Odd Hours

Annamaria. “We really need to go.”
    Blossom had packed a hamper to sustain a platoon, including beef and chicken for our four-legged companion.
    She walked us out to the car, and after I stowed the hamper, I held her close. “You take care of yourself, Blossom Rosedale. I’m going to miss beating you at cards.”
    “Yeah, right. As soon as I join up with you, I’ll whup your butt as usual.”
    I leaned back from her and, in the porte-cochere lights, I read in her face the delight that had been there when she opened the door, but also a deeper joy that I had not initially recognized.
    “I’ll conclude business here in a few weeks,” she said, “and then I’ll come to win this Mercedes from you.”
    “It’s borrowed.”
    “Then you’ll have to buy me another one.”
    I kissed her brow, her cheek. Indicating the charming cottage, the diamond-paned windows full of warm light, I said, “You really want to leave all this?”
    “All this is just a place,” she said. “And sometimes such a lonely one.”
    Annamaria joined us. She put one arm around Blossom’s shoulders, one around mine.
    To Blossom, I said, “What is this thing we’re doing? You know?”
    Blossom shook her head. “I don’t understand it at all. But I’ve never wanted anything in my life like going with you.”
    As always, Annamaria’s eyes invited exploration but remained inscrutable.
    I asked her, “Where are we going? Where will she find us?”
    “We’ll stay in touch by phone,” Annamaria replied. “And as for where we’re going…you always say, you make it up as you go along.”
    We left Blossom there alone, but not forever, and with the dogs in the backseat, I drove along the lane between the rows of immense drooping deodar cedars, which seemed to be robed giants in a stately procession.
    I worried that the FBI or Homeland Security, or some nameless agency, would set up roadblocks, checkpoints, something, but the way remained clear. I suppose the last thing they wanted was to draw media attention.
    Nevertheless, after we had crossed the town limits, for several miles south, as the fog thinned somewhat across land less hospitable to it, I continued to check the rearview mirror with the expectation of pursuit.
    When abruptly I could not drive anymore, and found it necessary to pull to the side of the highway, I was surprised by how the world fell out from under me, leaving me feeling as if I had fallen off a cliff and could not see the bottom.
    Annamaria seemed not surprised at all. “I’ll drive,” she said, and assisted me around the car to the passenger seat.
    Desperately, I needed to be small, bent forward, curled tight, my face in my hands, so small that I should not be noticed, my face covered so that it should not be seen.
    In recent hours, I had taken in too much of the sea, and now I had to let it out.
    From time to time, she took a hand from the wheel to put it on my shoulder, and occasionally she spoke to comfort me.
    She said, “Your heart shines, odd one.”
    “No. You don’t know. What’s in it.”
    And later: “You saved cities.”
    “The killing. Her eyes. I see them.”
    “Cities, odd one. Cities.”
    She could not console me, and I heard myself saying, as from a distance, “All death, death, death,” as if by chanting I could do penance.
    A time of silence heavier than thunder. The fog behind us. To the east, a disturbing geography of black hills. To the west, a dark sea and a setting moon.
    “Life is hard,” she said, and her statement needed no argument or clarification.
    Miles later, I realized that she had followed those three words with six more that I had not then been ready to hear: “But it was not always so.”
    Well before dawn, she stopped in an empty parking lot at a state beach. She came around the car and opened my door.
    “The stars, odd one. They’re beautiful. Will you show me the constellation Cassiopeia?”
    She could not have known. Yet she knew. I did not ask how. That she knew was grace enough.
    We stood together on the cracked blacktop while I searched the heavens.
    Stormy Llewellyn had been the daughter of Cassiopeia, who had died in my sweet girl’s childhood. Together, we had often picked out the points of the constellation, because doing so made Stormy feel closer to her lost mother.
    “There,” I said, “and there, and there,” and star by star I drew the Cassiopeia of classic mythology, and recognized in that familiar pattern the mother of my lost girl,