CoffeeHouse Angel

by Suzanne Selfors

  I'd be sitting in my motorized wheelchair with gray hair and no teeth and he'd be playing beach volleyball in his kilt.

  "I'm not immortal. I'm here for a time and then I'm gone."

  "Oh. Then I don't understand."

  "I'll exist for as long as I'm needed, but existing is a solitary course, Katrina. I go from one delivery to the next, moving in and out of other lives like a vapor, leaving those lives transformed. Every once in a while I stretch out the visit because I want to know what it's like to swim in the ocean, or ride on a Ferris wheel, or dance at a gathering of the Highland clans. Or what it's like to have a family."

  I felt small in my grandfather's chair--insignificant and mortal. A regular person who is born and then dies. Whose life had I transformed? "Do all messengers stretch out their visits?"

  "No. I've always been different. Curiosity is a real burden for a messenger." He leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees. "Most people are too busy and distracted to notice me, unless I purposefully reveal myself to them.

  But for some reason that I still don't understand, you saw me sleeping in your alley.

  You noticed me when it wasn't my intent to be noticed. That's never happened before."

  "I noticed you because no one had ever slept in our alley. It was weird."

  "It's not that simple." He smiled. "Or maybe it is that simple. Maybe we were simply meant to meet. I've enjoyed meeting you, Katrina. I've enjoyed being a small part of your life. You're very fortunate to have your grandmother and your friends. I wish I could..." He stopped, his mood turning serious again. "I wish I could have some of the things that you have."

  A powerful surge of emotion rushed through me right then and there. He trusted me enough to share his feelings. What guy does that? Even Vincent didn't open up about his mother or his fear of failure.

  He pushed the album aside and stood. "I've got to go. I've got to get that message delivered, once and for all." He picked up his satchel, straining to lift it over his shoulder. Then, without another word, he left

  I watched him from the window as he strode up Main Street. From the back he looked like a regular guy in a boring pair of khaki pants and a white sweater. How lonely it must be to be a messenger, handing out envelopes that would change people's lives. I realized, then and there, that I'm one of those "cup-half-empty" people. While I didn't have popularity or talent or a boyfriend, those blank spaces were nothing compared to what I did have--the things he longed for.

  I clutched the invoice.

  I made it to the hospital with only twenty minutes left for visiting hours. A husband and wife who owned a Main Street gift shop were just saying good-bye as I hurried into my grandmother's room. "Yak, yak, yak," my grandmother complained after they had gone. "Just because I'm a prisoner in this bed doesn't mean I want to hear all about the refinancing on their house. For heaven's sake, I'm a sick woman." She held out her arms. "But I want to hear all about you."

  She wore her blue floral pajamas and bathrobe. Her little radio was plugged in next to the bed. The IV was gone, but she was still hooked up to a monitor. Four more bouquets crowded the counter.

  "Look at this," I said, shoving the invoice at her.

  "I don't have my glasses. What is it?"

  "It's a receipt from Acme Supply Company." I bounced on my toes like a little kid.

  This would be the best news she'd heard in a very long time.

  "It's not a bill, is it?" She laid her arm across her forehead. "I really can't think about that right now."

  "No, it's not a bill. It belongs to Java Heaven. I found it in the alley."

  "What's the matter with you? Do you need to use the bathroom?"

  "No." I stopped bouncing and read the invoice. As if delivering a commencement speech, I said each word clearly, precisely, hoping to inspire. Grandma Anna didn't say anything, so I read it again. Her expression stayed blank. "Don't you see? He's not selling organic coffee. He's selling the cheapest stuff he can get and then labeling it as organic free-trade rain-forest-saving coffee. He's been lying to everyone." I waved the receipt.

  She folded her hands, resting them on her round belly. "It doesn't surprise me one bit.

  He's always been a scoundrel." Her voice lacked the excitement that pulsed through me.

  "If we give this to the newspaper, or maybe even to Officer Larsen, Java Heaven will go out of business. And then our old customers will come back. We can save the coffeehouse."

