14: No Going Back

Mabel was late.

An hour and eleven minutes late, to be exact.

I'd gone to a lot of trouble to get to The Argo on time. I had endured Magdalena telling me how good I looked, and Sidney mocking my 'turtleneck sweater of love,' and even a bizarre amount of ridicule from Thistle.

For the record, Ambrose had resumed acting nearly catatonic.

For the first twenty minutes at the restaurant, I waited expectantly. This still fell in the 'reasonable' category, in my book. Things come up that make people twenty minutes late. Occasionally.

At 7:21 I ordered a bottle of wine. At least, I thought, something would be on the table when she came, other than the basket of bread—which I had picked over.

At 7:25 I decided to stop being nice and start keeping myself entertained.

She came bustling in at 8:11. I only caught her out of the corner of my eye, as I was no longer paying attention to the door. Instead I was watching the bus-boy scurrying around collecting dishes. All that uneaten food seemed like such a waste.

Mabel very suddenly was sitting across the table from me, and she was a far cry from what I had imagined. 'Mabel' made me envision someone buxom. Almost motherly. Shapely. Mabel Hornbacher was none of the above. Mabel Hornbacher was scrawny, with great, nearly pointed cheek bones, tiny, mean looking glasses, and a scraggly ponytail. She looked as if she'd just come in from jogging or something—no effort put into presentation at all, really.

"Alister?" she asked, extending a hand.

Who the hell else would it be, I wanted to enquire of her.

"Lory, please," I corrected her, instead, taking her hand and shaking it. It was warm and wet, and I found that I had absolutely no desire to touch her ever again.

"Mabel," she said. "Sorry—I'm a little late, aren't I?"

"Just, you know, an hour or so," I returned, waving a hand dismissively.

"An hour?" she asked. "Oh, no. Well, that would explain the messy table, any way…"

"Excuse me?"

"Am I really an hour late?"

"Or else I'm an hour early. I was told to meet you at seven."

"Oh dear, perhaps you are an hour early. Mr. Rosenbaum told me to meet you at eight."

"This would be Edward's fault," I muttered.

"Pardon?"

"I said," I started, then paused. Did I want to say this to an employee of his? I decided, screw it, yes I did. "This would be Edward's fault."

"Oh, no," she replied earnestly. "He's a very hardworking man. As the Head of the Council of Homo Sapiens Minor, after all, he's in contact with some very important people."

"And that of course makes him important."

"I think it might. I'm interning for his office, you know."

"Yes, I know."

There was a pause. She looked at me. I looked at her, although I could think of several things that I would rather have been doing.

"I suppose that means," I mused, "that one day you'll be a very important person."

She blushed a little and fiddled with the tablecloth.

"Well, I hope so, anyway," she mumbled. She poured herself a glass of wine and found the bottle not quite as full as she'd expected, judging from her expression.

"You want to work with Devas," I said. It was an accusation, not a question.

"Yes, I'd love to. They're such a calming influence, you know. They seem to take everything in stride, and just don't worry as much as us Minors do. They always know how you feel, too, so it's much easier to communicate with them. I think I would like to work with them, some day. Maybe in social welfare situations of some kind. I'd love to help out at one of the homes, actually—I think that's one of the best projects that they have going these days. I'd love to help those kids."

"Well, isn't that admirable," I sneered.

She looked a little shocked.

"Well, I think so. Are you in contact with Devas much?"

"Occasionally."

"What's your line of work?"

"Oh, didn't Beatriz tell you? I drive an ice-cream truck. I'm really very surprised that she didn't inform you of that—she seems rather preoccupied with it, herself. I'm currently unemployed, however. As you can probably imagine, snow hampers the ice-cream business just a little."

"Oh, that's wonderful!"

I stared at her, stunned.

"I mean, it's wonderful that you're unemployed, because Mr. Rosenbaum has been looking for a secretary! Can you type?"

"Edward and I do not get along."

"Okay," she replied slowly.

There was another pause, and the table next to ours could be heard making a toast to someone's grandmother.

"To grandma!" they all cheered. During this time, the silence between us began to extend into the uncomfortable zone.

