Five Stories for the Dark Months (6 page)

As the door chimes jingled behind
him, Paul’s pocket hummed. He grabbed reflexively for the phone,
but then forced his hand back to his side: the text could wait a
few more minutes. Wendy had probably just remembered something else
they were out of—Cheerios, maybe.

As the line moved up, he surveyed
the blackboards above the bar. The menus and their hand-drawn
illustrations changed monthly, and most of the specials were things
Paul had never heard of: the Pumpkin Bread Smoothie, the Snowberry
Latte, the Honey Mocha Spritz. He almost decided to spring for a
Golden Cappuccino, just so he could finally see what made it
different, but as always the six-dollar price tag put him off. By
buying coffee at all, he was stealing from shallow coffers—he
should at least try to mitigate the damage. “I’ll have a small
latte,” he said when he reached the register. “Please.”

The barista was one Paul had seen
many times before: a grim-faced kid with a shaved head, a
chinstrap, and a barbell through his eyebrow. Though he had to have
recognized Paul, he gave no sign of it, and simply said, “Skim or
whole?”

“Skim.” Paul had caught Wendy
looking at his waistline the other day—she wasn’t the only one
who’d put on weight when they’d had the baby. Though she hadn’t
said anything, the look had stung for hours afterward.

The barista scribbled something on
a cup. “Three dollars,” he said, looking bored with the transaction
already.

As Paul waited for his drink, his
phone buzzed again. He took it out with a sigh. As he’d expected,
the text was from Wendy.

Can you bring back
diapers?

Yeah,
sure.
Anything else?

Another
pink-bubbled message buzzed into place.
I
don’t think so.
PS Mom called. Dinner at
7.

OK.
Paul’s heart sank at the thought of another
stifling meal in Mrs. Kraft’s airless dining room. At least the
food was usually good.
I’ll be back pretty
soon.

The café was unusually busy this
evening. Hip, wealthy-looking patrons sat in clusters around the
low round tables, deep in private conversations. Most of them
looked up with forbidding smiles when Paul glanced at them. When
his drink was finally done, he grabbed it and hurried
self-consciously to his usual seat by the window.

The table was occupied.

For a second Paul could only stare
in shock at the dark-haired woman who sat reading by the light of
his favorite lamp. It was too unfair—he got away so rarely! He only
wanted ten minutes by the window, so he could sit and forget about
his job, his family, his growing load of responsibilities. Was that
so much to ask?

It was getting late, anyway. Maybe
he should just take his cup and go—

The woman looked up, and Paul
forgot to breathe.

Her beauty was of the strange,
multifaceted kind that couldn’t quite be pinned down. Objectively,
her face was odd: wide-spaced black eyes with spiky black lashes,
an upturned nose, a wide mouth, sharp jawbones curving to a pointed
chin. Her dark, wavy hair, parted in the center, was otherwise so
tousled it looked almost unkempt, and her face had a strange
grayish cast beneath golden overtones. She should have been ugly,
Paul thought dimly, but instead she was the most fascinating person
he’d ever seen.

As he tried to think of some way
to keep her looking at him—so he could keep looking at her—the
woman spoke. “I’m sorry. Am I in your seat?” Her voice was low and
gentle, with a hint of dulcet laughter.

“Um, no!” Paul felt as if he’d
just stared into the sun. He blinked his eyes, trying
unsuccessfully to un-dazzle them. “Uh, no… um, not really. I… just,
I usually…”

“Say no more.” The stranger’s
mouth twisted wryly, and she reached for her cup. It was one of the
ceramic ones, blue-and-white floral with a silicone lid. Wendy had
one like it in her office. “I was just going.“

“No, no, please stay!” Paul said
quickly. “I’ll sit someplace else…”

“Well, here.” The stranger reached
across the table, took a quilted cloth bag from the second seat,
and hung it from the back of her own. Like her clothes, it looked
discreetly expensive. “Won’t you join me?”

