Then a name on a flyer tacked to the corkboard by the automatic sliding doors caught my eye: Nathan George. That was one of the names from the donation ledger in one of the shower curtain whorls. I inspected closer. Nathan George was performing poetry inspired by the 1964 Flood tonight at The Bean Grinder.
Had Em seen this, remembered the name? I’d told her to write it in her notebook. Would she go to the performance? Would she do that? Was this a part of her acting out, her preteen rebellion, her need to assert some kind of control over her life? Was she trying to be useful, proactive?
I called my sister, some hope now warring with terror: “I think I know where she is.” As I ran down the hill, dodging the moseying young college students clogging the sidewalks, oblivious to my family’s private crisis, I breathlessly explained the Omen Totem, how Em had assisted me with it, and the flyer I’d just seen at the grocery store. My head never stopped moving, looking for Em, just in case my hunch was wrong. Could the flyer be a coincidence? No. No way.
I caught up with May and Lou on the other side of the plaza. May’s movements were stiff, her jaw set, lips taut. “Don’t you ever involve my daughter in this craziness again,” she said, pointing at me, pushing the words out with a low growl.
“She was bored,” I said. “She wanted to help. She doesn’t have a choice but to be involved. None of us do.”
“Never again, Charlie. You understand? If it’s so important you come to me first.”
We approached The Bean Grinder, a stucco building on the corner of a four-way intersection.
“Blanche might be in here,” I said. “Lou, do you have your spray bottles?”
“Of course,” Lou said with a huff.
He was mad at me too, but what right did he have?
May charged into the coffee shop, and Lou and I followed. Standing just inside the doors, we scanned the room. The lights were off except for a few above a small, rug-covered stage where a young man with a trimmed beard and bleach-blond hair sat on a stool, reciting poetry into a microphone. On a table beside us were two stacks of programs entitled, “The Flood and You: Our Quest for World Peace.” The place was packed with people. They sat at tables, sipping from mugs, their upturned faces painted by the yellow stage light. They all had bleach-blond hair that almost glowed in the dark. They were quiet. Only the poet spoke:
. . . The rain falls
Mama says my hair is too blond, like Papa’s
Mama says Papa’s hair turns blonder in the sun,
like mine
Papa is a bad man
Does my blond hair make me bad, like Papa?
Mama’s hair is brown, like hot cocoa with lots of milk
Brown like the river
I can’t tell the difference
And the rain keeps falling . . .
My sister let out a small whimper, then walked forward with purpose. As I went after her, weaving around tables and chairs, I saw her destination: a small child sitting alone in the darkest corner of the room, an open program obstructing the face. The room was so dark I didn’t recognize the clothes until I was a few yards away. May began to cry, and she crouched down and hugged Em. I smiled, partly out of relief, and partly because of the look on Em’s face. She knew how much trouble she was in. Neither of us had ever seen her mom cry like that. I felt the muscles in my stomach relax, muscles that had been seized for the whole ride to the coast, and I began to breathe freely. I suspected I would be hungry soon.
Then all the lights in the place turned on at once. The poet stopped talking, and he, the two baristas behind the counter, and the entire audience turned and stared at me and said in unison, “Hello Charlie.”
The muscles in my stomach re-seized, and my scalp lit up with goosebumps.
“It’s Blanche,” Em said. “She’s part of them.”
“That’s impossible,” Lou said. “These are all humans. They can’t be vesseled.”
“Whatever,” Em said. “It’s Blanche, I’m telling you.”
“We have to get out of here,” I said, although I didn’t know how. Twenty Friends were between us and the only doors.
Lou was already reaching into his coat pocket. He pulled out a bottle full of purple liquid, sprayed it in the air, and said in a booming voice with his shoulders back, “What is the best toaster oven money can buy?”
I hadn’t expected that, but I’d learned not to question Lou’s expertise in the strange and mysterious ways of cackle. I trusted something would happen to facilitate our escape: the audience would run away screaming, become suddenly engrossed in conversation, or maybe just all fall asleep. When they reacted by standing up and taking a step toward us, I was surprised.
“Whatever you’re doing isn’t working, Lou,” I said.
“What is the best toaster oven money can buy?” he repeated.
The audience didn’t appear to be affected. I looked around for some avenue of escape. Our only options were to make a run for it through the crowd or flee into the unisex bathroom to the right.
“In the bathroom,” I said. “Hurry.” I opened the door, waited for May, Em, and Lou to rush through, then I