"Your hair is an interesting shade," Mabel finally said. "How do you get it so light?"

"Actually," I said, "I was hit by lightning." I ran a hand across my forehead, pulling my bangs back so that she could better see my eyebrows. "It's all white."

"All of it?"

"All of it."

"Wow," she said. She seemed skeptical. "Do you remember getting struck?"

"Oh, vividly," I replied. "In fact, it's rather hard to forget."

"That's fascinating. One of Mr. Rosenbaum's colleagues—a Mr. Heathe, you might have heard of him—was telling me about how when he was small, he stuck a fork in an electrical outlet, just because his parents told him not to. Isn't that just a scream?"

"Those are definite leadership skills."

"Well…" She shrugged.

I poured myself more wine. Drank it. Waited for her to say something, or for a waiter to come to the table, or anything.

"I'm really sorry about being late," she said, finally. "I didn't mean to make you angry."

"Oh, no," I replied bitingly. "I love to come to restaurants and sit by myself for extended periods of time! I do it every chance I get! You might even call it a hobby."

Her forehead wrinkled.

"It really was an honest mistake."

"Well, it's something special then, isn't it?—the first mistake Edward ever made."

"How do you know that Beatriz didn't make the mistake?"

"So you're saying now that it's my sister's fault that I was waiting here for an hour and eleven minutes before you showed up?"

"'And eleven minutes?' Were you keeping track that closely?"

"Only after the first hour, understand."

"You know, Beatriz spoke very highly of you. I was expecting more."

"I personally was expecting more of this restaurant. If you're paying this much, you'd think the service would be better."

"Who cares about the service," Mabel spat, "when the company is so bad?"

"Fine," I said, standing up and making a small, sardonic bow. "I'll leave you. I hope that you find yourself more entertaining than I have." I grabbed my jacket from the back of the chair and headed towards the door.

"You expect me to pay for this?" she shouted at me.

"Go right ahead," I called back. "I'm sure my brother-in-law will reimburse you."

People stared as I finished making my way to the door. Once there, the maitre-d put a hand on my arm.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave the premises and not return."

"What the hell does it look like I'm doing?"

"I mean ever."

"Oh, small loss buddy. Have a nice evening."

I jerked the door open and walked into the cold night. Belatedly, I wanted to break the man's nose, or Mabel's ridiculous little glasses—just reach right across the table, pluck them off of her face and snap them—or something to that effect. But of course, there's no going back in time, and so I just plowed across the street. It had started to snow again.

I kept walking, at first heading to where I'd parked my car, and then past it entirely. Somehow, I managed to wind up on the corner of 5^th and Ash. The wreckage of the bus stop had been cleared away. There was just nothing there any longer. A few people trickled out of the department store on the corner. The store had changed their window display to a holiday season theme—dancing teddy bears, snow, trees, toy locomotives. And, at the far end, Santa Claus.

For some reason, it made me painfully sentimental. Yule at Jack's house and at the home had always been pathetic. But before that… what wonder. Everything was shiny, inside and out—sun on the snow, or else Yule lights reflecting off of tinsel and wrapping paper. I could remember watching Beatriz running around in bunny slippers and tearing things open on that wonderful morning. I remember putting the angel on top of the tree—it was a hideous old thing, white lace and cloth with gold yarn hair. But Beatriz always wanted to play with it. Once, she had broken a glass ball and cut her finger open. For one reason or another, it was me who put a band-aid on it. I remember the way a little round spot of blood showed through. I remember her crying. I remember being near tears myself. I don't remember where mom and dad were, or why they didn't comfort her.

I wondered what they were doing at that exact moment—what if they were dead? What if they'd gotten into some kind of accident? What if they'd had more children, legal or illegal? What would they say if I tried to contact them?

Once, someone at the home told me why that wasn't allowed—they, the Devas, had deemed it best. Some kids wrested from their parents would have unhealthy attachments, or codependent relationships that would only result in further trauma to the child in question. If they were permanently separated, wounds could heal.

And scars develop.

Devas wouldn't understand the need. They don't need parents. They can feel everyone alive through the Shekinah. How can they know loneliness?

