"Good Eats"
Derek settled himself at the counter of the small coffee shop. He glanced at his
watch again... still only quarter past five. A woman carrying a tray of fresh doughnuts
backed through the swinging kitchen door. "Mornin'," she said when she turned and
saw him. Her only concession to a uniform was the name tag on her denim shirt that
read, "Irene."
"What can I do you for?" she asked as she set the doughnuts down. She pulled
a pencil from her hair, which was twisted up into a steel gray bun, and a pad from her
pocket.
Derek ordered more coffee. He felt like he was going to drown in coffee, but,
at least, it was warm going down.
"Here for the skiing?" she quizzed as she poured.
"Business," the precept replied politely. He stirred some sugar into his cup,
hoping it could dispel the bitterness just a little.
"Can I get you something else? Bacon and eggs? Pancakes?"
"No, thank you." He didn't feel up to food or conversation, and tried to convey
the fact by his tone.
Irene persisted, "Not from around here, are you?"
"No." Her stare demanded that he continue. "San Francisco."
"I thought I recognized you... been trying to place you. You're that museum
fella that Sam Begay sent for." Irene said. "I saw you in his shop yesterday afternoon.
I seen in the paper where they arrested some Navajo guy over that plate." She pulled
the morning paper from under the counter and searched until she found the brief
article. "There," she said, pecking the column with her hot pink fingernail as she laid
the newspaper in front of him.
Derek's eyes were watering so badly that he couldn't focus on the page, but
pretended to read it for the sake of a moment's respite. "So it would appear," he
commented. "Do you know Mr. Begay?"
"The old town's a pretty tight little neighborhood... everybody knows everybody
and their parents and their grandparents," she replied. "Sam's a good kid... honest as
the day is long.... Had a white mother from around Farmington... dad's Deneh, Navajo,
from Shiprock. He used to peddle jewelry and rugs in the Plaza with his Deneh
grandma... great little salesman. I'll bet the old timers were glad when he cleared out
and got a shop.
"You know... I'm real good with accents. We get a lot around here, but your's
is sorta different," Irene continued. "You're not from California... goodness knows,
you're not flat and nasal enough for that. Let's see...." She pulled the pencil from her
hair again and began to tap it against her finger. "There's European there... you're not
German or French. Do you mind?"
Derek wanted to say, "Yes," he did mind and to please go away, but propriety
got the better of him. "No, not at all."
"You mix your d's and th's some, but there's a touch of English English there,
too. Did you go to school there?" she asked.
"Excellent," he acknowledged. "Oxford," he added, suppressing a cough.
"I thought so." Under her breath, she was trying to mimic his voice. "But you
grew up with American English... right?"
Derek nodded. She was, indeed, very good with accents, or psychic, or she
already knew about him. Whatever was the case, this Irene was beginning to tickle his
curiosity.
"It's not Danish or Swedish? No... I don't think so... it's softer than that...
'scuse me... I talk to myself. You have a lilt to your accent. Are you Swiss?"
"No," Derek answered. "How did you acquire this ability?" he questioned,
fixing a steady gaze on her face.
Under the scrutiny of those intense hazel eyes, Irene felt a twinge of stage fright,
something she thought was long gone. "OK, I'll level with you," she chuckled
nervously. "I spent ten years knocking around Hollywood... commercials... bit parts...
voice-overs. I specialized in dialects and accents. I always had a really good ear."
"And what was that 'I seen'?" asked Derek with a rising eyebrow. "Practice?"
"Just backsliding... and the tourists find it folksy. So, you're not Swiss?" she
continued.
"No," Derek was warming to Irene and her game. It took his mind off the way
he was feeling. "Why did you give up acting?"
"Money... got tired of being poor. Hell, I's making my living waitressing
anyway... so I came home. I still act," she said, "in local theater, which around here
ain't shabby. I give up. Where are you from? Confess... I told you my story."
Derek surrendered with a shrug. "OK.. .I'm what you might call a "Heinz 57."
I was born in San Francisco... to an American father and a Dutch mother.
