On the Verge (A Charmed Life Book 1) (17 page)

“Hey,” Tracy said, “Mind if I come back tomorrow and ask you about stuff?” she asked, quickly.

Hans smiled broadly.  “Of course,” he said cheerfully.  “I will be much too happy to be of help, to both stomach and mind.” His thick finger tapped her forehead playfully, and Tracy laughed.

“Thanks, Hans,” she chirped, and he smiled fondly back.

Tracy felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the ovens behind the counter, or the thick stew in her stomach.  The strangeness couldn't seem as strange here.  She didn't know if it was because Hans was comfortable, thus making the strange more familiar, or if it was because she had already decided that this place didn't follow the normal rules anyway, so she could accept more while she was here, but everything for the moment just seemed to be content.

Sing came back with their coats and a grin.  “Hans, a heartier fare I have never had, your hands are blessed by God himself, and my tongue blessed through your food.” Hans smiled broadly and gave a regal bow, surprising Tracy to no end.  Hans was never formal.  “So,” continued Sing, “What's the damage?”

Hans waved his hand.  “For Tracy, little dumpling she is, who has had a bad day, I cannot charge money for comfort, and it is against my nature to charge poets for food.  Be on your way, with blessings.”

Sing blinked.  “Good sir, you are too generous.  It is beyond my understanding how you maintain this haven from the world around us with such a giving heart.”

“I am in the know for my own books,” Hans laughed.  “I give to art, and to friends, and I am all right with that.  It costs me little.”

Sing smiled and laid a twenty on the bar.  “Then this is not payment, but a sincere appreciation for your own art.  I am not wealthy, but in my means, consider this a scant patronage, far less than you deserve, for food, comfort, and hospitality the likes of which this world seems to have forgotten long hence.”

Hans gave another bow.  “M'lord,” he replied, simply, taking the money and tucking it away.

Sing helped Tracy with her coat, and with some smiles and cheerful good-byes, they stepped out into the cold.  Tracy remembered to shiver and pull her coat tight about her, even though she honestly felt like nothing more than a brisk breeze.

While Tracy didn't need her coat, and her shiver wasn't genuine, she was nonetheless pleased that it prompted Sing to tuck his arm around her shoulders and hold her close.  She burrowed in happily under his arm, wrapping one arm around his waist, resting her other hand on his chest as they walked back to her apartment.  It was a little awkward at first, but soon they fell into each other's rhythm and were able to walk as one.

Along the way, they lightly chatted some more.  As small talk had officially run out during dinner, they fell back on an old standby - books.  They'd matched up libraries long ago, and traded favorite old well-worn paperback friends with each other, but there was only so much time in the day for reading, and there were still hundreds of books one had read but the other had not.

Today, they trended towards philosophy, and after trading the names of a few books they both had read, and their favorite elements, the conversation strayed from books into modern philosophy, and how the form had changed.

“No, seriously,” Sing was saying as Tracy was trying to unlock the outer door.  “I think that movie makers are the new philosophers.” She had been wiggling the key back and forth in the lock for almost a minute, now, and was getting annoyed with it, so she didn't respond right away with anything more than a hesitant, uncertain noise.

“Here,” Sing said, stepping forward, “Let me try.”

“It's my door,” Tracy replied, irritation plain in her voice.  “Just give me a sec.” Thankfully, the key finally caught at that point, and Tracy was able to get the door open.  She held it for Sing and grimaced, wishing she hadn't let the irritation get the better of her.

They walked quietly along the hallway to her apartment, and as they approached the door, Tracy quietly apologized.  “I'm sorry,” she said, “That door just gets on my nerves sometimes.  What if I needed to get it open quickly? What if it was an emergency?”

Sing nodded.  “It's all right, I understand.  Have you talked to the landlord about it?”

Tracy nodded.  “She keeps assuring us that she'll take care of it soon,” she sighed.

“Spray some WD-40 into it,” Sing suggested.  “See if that takes care of it.  If not, there's some sort of powder you can spray into a lock to loosen it up.  We can look for it.”

“That's a good idea,” Tracy said, smiling as she undid the door.  “I'll try that.”

There was a brief, comfortable quiet as they took off their coats and hung them up.  “I don't think you're right,” Tracy said at last.  Sing looked confused and started to say something, but Tracy amended, “About the movies.”

“Oh, come on,” insisted Sing.  “Think of The Matrix.  That messed with people's heads.  Is there really any sort of difference between The Matrix and Zhuangzi's butterfly dream? Not knowing what's reality and what's a dream?”

Tracy shook her head.  “I'm not saying there won't be exceptions,” she protested, “But movies aren't for making people think, they're for entertainment.  They present ideas, but these ideas are what will be popular, what people will agree with, not searches for truth.  And the ones that are searches for truth are usually self-serving, self-important artsy films that no one watches.  The ones you'll find speak to people in a philosophical way aren't that way because they're movies - it's because of what the movies are based off of.” She paused, thinking for the right way to continue - hoping Sing would provide the right question.

“OK,” he said, “I'll bite.  What are they based off of? Where is today's philosophy found?”

“Science Fiction,” Tracy said.  “Asimov, Heinlein, especially Bradbury.  Philip K.  Dick.  You'll find that most movies that involve any philosophy of any real merit are based on something along those lines - either directly, or through inspiration.  Most sci-fi movies are just shoot-em-ups of some sort, but think of the real, serious science fiction.  That's Philosophy.”

