“Even as we speak.”
“Sorry.”
Dane mellowed and gave Arnie a nearly imperceptible smile. “You do try, Arnie, you do try.”
Arnie only shook his head. “One of us has to.”
Dane slapped a hand on his shoulder. “Guess I just need some time.”
“Yeah, but don’t take forever.”
McCaffee’s was a quiet place with no customers there, the doors locked, most of the lights out, the ceiling fans motionless. Roger and Abby were turning out lights, putting chairs up on the tables, restocking the coffee urns, replenishing the towels in the restrooms …
… and waiting for her.
She remained on the same chair at the same table, her hat at her elbow, Mr. Harrington’s business card in her fingers, trying not to feel lonely and wondering why she did.
“Yerrrr OUT!” she muttered.
Yep. Rounded first, headed for second, second got up, and walked out. Tagged. Third out. Game over.
She had such a great night. She did so well. The most amazing things happened, things that astounded even her. The crowd loved it. Roger and Abby loved it and told her so.
So why did he leave?
She came so close to something, as if she were in a big maze and for one second she saw a glimmer of light from the opening, but now she couldn’t find it no matter how hard she looked.
Or … as if she were trying to pluck her keys from the very edge of a sidewalk grate and they slipped off the tips of her fingernails and fell the rest of the way down. She provided the sound, “Ker-sploosh!”
Or … as if she knew the answer to a question on a quiz show, had known it all her life, but it just wouldn’t come to her when she really needed it and then the buzzer sounded and the host said, I’m sorry, your time is up.
Or … as if she were trying to remember where she saw a pair of pruners so she could go get them. She could remember them sitting on top of a can but she couldn’t remember, for the life of her, where the can was, or what kind of can it was, or how long ago she saw it, if she did, or whether she just dreamed it.
The frustration! “Aaarrrggh!”
Roger wanted to go home. He touched her on the shoulder. “Why don’t you just go find the guy? The least he should do is give you a chance.”
She’d written DANE COLLINS on the back of Mr. Harrington’s business card. She looked at it again for the umpteenth time and considered out loud, “I need a car.”
In his bedroom, Dane stared at Dr. Kessler’s business card lying on the nightstand. His hand came one inch from picking up the telephone and dialing, but then he came up with a good excuse: it was too late in the evening and he’d only get an answering machine.
So, leave a message.
Naw …
He flopped on the bed, trying to be honest with himself. He had to get on with the grieving. He had to let her go. He couldn’t go on painting her face on every young girl he encountered.
Oh, come on, it’s just that one girl.
So what? It was still … warped, that’s what it was. Was this where dirty old men came from?
I’ll call in the morning.
The Division of Motor Vehicles examiner behind the counter was nice enough. She handed Eloise the list of requirements to get an Idaho driver’s license, all of which Eloise could not meet, and then smiled and said she was sorry, Eloise would have to come back when she could provide …
Proof of Idaho residency
Proof of age and identity
Acceptable legal-presence documents
Social Security number
Blah-blah-blah
So Eloise, printed government info in hand, backtracked along the line of folks who’d been waiting behind her, all of whom existed as real people in this world and probably would get what they came for.
Sometimes she just wanted to scream.
“Eloise?”
Now, that was new: somebody out in the middle of everywhere calling her name. She paused just short of the front door and looked.
It was Pamela the professional lady, still looking professional! No problem remembering her. Eloise had transferred her driver’s license from her handbag into the box made from cards, and then back to her handbag, one of her first big triumphs at McCaffee’s. Hmph.Her driver’s license. How was that for irony?
Pamela strode right up, all confidence. “You look like you’ve had to deal with the bureaucracy!”
Well, now. What to say? How much to say?“I was trying to get my driver’s license so I can drive a car. So I can even buy a car.”
“You don’t have a driver’s license?”
“Umm, I don’t have a lot of things. I was—” What’s the going lie these days?
But Pamela held up a hand to stop her. “No, you don’t have to tell me. Suffice it to say you don’t have the necessary documents.” Pamela prodded her toward the door and said in a lowered voice, “It’s lucky I saw you. Let’s talk outside.”
Pamela gave Eloise a lift to an inviting, neatly landscaped little house one block off Sherman Avenue. A sign hung on the front porch: SEAMUS A. DOWNEY, ATTORNEY AT LAW. She led Eloise through the front door and into a reception area that used to be the living room. “Have a seat. I’ll let Mr. Downey know you’re here.”
Besides Pamela’s reception corner, the room had a couch, a recliner, two plastic stackable chairs, a coffee table with old magazines, and a struggling ficus in a ceramic pot. A Hispanic lady with two squirming toddlers occupied the couch. The recliner looked inviting, but taking that chair would be like taking the bigger half of a shared candy bar. She sat in one of the plastic stackables while Pamela went behind her desk.
“Is this going to cost very much?” Eloise asked.
Pamela only smiled. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem.” She picked up her telephone and had a quick, quiet exchange with “Mr. Downey” regarding a “Miss Eloise Kramer,” who was there to see him. Eloise figured the Big Guy had to be behind the door that used to lead to a den or bedroom. She could hear voices talking in there. “Mr. Downey is with a client, but he’ll be finished real soon.”
Eloise settled in and smiled at the Hispanic lady. “Hi.”
The Hispanic lady only half smiled back and wouldn’t meet her eyes after that. The kids were getting tired of their toys—a Barbie rip-off and a GI Joe without an arm—and looking for trouble.
Mr. Downey’s door opened and a steely-eyed, Middle Eastern guy stepped out, a manila envelope in his hand and a guarded smile on his face. Behind him, Eloise guessed, was Mr. Downey, in a gray suit coat and blue shirt with no tie. He was so young he surprised her. Dark, wavy hair, quite good-looking. He shook hands with the Middle Eastern guy and the man got out of there in a hurry, stashing the manila envelope under his jacket.
Mr. Downey looked at Eloise and smiled disarmingly. “Eloise?”
Eloise almost rose from her chair, but directed an indicating finger toward the Hispanic lady.
“She’s waiting for her husband,” said Pamela. “You can go first.”
The chair in front of Mr. Downey’s desk was far more comfortable.
“So,” said Mr. Downey, slipping behind his desk like a cool dude slipping into a sports car, “Pam tells me you’re quite the magician.”
Nice opening.“I’m glad she thinks so.”
“And she tells me you can’t get a driver’s license.”
Okay, she was up to the edge of another cliff. He looked legit enough. He had a nice car parked outside, and Pamela’s car smelled new and had one of those talking GPS things in it. He had degrees hanging on the wall and a tennis racket propped in the corner. No family pictures. She took one step. “No.”
He smiled and nodded as if he understood everything already. “Well, I’m a bit of a magician myself. I make problems like yours disappear.” He smiled and raised his eyebrows at her.
She didn’t get it. “How’s that exactly?”
He leaned back in his chair and touched his fingertips together like the old spider doing push-ups on a mirror. “I do estate planning mostly, but on the side I do pro bono work with documents because I see a real need there. This country is one huge bureaucracy, and decent people like yourself can’t make a living or live a normal life without the right paperwork. You want to make a decent, honest living, don’t you?”