"Of course," Irene sighed, "I forgot all about Holland.... Oh, I'm sorry... no
offense. Please, go on."
"None taken. People often forget the Netherlands until time for the Rose Parade
or the World Cup. My story's not very interesting... my folks split when I was young,
and my sister and I were divided between our father, who traveled a lot, and our
mother, who lives in Amsterdam... and, you were correct, I went boarding school in
Switzerland. Then I went to Oxford and finally moved back to San Francisco... full
circle." Derek coughed again. He could feel the congestion rattle deep in his chest.
"That doesn't sound very good," said Irene.
"Doesn't feel very good, either. I caught a chill last night... can't seem to get
warm."
"I've seen a lot of people with this bug in the past few weeks. I've got just the
thing for you." The former actress busied herself at the far end of the counter. When
she returned a moment later, she set a steaming glass of golden liquid in front of
Derek. "Drink," she ordered. "Old theatrical recipe. It'll help the cough and it's
warm."
"What is it?" he asked, inspecting it as if he was examining a dangerous artifact.
"Hot water, lemon, ginger, and honey with a tablespoon of something extra...
and, even though it's not even six in the morning, I'm going to fix you a mug of
chicken soup... canned unfortunately, but it'll do." She disappeared into the kitchen.
Derek drank the suspicious concoction down in one breath. She was right... it was hot,
and it did help.
A rack of post cards sat on the counter next to the cash register. He reached over
and turned it slowly... it squeaked. He'd forgotten about Kat. On his travels, he always
made a it a point to send a postcard to his eight-year-old friend, Katherine Corrigan...
it had become their game, their ritual. She would be excited to receive it even though
he would have already been home for two days. He pulled one out and glanced at the
photo. It was of the "miraculous stairs" in the Loretto Chapel, just a couple of blocks
down the street. It was on his way back to the hotel... he'd have to stop. "Never pass
up a miracle," he murmured to himself, wondering why he had never visited the chapel
before.
"Here's your soup... no more coffee for a while. Here's crackers, too," she
added. "Eat as many as you can... you gotta get something in your tummy. Then, you
need to go back to bed."
"Can't," he said, "I checked out. The room was freezing... that's why I'm here
killing time before I head for Albuquerque. I'd rather not have to wait at the airport.
Do you mind?"
"I've got just the place for you as soon as the sun gets up a bit. There's a patio
up on the roof... stairs are right around the corner. It's coolest place in town on hot
summer afternoons... warmest place on cold winter mornings. I study my lines up
there."
< < + > >
Once the sun had risen to a sufficient height to warm the rooftop, Derek
followed Irene's advice. With his back to the rose colored adobe walls, he allowed
himself to bake for over an hour. He dozed fitfully... his body needed any sleep he
could give it. It had helped... he was warmer and the pain in his joints was beginning
to ease. He knew he should go down and order breakfast. It was going to be a long
day, but even the thought of toast made his stomach roil. He had to move soon, if he
wanted to have time to see the stairs. He also knew that it would be a slow trek back
to the hotel and his car. It wasn't that far, but he was so tired. He felt old.
"Enough of this, Derek Rayne! Get up and move. You've worked your way
through the flu before," he told himself. "My God, you've worked through worse than
that." He pushed himself out of the cushioned bench and headed down the stairs. The
coffee shop was now filled with customers. Irene, two full plates balanced on each
arm, was hustling. He tapped on the window as she passed. She smiled and mouthed,
"Good luck."
Derek turned and crossed the Plaza. The bright sun had taken an edge off the
coldness. He could still see his breath, but now the air was merely brisk. As he walked,
his mood lightened and he began to regain a his strength.
< < + > >
Loretto Chapel
Inspired by Sainte-Chapelle in Paris, the tiny chapel was a holy gem, like a
golden topaz. In a way it appalled Derek that this sanctuary was surrounded, almost
absorbed, by a modern hotel. It left him uneasy, with a bad taste... he realized that
much of Santa Fe did. He had known it more than thirty years before as a small state
capital, steeped in history and art. Now it had become a rich man's tourist trap, an
annex to Beverly Hills and Malibu.
