Odd Hours Part 22

"Don't doubt that for a second."

"I've thought about switching into tire sales or shoes. Is the garbage business stressful?"

"Sometimes for management. For a route driver, it's so the same day after day, it gets to be like meditation."

"Like meditation, yet you're providing a good service. Sounds real nice."

"Fred died seven years ago, I sold out two years later. You want, child, I can still open doors in the garbage world."

"That's generous, ma'am. I might take you up on that one day."

"You'd be a good route driver. Can't look down on the job and be any good. I can tell you don't look down on anyone."

"That's kind of you to say. The reason I wondered if you were a nurse is, before garbage, you mentioned the sick and suffering."

As if receiving directions beamed from a MapQuest satellite to her brain, Birdie turned left into a billowing white wall, and the Cadillac wallowed into a new ca.n.a.l.

She glanced at me, turned her attention to the invisible street, reached one hand up to adjust her feathered hat, glanced at me again, pulled to the curb, and put the car in park.

"Harry, somethin' about you is too different. I can't do this the usual way. Feel like I should get right to it, say I didn't come to you by chance."

"You didn't?"

She left the engine running but switched off the headlights.

Fathoms of fog pressed upon the car, so it seemed as though we rested on the floor of a sea.

"You were a twinge before you were a face," Birdie said. "For all I knew, you'd be another Nancy with cancer or like a Bodi Booker makin' hot cocoa for suicide."

She waited for me to reply, so at last I said, "Ma'am, I think maybe the fog got in my head, because I can't see any sense in what you just told me."

"What I think," she said, "you're in worse trouble than just a Swithin flat busted from bad romance."

THIRTY-TWO.

BIRDIE HOPKINS TOOK OFF HER WHITE GLOVES. She slipped one over the gearshift k.n.o.b and one over the turn-signal lever, so that the Cadillac seemed to be waving at me.

"Seventy-eight years old, still a hot flash now and then. But it's not the slowest change of life in history. Been done with all that long ago. Has something to do with the twinges."

From the large purse that stood on the seat between us, Birdie withdrew a j.a.panese fan, unfolded it, and fanned her plump face.

"Fred died, it started."

"Seven years ago," I said.

"Love somebody from when you're nineteen, one day he's the same as ever, next day dead. So many tears, they seem to wash somethin' out of you, they leave this emptiness."

"Loss is the hardest thing," I said. "But it's also the teacher that's the most difficult to ignore."

Her fanning hand went still. She regarded me with an expression that I took to be surprised agreement.

Because Birdie seemed to expect me to elucidate, I fumbled out what I thought she might want to say herself: "Grief can destroy you-or focus you. You can decide a relationship was all for nothing if it had to end in death, and you alone. Or you can realize that every moment of it had more meaning than you dared to recognize at the time, so much meaning it scared you, so you just lived, just took for granted the love and laughter of each day, and didn't allow yourself to consider the sacredness sacredness of it. But when it's over and you're alone, you begin to see it wasn't just a movie and a dinner together, not just watching sunsets together, not just scrubbing a floor or washing dishes together or worrying over a high electric bill. It was everything, it was the of it. But when it's over and you're alone, you begin to see it wasn't just a movie and a dinner together, not just watching sunsets together, not just scrubbing a floor or washing dishes together or worrying over a high electric bill. It was everything, it was the why why of life, every event and precious moment of it. The answer to the mystery of existence is the love you shared sometimes so imperfectly, and when the loss wakes you to the deeper beauty of it, to the sanct.i.ty of it, you can't get off your knees for a long time, you're driven to your knees not by the weight of the loss but by grat.i.tude for what preceded the loss. And the ache is always there, but one day not the emptiness, because to nurture the emptiness, to take solace in it, is to disrespect the gift of life." of life, every event and precious moment of it. The answer to the mystery of existence is the love you shared sometimes so imperfectly, and when the loss wakes you to the deeper beauty of it, to the sanct.i.ty of it, you can't get off your knees for a long time, you're driven to your knees not by the weight of the loss but by grat.i.tude for what preceded the loss. And the ache is always there, but one day not the emptiness, because to nurture the emptiness, to take solace in it, is to disrespect the gift of life."

After a moment, she fanned her face again, and closed her eyes.

I gazed through the windshield at the desolation of fog, which might have been the waste and void from the time before time, when mankind did not exist or any beast, when there was only darkness on the face of the deep.

