John Levitt - Unleashed

Except when I did, nothing happened. No rush of air, no wheezing gasp, no flying food. Nothing. I pushed down the beginnings of panic and thrust again, harder this time. Still nothing. I forgot about being careful and gave three more thrusts, each harder than the last, ribs be damned. On the third squeeze, a large chunk of burrito flew out her mouth and halfway across the restaurant aisle. She took a huge whooping gasp of air as I released her, and then it was over.

I backed off as the other two sat her down, making sure she was all right. She waved them off.

“I’m fine,” she said, when she caught her breath. “Really.” She looked up at me. “Thank you, young man. I thought for a moment I’d never see Cincinnati again.”

“Glad I could help,” I said.

The daughter came up to me and held out her hand. Up close, she was even more attractive, though she looked shaken at the moment.

“I’m Morgan,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

“Mason,” I said, taking her hand. “Well, at least we’ll have quite a story to tell our children.”

Now that the crisis was past, I immediately reverted back to my default flip demeanor. Not an admirable quality, but I’m working on it. She looked at me with that same flat affect and I thought I’d gone too far, but then she smiled again.

“How do you know I’m not married?” she said. “Or gay? Or both?”

“We could still have kids.” She moved back a step and looked me over.

“Possibly,” she said, after a significant pause. “But I’d have to see how you clean up. Do you have a job?”

“I’m a musician,” I said.

“Oh.”

“No,” I protested, “a real one. I get paid. Most of the time.” She continued to look at me skeptically. “In fact, I’m playing tonight at the Glow Worm.”

I wasn’t sure if she would have heard of the club, since it’s mostly for jazz aficionados, but she raised her eyebrows in appreciation.

“Oh, you play jazz,” she said.

The way she said it didn’t give a clue if she thought that was a plus or a minus, but at least she’d heard of the place and knew it featured jazz, which was something.

“I’m a guitar player-it’s a trio gig. You should come by. Seven thirty for the first set.”

“Maybe I will,” she said.

Meanwhile, her father was looking at her with exasperation and disbelief. After all, her mother had almost choked to death, and here she was, flirting with a stranger, one bare minute later. He started to say something, but his wife put her hand on his arm and shook her head.

I retrieved my burrito and gave them all a wave as I left. I don’t usually hit on nonpractitioners, no matter how attractive; it always turns out to be more trouble than it’s worth unless you’re talking a one-night stand, and that’s something I haven’t done in a couple of years.

But there had been an instant connection, even before the choking incident. If not for that, I would have just quietly departed, but this was a special circumstance. Surely I deserved some reward for saving a life.

Lou had his nose pressed impatiently against the window of the van. I’d been in there longer than I expected and the meter had run out. I was lucky there wasn’t a ticket waiting for me. He looked at me expectantly when I climbed behind the wheel, but I made him wait until we got home. My van may be old and battered, but I still didn’t want scraps of burrito strewn all over the seats.

“I just saved someone’s life,” I told him. “What have you done today?”

He stared fixedly at the paper sack with the burrito and ignored me.

At home, I ate my burrito slowly, pondering what Eli had said. Lou finished his portion in ten seconds and then expected more, but he gave up when it became clear I wasn’t holding anything back.

By the time I finished my lunch it was close on three. Still plenty of time to get out to the Columbarium. I dawdled around for a while, reluctant to go. I wanted to know what that apparition of Sherwood signified, and yes, I had to know if there was a chance she was still alive; but still, the whole idea was creepy and unsettling. But I had to try. That wasn’t even a question.

That thing she’d given to me, that special token with meaning, rested in the drawer of the nightstand next to my bed. Next to it was another token, a talisman Campbell had given me-a figure of ancient ivory and wood, a two-legged figure with the head of a wolf. The wolf was my totem, and twice now, that totem had called up help from God knows where and saved my hide.

But it had gone dead. Before, it had been alive, powerful, and a bit disturbing. Now it was inert, no more magically alive than any other antique curio in a dusty shop. I didn’t know if it would ever operate again-it had been my security blanket, always there in the most dire of straits. Maybe I’d used it once too often.

I shoved the wolf figure back into a corner of the drawer and picked up Sherwood’s gift, tossing it from hand to hand, contemplating. It was the only thing I had to remember her by-a figure of a guitar player made from one continuous strand of thick wire that she’d bought at a street fair one day, simple but clever. It reminded me of how it had been back then, when we were newly in love and took delight in the silliest of things.

I put it in my pocket, checked the Columbarium address on the Web to make sure I remembered it right, and five minutes later was on my way to the Richmond District.

The Columbarium sits at the end of a dead-end street, a large, neoclassical domed building, surprisingly light and airy. I parked a few blocks away and walked over, Lou by my side. It might have been more appropriate for my purposes if it had been dank and foggy, but the afternoon was bright and sunny, with a light breeze ruffling my hair.

Off to one side of the main building was a small court-yard with a fountain. Next to it, an immaculately groomed lawn, but behind the lawn was an untended field, overgrown with weeds. In back of the field were bushes of forsythia, bursting with color, but they, too, hadn’t been tended to in quite some time. Maybe the contrast between the manicured lawn and the neglected field was some sort of philosophical statement about life and death, or maybe they were just short on money.

I circled the outside until I reached the entrance. There wasn’t a person in sight, so I gestured to Lou and we walked in. I’m almost positive dogs are not welcome in a shrine to the dead, but with no one around who was to complain? Certainly not the departed. And he’d come in handy if another apparition appeared.

Inside, it was deserted as well. Daylight streamed through the mandala of the glass dome at the top, throwing flickers of sunlight over the tessellated floor where tiled spokes radiated out from the middle, with marble columns surrounding the center. Boxes of Kleenex had been discreetly placed in small recesses next to each column. Large stained-glass windows glowed brightly, mostly depicting fierce winged angels.

Along every wall, recesses filled with urns or chests faced inward, like nothing so much as a room of safe-deposit boxes in a bank. I strolled by, reading the names: Saunders, Markey, Von Ronn, Hisieh, Silver, Yu. Several levels were visible, circular tiers like a wedding cake.

Sherwood’s parents were in a niche somewhere up above, but I couldn’t remember exactly where. From on high, hidden speakers poured out an old Jeff Buckley song, echoing eerily throughout the space. Someone had set the player on repeat so the song played over and over, but it wasn’t annoying. After a while it was like Buddhist chanting, an integral part of the space, eternal and unchanging.

I had thought this time the place might feel odd, a bit creepy even, considering why I was there, but no. With the sun shining in and the music playing, it was light and pleasant. Peaceful, but not the quiet and weighty peacefulness of the graveyard-more like the quiet of a screened porch on a fine and lazy summer’s day in the country, where the owners of the house had unexpectedly stepped out for a moment.