Odd Hours

grate, it had been related to the peculiar behavior of the coyotes and to the porch swing that had swung itself. I did not understand what linked those three experiences, nor what power or purpose lay behind them, so I could answer honestly.
    “For true,” I assured her. “How far to the harbor?”
    Piloting the Cadillac back into the fog-flooded street, she said, “Three minutes, four.”
    My wristwatch and her car clock agreed—9:59.
    After a silence, Birdie said, “What’s so different about you, child?”
    “I don’t know, ma’am. Maybe…because I spent seven months as a guest at a monastery. The serenity of the monks kind of rubbed off on me.”
    “Nothin’ rubbed off. Your difference is all yours.”
    Anything I could say would be a lie or an evasion, and because she had somehow saved me, I did not want to lie to her more than necessary.
    Birdie said, “You sometimes sense somethin’ big is comin’?”
    “Big like what?”
    “So big the world changes.”
    “Watching the news too much can make you crazy,” I advised.
    “Don’t mean the kind of bushwa newsmen jabber. Not war or plague, not water gives you cancer or here comes a new ice age.”
    “Then what kind of bushwa?” I asked.
    “Some kind nobody would ever expect.”
    I thought of the absolute whiteout through which the golden retriever and I had traveled, but if that had been not just weather but also a premonition, I did not know the meaning of it.
    “I can’t have done right by you yet,” she said.
    “I appreciate the ride.”
    “Wasn’t twinged out of my cozy home just to be a taxi. What you need, child?”
    “Nothing, ma’am. I’m good.”
    “Place to stay?”
    “Comes with my job. Nice ocean-view room.”
    “Lawyer?”
    “Have nothing against them, but I don’t need one.”
    “Got a bad feelin’ for you.”
    “I’ll be okay.”
    “Some need you’ve got. I feel it.”
    Considering Hoss Shackett and Utgard Rolf and the kind of men who would be aligned with them, I had a long list of things I needed, starting with a platoon of Marines.
    “Money?” she asked.
    “No, ma’am.”
    Solemnly, quietly, she said, “Gun?”
    I hesitated before I replied. “I don’t like guns.”
    “Might not like them, but you need one.”
    Sensing that I had said too much, I said no more.
    “It’s in the purse,” she told me.
    I looked at her, but she kept her attention on the street, where the headlights seemed to bake the batter of fog into a solid cake.
    “Why would you have a gun?” I asked.
    “Old lady in an ugly time—she has to take precautions.”
    “You bought it legally?”
    “I look like Clyde’s Bonnie to you?”
    “No, ma’am. I just mean, anything I did with it would be traced back to you.”
    “A few days, I report it stolen.”
    “What if I rob a bank with it?”
    “You won’t.”
    “You can’t be sure. You hardly know me.”
    “Child, have you been listenin’ to me?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “What was it with Nancy Coleman?”
    “Well…she had cancer.”
    “What was it with Bodi Booker?”
    “Planning suicide.”
    “Swithin Murdoch?”
    “Flat busted from bad romance.”
    “I could name more. None needed help robbin’ a bank. Just good people in trouble. You think I’ve gone to the dark side?”
    “Not for a minute.”
    “You’re good people in trouble. I trust you.”
    “This is more than trust,” I said.
    “It might be. Look in the purse.”
    The weapon was a pistol. I examined it.
    “No safeties,” she said. “Double action. Ten rounds in the magazine. You know how to use such a thing?”
    “Yes, ma’am. I’m no Bonnie’s Clyde, but I won’t shoot my foot, either.”
    I thought of Annamaria saying that she didn’t work, that people gave her a free place to live and even money when she needed it.
    Now a gun came to me when I most needed one.
    Something more was happening in Magic Beach than just a plot to smuggle nuclear weapons into the country and my attempt to thwart it.
    This place was the still point of the turning world, and this night was the still point between the past and the future. I felt monumental forces gathering that I either could not comprehend or was afraid to contemplate.
    My cursed life, my blessed life, my struggles with grievous loss and my striving toward wonder had often seemed to me to be the random path of a flippered pinball, from post to post and bell to bell and gate to gate, rolling wherever I might be knocked.
    Instead, all the