Night Latch

by Anela Deen

  “On a first date? What do you take me for, Alice?”

  “Ah. The second then?”

  “No.” I hesitated. “But, if it was going well, I might…”

  “What?”

  I realized suddenly what I was about to say and how I’d framed this whole hypothetical with her as my date, imagining it like a movie reel in my head. Alice in a tank-top and jeans, nibbling at the edges of her ice cream cone, smiling.

  Seriously, what was wrong with me?

  Alice watched me with that impassive, yet expectant gaze of hers. It was easy to forget sometimes that although she looked like a girl in her early-twenties, she was older than I could fathom and served a purpose beyond my comprehension. She was humoring me with this conversation so I’d stay engaged with the horizon-watching exercise I couldn’t figure out.

  And there was me, blathering on about twinkle lights and ice-cream like she actually cared about mortal customs. It was really a stroke of good luck that although she could watch me without my knowing it, she couldn’t actually hear my pathetic thoughts.

  “What would you have done, Sam, if things were going well on this second date?” She raised her brows at me, prompting.

  I sat straighter and offered a shrug. “It’s been so long since my last date, I probably have it all wrong.”

  “Hm.”

  She seemed, for a second, disappointed with that answer. Great, now the hypothetical was polluting my view of reality.

  Time to change the subject.

  “I have a surprise for you.”

  Her face immediately clouded with dismay. “A surprise.”

  “In there,” I said with a nod to the glove compartment in front of her. “Go ahead.”

  She made no move to open it. “I don’t like surprises.”

  I sighed and leaned across to pop the compartment open. The small, cardboard box sat surrounded by crushed receipts and an engine manual whose pages had never seen the light of day. I retrieved the box and set it between us.

  Alice stared at it like a bug. “What is it?”

  “A gift.”

  Her gaze flew to mine. “Why?”

  I did my best not to roll my eyes and untucked the fold-in top. “Will you come on? Look inside already.” I paused. “You can pick things up, right?”

  She reached in and with one finger extracted the thumb-sized, silver object by the ribbon looped at its top. It shone in the rising light and chimed delicately.

  “It’s a bell,” I said, as if that weren’t obvious. “I promised I’d get you one, remember?”

  “That was in jest. For always startling you.”

  “I know.”

  “This is decorative.”

  “It made me think of you.” I ran a hand through my messy hair, fumbling for the words. “Look, I realize I’m not an easy case to deal with. I wanted you to know I appreciate all you’re doing for me.”

  She stared at me in silence.

  I cleared my throat. “I had it engraved too.”

  She held it an inch closer for examination. Her lips formed the word she read there without voice.

  Alice.

  The expression on her face lasted the briefest of moments, like a flash of sunlight in the November sky.

  Warmth.

  Then it was gone.

  She held it out to me. “I have no need of gifts.”

  That socked me right in the guts. “Need isn’t the point. I’d…like you to have it. A gentleman’s allowed to honor his mentor, isn’t he?”

  She looked at it another moment, her face unreadable. Then her fingers curled it tightly into her palm.

  “Thank you, Sam.”

  Chapter 21

  The world was still inked in the pastels of early dawn as I drove home. At least all this sitting around with the sky’s waxing and waning light forced me to really think about how I could apply my abilities in ways that would help people. It also staved off the worst of my anxieties for the unknown lurking in my future

  In the past month, I’d called in every favor I had and worked with the county office to get St. Joseph’s shelter a new roof. They’d had to stop taking people in because of mold forming on the ceilings, but then ran afoul of property insurance loopholes when the company refused to pay for a new one. By mid-November, our local Jimmy-Max Hardware store would donate the materials and the county would foot the bill for the construction. St. Joseph’s shelter would open its doors again in time for Thanksgiving.

  An accomplishment there, but this was something that anyone could do if they put their mind to it. An Earthly task, for lack of a better explanation. I didn’t know how to be a saint. I mean, were saints allowed to love horror movies? A good beer? Do other saints use the sniff test in the morning after skipping laundry day? I could do more, I knew I could, but I didn’t know what form it should take.

