I close my eyes and try to find my way back to Blue.
Nick.
I picture the alley, Loogie’s thin, stretched lips, Nick’s blue-green eyes, the feel of the broken milk bottle in my hand. I summon all the sights, smells, and sensations and try to bring on déjà vu, but it doesn’t work. I’m still sitting in the garage beneath Tabitha’s number.
I stand and go through the motions of the fight. I can feel the grubby hands of the thugs on me. I kick and spin and slice and punch until I’m sweaty, not even caring if I bring on an asthma attack. But when I open my eyes, I’m still in the garage. The pigeons are staring at me. And I feel like a complete idiot.
My knees meet the floor. I pull my sleeves over my palms and swipe at the beginnings of tears. I close my eyes and hide in the darkness of my sleeves, sniffling. There’s only ever been one thing I’ve seriously prayed for on my own, and the weaker Audrey gets, the more I wonder if God even gives a damn about my prayers. But praying is my last resort. I don’t know what else to do.
Please send me back. I have to know what happened to Blue. I have to know if he’s all right. If it was real, if there was any truth to my vision at all, send me back. Please.
I lower my forehead to the cool concrete. It smells like motor oil. I squeeze my eyelids tight until spots dance before me, almost as if that will make my prayer more powerful. I remain there, bowed down, tears welling, until my aching body demands relief.
At last I sit up and open my eyes to garage and graffiti. More tears blur my vision. Vibrant colors and jagged shapes swim together.
“I’m not going back,” I whisper to the pigeons.
I heave my backpack over my shoulder and trudge toward the garage door. Once home, I’ll search for Nick’s name online. I’ll find out if October 21, 1927 really was a Friday. I’ll look up the Cafferelli Brothers. I won’t stop looking for answers.
A breeze kicks up outside and swirls in through the broken windows smelling of fish and chips from the restaurant across the street. An old, weathered yellow flyer taped to the graffitied wall across from me lifts and rattles in the gust then settles again. I glance at the two bold words printed across the top.
I gasp.
RISTORANTE CAFFERELLI
I rip the flyer from the wall. It’s an advertisement for an Italian place in the historic district. But it’s not just the name that takes me by surprise. It’s what’s written in black Sharpie underneath.
Alex,
If you’re looking for answers, I’ve got a few. Come have a chat with me. I’ll be the old codger in the Orioles cap, eating a cannoli. (They have really good cannoli here.)
Porter
IN WHICH I MEET SOMEONE EVEN MORE CRAZY THAN ME
I step off the city bus downtown and hitch my backpack higher on my shoulder. I haven’t been to the historic district in a while, and I realize how much I miss the cute folksy shops all decked out for Halloween. The smell of cinnamon and cloves from a candle shop mingles with the briny sea air. A dozen seagulls squawk at me and half hop, half fly out of my way as I cut across a drugstore parking lot.
I’m not sure what I’m doing, following a cryptic flyer to meet some old guy I don’t know. I know a hundred different ways this meeting could take a turn for the worse, but then again, I don’t think anything could be as scary or dangerous as what I’ve just gone through in my vision. And putting myself in that situation was involuntary.
Still, I wish I had Dad’s pepper spray.
Ristorante Cafferelli is quaint and bright, with a wall of windows overlooking the Bay. Murals of grape-studded vineyards cover stuccoed walls, and red and white checkered tablecloths drape over small square tables. The scent of fresh baked bread and sautéed garlic wafts out from the kitchen.
I spot the worn, orange Orioles cap right away. The man called Porter sits over by the windows, blowing steam from a wide mug of coffee he holds in both hands. He looks to be in his sixties – late sixties? – but fit for his age with only a few wrinkles. He wears jeans, a faded black polo, and slip-on boat shoes. White stubble dots his cheeks and chin, and a bit of short white hair peeks out from underneath his cap around his ears. He’s the only customer in the place.
I walk right up to him despite every instinct telling me not to. I guess my need for answers, whatever they may be, outweighs all the lectures Dad gave me as a child.
“Are you Porter?”
He looks up, a little startled at first. Then he clears his throat and sets his mug down. “I am.”
“I’m Alex.”
He leans back in his chair and folds his hands on the table. “Of course you are.” He pauses, staring at me. “How did you know how to find me?”
I drop the flyer in front of him and point at it. “Didn’t you write that?”
He leans forward to look, then a small, knowing smile breaks across his lips. “Not yet. But I guess I will. Soon.”
Not yet? My brow crinkles. “How did you know I’d be at Johnson’s Auto Garage? Do I know you?”
“Mmm,” he says with a slight nod, looking down at his mug. He turns it slowly around in his hands. “But it’s been a very long time since we last spoke.”
He looks up at me then, and I feel that same nostalgia tugging at me like needle and thread. The same feeling I got when Blue looked me in the eye. There’s something about this man I recognize. Something in the way his laugh lines surround his sad, watery eyes, or the way he looks so very tired and yet so very alive. But the memory is too transparent to grasp in full.
It hurts my head too much to think about it.
He gestures to the seat across from him. “Why don’t you sit down? I suppose you came for answers, like the flyer reads, and that’s what I’ll give you. If you want them.”
I sit only because I feel like I know him from somewhere, even if the memory is a wisp of candle smoke. It’s not like I’m not scared, because I am. Mostly because I can’t remember if the memories I have of him are good or bad. All I know is they’re there, somewhere. Eluding me. Just like everything else having to do with the visions.
Porter watches me with kind eyes and a smile that almost seems paternal. It’s the same look I’ve seen on Pops’ face when I catch him watching me from across the dinner table. The silent pride of a grandfather.
“You look good,” Porter says. “All grown up.” He adds that part like it’s some kind of inside joke.
I don’t get it.
“Let me buy you a drink,” he says. He flags down a dark-haired waitress. “Is Chianti still your favorite?”
I wrinkle my nose. “I’m seventeen.”
He laughs. “True. And you may not like it in this body anyway. The taste buds are always different.”
The waitress approaches, and Porter orders me a cappuccino. I don’t object, even though I don’t like coffee. I’m too curious about what he means by in this body.
“What would you like to know first?” He speaks and moves like a gentleman straight out of the classic films I watch with Mom and Gran, very formal and proper, although he doesn’t exactly look like one in his jeans and ball cap. His clothes look out of place, almost like he’s wearing a disguise.
I think about his question for a moment, pulling the sleeves of my army-green parka over my wrists and gripping them under the table. I have no idea where to begin, and I’m cautious about saying too much at first. I’m still not convinced the flyer was meant for me.
The waitress sets the cappuccino in front of me. The foam is swirled into a peace symbol on top.