M Sellars - Perfect Trust

“There’s some more here about the margins, size, and stuff, but it all boils down to the same thing. It ain’t Paige Lawson’s handwritin’.”

“It isn’t mine either.”

“Yeah, I know. I went ahead and had ‘em compare yours from some of the forms I’ve had ya’ fill out down here. There wasn’t enough to get a fancy analysis, but they were confident that you weren’t the one pushin’ the pencil. I didn’t tell ‘em any different.”

At first I was surprised at what he’d done, but Ben’s actions made perfect sense. He had to rule out all of the possibilities, and since I claimed the writing had come out of me, it was a logical move.

“Anyway, on the bright side,” he told me, “there’s a note here sayin’ that the little curly-q thing with the I’s is pretty unique. Very personal…for whatever that’s worth.”

“Not much, apparently.”

“It’d be easy to identify in another handwriting sample if we ran across it.”

“And the odds of that are?” I asked rhetorically. “Besides, you’ve proven that it’s not her, so I suppose it doesn’t really matter.”

“Yeah, so maybe it’s someone else.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Hey,” he contended, “like I said, I’ve seen weirder shit than this. Especially outta you.”

“Yes, but neither you nor Felicity seemed terribly convinced yesterday.” I allowed the words to hang between us in a verbal challenge of his sudden professed faith in my sanity.

“Look, Row, let’s not go there. I wish I’d been able to give ya’ somethin’ here, but…” He sighed. Without even seeing him I knew he was massaging his neck with a large hand. “It’s just not there, white man. Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” I told him. I meant it even though I’m sure I didn’t sound very convincing. “So what about Paige Lawson?”

“Whaddaya mean? What about ‘er?”

“You said yesterday that you weren’t even sure it was a homicide.”

“Oh, that. Well, it’s lookin’ less and less like it. Right now we’re waitin’ on the final results of the autopsy, but there’s just nothin’ there at this point that says foul play.”

“How was she found anyway?”

“Row…”

“Can you humor me?” I appealed, my voice dull. “You just blew my theory apart. You could at least throw me a bone here.”

He exhaled heavily at the other end. “Nothin’ spectacular really. Squad car drove by on regular patrol and noticed the door hangin’ open. When the copper came through about half an hour later it was still open so he stopped ta’ check it out. Found her layin’ facedown just inside.”

“And he didn’t notice anything else?”

“Rowan, he’s a cop. We may not be perfect but this is what we’re trained ta’ do.”

“Yeah, I know,” I responded, feeling mildly chastised. “I’m just really having a hard time with all of this.”

“That’s kinda obvious.”

For the second time during our conversation, silence reared its head, bringing all conversation to a halt. I’m sure by now Ben was thinking I was worse off than he’d originally imagined, but so far he was tactfully keeping the observation to himself. I would almost have agreed with him were it not for the fact that I kept reminding myself of the old bromide about not being insane as long as you had enough wits about you to wonder if you were.

“So anyway,” my friend finally put the brakes on the swelling pause with a change of subject. “How ‘bout that Yule thing of yours… That’s this Friday, right? What time were ya’ wantin’ Allison and me over?”

He was correct. Yule was only two days away, and as usual we had invited some non-Pagan friends to our traditional gathering. This was the first year that any had accepted.

The switch in the focus of the conversation was awkward, much like any shift that occurs in a chat such as ours. Even with its abruptness, it gave me something tangible and far more pleasant to grasp. Finally there was something familiar among the discord.

“You’re welcome any time,” I answered. “The official ritual will be around six-thirty or seven. I’ve already spoken to the group, and they are fine with the two of you joining in if you’d like.”

“We don’t hafta do anything weird, do we?”

“You don’t have to do anything at all,” I returned. “But if you do anything weird it’s going to be of your own accord, because we don’t have anything weird planned. Just a simple Yule ritual.”

“Well, you know what I meant.”

“You know, for a Native American you sure have a bizarre view of alternative spirituality.”

“Like I’ve said before, it’s a long story, Kemosabe, and ya’ don’t wanna hear it. Trust me… But hey, at least I’m tryin’,” he replied, then chuckled. “So what happens after the ritual? Do we like commune with ghosts or somethin’?”

“No, wrong Sabbat. That would have been back in October for Samhain.” I referred to the traditional holiday non-Pagans call Halloween. A night when the veil between the worlds is at its thinnest, and we honor those who have passed before us, which made his comment closer to the mark than he realized-especially since he had intended it as a joke. “Actually, after the ritual we have a late dinner and wait for dawn.”

“Why, is she gonna be late?”

I winced as he delivered another joke in an attempt to further lighten the mood. It wasn’t terribly effective in its intent, but I still responded in kind. “Yeah, Ben. She’s probably not going to arrive until morning.”

“So ya’ want us to bring anything?” He returned a serious question, thankfully leaving the pun to die a quick death before the exchange could deteriorate further.

“We’ve pretty much got it covered,” I said. “If there’s something special you want to drink, you might want to bring it along, but other than that, just yourselves.”

“Okay, so what’re we eatin’?”

“Food.”

“Yeah smartass, what kinda food?”

“It’s a surprise, Ben.”

“You’re not gonna try ta’ make me eat nothin’ but vegetables or somethin’, are ya’?”

“No, Ben.” Even with my current mood I had to at least chuckle at the seriousness of his query. “There’ll be meat on the table.”

“Beef? Pork?”

“You’ll find out Friday.”

“It ain’t gonna be somethin’ strange, is it?” he pressed.

“You’ll find out on Friday.”

“Jeez, Kemosabe…” He let out an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, be that way, but don’t be surprised if I bring a sack of Whitey burgers as backup.”

“Felicity will kill you.”

“So I’ll leave ‘em in the van, and sneak out if ya’ try ta’ feed me tofu ala whatever kinda shit.”

“Uh-huh. And, if you stink up the van with a bag of Whitey’s, then Allison will kill you.”

“Yeah, ya’ got a point there… Hmmm… Pizza’d prob’ly be okay.”

“You won’t need it. Trust me.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” he said. “So look, I gotta get back ta’ work. You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah, Ben,” I assured him. “I’ll be fine. Sure, I’m disappointed that I was wrong, but I’ll be just fine.”

“Okay. Tell Helen I said ‘hey’ and that I’ll call ‘er later about Christmas Eve.”

“Will do.”

“Later.”

“Bye.”

When I hung up the phone, the distraction it had provided immediately dissipated, leaving me once again alone in my thoughts. Or, perhaps not so alone if I counted the cheerfully taunting female voice that was echoing deep inside my head as it repeated, “What’s that spell? Dead I Am! LOUDER! DEAD I AM!”

Again I applied the razor I’d used earlier while on the phone. The one that basically says if you are insane, you are unable to recognize your illness and will simply assume that you are fine. Conversely, if you are in fact sane, you should be fully cognizant of the two differing states of mental health and therefore able to question said sanity.