  She shook her head. "The Health Department hasn't agreed to let us reopen."

  "They will. You know they will. We don't have rats living in our coffeehouse."

  My grandmother took a deep breath and turned her face toward the window. Darkness pressed against the panes. When she looked back at me, her eyes had filled with surrender. "We won't do anything with that receipt."

  "What?" Was this some sort of drug-induced fog? I had thought she'd be all over the invoice, ready to make photocopies and plaster the streets with it. Maybe she was secretly afraid of Mr. Darling, of what he might do to an old woman who had turned him over to the authorities. Maybe the heart attack had made her feel vulnerable. "But this will solve everything. It's like an answer to our prayers."

  "It's not an answer to my prayers." She patted the bed. "Come, sit down."

  I sat.

  "Katrina, the coffeehouse hasn't gone into debt because of Mr. Darling. It's easy to blame him, but I have to look to myself. I didn't keep up with the changing times. I refused to try new things, and that's suicide for a business owner."

  "But it's not too late."

  "I'm not going to gain success by stepping on someone else. Even if that someone else is a crook."

  "But people have a right to know."

  "Yes, I suppose they do, but they're not going to hear it from us. You're not supposed to have that invoice--it's private property. He could accuse you of stealing."

  "But--"

  "What he has done is his own affair. He's made his bed. And he's the one who has to lie in it."

  What was that supposed to mean? His bed was full of money. He'd lie in it all day if he could. "Grandma, you don't understand. He said he's going to buy the entire building. He said that as soon as we failed to pay rent, he would evict us." That should have changed her mind, but it didn't.

  "Then it's time for us to move on. I don't want to spend one day with Mr. Darling as my landlord." She squeezed my hand. "Don't take it so hard, Katrina. Change comes to everyone. Years ago I would have felt ready for a fight, but I'm tired. I've struggled with the coffeehouse for so long. I can't do it anymore. But I won't be responsible for the downfall of another business, no matter how conniving Mr. Darling is. He has a family. I wouldn't be able to sleep knowing I had brought them ruin."

  She was such a good person. I felt a rush of shame that I had been so ready to expose Mr. Darling--so eager to celebrate his downfall. But still, how unfair. The bad guy is not supposed to win. It had seemed like the perfect answer.

  "Get rid of that invoice. Stop worrying so much about the coffeehouse. You should be thinking about your school-work and the upcoming festival. You should be thinking about all the fun you're going to have with that handsome boy."

  "Does this mean we'll have to move?"

  "Yes."

  "To Retirement Universe?"

  "Heavens no. I have a bit of money in a CD that I'll cash. We'll find a place to rent and we'll be just fine. Your grandfather's retirement check supported the coffeehouse.

  Now it can support us. We won't be rich, but we'll make do. However, there's someone else I'm worried about."

  "Irmgaard?"

  "Yes. She loves the place as much as I do. She'll have a difficult time adjusting. I don't know where she'll get a job making soup."

  The nurse poked her head in to tell me that visiting hours were over. Grandma pushed herself up the pillows. "Katrina, there's something you should know about Irmgaard."

  "That she's a nun?"

  "How did
you know that?"

  "She gave me a book and it said Property of Sister Irmgaard."

  "She used to be a nun. She left the abbey."

  "Why?"

  "It's better left in the past. What I want you to know about Irmgaard is that I consider her to be a part of our family." Grandma Anna yawned. "I'm very tired. Go on home now. Drive carefully."

  I hugged her. She settled back and closed her eyes. Then, just as I was leaving, she mumbled, "Always remember that to forgive is to set someone free."

  I crumpled the invoice and threw it into the backseat. Once a shining beacon of hope, now just a stupid piece of paper.

  Why had my grandmother mentioned forgiveness? Did she actually expect me to forgive Mr. Darling for buying the building and kicking us out? No way. I'd return his invoice, but it would be a cold day in hell when I stopped loathing him. Maybe that makes me a bad person. Or maybe that makes me a normal, average person, with normal, average feelings.