From inside the store, a little girl holding her mother's hand was looking through the display at me. She appeared to be a Deva. Was she reading me like a book? Disgusted, I turned and continued down the street, only to pass a white-robed priest of the Shekinah a moment later. He was walking with a cluster of other Devas, who wore adoring looks. That was how they treated those who lived at the Temple of the Shekinah—almost in awe. The priests and priestess were shrouded in mystery—to become one, a Deva had to go through rites of passage, tests. They conducted a great deal of their business in secret, and the highest of them, The Pious Order, had quite a hand in their government. …It was all a bunch of bull.

"May the light of the Shekinah shine on you!" the priest called out as I drew near. Thoughtlessly I spit at his feet and rounded the corner before any of them had time to reprimand me.

I kept walking until the bright lights of a movie theater drew me in. It was the one where Sidney had worked when he first joined us. He'd shown us how to sneak in the back way, and I did. The usher appeared to be asleep outside the theater door, and inside the previews were just starting. It was nine o'clock.

It was a movie about a man and a woman who fall in love, and are subsequently separated by one crazy situation after another. I sat watching it—alone among dozens of couples, slumped in my seat and feeling my stomach complain at the lack of dinner that night. I started to feel a little dizzy—although whether from hunger or from general nausea caused by the film, I wasn't sure.

I don't know when I fell asleep, but when I woke up the lights were on and the theater empty. My stomach hurt.

I got up painfully—my legs had cramped—and left the building, sneaking out the same way I'd come in. It was snowing even harder outside, and I began to wish that I hadn't walked so far from my car.

By the time I got back, my shoes and pant legs were thoroughly soaked. I dropped my car keys and had to fish around in the powdery snow for a moment before finding them.

"What a wretched situation," I said aloud, to no one in particular.

When I pulled in, the lights were all off in the Hungry House, which seemed an appropriate name at that moment. I dropped my coat inside the front door and kicked my shoes against the wall. In the dark kitchen, I discovered a loaf of bread in the pantry. I made toast, but couldn't find any butter. I sat down at the kitchen table, stared at the clock, and chewed until the bread had become a sticky ball in my mouth. 12:08, the clock read. 12:08.

And then, Thistle was in the doorway.

"Hi," she said.

"Why are you awake?"

"I wanted to see how your date went," she said, crossing the room and sitting down next to me at the table. "I'm sorry for making fun of you about it before. How was it?"

"There was no date. She was an hour late. We didn't hit it off. I left."

"Oh."

She looked tired. I wondered if she'd seen the headlights from the car and woken up.

"Aren't you tired?" I asked.

She shook her head.

"How's Ambrose?" I asked.

"Same as when you left. I'm worried."

"I can imagine."

"I'm really the middle child," she replied to an unasked question. "My older sister was legal, though. …She's in college."

"I'm the oldest," I said. I stuffed the rest of the toast in my mouth. Already I felt better.

"You seem like it," she said. "A take control kinda type."

"Not really."

"Sure you are. I like that in a man, Lory. I like people who know what they want."

"You've got the wrong person, then," I said.

"I don't think so. You know what you want."

"Hmm. I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me what I want, then."

She smiled—it looked eerie in the dark, as if her teeth were too bright.

"You want to restore natural order to the world, Lory. …I like that, too."

I looked at her. She was wearing eye makeup, and it made her eyes appear to reflect the same strange light that her teeth had before.

"You're so forward," I told her. "It's strange. You're really very scary."

"And you're not?"

"Of course not."

"I was terrified of you when we first came here. You're so… intense, I guess."

"Really."

"A zealot. Remember?"

"I never actually agreed to that."

Somewhere upstairs the floor creaked.

"Did you go somewhere nice for dinner?" she asked.

"Yes."

"What did you eat?"

"I didn't. I left before we could eat."

"Oh. So you ate toast for dinner. …So if you didn't stay long, what took you so long getting home?"

"I went and saw a movie."

"Really?" she looked interested. "What movie?"

"It was called 'Sleepless Sweethearts."

"Oh, that looked funny! How was it?"

"Insipid."

"Oh," she said, sounding slightly hurt. I felt gratified, but at the same time, inexplicably, bad.

