Chasing AllieCat

by Rebecca Fjelland Davis

  “You should be,” the nun said. “And be careful.” She looked up and down the street again. “It’s probably not your business. Ask the Blessed Virgin for guidance. Maybe you shouldn’t get involved. Be safe. Go home now.” She tugged on the screen door. “Please.” Joe let go. She shut the door and turned away.

  “Sister Mary Cecille?” Joe wasn’t giving up.

  “Yes.” Sister Mary Cecille stopped, without turning to look back at us.

  “What if we’d gone home or just kept riding when we found Father Malcolm? What if we’d said it wasn’t our business?”

  She turned around and leaned toward the screen. “It was you.” She looked from Joe’s face to mine. “Oh, bless you. Thank you. For what you did. I wish I could help. But I can’t. I really can’t. And you may not be safe either. God bless you.” She reached back and hooked the screen door, then floated away inside.

  Chills traveled down my spine.

  Back on the sidewalk, I turned to Joe. “What the hell?”

  “You’re swearing on holy ground.”

  “Yeah, but who the hell cares?”

  “Well, it makes it worse, doesn’t it?”

  I looked to see if he was serious, and I realized he was.

  “You really do take God seriously, don’t you?”

  Joe shrugged. “Yeah. But right now we gotta figure out what’s going on. This just gets weirder and weirder. ‘You should be? Maybe you shouldn’t get involved? You may not be safe either?’ Holy crap, Sadie.”

  “If Allie were here, she’d give you crap about saying that,” I said. “Is religion why you never swear?”

  “Not necessarily religion. God. God’s name in vain and all that.”

  I looked at him, trying to figure him out. “You serious?”

  He shrugged and nodded. “Think we should go talk to the cops again? See if they can help us put anything together?”

  “Can’t hurt, can it?” I knew that was the end of the God discussion.

  We got back on our bikes, and Joe rode ahead of me.

  At the police station, Officer Mick saw us and waved.

  We asked for Officer Kate.

  She hadn’t seen Allie, she said. Officer Rankin saw us talking to Kate and came over to say hi. He was friendlier than he had been in LeHillier.

  We told them about what Sister Mary Cecille said. “She’s scared,” I said, “and she wouldn’t even let us in. Seemed terrified somebody would see us talking to her.”

  Kate and Rankin exchanged a look.

  “You know something?” I asked.

  “Nothing really. We want to find Allison Baker, too. If you see her, can you let us know?”

  “I guess.”

  Officer Kate said, “If we find her, we won’t be able tell you where she is, but we can let you know she’s safe. And we’ll tell her to contact you. Thanks for coming in.”

  When the door closed behind us, I said, “You’re right. This summer is getting weirder and weirder. I thought it was going to be the most boring summer of my life. Sheesh. It’s even weird to know so many cops.”

  Joe squeezed my hand. I wasn’t sure anymore if what I felt was the thrill I always got when he touched me, or part of the overall shivers I had. We jumped back on our bikes.

  We’d gone about halfway to LeHillier, the long way around on County Road 66, when the roadies came up behind us and caught us, drafting in a paceline like geese in half a V. TerryB was “pulling” at the head of the line, and Skarpohl, riding next, patted Joe on the butt as they whirred past.

  “See you two at the race,” Mike yelled, and the whole line of them, colorful as tropical fish, skimmed away.

  “Wow,” Joe said.

  “Ever thought about a road bike?” I asked.

  “Not until this week.”

  We cornered Scout at the Last Chance to tell him about Sister Mary Cecille. He poured us each a root beer and chewed his unlit cigar while he listened. “Joe?” he said. “Make sure you have your cell phone all the time when you guys are out riding.”

  Joe and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  “And that’s funny, why?”

  We explained Allie’s fetish about real mountain bikers not carrying cell phones.

  Scout refilled our root beers. “Well, she’s not here, is she? Listen, like I said before. Don’t ride alone.” He pointed a finger at each of us. “Either one of you. And stay out of the woods. Entirely.”

