "But you want that promotion."
"Yes. More than you can ever know."
"Then you do have a desire."
"More than one." His gaze swept over me, but this time it didn't feel like a feather duster. It was more like fine sandpaper, like a cat's tongue. It felt great. I wanted to move closer and climb into his arms. I thought about those stories of blood-sucking boyfriends and enchantments. Was I under some sort of angelic spell, or was I feeling this way because he was handsome and interesting and nice and different from anyone I had ever met? "Different" was an understatement--he wasn't even human.
HE WASN'T EVEN HUMAN!
What was I doing? This was crazy. I needed to get out of that room and sort out my feelings.
I looked at the clock. "I've got to talk to Mr. Darling now, or I won't be able to get to the hospital before visiting hours are over."
"I'll go with you," Malcolm said.
"No. I want to do this alone."
I hurried down the stairs, each step taking me farther aw
ay from his aura. Without a word to The Boys, I walked out the front door of Anna's Old World Scandinavian Coffeehouse and into the belly of the beast.
Twenty-Six
When I was eleven, I went to the county fair with Vincent and his dad. Mr. Hawk, in his usual exhausted state, gave us each ten dollars, then took a nap in the shade. Since we only had enough money for three rides each, we had to compromise. We agreed on the Giant Sack Slide, then I chose the Ferris wheel and Vincent chose the Hall of Horrors.
I didn't want to go into the Hall of Horrors, but we had made a deal. "I did the stupid Ferris wheel," Vincent complained while dragging me across the walkway. The facade on the Hall of Horrors had a giant picture of a vampire, some heads in jars, and a bunch of zombies with blood dripping from their mouths. I got kind of shaky and my palms started to sweat.
This really ugly guy with no teeth took our tickets. "Is it scary?" I asked him.
He just shrugged. "I ain't givin' no refunds if ya puke or nothing."
Great. That sounded just great.
Screams of terror emerged from the black curtained entryway. Evil laughter beckoned us forward, if we dared. Vincent went right in with a big smile on his face, like he was looking for Easter eggs or treasure of some kind. The ugly man told me to move it,
'cause the line was backing up.
I didn't puke, but I closed my eyes and held on to Vincent's shirt sleeve. "Welcome to the Hall of Horrors," a recorded voice said. "Once you have stepped inside, you will never escape."
And that's exactly how I felt standing outside Java Heaven. I'd rather go into a million Halls of Horrors than that place. I'd rather face countless jars filled with brains and contorted faces than the perky bleached smiles of the Java Heaven staff.
Without a sleeve to hold on to, I stepped inside. The place was clean, warm, and friendly. Giant clouds hung from the ceiling. A big poster advertising the new Vincent Mocha hung behind the counter. Voices and trendy music filled the air. My head didn't explode. My body didn't disintegrate. But my soul shriveled.
I scanned the room quickly. Heidi's herd sat at the back tables, cutting foam snowflakes. I didn't see Vincent, which was a relief because I didn't want to explain why I was breaking my own law. Heidi would tell him soon enough. Everyone would know, soon enough.
In order to get to the counter, I had to meander past stands of packaged goodies and all sorts of merchandise stamped with the cloud logo--very clever. Little brown bags filled with Java Heaven Organic Morning Blend and Java Heaven Organic Holiday Blend crowded the shelves.
"What are you doing here?" Heidi asked. She held a platter of cookies. "Did you come to help with the snowflakes?"
"I need to talk to your dad."
"No way. That's weird. You never come in here." Up close she was still really pretty, but she had these dark circles under her eyes. Was overachievement finally getting to her?
"Where is he? Your dad?"
"He's in his office. It's over there." She pointed, then delivered the cookies to the work party.
Turning my face away from the snowflake-making students, I walked to the back of the shop. This was the worst kind of Hall of Horrors because the monster wasn't a mannequin or a recorded voice or a robot--the monster was real and he was sitting behind his desk.
He didn't look one bit surprised to see me. "Where's your white flag?" he asked, leaning back in his chair. I guess it was totally obvious that our coffeehouse was foundering. The Health Department's sign was just icing on his victory cake.
"I need to tell you something."
"William, what is this?" An elderly woman stormed into the office, pushing me aside.
She waved a piece of paper. "I told you I wanted to fly first-class. This is clearly not a first-class ticket."
"Now, Mother." Mr. Darling stood. He brushed his hands over his navy sweater, smoothing out the folds. "That's the best deal I could get."
"Best deal?" She shoved the ticket into his face. "You're a cheapskate. That's what you are. You've always been a cheapskate. Bad enough that you're shipping me off to Retirement Hell--"
"It's Retirement Universe."
"It's death, that's what it is. You're sending me there to die." She slapped the ticket onto his desk. "If you want to get rid of me that badly, then you'll have to do it first-class. I want another ticket." She looked me over. "I hope your grandmother is feeling better." Then she stormed out.
Mr. Darling straightened his sweater again, then returned to his chair. He didn't seem one bit embarrassed that he, a grown man, had just been yelled at by his mother. "You were saying?"