"So why did you go see it, then?" she wondered.

"I don't know."

She just looked at me.

I sighed. "I didn't feel like coming home so early, I guess."

"Have you ever lived alone?"

"Yes."

"How'd you like that?"

"It was a nice change. Quiet."

"Think you'd ever want to live with someone else? Just one person, I mean?"

Forward, forward, forward.

"I don't know," I replied.

"Do you ever want children?"

"You are scary," I said, standing up and walking to the sink. It was colder, by the window. I pressed my palm against the glass anyway, just to feel the bite of it.

Thistle followed me to the sink.

"Do you really think I'm scary?" she asked.

I looked down at her. I could see her better, now, by the window.

"No, not really," I admitted.

"I'm sorry, if I am," she said, and suddenly I found her arms around my waist. Surprised, I turned toward her, and she held me tighter.

"I'm just lonely," she said, near tears. "I'm never going to see my parents again, and I'm worried that I'm losing Ambrose, too. I just… I just need somebody. Or I need to go home. Or something."

I wrapped my arms around her, as well, and rested my hands on the small of her back.

"There's no going back," I told her.

"I know, but I want—I'm lonely," she said, and then burrowed against me. We stayed like that for a while. After a time, I removed one hand from her back and tilted her face up, until our eyes met. Her eyes were so blue—like Beatriz's.

"You don't have to be lonely tonight," I said. But then, suddenly, those luminous eyes staring back into mine were Beatriz's, when she'd lost a toy. Beatriz's, when she'd fallen off of her bike and skinned a knee. Beatriz's, when our dog died. Beatriz's.

I spent the night alone, and hungry.

When the phone rang the first time, I was half-watching Saturday morning cartoons in the living room with Jack and a few of the Newly Dead. Jack insisted. Jack likes Saturday mornings for this reason.

It was strange because the house phone rarely rings. Few of us have outside contacts. Occasionally, someone's place of work will phone. But not often. This set me on edge immediately. The next thing that set me on edge was the way that Magdalena, in the kitchen, immediately yelled, "I'll get it! It's for me!"

One: The phone is never for Magdalena. Two: Magdalena doesn't do work that isn't strictly required.

Jack and I exchanged a look. He shrugged, and turned back to the television. After a moment of wonder, so did I.

Magdalena emerged from the kitchen a few minutes later with a triumphant grin.

"Lory," she said, "You've got a job."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Funny… I don't recall applying for anything."

"Well, you didn't. You're working for me!"

Jack and I exchanged another look.

"What'd you do, Mags?" he asked.

"I just posted a little want-ad. For a cleaning service. I knew you'd be real good at it, Lory. That was a client on the phone just then. He wants you to come in on Sundays and do his whole house. The pay's not bad, either, and—"

"No," Jack said.

"Jack," Magdalena whined. "Don't be an asshole. It's only on Sundays."

"That ain't the point, Maggie. You did not clear this with me. I did not approve. I don't approve."

"But he sounded really rich—"

"No, Magdalena. Besides, who'd clean around here, then?"

"Well we'd all do it—same as always, Jack," she said.

"No."

"Does anyone want my opinion?" I wondered. "Since it's my time and energy we're talking about and all."

"Okay, Lory," Jack said, smiling, and giving me the distinct impression that he was just humoring me. "What's your opinion?"

"I don't want to do it."

"See, Maggie? He don't want to do it."

"Doesn't," I muttered.

"Hmm?" Jack asked.

"I don't; he doesn't."

"Oh, screw you, Mr. Grammar. Maggie, he doesn't want to do it. And I don't want him to do it. So he ain't doin' it."

"But Mr. Hoffman will be so disappointed," Magdalena protested.

Jack blinked.

"Mr. Who?" he asked.

"Mr. Hoffman. Mr. Hugo Hoffman."

"I've heard that name before," Jack muttered, brow creasing. "Where have I heard that before?"

"I don't know," Magdalena said, "But he sounded really rich."