“Uh—I—” Paul stammered. He felt
like he’d suddenly regressed to adolescence. “Um, I wouldn’t want
to interrupt…”

“That’s all right. I always enjoy
company.” The woman put down her book—a thin, worn paperback with a
geometric cover. What Paul could see of the title looked like
French.

He sat down without another
thought. “What are you reading?”

“The collected works of Alain
Chartier.” She leaned closer. “Have you read him?”

“Um… no,
I—”
have never heard of
him
. “I don’t get to do a lot of reading
these days.” He set down his untasted coffee.

“No?” The woman blinked, startling
Paul with the flicker of her lashes. “That’s very sad. Why
not?”

She had a slight accent—French,
probably, given the book, but it didn’t sound like French. Her
looks were no help, either—she could have been from anywhere, or
nowhere.

After a second,
Paul realized that he hadn’t answered her question. “Um, my wife
and I just had a baby. Um, I mean
she
had the baby, but…
uh…”

The woman laughed. “A new father?
I’m surprised you have time to stop for coffee.”

Paul flinched guiltily. “Um, I
don’t.”

“Aha—so you’re here incognito?”
The woman leaned closer with a conspiratorial smile. “Don’t worry:
I’ll tell no one.”

“Ha. Thanks.” He sipped his
cooling drink.

“What are you
drinking?”

“It’s just a latte,” said Paul,
feeling inexplicably embarrassed.

His companion nodded, as if he’d
said something profound. “How is it? I’ve never had
one.”

“Really?” He offered his cup. “You
want to try some?”

The woman’s laugh was like a flight
of butterflies. It left a delightful chill in Paul’s stomach. “Oh,
I couldn’t.”

“You should! Here, it’s good.” He
pried up the lid of his cup and handed it to her, feeling oddly
eager to please.

Smiling, she accepted the drink and
took a sip. Watching eagerly for her reaction, Paul was
disappointed to see her face fall. “Well, it’s… nice,” she
said.

Rarely had he felt like such a
failure. “You don’t like it.”

“Well, it’s… a little bland, isn’t
it?” The woman handed back his drink. “Kind of… thin.”

He should never have gone for skim
milk. Trying not to feel defensive, he said, “What are you
drinking?”

She picked up her cup as if she’d
forgotten about it. “Oh, this? It’s not on the menu. It’s a sort
of… specialty drink—a custom order.”

“What—you mean, like, half soy,
half skim, triple-pump vanilla, hold the whipped cream, sprinkle
pixie dust on top? That sort of thing?”

She smiled again, and Paul’s heart
started a two-step. “Maybe something like that.”

“Well…” He cleared his throat.
“Can I try it?”

He was embarrassed almost
immediately. What had made him say that? “It’s all right,” he said
quickly, “never mind. I—”

“Here.” She held out the pretty
cup, and Paul took it reflexively. The hot ceramic stung his palms
as he sniffed the drink through the hole in the lid. It smelled
wonderful: like milk, honey, almonds, cinnamon—and was that
cardamom? “Wow,” he said, and took a reverent sip.

The world tilted,
and for a long moment Paul forgot where he was and what he was
doing. Finally he blinked, and found himself looking at the world
through a veil of golden fog. “Wow,” he said hoarsely. His voice
sounded tinny and distant. “What
was
that?”

The stranger stood, her long skirt
crinkling. She smoothed her sweater and straightened her antique
shawl. “I have to go,” she said, shouldering her bag. “You may keep
the drink, if you like.”

“Wait!” He stood, almost knocking
down his chair. “Where are you going?” The thought of her leaving
was suddenly intolerable, though a minute ago he had wished for
nothing else.

“Home! It’s getting late, and I
hate to walk the streets alone when it’s dark outside.” She smiled
distantly at Paul. “It was nice to meet you, Mr…ah…”

“I’m Paul. Paul Rogers.” He held
out his hand. “I—”

His phone buzzed. He ignored it.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name, miss…”

She smiled. “I never gave
it.”