  I ate three bowls of cereal that night because I didn't feel like cooking anything. The box claimed that one serving met all the day's requirements of vitamins and minerals, so if Grandma asked if I'd been eating healthy, I could say yes. The answering machine flashed, full of messages for Ratcatcher. I listened to a few, then turned it off.

  Would Malcolm come back? I wandered to the window. As usual, Main Street had emptied of people and cars, except for the few cars parked outside the pub and a few more parked outside Java Heaven. I watched the end of the street, wishing for Malcolm to appear around the corner. Hopefully he'd be smiling because Irmgaard had finally taken the envelope. But something else appeared--a small white light. It emerged from the place where the streetlights ended, gliding closer like a little fallen star. I pressed against the window to get a better view. The light grew as it floated closer. It was a bicycle light. The rider stopped across the street and slid off his seat.

  Vincent didn't wave. I didn't wave either. He held on to his handlebars and stared up at me. I didn't open the window and yell, Hey, come on up, like I would have, just one week ago. The span of road that separated us felt like a chasm. My feelings were still hurt. I know that people break promises all the time, but it was my only promise and my only best guy friend.

  To forgive is to set someone free.

  Being mad at someone is like a huge weight hanging around your neck--like that sinking feeling I got after swimming the second lap at the Nordby High pool.

  Forgiveness would set me free, but forgiveness seemed impossible.

  We stared, neither of us moving. Then he swung his leg over the seat and pedaled off.

  On the night my parents died, when I lay in my bed, I probably felt terribly lonely. I'm just guessing because I don't remember that night. But the night Vincent rode away was lonelier than I could bear.

  Twenty-eight

  Tuesday was the last day of school before winter break. Usually it would have been a morning of excited anticipation, but I could barely drag myself out of bed.

  The coffeehouse remained closed. Malcolm didn't show up, nor did Irmgaard. The pop of the toaster, the rhythm of Irmgaard at the chopping block, the sound of Odin and Lars arguing--that was my sound track. But it had faded like an echo.

  "Oh, Katrina." Mr. Prince waved at me from his office as I tried to sneak by. "We should discuss those aptitude results. Very promising, don't you think?"

  I shrugged, eyeing the Java Heaven cup he held. Honest to God, I wanted to rip it from his hand and stomp on it.

  "You should take those results seriously, Katrina. Think about going to business school. Maybe even pursuing an MBA. Get some business experience. Every entrepreneur needs business experience. Have you ever held a job? Do you know anyone who could write you a letter of recommendation? You could join the Future Business Leaders of America. Heidi Darling runs the group. Do you know her?"

  Oh God, if I have to stand here one more second, I'm going to scream!

  He took a sip from the peppermint straw. "Have you tried the Vincent Mocha? It's delicious."

  I fled.

  In World Mythology I grabbed the empty chair next to Elliott. Mr. Williams sat at the edge of his desk like he always did. "Today we'll finish up our good deed chapter.

  Please open your books to the next section, called 'The Damsel in Distress.' "

  I knew that Vincent was over by the window. I knew that the ends of his hair were dripping onto his sweatshirt, and that he was chewing on his pencil. But I didn't look at him.

  "Who can give me an example of a damsel in distress in a fairy tale?" Mr. Williams asked.

  Brianna's hand shot up. "Sleeping Beauty."

  "Go on."

  "Well, she can't wake up until the prince kisses her. He has to hack his way through those vines to get to her."

  "Okay, any other examples?"

  "Snow White," Ashley said. "She's dead in that glass coffin, but then the prince comes and kisses her and she wakes up."

  Mr. Williams nodded. "Thanks to Walt Disney, you are all familiar with damsels in distress. This theme is common throughout mythology. The female, traditionally viewed as the weaker of the sexes, and historically the more vulnerable, is placed in some sort of jeopardy. Her survival depends on the heroic action of the male, usually a prince but sometimes a man of lowly means who is rewarded for his good deed.

  Often the reward is a kiss, which in a larger context means sexual availability."

  Aaron puckered his lips and made some kissing sounds. "Where can I find a damsel in distress?"