"Hugo Hoffman," Jack repeated. Then his head snapped up. "I know! His name was on one of the doors in the Reproduction Clinic, when we went the other day. Remember, Maggie? Remember? He does administrative-type work!" Jack turned and grabbed the front of my shirt. "Lory, you've gotta do it. Who knows what you'd find out, cleaning his house? Freakin' A, Lory, you've got to."

"I will not be a maid."

"But," Jack said, "I'm not interested in your opinion. I'm ordering you."

I stared back into his eyes for a moment, trying to read him.

"Then I obey," I finally said.

"Good," he said, rubbing his hands together. "Oh, good, good. With you cleaning his house, and Arthur cleaning the clinic…" Jack burst first into laughter, and then into song. "Everything's comin' up roses!"

"Oh, Jack!" Magdalena cooed, rushing over and depositing herself on his lap. "See? I did okay."

He tweaked her nose affectionately.

"Yeah, you do pretty good sometimes, don't you, sweetheart?"

She giggled, and they kissed.

I stood.

"Nonetheless," I pointed out, "I can't live on Sunday work. I'm going to get dressed. Go job hunting, I guess. Excuse me."

I went upstairs, leaving them alone. Well, with a few of the Newly Dead, really—but more or less alone.

The phone rang for the second time sometime while I was in the shower. Magdalena informed me of this as I came downstairs once more.

"Your sister called," she said. Jack was gone. The group of Newly Dead had changed a few of its members, but was nonetheless there.

"You answered my cell phone?" I asked.

"No, she called on the house phone."

"She did?" But why? She knew better than that. I didn't want her calling the house. I could never be sure of who would answer it, after all—how would I explain Fabian, the youngest of the Newly Dead and just eleven years old, to her? "Did she want me to call back?"

"No. She said to drop by today. She didn't sound very good."

"Like she's sick?" I asked. "You think she's sick?"

"Could be. I don't know. I don't know her."

"Oh, God. I hope something hasn't happened. She's pregnant, you know. I hope she's okay."

"Really? She's pregnant? Why didn't you ever say so? That's so wonderful, Lory! You're going to be an uncle!"

"Maybe not," I muttered, thinking about the possibilities. What if she'd somehow lost it? What if she'd gone into early labor?

"It didn't sound that bad, Lory," Magdalena said.

"Then why did she call on the house phone?" I snapped. "I'm going over there right now." I hurried into the hallway. "I'll be home for dinner," I shouted to her.

"Lory?" called someone who was not Magdalena from the living room.

"He's in the hall," I heard Magdalena tell her.

Thistle appeared in the door to the living room.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"To see my sister and find a job," I told her, pulling my shoes on and lacing them quickly.

"Can I come?" she asked shyly.

"No." I grabbed my coat and hurried out the door.

"Lory?" she called. She had followed me and was standing on the front porch. Halfway to my car, I turned.

"What, Thistle?"

"Can't I come? I want to get a job. I'll sit in the car while you talk to your sister."

"Scan the want-ads," I called angrily. "I don't have time to wait for you to get dressed." I got in my car.

Thistle waved sadly.

When I looked back in the rearview mirror, she was standing there still, hugging her too-big sweatshirt around herself.

Beatriz did not answer the door, as she usually did. A servant opened it. She would be down shortly, he told me, taking my coat. Would I please wait in the living room?

Their whole house was obscenely luxurious—bigger than the Hungry House and for only two, though soon to be three, people and a few servants. I chose to sit down in the same chair where I had the last time—a big, brown velvet and wood antique thing with enough cushioning to make several more chairs. Someone had set out a dish of nuts, and I helped myself to a large handful.

She appeared on the staircase not too long later, wearing an expensive looking maternity dress.

I stood up quickly.

"Beatriz. Are you all right? Magdalena said—"

"I'm fine," she snapped, frowning at me. She stared down at me coolly for an uncomfortably long time, and then descended the staircase carefully, not looking at me at all.

"I'm mad at you," she announced upon reaching the bottom.

"Mad at me?" I asked, sinking back into the chair.

"Yes. For your behavior with Mabel on Friday."

"What? Beatriz—"

"She said that you were horrible to her. She said that the first thing that you said to her was about how late she was—"

"She was!"