I steadied myself, my feet wide apart to offset the weight of humiliation. "My grandmother wanted me to tell you that she's willing to take you up on your offer."
"Of course she is." He folded his hands. "But my offer no longer stands."
"What?"
"I'm buying the entire building. I'll be your new landlord. The deal will close in thirty days. Now that you have a reputation for harboring rodents, I anticipate that you'll be out of business by this weekend. And once your rent is overdue, there will be no need for me to honor your lease. I can legally evict you."
"But you told us you would pay us for our space," I cried.
He stood. "Now I'm telling you that I don't need to." He opened the back door, motioning to the alley that our businesses shared. "I'm sure you'd be more comfortable going out this way."
Is there a word bigger than hate? Despise, loathe, detest. Take all those words and mix them together and that's what I felt. If I had been starring in an old movie, I would have slapped him and called him a scoundrel. But a slap in the real world was called aggravated assault.
Give me that coffee bean. Give it to me right now because what I most desire is not to make Java Heaven disappear, but to make this big jerk disappear!
"But--"
"Good-bye." He pointed out the door.
"But--"
And then something amazing happened. The wind kicked up and blew right into Mr.
Darling's office. It rustled across the papers on his desk, sending a few into the alley.
Mr. Darling chased after them. Watching him struggle to catch each one, cursing and nearly tripping, was a small consolation. With the last paper retrieved, he glared at me, told me to leave, then slammed the door.
I stood in the alley. If ever there was a time to cry it would have been right then and there. But I didn't cry. Something had caught my eye. A single piece of paper, still held aloft by the wind, floated directly overhead. It fluttered, then landed right in my outstretched hand.
It was a receipt from Acme Supply Company, the same company that we ordered from. The receipt was for the delivery of 280 pounds of generic coffee. Generic coffee? That was even cheaper than the brand we used. According to the billboard and the television commercials, Java Heaven only sold 100 percent organic free-trade rain-forest-preserving coffee, not generic coffee.
Two more items were listed on the receipt--a crate of brown paper bags, and ten rolls of custom printed labels.
Oh, little piece of paper, where have you been all my life?
Twenty-seven
By the time the receipt landed in my hands, Mr. Darling had already closed his back door with a gracious, "Good riddance!"
I could have knocked on that door to return the little piece of paper. I could have.
But I didn't.
Why? Because if ever there was a time to believe in signs, that was it. My hand trembled as I read the receipt again. This was huge. Business Man of the Year wasn't looking too good. Big Fat Liar of the year was more like it.
My mind raced. Should I fax the invoice to the Nordby News? Mr. Darling would kill me. He'd hire some kind of assassin and have me shot dead one morning while I was filling jam pots. Okay, maybe he wouldn't go that far, but he'd seek some kind of horrible revenge. I'd have to send it anonymously. Tomorrow's headline would be: Java Heaven Sells Slave Labor Coffee. After that: Owner of Java Heaven Indic
ted for Fraud. And then: Java Heaven Closes Forever. Elizabeth could post it on her blog and word would spread overnight, just like it had with Ratcatcher.
But then a really sneaky thought occurred to me. Was it more valuable if no one else knew just yet--if I used the invoice as blackmail? I shivered. Did I have what it took to be a blackmailer? That would be an interesting addition to my checklist.
"Guess what I found," I yelled as I rushed into our coffeehouse. No one replied. The Boys had left a note: Finished cleaning, gone for a snort. Malcolm was still upstairs.
He had found my grandmother's photo album and was sitting on the couch, slowly flipping through the pages. I still wasn't used to seeing him in pants. I kind of missed the kilt.
"Look," I said, waving the receipt.
He leaned over the album, his expression one of awe. "This is you," he said quietly.
He pointed to a photo taken at one of those cheap mini-mall studios. Two-year-old me sat on a rocking horse, propped in front of a fall panorama. Two teeth, two ponytails, and two red bows completed the goofy look.
"Yeah, that's me. Look at what I--"
He flipped through a few more pages. "This book is a record of your life. Your first haircut, your first birthday, your first piano recital. I've never seen anything quite like it before."
"Really? Everyone has a photo album."
He shut the album, then ran his hand over the cover. "Not everyone, Katrina. In order to have a record of your life, you've got to have a life."
Was he saying that he didn't have a life? He probably felt like he was too busy to have a life. Vincent had told me to get a life. "You're an angel. That's an exciting life. You don't need a stupid photo album."
"It's not the album. It's the life. You see, Katrina, I'm not alive."
I sank into my grandfather's worn recliner, trying to absorb that sentence. "But you're breathing. I can see you breathing right now. And you're warm. I can feel you from here. And you eat. What do you mean you're not alive?"
He sighed. "I exist. Clearly I exist. But I don't have a life in the way that you do."
"You mean you don't die? You get to live forever?" That little fact would kill any chance of us becoming a couple. Imagine having a boyfriend who never got any older.