  We sat quietly for a few minutes. Joe and I both downed our root beers.

  Joe said, “The last thing in the world I want to do is go look at Father Malcolm’s beat-up body again, but … ”

  Scout and I both looked at him.

  “But maybe we should go visit him.”

  “Are you nuts?” I said.

  “Maybe. But I can’t get the image of his bloody face out of my head, and maybe you’d quit having nightmares if we went to visit him. I mean, maybe, just maybe, the real thing isn’t as bad as what we remember. He’s still alive, after all. It might make him like a real live person instead of a nightmare. Ya think?”

  The corners of Scout’s mouth turned up slightly around his unlit cigar. He stood up and moved toward the bar. On the way, he patted Joe’s shoulder. “Good man,” is all Scout said.

  Nineteen

  Life Support

  July 3, continued

  We took Joe’s car to Immanuel-St. Joseph’s Hospital. My first time in his car.

  He opened the passenger door, and I was feeling flattered that he was being all gentlemanly, but actually, maybe he did it because he had to move two entire shoeboxes of CDs from the passenger side floor. He also had an iPod plug-in for his stereo, I noticed. There was a deodorizer in the shape of a trombone hanging from the rear-view mirror and emanating a strong pine scent, and an unopened pack of cigarettes under the dash.

  He saw me eyeing the cigarettes as he slid into the driver’s seat. “Unopened,” he said. “They stay that way. When I can’t smell cigarette smoke in here at all, I’ll throw them out. Until then, it’s like a test I have to pass.”

  I sniffed. “It’s pretty faint already. More piney than anything.”

  He grinned, rolled his eyes, and started the car.

  The hospital floor was smooth and shiny as fresh winter ice on a river. The place felt just about as cold as the river in winter, too.

  Uncle Scout had called the hospital a couple times to check on Father Malcolm, but Joe and I had wanted to stay as far away from this place as possible. I didn’t want to look at Father Malcolm’s beat-up body and mashed-in face ever again. He had been unconscious for two days, since we’d found him in the ravine.

  The information desk lady said, “Room 3411,” as if a hospital visit was the most ordinary thing in the world. I suppose it was, to her.

  Outside 3411, Joe and I stopped and stared at each other. We didn’t have a clue how we were supposed to behave. He reached out and took my hand, sending a tremor through my body. We tiptoed in together.

  Father Malcolm’s broken nose was taped. A tube protruded from his neck, another tube ran into his arm below a cast, one went someplace under the bedcovers, and yet another tube piped yellow liquid from his lower regions. I tried not to look at that one. His eyes on either side of the white nose bandage were both blue-black sockets, from the broken nose or some other blow, I didn’t know. I recognized a heart monitor and a respirator—I’d seen those on TV. He looked gray and scrawny, as if he were sleeping somewhere inside a tent of his own skin.

  Barely louder than a whisper, we said, “Hi, Father Malcolm.”

  He said nothing. Of course. The only sound was his even, raspy breathing through the respirator. Heavy, like Darth Vader’s breathing.

  “Thought we’d come
check on ya,” Joe said.

  Even breathing.

  “We wanted to see how you are doing,” I said, knowing how lame that sounded.

  “I’m praying for you, Father,” Joe said.

  I jerked my head to look at Joe. “You are?”

  “Yeah, aren’t you?” he said.

  “I … ” I looked at the priest, and I whispered to Joe, “I guess I don’t pray. But don’t tell him that.” I nodded toward Father Malcolm.

  Even breathing. Being chicken and staying away from this place seemed more appealing by the second.

  I said, “We wish you’d wake up. We can’t find Allie. Allie Baker. And you know her, somehow. She wouldn’t tell us exactly how. So I guess we need your help. To find her, I mean.” I hadn’t planned on saying all that, but it sort of spilled out. I could feel Joe’s eyes on me. I remembered reading about suicidal people who stayed alive because they found out somebody needed them. Of course Father Malcolm wasn’t suicidal, but this was about keeping him alive. “I wish you could wake up and help us find Allie.”