"She said that you were quite clearly intoxicated—"

"I was no—okay, maybe a little, but Beatriz! What would you do to occupy yourself alone in a restaurant for an hour and eleven minutes?"

"She said that you were perfectly beastly about her job, and about Edward, and that you shouted at her across the restaurant as you stormed out."

"Well, she was certainly no prize, herself. An hour late, and she didn't look like she'd tried to look nice at all, and then she had the gall to insult you by suggesting that you told me the wrong time."

"I did."

"What?"

"Edward and I talked it over, and we had agreed on eight o'clock. I told you wrong."

"Beatriz, you couldn't have possibly told me wrong. The reservation was for seven o'clock—how else would they have let me in?"

"It was wrong, too, then. We decided on eight."

"Oh, that's ridiculous—taking all the blame on yourself, to make him look good. Don't do that."

"Alister, I'm very upset with you! You embarrassed both yourself and me horribly. You made our family—and really, by extension for a sheltered person like Mabel, all illegals—look bad. How could you act like that?"

"Well how the hell do you want me to have acted, Beatriz? Say nothing about the fact that she was an hour late? It's lucky that I didn't just leave!"

"She wasn't an hour late! And I wish you had just left—it would have been less embarrassing! But you wouldn't have, no matter what, because you thought you were getting a free meal out of it! And she must have been pretty terrible for you to pass that up, huh? I know you, Alister. Or at least I thought I did."

"Now what's that supposed to mean?" I asked, standing up, angry. I went over to the window and stared out of it. I couldn't look at her.

"You're so angry all the time, any more. I never see you smile. It worries me. I don't want you to hurt anyone. …Like Daddy did."

"Like Daddy?" I turned back around to look at her. "What? Beatriz, what are you talking about?"

"Don't start!" she cried, and then moaned. "Oh, I hate it when you do this."

"Do what?"

"That! 'Daddy never hurt anyone!'" she imitated. "Like hell he didn't!" she yelled at me.

"Calm down, Beatriz. I don't know what you're—"

"You really don't—that's the worst part!" She stood up and paced a little bit. I watched her, concerned, and then she came and stood in front of the window beside me. "It would be one thing if you were just saying that," she continued, "So that we wouldn't have to talk about it, but I know that you're not. You really don't remember. That worries me, too. Liss, do you remember… I was maybe six, and Dad took us to the park. I remember, we got ice cream, and I dropped mine, and the guy at the counter gave me a new cone, anyway. Then, I remember, we were fighting about something. I don't remember what, but Dad got mad, and said he was going to leave us there. …And then he did. Do you remember that?"

"No," I confessed. I had no idea what she was talking about.

"He came back for us, a few hours later, but not until after I cried my eyes out. How about… Do you remember when we took a trip out to the ocean? Do you remember—"

"That I remember," I said.

"What part?"

"Well, the drive, mostly…"

"Do you remember renting the boat? Do you remember eating at that seafood place, and then me and you getting sick? Do you remember buying that bottle of rootbeer and then putting a message in it and sending it out to sea? Do you?"

"I… I don’t remember any of that," I said, turning to look at her. She looked on the verge of tears. "But I remember driving out there. I remember that big stupid stuffed fish dad bought, and hung up in the living room."

"But you don't remember that time that I knocked over your blocks, and you got mad at me, and Dad almost ripped your arm out, do you?"

"No," I said, staring out the window and into Beatriz's garden—dead now, mostly. "I don't have any idea what you're talking about. I… I guess I really don't remember much, before the home."

She sniffed. "You're… You're all fragmented, Alister. All splintered. You don't remember what mom and dad were like—or how you do, it's not right. It's like there are two Alisters. The one that didn't get hit by lightning—that's Liss. And then the one that did—that's Lory." Suddenly she started to cry—big, hiccoughing sobs. "I want my Liss back!" she sobbed, face contorted in a grief that I couldn't understand. "I don't like Lory! He's not the same!"

I turned, took a few hesitant steps toward her.

"No, no!" she cried, waving her arms in front of herself as if she thought that I was going to hit her.