The phone buzzed again. Paul
thought about turning it off.

“You may call me Helen,” she said
graciously.

“Helen.” The name rang in his mind
like a bell. “Um, where do you live, Helen?”

“Why?” She gave him a sidelong
glance. “You wish to visit?”

Paul covered the phone with his
hand, wishing it would stop. “I can walk you home—I mean, if you
want.” The words startled him, but he couldn’t take them back and
not seem rude.

Helen laughed. “So you don’t think
I can take care of myself?”

Before Paul could answer, his phone
began to play the “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy”—Wendy’s ringtone.
The sound was so unexpected that it robbed him of his wits. It had
played through twice before he realized he should answer
it.

“Excuse me,” he murmured. Avoiding
Helen’s eyes, he retrieved the phone and took the call. “Hey, babe.
What’s up?”

“Paul?” Wendy’s voice was worried.
“Where are you?”

“Uh…” He looked around. “Um,
I’m…”

“It’s been more than an
hour!”

He choked. “What? I—” Catching
sight of the kitty-cat clock on the wall behind the bar, he saw
that she was right. “Wow. I’m sorry, I had no idea!”

“Are you almost done? We need to
get going soon if we’re going to make it to Mom’s on
time.”

Prickles of conscience dragged his
mind slowly back to life. “Right. Sorry. I’m almost done—I’ll be
home pretty soon.”

“What happened?” she said. “I
didn’t think it would take you more than fifteen minutes or so to
get to the store and back.”

“Yeah, well—” Helen had started
toward the door. Something long and sinuous rose out of his heart
and tried to follow her. “I, um, dropped my wallet,” he said
quickly. “Didn’t even notice it was missing till I got to the
store.”

“Oh, my God! Oh, Paul…”

“It’s okay!” he said, spinning the
lie as he went. “Um, some lady found it and gave it back—she looked
at my ID and came to find me. Everything’s just fine.”

“Thank
God
.” Wendy sighed
heavily. “I was about to have a heart attack! So you’re coming home
now?”

“No, uh… I, uh, haven’t been to
the store yet. I just got the wallet back this second. I’m going
now, though!”

He heard Wendy sigh again. “Okay,
babe. Glad you got it back, anyway. Just hurry, please! We’re
already late.”

“I will.”

“Bring Cheerios!”

When he’d hung up, Paul ran outside
in a crash of tinkling bells. Helen was standing under the café
awning, looking up into the sky. The sun was gone, and the skyline
stood black against the purple remnants of the sunset. The glow of
the streetlights reflected off the eternal banks of haze, veiling
the street in amber gloom.

Though it had been rush hour when
Paul had gone into the café, now the street echoed like an empty
ballroom. The few pedestrians hurried past with hunched shoulders,
ducking their heads as if against impending rain. When Paul let the
door swing shut, the jingle of its chimes was louder than a
telephone.

Helen turned. “Was that your
wife?”

“Uh, Yeah. I’m… I’m actually a bit
late, so…”

“Then you’ll be going home, I
suppose.”

He fidgeted. “Probably better.
Um…“

She turned away, sniffing. “I had
best be going, too. Look how dark the sky is! And I have no escort
home.”

Paul squirmed, embarrassed. “I’m
sorry. Are you going to be okay?” His mind filled with an image of
dark streets, and of Helen slim and vulnerable beneath the
streetlights. Now that they were both standing, he could see for
the first time how small she was. She really shouldn’t be walking
out alone after dark…

“I’m sure I shall be fine,” said
Helen dryly. “Perhaps some other gallant will escort me
home.”

The barb stung. “How far do you
live?”

“Not far. Perhaps ten
minutes?”

Ten minutes. Twenty, there and
back. He was already late—if Wendy was going to kill him, anyway,
then he might as well do his good deed for the day. “Okay,” he
said, deciding all at once. “I’ll walk you.”

Helen laughed. “All right, then,
knight-at-arms. I thank you. Shall we go?”