  Even breathing.

  “Oh, yes. Everybody want him to wake up.” The voice behind us made us jump. We dropped hands, whipped around, and an Asian nurse gave us a shiny white smile. “Everybody want the priest alive, yes. The police want him alive. Because as long as he is alive, he is not murdered. They want to know who did this to him.”

  Her smooth, olive-brown face, with dark eyes shining, was all business. She checked each monitor, his eyes, and his temperature in his ear as if taking care of potential murder victims was routine. “Yes, they wish for him to wake up.” Her skin glistened; she was moving so fast, efficient fingers flying, stunning with her blue-black ponytail shining and her easy smile. She could make anybody want to be well. Her name tag said Zia. “The police, they want to hear what he has to say. So the police, they say, ‘keep him alive, keep him alive.’ Maybe he can tell police who did this thing to him.”

  We stared at her, and she asked, “Who, you think, would try to kill a priest? Such an evil person, to hurt a priest.”

  We shrugged. Joe nodded.

  “My culture,” she said, shaking her head, “in my culture, you respect the shaman. You never, never hit a shaman. What about this America? This free America? It confuses me.”

  “It confuses me, too,” I said.

  “Wait!”she cried. “You are the kids that save him. I know you. In the newspaper. You know, in my culture, when somebody’s life is saved, you are responsible for the rest of your life.” She lifted her eyebrows at us.

  We stared.

  “It’s very good you are here talking with him. Yes.” Still talking, she was moving out the door. “It’s good, yes. Sit down.” She pushed two chairs at us and we collapsed into them. “Keep talking. Maybe you can wake him up.” And she was gone.

  “Wait!” I said to the empty air.

  Joe looked at me. “Did she mean we are responsible once we save his life? Or Father Malcolm is responsible now that we saved him?”

  I shook my head. “No idea.”

  “No way am I gonna be responsible for Father Malcolm for the rest of his life,” Joe said. “Just in case you wondered. Except I will pray for him.”

  I wanted to say to Joe that this guy was a priest, after all. He must have spent most of his life praying and look what good it did, but I said nothing. Joe could pray for him if he wanted to.

  We sat there forever. We listened to the respirator wheezing air in and out of Father Malcolm’s chest. We’d come to the hospital at 8:40 p.m. so we wouldn’t have to stay long, as we would have to leave at nine when visiting hours were over. But it was only 8:48. Only eight minutes had passed, and neither of us could think of another single thing to say to try to bring Father Malcolm out of his unconsciousness. Nothing.

  Breathing.

  There was a whisper of sound in the hall. The nurse again, I expected. She came in silently last time. I turned to catch her on the uptake this time, but it wasn’t the nurse.

  It was Allie.

  She slid around the corner of the door like an alley cat, silent and graceful. When she was riding her bike, her catlike movements flowed smooth as silk; that ability to land, tire-side down. The alley cat. On her feet, her AllieCatness seemed more unnatural, but I hadn’t seen her walking around off her bike too many times, besides the night when she planted the cue ball in the Last Chance paneling. And I’d never seen her wearing anything but bike clothes.

  Watching her grace in that moment, as she stepped through Father Malcolm’s door in jeans and a tank top, I was aware again of how much I wished I were her, inside her perfect body with her fearless heart.

  Here AllieCat was, flesh and blood, in the hospital room, face-to-face with us, and when she saw us, she got wild-eyed, as scared as the stealthiest alley cat surprised in the dark by a pit bull.

  “Allie!” I cried.

  She turned, her body one big reflex, and was out the door as quickly as she had come. As silently.

  Joe and I were on our feet and out the door after her, with only a second’s delay, but she was already way down the hall, strong, lean legs flying, spiked white hair bobbing, earrings flashing like rings of silver.

  Smack! She ran smack, smack, into the beautiful Nurse Zia, who’d stepped out of another room at just the wrong moment. A tray of medicine flew through the air, and Zia, schmucked in the chest by 125 pounds of the leanest, fastest muscle around, went flying and landed on her butt on the hall floor, a multitude of colored pills bouncing around her. “Ugh!” she gasped.