I grabbed her wrists and leaned over so that our faces were on the same level. I couldn't think what to say—what did she want of me? I couldn't think what to do. I didn't want her to be sad like this. I wanted her happy—sunny Beatriz. I wanted to understand what was wrong, and then suddenly I was crying, too, and we were crying together, and we were children again. She pressed against me, and I wrapped my arms around her and rested my head on top of hers. Her face was pressed against my shoulder, and I could feel the wetness of her tears through my shirt.

We stood like that for a long time, mourning something that I hadn't even realized had been lost between us. Something that could never fully be replaced, I realized—there was no going back in time. And even if it could, what did it matter? There was something else between us—even then at that moment, even as we stood like that: Edward's child. Things could never be quite the same.

I stepped back first. She looked up at me, eyes red and puffy. I probably looked just as bad. I dragged my shirtsleeve across my face.

"Alister…" she said unsurely.

"Which one?" I asked, and then laughed. It felt wrong, or sounded wrong, or something.

"I just worry. I just don't want you to end up like Daddy one day."

"I guess I don’t really know what that means," I said sadly.

"Maybe it's better that way." She sighed. "Just be careful. Don't… don't hit any little kids, or your girlfriend or anything. Try to channel your anger into something." She tried to smile. "You could probably be a really good painter with all of that pent-up aggression." She put a hand on my shoulder.

"I hate it when you make me feel like the younger sibling," I said. "I can take care of myself."

"Well, I hate it when you make me make you feel like the younger sibling," she said. "So see that you do!" And then she really did laugh.

"I should go," I said.

"I know. I'll walk you to the door. Drop by more often, okay? Surprise me sometime. Before you know it, the baby'll be here, and I won't have any free time at all." We stood at the door, and she hugged me again. "Do be careful, really, after what those crazies did to the library," she said, and my heart jumped. "Who knows what'll go up in flames next? Take care not to be in one of those places, okay?" She looked up at me, and I nodded at her. It wasn't likely, I wanted to assure her.

"I know you sympathize with them at least a little," she said, "but I hope they… I hope they catch those bastards and hang them up on big spiky poles by their guts!"

"Beatriz!"

"I know… I don't usually talk like that, but it makes me so angry! …Take care, Liss."

"I will."

I gave her another quick hug.

"I love you," I said.

"You too," she replied, and then, "Where are you going, now?"

"I need to find a winter job," I said, pulling on my coat and opening the door.

"You know, Edward is looking for a secretary."

"I know," I said. I gave her a smile, and a wave. I shut the door.

"You're horrible," she shouted through it.

"I love you, too," I shouted back.

Downtown was busy. Holiday season, I reminded myself. If nothing else, I could find work somewhere gift-wrapping. I had a brief thought of striking out on my own—pushing a cart with wrapping paper up and down the street. I wondered if people would patronize something like that. Last resort, I told myself.

I walked the streets, looking for places with 'help wanted' signs. Lots of restaurants—probably not a good idea. Bussing hadn't been so bad, really—the fact that I was the only busboy over about fifteen had been a little uncomfortable, but otherwise it hadn't been bad. Being a waiter had, however, ended badly. I didn't especially want to have another go at it. Similarly… No fast food.

At around three o'clock I got sick of walking and collapsed onto a bench on the sidewalk. The day had been extraordinarily unfruitful. Apparently no one needed work around here. I made a mental list of places I had rejected the first time, but could check back into—including restaurants. The list was horribly, depressingly small. I closed my eyes, tipped my head back against the bench, and sighed. What if I couldn't find another job and had to clean houses every single day of the week? It would drive me mad. Cleaning the Hungry House was bad enough, without dealing with other people's messes, too.

As I felt the first snowflakes falling on my face I opened my eyes and found myself looking straight up into a whirling mass of white. This much snow, so soon, I thought. What a terrible winter it would be.

I sat back up, and something caught my eye a few stores down from the bench, in a place I hadn't quite made it to yet—a sign. A help wanted sign that I had previously failed to notice.

I stood, and made my way over to the store front. Surprised, I realized that it wasn't a store at all. It was a soda shoppe.

"Oh, happy day," I muttered to myself, and was actually unsure whether I had said in sarcasm or not. I brushed snow off of my coat and out of my hair, and generally tried to make myself look more presentable.