Derek gently pushed open the wooden door and stepped inside Our Lady of the
Light Chapel. Somehow the name suited it. Although the building was small and
narrow, it was a light, airy construction. The walls themselves seemed to glow. The
altar screen, styled as a Gothic cathedral's gleaming facade, was a confectioner's
delight of baroque carving. A faint smile crossed Derek's lips as he took a seat in the
pew nearest the "miraculous stairs." He liked this place... it reminded him of his sister,
Ingrid, a contemplative nun. There was peace here, and contentment, but above all
happiness. Why had his father never brought him here on one of their numerous visits
to the area? Did Winston Rayne fear that the call of such a place might lure his son
from the path he had chosen for him?
Derek opened himself. Though the chapel had seemed barren without a flame
burning brightly in its sanctuary, he felt warm and well. The rumble of morning traffic
faded as he allowed his senses to absorb the residue of a million whispered Aves. He
murmured his own brief prayer, a private plea, and quickly crossed himself. Though
he had been surrounded by Catholicism his whole life, and both family and dear
friends had taken holy orders, he was not certain that their concept of God was his.
Sometimes he wished it was. Sometimes he wished he could escape the burden of the
Legacy Precept's ring he wore and retreat from the field of battle into his sister's calm,
secluded world. Sometimes... better not to go there... the battle line against evil had
been drawn and God or Fate or his own destiny had placed him in the vanguard many
years ago.
He turned his gaze toward the spiral staircase that had been a source of such
amazement since its completion. He remembered the story well. In the 1870's
Archbishop Lamy, the inspiration for Willa Cather's Death Comes for the
Archbishop, had ordered a stone chapel to be built for the Sisters of Loretto. The site
chosen was along the dusty Santa Fe Trail on the outskirts of the territorial capital. An
architect and a local construction company were hired and work commenced. All went
well until the day of completion neared. It was then that someone, perhaps a sister at
her devotions, noticed in horror that, though a fine choir loft had been built above the
entrance, there were no stairs. There was no way for the choir to get to its loft, nor was
there any room for stairs to be added. There were recriminations all around.
Finally, the sisters decided to pray for a solution. If God had seen fit to make
everyone so blind, then He must have done so for a reason. The sisters said novenas
to St. Joseph, the patron saint of carpenters. A few days later a man arrived. He told
them that he would try to solve their problem... and so he did, in a wondrous way.
When the stairs were finished, the man, whose name they had never learned,
disappeared without thanks or pay. Stories of a miracle spread... in a feat that has yet
to be reproduced, this unknown carpenter had built a spiral staircase without nails and,
like a twisting vine, without a central support.
Derek recalled having come across a newspaper story suggesting that the builder
was an Austrian or German master carpenter, who had been commissioned by
Archbishop Lamy to do some work at parishes in Colorado. He reached out to touch
the smooth wood. He could sense nothing more than the vibrations of passing cars...
nothing... no hint of the builder... no vision. Then it came... the sweet scent of roses.
Something beyond the mortal realm had occurred here, but something that wished to
remain a mystery. Perhaps, Derek thought, not for the first time, some things should
remain unknown... undisturbed.
"Beware the wolf, Derek Rayne!"
His reverie shattered. He glanced up over his shoulder toward the choir loft. The
warning seemed to emanate from the red and blue radiance cast by the stained glass
window. The bubble of warmth he had enjoyed since entering the chapel ruptured...
numbing cold again flooded in.
< < + > >
San Francisco
At the same instant, Katherine Corrigan awoke with a scream. In the deep sleep
of early morning she had dreamed of frigid yellow eyes, slavering jaws, and blood
streaked fur. She hugged her pillow and reached across the covers for her stuffed koala
bear. A moment later, she was engulfed in her mother's hug.
"What is it, honey? A bad dream?" Rachel Corrigan asked as she stroked her
daughter's ash blond hair.
Kat nodded with a whimper. "It was a wolf with huge bloody teeth and awful
eyes," she sobbed. "It's hungry... it's hunting... it hates."