  “Stop her!” cried Joe.

  The nurse made a one-handed grab for Allie’s ankle, but her breath was knocked out and she wasn’t as fast as Allie, who leapt over her and through a door to the stairway.

  “Allie!” I screamed. “Stop! Please!” I jumped over Zia, too, shoved through the door, and thundered down the stairs. “Allie! Why—?” The door below me, to the front lobby and the outdoors, banged shut. I knew I’d never catch her, but I followed anyway.

  I blasted through the lobby and out the front door. Allie had jumped on a junky bike, not her racing bike, and was halfway across the parking lot. “Allie!” I screamed. “Please come back! I just want to know where you’ve been … Allie!” I started across the parking lot toward her, but she powered away from me, deaf to me and the rest of the world.

  I stood there for a half a second. Then I went back inside, trotted up the stairs, panting, to where Joe had stopped to help the beautiful nurse stagger to her feet and pick up the contents of the tray.

  “This girl!” Zia fumed as I came around the corner. “This girl—”

  “Come on, Joe, let’s follow Allie,” I said.

  “You know this girl?” Nurse Zia asked.

  “Yes,” Joe said.

  “Come on, Joe,” I said, heading back toward the stairway. “Maybe we can catch her.”

  “This girl,” Zia said, frowning at the contents of her tray, “she sneaks in here every night, at end of visiting hours.”

  “Every night?” Joe and I asked in unison.

  “Yes, every night,” said Zia. “Quiet as a cat, this girl. Slinks in here like the spirit of a cat. Like she weighs nothing at all. But now,” she rubbed her chest, “I see she weighs something. Not a spirit after all. So you know this girl. Why, you think, she does this?”

  “No idea. Sorry. Wish we knew.”

  “Joe, come on! We gotta follow her!”

  “Sorry,” Joe said again to Zia, and followed me back down the steps, two at a time.

  Outside, we bolted to Joe’s car, slammed the doors, and Joe backed out so fast he almost hit an old couple tottering from the hospital visitors’ door toward their car. We squealed out of the parking lot and up the road, turned toward the big downhill on Marsh Street, but Allie, i
n her alleycat way, had disappeared.

  The only living thing we could see was a stray German Shepherd–looking mutt loping down the sidewalk away from us.

  “Least he looks like he knows where he’s going,” I said. “Wish we did.”

  “Sadie? That reminds me of the dog we saw in LeHillier, after we found the priest,” Joe said. “Remember?”

  I looked, but the dog had already disappeared over the hill.

  Twenty

  Dead Ends

  July 3, continued

  Joe guided the car down the hill, but we knew that we were looking up and down side streets in vain. We drove around for twenty minutes without any hope of seeing her.

  “I don’t get,” Joe said, tapping the steering wheel. “Why she’d run from us.”

  “Allie only mentioned Father Malcolm one time to me, and I could tell there was something she didn’t want to talk about, but it didn’t seem like a big deal. I don’t get it, either. Why would she come see him every night, but run from us? What’s the connection?”

  Joe shrugged and drove back up the hill to a spot where we could look over the town. Lights twinkled across the valley and reflected on the river. Joe put the Grand Am into park and turned off the ignition. He squeezed my knee and left his hand on my leg.

  “What now, Sadie-Sadie?” he asked. I liked it when he called me that.

  I said, “We probably go home and get ready for the race tomorrow.” I flopped my head back on the headrest. “Or we chicken out and don’t race. Joe, I don’t even know what I’m doing. I’ve never raced before. I don’t want to do it without Allie there.”

  “No, Sadie-Sadie. You’ve got to race. This is what you’ve been training for. You’ve been working for this all summer, and you’re gonna kick some butt in the Beginner class. You have to go ahead and do it.”

  “We have to,” I corrected.

  “Naw, I might chicken out.”

  I punched him lightly in the shoulder.