The door opened to the tinkling of bells, and I was smacked in the face with a candied smell like childhood dreams. The place was full of an alarming number of teenagers—Deva and Animal alike, as far as I could tell. The man behind the counter looked harried. That could, I decided, work as well to my advantage as not. I walked up to the cash register and waited for him to notice me.

It took a while, but eventually he wandered over to the register, smiling despite the rush, and wiping his hands on his apron.

"Hello," he said. "Something I can do for you?"

"Yes," I said. I smiled, and tried to make it look warm, or genuine, or something conducive to getting myself employed. "I would like to enquire about the help-wanted sign you have in the window."

The man's eyebrows went up.

"I put that up about an hour ago—one of my employees just walked out on me. Just walked out! So now I only have four part-timers, and I need one more. And here you are! Maybe it's my lucky day—well, I mean, obviously not, since one of my employees walked out on me, but… Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself," he said, laughing, and then turned to a flock of girls at the counter. "I'll be with you in just a minute, ladies!" He turned back to me. "Do you have any qualifications?" he asked.

"Yes, I do. I've driven an ice-cream truck for five summers, and I've also had some experience as a waiter, and bussing tables—"

"Can you count change?"

I blinked, almost offended by the question.

"Readily," I said.

"And you can read?"

"Of course; that goes without sayi—"

"Are you legal or illegal?"

"Legal," I lied easily. And if he asked to see my papers? I had fakes.

"Umm…" He seemed to be scrabbling for more questions. He tapped his fingers on his chin.

"Oh!" he said. "Do you relate well to people? I mean," he beckoned me closer, and leaned over the register himself, dropping his voice to a whisper, "you think you can deal with hormonal fifteen year old Animal girls on a daily basis?"

I snapped back into a standing position.

"That shouldn't be a problem," I said a bit stiffly.

"Anything else you think I should know?"

I got the impression that he wasn't used to looking for employees. Was he actually the manager?

"No," I said, "I don't think so. I very much appreciate the time you've taken to talk to me," I added. "Would you like for me to check back later, or leave my phone numb—"

"No!" he said. "You're hired, you're hired. Please come back in on Monday at nine for your training—it really doesn’t take much, you'll see."

"A-all right," I said, very much startled. "Thank you."

He reached across the register and pumped my hand.

"No, thank you!"

"I don’t believe I got your name—or you mine, actually."

"Oh, yeah, I'm Hugh. Hugh Sweeney, pleased to meet you!"

"I'm Alister Siderius. But call me Lory."

"All right!" he said brightly, "See you Monday morning, Lory!" As if we were already fast friends.

"All right," I echoed nervously. "Thanks."

I stepped back out onto the street with the strange feeling that I'd just been cheated of something. That had been entirely too easy.

When I got home, everything was in a general uproar. Jack Dandy would be home any minute, and he had called ahead to make sure that Magdalena got "the troops" into some semblance of cooperation. This required forcing twelve more or less unruly teenagers to sit in an organized fashion on the kitchen floor while someone made dinner enough to please Jack. Had Sidney been around, it wouldn't have been so difficult—he had a knack for keeping the Newly Dead all together in one place. But Sidney was not home, and Magdalena didn't know where he was—which happened quite frequently with Sidney, actually. As it was, she was on the verge of having a nervous break-down—especially since she knew just what it was that Jack Dandy would be bringing up that night.

Thistle smiled shyly at me as I came in, and, since I felt a little bit bad about how I'd treated her that morning, I smiled back. She'd only wanted to keep me company, after all—maybe to find a job, too. Was there something wrong with that? She wasn't a bad kid, really. …Come to think of it, she wasn't really a kid at all.

As much as Madalena worried about organizing the Newly Dead, she needn't have. One minute, they were horsing around all over the kitchen, and then the front door slammed shut, and they were suddenly all very quietly sitting on the ground around the table.

They seemed to know what was coming, too.

And then there it was: Hurricane Jack, in the doorway. The moment we'd been waiting for—maybe all our lives. His eyes positively glimmered with excitement.

"I have a plan," he said.

And he did.

He always did.