Birdie said, "What you said. All of it. Same for me. So one day my emptiness was filled. First twinge came. Tuesday afternoon in May, it was. Not a physical twinge. Just a feelin', like why don't I drive one of the old garbage-collection routes. Wound up at Nancy Coleman's place, former employee of ours. Husband left her a year earlier. Four hours before I show up, she gets a cancer diagnosis. Scared, alone. That year, I drove her to chemo, doctors' appointments, shoppin' for a wig, spent so much time together, more laughin' than either of us would have thought at the start."

She closed the fan and returned it to her purse.

"Another time, I need to drive, wind up at Bodi Booker's house. Insurance agent, lifelong bachelor. Says he's busy, I talk my way in. He's makin' hot chocolate. So we start talkin' Fred. He and my Fred were bowlin'-team buddies, went fishin' like the son Fred and I never could have. Half an hour, he tells me the hot cocoa was to wash down a bottle of pills, to kill himself. Year later, Nancy Coleman doesn't have cancer anymore, she has Bodi, they married."

She retrieved her white gloves and worked her hands into them.

"What about Swithin busted from bad romance?" I asked.

"Swithin Murdoch. Good man, made a fool of himself over this girl. Leanna cleaned out his bank accounts, took a powder. Swithin almost lost his house, business, the works. I made a loan, he paid it back. So why you, Harry Lime?"

"I think something bad would have happened to me at that storm drain if you hadn't showed up."

"Bad like what?"

Although her journey since Fred had shown her that under the apparent chaos of life lies a strange order, the truth of me would be more than she could absorb in the time that it would take her to drive the rest of the way to the harbor.

"I don't know, ma'am. Just a feeling I have."

She switched on the headlights and shifted the car out of park.

"For true, you don't know?"

Whatever event had been pending at the storm-drain grate, it had been related to the peculiar behavior of the coyotes and to the porch swing that had swung itself. I did not understand what linked those three experiences, nor what power or purpose lay behind them, so I could answer honestly.

"For true," I a.s.sured her. "How far to the harbor?"

Piloting the Cadillac back into the fog-flooded street, she said, "Three minutes, four."

My wrist.w.a.tch and her car clock agreed-9:59.

After a silence, Birdie said, "What's so different about you, child?"

"I don't know, ma'am. Maybe...because I spent seven months as a guest at a monastery. The serenity of the monks kind of rubbed off on me."

"Nothin' rubbed off. Your difference is all yours."

Anything I could say would be a lie or an evasion, and because she had somehow saved me, I did not want to lie to her more than necessary.

Birdie said, "You sometimes sense somethin' big is comin'?"

"Big like what?"

"So big the world changes."

"Watching the news too much can make you crazy," I advised.

"Don't mean the kind of bushwa newsmen jabber. Not war or plague, not water gives you cancer or here comes a new ice age."

"Then what kind of bushwa?" I asked.

"Some kind n.o.body would ever expect."

I thought of the absolute whiteout through which the golden retriever and I had traveled, but if that had been not just weather but also a premonition, I did not know the meaning of it.

"I can't have done right by you yet," she said.

"I appreciate the ride."

"Wasn't twinged out of my cozy home just to be a taxi. What you need, child?"

"Nothing, ma'am. I'm good."

"Place to stay?"

"Comes with my job. Nice ocean-view room."

"Lawyer?"

"Have nothing against them, but I don't need one."

"Got a bad feelin' for you."

"I'll be okay."

"Some need you've got. I feel it."

Considering Hoss Shackett and Utgard Rolf and the kind of men who would be aligned with them, I had a long list of things I needed, starting with a platoon of Marines.

"Money?" she asked.

"No, ma'am."

Solemnly, quietly, she said, "Gun?"

I hesitated before I replied. "I don't like guns."

"Might not like them, but you need one."

Sensing that I had said too much, I said no more.

"It's in the purse," she told me.

I looked at her, but she kept her attention on the street, where the headlights seemed to bake the batter of fog into a solid cake.

"Why would you have a gun?" I asked.

"Old lady in an ugly time-she has to take precautions."

"You bought it legally?"

"I look like Clyde's Bonnie to you?"

"No, ma'am. I just mean, anything I did with it would be traced back to you."

"A few days, I report it stolen."

"What if I rob a bank with it?"

"You won't."

"You can't be sure. You hardly know me."

"Child, have you been listenin' to me?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"What was it with Nancy Coleman?"

"Well...she had cancer."

"What was it with Bodi Booker?"

"Planning suicide."

"Swithin Murdoch?"

"Flat busted from bad romance."

"I could name more. None needed help robbin' a bank. Just good people in trouble. You think I've gone to the dark side?"

"Not for a minute."