  And Alice had me watching the day start and end. When I’d told her a month ago that I was ready for this, that I wouldn’t pretend not to be what I so plainly was, the gleam of admiration in her gaze had struck the air from my lungs. Sadly, I hadn’t seen it since. Probably because she had it right and I wasn’t taking the very first task she set me seriously. I rubbed a hand over my face as I pulled into the driveway. Starting tonight, I would really dedicate myself to it. Maybe I could look up the symbolism of sunrises and give her a more thoughtful answer. At least I had the day to come up with something.

  Sleep would help. A few hours and I might possibly get my jellied brain to start firing again. With that in mind, I dismounted from my truck, groaning like a bear lumbering towards hibernation. A jogging neighbor called out hello as she came past the house. I waved back. The smile I tugged across my face came out a tad weird. She gave me the once-over like she thought I was high and trotted onward.

  Was it too much to ask that I crawl into my sanctuary without being seen? Who got up at this hour voluntarily with the intention of wrapping themselves in spandex to run in a circuit that landed them back where they’d begun? Masochists.

  With one foot on the steps that led to my apartment above my mother’s garage, I paused when a sound caught my ear.

  Was that…?

  Yep, that was Nana’s humming from the back of the house. I swerved away from the stairs and headed that way. After my adventure in the Japanese gardens of the museum, I’d managed to convince my mother to landscape a section of our own little plot behind the house in the same style. The weather was turning cooler with mid-November, but Nana still needed a calm space to putter around in. Anything to keep that heart condition in check.

  What I hadn’t counted on was Nana coming out here at the crack of dawn to putz with flowers instead of resting. There she stood wrapped in a coat, still wearing her fuzzy slippers. With one hand she tended to a small potted bonsai while she sipped at her mug of coffee.

  “Why are you up so early?” I called as I went to her. “The doctor said you’re supposed to take it easy after that episode a few weeks ago.”

  She flapped a hand at me. “Doctores.”

  Ah, flippancy. That pretty much encapsulated Nana’s receptiveness to medical advice.

  I rubbed my face again. “Nana—“

  “You look tired, m’hijo. You always up early and out past dark.” She put it like stating a fact but stared at me like it was a question.

  “Just finishing assignments.”

  Her eyes took on that flat look that said she knew better. “Your father tell me same excuses when he first in love with your mamá.”

  “I’m not in love, Nana.”

  She eyed me quizzically.

  “I’m not, I swear.”

  She inspected my face and shook her head, tsking. “You don’t have to tell me, but if this one is important, I expect to meet her soon, yes?”

  Someone get me out of this day.

  “Fine, yes. I will.”

  “Good boy. Did you eat breakfast yet, mi amor?”

  “I had some coffee and a donut.”


  “That is not breakfast.” She took my arm like she meant to lean on it but tugged me toward the kitchen door. “Come, I make you something.”

  Food sounded good. Bed sounded better. “I’m not really hungry—”

  She gave my ribs a pinch. “You too skinny. Just like your papá. Flaco.”

  “You’d say that if I had two chins and love handles, Nana.”

  “You’ll eat breakfast,” she commanded, effectively ending the discussion.

  An hour later, I waddled away from the house like an overstuffed penguin looking for a place to die. Climbing the stairs to my apartment over the garage felt more like taking on Everest. Grunting on each step, I managed to clamber my way to the top. When I reached the landing, my hand paused mid-way to the knob. The door stood slightly ajar.

  I glanced at my watch. 7:40am. It couldn’t be one of my mother’s intrusions. The woman needed two alarm clocks to force her out of bed in the morning. I leaned back slightly for a view of the driveway. Empty.

  If this was a break-in, the joke was on them. There was absolutely nothing of value in my place, not even a few decent snacks in the cupboard.

  And unless Nana’s cooking was making me hallucinate, I could swear the TV was on.

