sure happen to me.' She sits back, puts her hands flat on the table. 'End of speech.'
I have known Callie for some time. I have always known that she has depths uncharted. The mystery of those depths, glimpsed but not revealed, has always been a part of her charm for me, her strength. Now the curtain has parted for a moment. It's like the first time someone lets you see them naked. It is the essence of trust, and I am touched in a way that makes me weak at the knees. I reach over and grab her hand.
'I'll do my best, Callie. That's all I can promise. But I do promise that.'
She squeezes my hand back, and then pulls it away. The curtain has been closed. 'Well, hurry it up, will you, please? I enjoy being arrogant and untouchable, and I blame you for the lack thereof.'
I smile and look at my friend. Dr. Hillstead had told me earlier that I was strong. But for me, it is Callie who has always been my private hero when it comes to strength. My crass-talking patron saint of irreverence. I shake my head. 'I'll be back in a minute,' I say. 'I have to use the restroom.'
'Don't forget to put the lid down,' she says.
I see it when I exit the bathroom, and what I see tells me to stop. Callie isn't aware of me yet. Her attention is focused on something in her hand. I step to the side, so that the doorway blocks her view of me a little, and stare.
Callie looks sad. Not just sad--bereft.
I have seen Callie be scornful, gentle, angry, vengeful, witty--any number of things. I have never seen her sad. Not like this. And I know, somehow, that it has nothing to do with me.
Whatever she holds in her hand is bringing my hero to something just short of grief, and I am shocked.
I am also certain that this is a private thing. Callie will not want to know that I have seen her this way. She may only have one face to show the world, but she chooses what parts of it to show. She hasn't chosen to show me this, whatever
'Ma'am,' I say, 'can you please do me a favor?'
'What's that, dear?' she asks, not missing a beat.
'I have a friend outside . . .'
'The rude one with the awful eating habits?'
Gulp.
'Yes, ma'am.'
'What about her?'
I hesitate. 'She . . . I think she's having a private moment right now. Because I'm in here, and she's alone. . . . I--'
'You don't want to surprise her in that moment, is that it?'
Her instant and perfect understanding makes me pause. I stare at her. Stereotypes, I think again. So useless. I had seen an uptight, judgmental crone. Now I see kind eyes, wisdom, and a well-honed appreciation of the ridiculous. 'Yes, ma'am,' I say, quiet. 'She--well . . . she'll always be crass, but she's got the biggest heart I know.'
The woman's eyes soften and her smile is beautiful. 'Many great people have eaten with their hands, dear. Leave it to me. Wait thirty seconds and then come out.'
'Thank you.' I mean it; she knows it.
She leaves the bathroom without another word. I wait for a little more than thirty seconds and follow. I peek around the corner and now my eyebrows raise. The woman is standing by our table, shaking a finger at Callie. I walk toward them.
'Some people like a quiet lunch,' I hear the woman saying. Her tone is reprimand as a weapon, as an Olympic sport. The kind that has the ability to make you feel ashamed rather than angry. My mom was world-class at it.
Callie is scowling at the woman. I can see the storm clouds building, and I hurry over. The woman is doing me a favor; better not let it become fatal.
'Callie,' I say, placing a warning hand on her shoulder. 'We should get going.'
She scowls harder at the woman, who looks about as intimidated as a dog sleeping on its back in a patch of sun.
'Callie,' I say again, more insistent. She looks at me, nods, stands up, and puts on her sunglasses with a haughty flourish that fills me with admiration. 9-9-10, I think, a near-perfect score. The Olympics of the ice queens is a heated one this year, and the crowd is roaring. . . .
'Can't get me out of here fast enough,' she says with disdain. She grabs her purse and inclines her head to the woman. 'Good day,' she says.
I hurry us out. I shoot one last glance over my shoulder at the woman. She gives me another one of those beautiful smiles. The kindness of strangers rears its bittersweet head once again. The drive back is entertaining, with Callie at a slow boil. I nod and murmur at the right places as she mutters about 'old bats' and
'wrinkly, raisined people' and 'elitist mummies.' My private thoughts are filled with that sad look, so alien to see on my friend's face. We arrive back at the parking lot, near my car.
I've decided it's enough for today. I'll go and see the Assistant Director some other time.
'Thanks, Callie. Tell Alan I'll be by again sometime soon. Even if it's just to say hi.'
She shakes her finger at me. 'I'll tell him, honey-love. But don't you dare ignore any more phone calls. You didn't lose everyone who loves you that night, and you have friends beyond the job. Don't forget that.'
She squeals off before I can reply, having gotten in the last word. This is Callie's hallmark, and it makes me feel nice inside to have been the victim of it.
I get into my car, and I realize that I had been right last night. Today had been the day. I wasn't going to go home and blow my brains out. How could I? I couldn't even pick up my gun.
8
I HAVE A terrible night, a kind of Greatest Hits of bad dreams. Joseph Sands is there in his demon suit, while Matt smiles at me with a mouth full of blood. This morphs into Callie at the Subway shop, looking up from her sad piece of paper, pulling out her gun, and shooting the Subway lady through the head. She then goes back to slurping on her straw, but her lips are too red and too full, and she catches me watching and gives me a wink like a corpse closing one eye. I wake up, shivering, and realize that my phone is ringing. I look at my clock. It's five in the morning. Who'd be calling now? I haven't gotten any early-morning calls since I went on leave. I can still feel the dream bouncing around inside my head, but I push the images away and take a moment to stop shivering before I grab the phone.
'Hello?'
There's a silence at the other end. Then Callie's voice. 'Hi, honeylove. Sorry to wake you, but . . . we have something that concerns you.'
'What? What's happened?' She doesn't speak for a minute, and I'm getting pissed off. Little shivers still spasm through me as I hold the phone. 'Dammit, Callie. Tell me.'
She sighs. 'Do you remember an Annie King?'
My voice is incredulous. 'Remember her? Yeah, I remember her. She's one of my best friends. She moved to San Francisco about ten years ago. We still talk on the phone every six months or so. I'm her daughter's godmother. So yeah, I remember her. Why?'
Callie is silent again. 'Damn,' I hear her whisper. She sounds like she was punched in the stomach. 'I didn't know she was a friend. I thought she was just someone you used to know.'
I feel dread filling me. Dread, and knowledge. I know what's happened, or at least I think I do. But I need to hear Callie say it before I will believe it. 'Tell me.'
A long sigh of surrender, then: 'She's dead, Smoky. Murdered in her apartment. The daughter's alive, but she's catatonic.'
My hand has gone nerveless with shock, and I'm in danger of dropping the phone. 'Where are you now, Callie?' My voice sounds small to me.