  I stared at the chapter illustration of a girl looking out a window that was set high in a tower. Her long blond hair framed her sad face. She leaned against the panes, watching, waiting for the prince to rescue her. I stared hard until my vision blurred and her face morphed into mine. Last night I had looked out my own window, waiting for Malcolm, hoping he'd show up with his magic bean to make everything right again. Waiting to be rescued.

  And wasn't that what I had always expected from Vincent? Calling him whenever I needed something, relying on him to take me to the movies and to go places with me if Elizabeth couldn't go. To show up if I got scared because I found a stranger lying in my alley. To be the one person I could call any time of the day or night.

  Holy crap! I was just like that stupid girl in the tower.

  "Mr. Williams?" I raised my hand, interrupting his reading.

  "Yes?"

  "What about the stories where the damsel in distress saves herself?"

  "What?"

  "When she doesn't wait for the prince."

  He laid the textbook on his lap. "The damsel in distress doesn't save herself in these stories, Katrina. She can't save herself because a curse or a magic spell has imprisoned her."

  "But maybe she can save herself, if she tries," I blurted. Everyone stared at me. "Um, I've got to go to the bathroom." I grabbed my backpack and rushed from the room.

  I was sick of feeling like a loser, like I couldn't do anything right. I was sick of feeling like everything I cared about was about to be taken away. I wasn't the swim team captain or president of the Glee Club. I was the Coffeehouse Girl and I wasn't going to lose that without a fight. Grandma couldn't stop me, because she wasn't home to stop me. If I knew exactly how much we owed, and how much we had coming in, then I could make a plan. Maybe it was pure ignorance on my part, but somewhere deep inside I felt that I could do it.

  Get some business experience, Mr. Prince had said. Every entrepreneur needs business experience. What better experience is there than saving a business? But was there enough time?

  I hurried past the glass display of Heidi's successes. Good for her, I thought. She's not waiting in some tower. In the library, I went back to the business/technology aisle and found a book called How to Be a Successful Entrepreneur, written by this really rich guy from New York. The bell rang for second period, but I stayed in the library. The author wrote that the most important thing to guarantee success is to select an excellent support team. />
  I rushed to the office. "Ms. Kolbert? What class is Elliott in? Elliott Minor. I need to see him right away."

  Ms. Kolbert's fingers clicked on her keyboard. "Elliott Minor is in Trigonometry.

  Room eighteen."

  Waving like a crazy person outside room 18's glass window, I finally got Elliott's attention. He raised his hand, asked to be excused, then joined me in the hall. "What are you doing?"

  "Elliott, I need your help." I started pacing. "Do you really understand all that stuff about marketing surveys and small business loans?"

  "I think so."

  "Well, my grandmother's coffeehouse is going to go out of business unless I do something right away. She owes a lot of money. I need somebody who's good with numbers. We'd work together. I'll pay you, just as soon as I can, if you'll teach me how to set it all up on the computer."

  "Why are you asking me?"

  "Because I'm supposed to get the best support team I can get, and I think that you're the smartest kid in school." He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "And I'm going to get Elizabeth for the team too."

  The corners of his mouth turned up in a little smile. "When do we begin?"

  Elizabeth wasn't in her Biology class. I called her. "What's wrong? Are you sick?"

  "I've been in bed all day."

  "Why?"

  "I just feel so depressed. I hate feeling this way."

  "Is this because of Face?"

  "Yes. Isn't that pathetic?"

  "It's not pathetic. You got your feelings hurt. There's nothing pathetic about that." I leaned against the wall, pressing Elliott's cell phone to my ear. "Face is a moron. So what if he doesn't like you? It's his loss. Now, get out of bed."

  "I'm watching this show on insects. Did you know that the praying mantis eats her boyfriend's head after they mate? I wonder what she does if he rejects her?"

  Elizabeth, not-to-be-messed-with artist-extraordinaire, had wrapped herself in a blanket of self-pity. Some stupid jerk who couldn't see past her weird clothes and pudgy face had reduced her to watching television in the middle of the day, which is a pretty bad sign.