  Quietly, I pushed the door open and peered inside. “Hello?”

  “Morning Sam.” Joelle lay reclined on my threadbare couch, her sneakered feet crossed at the ankles, sipping at a glass of orange juice. One of my action DVDs played on the TV.

  I stepped inside. “Uh, good morning?”

  She’d never come to my apartment before. We usually met in town. Somehow, she made that old couch look more comfortable than I’d ever known it to be. She had a talent for that, fitting into new places like a missing puzzle piece, as if every space she entered welcomed her there. It was a detail I’d learned about her over the past few weeks.

  “Didn’t your mother tell you it’s not nice to stare?” she asked lightly when I continued to stand there. Her hazel eyes never moved from the TV.

  “My mother has more of a strict ‘no hugs’ policy.”

  “I see.” A smile played at her lips and she glanced my way. “You’re up early. Matins, was it?”

  “Ha ha.” I shut the door behind me, eyeing her sneakers. “You’re not one of those crazy joggers, are you?”

  “Is there something wrong with jogging?”

  “At dawn? Because sweating out on the streets before the birds are even awake is a sane activity?”

  “As opposed to working up a sweat in other ways?”

  Well, she won that round. There didn’t exist a safe comeback.

  “So, what kind of spell did you use to get in here?” I asked.

  “You left your door unlocked. Strange practice for a locksmith.”

  “Most people here do. We’re a small town.”

  “Oh you trusting folk of the country. If not for you and your corn fields, the world’s available horror movies would be paltry indeed.”

  “Yes, we bumpkins try to do our part for the world stage,” I answered dryly, surveying the landscape of the studio apartment with a sudden pang of anxiety.

  Dirty dishes in the sink. A pile of unfolded laundry on my unmade bed. A pile of dirty laundry on the floor next to it.

  Good God, had she used the bathroom?

  Did I remember to flush this morning?

  A low-grade panic nettled my chest. As if sensing my unease, Jo sat up and turned off the TV. “Sorry I dropped in on you like this. I was in the mood for a long run and decided to see if you’d like to have breakfast together.”

  There was a tightness to her eyes. She thought I didn’t like her spontaneous visit. Nice, not only was I coming off as a slob but also a territorial moron.

  “Breakfast sounds great,” I told her enthusiastically, ignoring the cramp in my stomach.

  Her posture relaxed a degree. “When you weren’t home my plan was to make something, but that didn’t work out.” She sent a significant look in the direction of the kitchen.

  Oh right. No food in there.

  “I haven’t had a chance to get to the store lately. Appointments.”

  I set my keys on the counter and sat beside her on the couch. Usually I’d kick my shoes off first but a sudden doubt as to which pile of clothes I’d dug the socks out of this morning changed my mind. Jo wore a mish-mash of loose, comfortable cotton in subdued grey and black, her curly ponytail red like the dawn I’d seen this morning.

  She quirked an eyebrow at me. “I had no idea that a locksmith’s schedule was so demanding.”

  “Mentor stuff,” I said with a hunch of my shoulders. “No biggie, just trying to find my place on the celestial sphere.”

  “Still working on that?”

  “It involves horizons. Very complex. Don’t make me get into the gory details.”

  “Can’t figure it out, huh? Maybe you’re suffering latent anxiety from failing out of college.”

  “Hey, I didn’t fail. I dropped out to become a young entrepreneur.”

  “Who is now living over his mother’s garage.”

  “Are you saying you’re not impressed with my manly bachelor pad?”

  “Your bare walls and three pieces of furniture did set my girlish heart aflutter,” she grinned, fanning herself. “Especially your literary choices.”

  “What—You told me my romance novels were endearing,” I said, getting up to take a protective stance in front of my poor maligned bookcase.

  Her smile grew fond. “So, I did, though I felt the need to add to your selection. A little non-fiction.”

  “Really?” I turned around to find three new volumes on a shelf. I took one out and frowned at what looked suspiciously like a textbook. “Is this by one of those dead French philosophers you’ve mentioned?”

  “You remember that title?”

  “No, I just can’t say the author’s name.” I sat next to her again.

  “Michel Trouillot,” she said with careful pronunciation.

  “Mister Trout, got it.”

  She smacked my arm. “This is an important book, Sam. Silencing the Past is about history. It’s about the social production of narratives that create one history while suppressing another.”

  I traced the letters of the title. “Jo, I think you’re crediting me with more academic ability than I have.”

  “Don’t try to sell me on the aw-shucks simple-farm-boy-from-Iowa nonsense. You’ve already told me you’ve been studying the lives of past saints and I’ve seen what you can do. These theories will help you.”

  “How?”

  “Well, who we are as a people and as individuals is made up of our conception of where we come from. Our history, Sam. So, when you’re reading about saints, consider whose lens you’re looking through while you’re learning. It could lead you down paths you haven’t explored, and maybe toward what you’re meant to do. The truth of the past is rarely the one that comes from the dominant viewpoint.”

  Like Joan of Arc who was a saint but also, as I recently found out, a witch and the founder of Jo’s coven. Something the known history books had never mentioned.

  I took in the book with more interest, moved by her support. My thoughts returned to Alice’s insinuation of more between Jo and I than friendship. In other circumstances, there might have been, and not just because of the epic dry spell of my dating life. Jo had an impressive academic mind and a loyal heart, not to mention shiny copper hair a guy could imagine winding his fingers into, but after the role I’d played in helping to free her brother, it seemed wrong to pursue the idea. I’d seen her at her most vulnerable not because of any trust between us, but because of circumstances. Besides, now that we did trust each other, I sensed we both enjoyed this unexpected friendship, a closeness that could simply be without either side trying to bend it into something else.

  “I know you have a mentor,” Jo said, noting how I’d fallen quiet. “I don’t mean any disrespect to him or her—”

  “I know. Thank
you, really. This means a lot,” I said, meeting her gaze, and because I couldn’t help myself, I drew back in dawning horror, adding, “Wait, you’re not going to test me on it later, right?”

  Her eyes took on a wicked gleam. “I was thinking more of a daily pop quiz.”

  I grabbed the cushion next to me and swung it at her like a cudgel. “You’ll have to catch me first!”

  With a laugh, she deflected it. Faster than I could blink, she gripped my wrist, rotated my arm up and behind my back, and used her shoulder to lever me to the floor. Face down, I found myself staring at the fuzzballs under my couch.

  Oh right. Witch-ninja.

  “Erm, uncle?”

  “What was that about catching you?”

  “I give, I give. You are the superior being in both brains and crazy combat moves. I will dedicate myself to the wisdoms you have gifted me. Okay?”

  “Good.” She released my wrist with a chuckle and shifted back to the couch. “It’s too bad you weren’t home sooner to grab that breakfast. I have to leave in a minute.”

  “What if I offered to make it up to you tomorrow morning instead?” I pulled myself to my knees, then paused at her somber expression. “What’s wrong?”

  “The thing is, we’ve finished all our business here. We’re leaving town today.”

  “I thought you were staying till Sunday.”

  “Yes, it’s just—well,” she gave a slight laugh. “This will sound strange to you, but there’s an astrological phenomenon that has a special significance to my coven and it’s more visible on the west coast. It won’t happen again for another hundred years.”

  Sure, it hadn’t come around for a hundred years but it had to pick her last weekend in town to show up. I had all the luck.

  “Should I be imagining a lot of pointy hats and moon howling?”

  She socked me in the arm with a sheepish grin. “It’s a comet, you intolerant altar boy. They’ve been talking about it on the news for the past few weeks. Where have you been?”

  At look-out point, staring at colors in the sky.

  “What time do you leave today? Maybe we can still get some lunch…” The look on her face answered me. “You’re leaving now?”

  “My flight takes off in a couple of hours.”