Tracy started for the kitchen, but Sing blocked her way with an outstretched arm.  “Now, now,” he said, a sly smile on his face.  “What pleasure lies in sweet surprise? Let not haste distract from what shall be in due time.  Tarry then a while, and all things come as they shall come, in the fullness of fate.  Grant me but the span of a few minutes, and then all shall be prepared in its entirety.”

A smile spread across Tracy's face.  She knew it was corny, she knew it was stupid, but she loved how he put melodrama and poetry in the simplest things.  “Hans should never have encouraged you,” she mumbled, playfully teasing him.  “Very well then, my artist,” she said, giving him a hug and kissing him on the cheek.  “A few minutes I shall grant thee, but a few minutes alone.  I shall freshen up and prepare myself for thy surprise.  Be thou ready, then, upon my return, or be never ready, for while all things come in their time, that time must be soon.”

Sing and Tracy smiled warmly at each other from as close together as they were, and then Tracy backed away, her fingers trailing along Sing's arm and touching along the back of his hand, before dropping to her side as she turned and left to freshen up.  It was so nice, she mused happily, to have someone that shared her indulgence towards extravagance, and even challenged her to do it more.

She lingered at the mirror, making sure of her appearance.  She didn't know how long Sing needed, but she wanted to give him that time, and she couldn't think of anything else to do just at the moment.  She heard the clink of glasses, the rustling of ice, the crackling of plastic bags, and the quiet hiss of water from the faucet, and steeled herself to patient curiosity.  Finally, the noises ceased, and she straightened up, checked her makeup and hair one last time, and headed back out into the main room.

A half-dozen candles decorated the main room, filling it with a soft light and a sweet, floral scent.  They glowed on the tables surrounding the couch, illuminating the bowls laid out on the coffee table.  The largest bowl was filled with ice, keeping the wine chill, while the smaller bowls held a collection of fruits.

Sing, waiting near the entrance to the living room, stood with two wine glasses filled with wine of a soft pink blush and a smoldering gaze over a confident grin.  Tracy felt her breath come a little faster, a heat rise in her face, as she accepted one of the wine glasses from him and sipped from it, unsure how to respond.  She hadn't expected something quite like this.  Not on the first date.  How far was he intending to go? If it was anyone else, she'd have assumed the worst, but this was Sing.  He always made a production, and she trusted him.

Still without words, he offered her his hand, and she laid her fingers lightly across his palm.  He bowed over it and stepped away from her, leading her to the couch with a slow, easy glide.  She saw that he had unbuttoned another button on his shirt while she was gone, and his long hair was back away from his face.  The candles shone off his silk shirt, and she realized with a hot, slow surprise how gorgeous he really was.  How had she known him for so many years without noticing that?

He settled down onto the couch first, and drew her down with him to cradle her against his chest, and then his lips were touching hers with a light touch, and she was responding.  Though genuine, the kiss was reserved, each of them still holding a mostly-full wine glass, and while it lingered, it did not last long.  Her lips were tingling as they drew back a little.  They were both smiling to each other with bright eyes, and then they both sipped at their wine.

“This is beautiful,” Tracy whispered to him at last, breaking the quiet.

He laid down his wine glass and reached for a remote.  “I needed to find something worthy of you,” he replied.  “Many women are lovely as you are, but what attracts me to you above them is your sense of style.” He pressed the button, and the speakers crackled quietly, though no music came from them at first.

Tracy blushed softly, and laid her head against his chest, not trusting herself to words just at the moment.  His scent filled her nose, spicier than she remembered.  A single, clear flute sounded in the room, a tone somehow at once sad and content, as if of a long-familiar regret, a cherished wound that made her think of lost love.  She didn't recognize the music, but she was fairly sure she knew who played it.

“Is this you?” she asked, and he nodded, a response she felt more than saw.

She could see his fingers as he picked up a strawberry from the coffee table and dipped it into another bowl, where it came up covered in chocolate.  “Fifty musicians from across the country,” he said, quietly, though she knew he was talking about the whole work.  “Most of them still haven't met each other.”

She lightly took the strawberry between her teeth and then her lips, sucking lightly on it as she bit it off, leaving him with the green leaves and a bit of a white nub in his fingers. She enjoyed the flavors all mixing in her mouth - the sweet, dry wine, the bitter dark chocolate - he remembered it was her favorite - and the juicy and refreshing strawberries - where had he gotten such fresh strawberries at this time of year? Another flute joined the first, but it was a different type.  She couldn't quite identify it, but it had a magnificent range, and it danced around the first melody playfully.

“Still haven't found a couple of the instruments, and I had to computer-generate them.  They sound a bit dull, but it's worth sharing,” Sing went on, and Tracy snuggled in happily as she sipped more at the wine.  A dark cherry followed the strawberry, rich and exciting in comparison, and then his lips were on hers once more.

The music swelled, more instruments joining in.  There were small stutters, some places the music didn't quite match up, but it was gorgeous nonetheless - sad and playful and poignant and then shifting to energetic before it took flight.  Soft, sweet bits of fruit, sometimes with dark chocolate, sometimes with white, and sometimes just his sweet lips, were always offered to her, and she enjoyed all of them with a deep, luxurious feeling of satisfaction, luxury, and decadence.  His fingers touched over her cheek, over her shoulders, her arms, always just a gentle and innocent touch, but it left her skin tingling.  She relaxed completely under his attention, and somewhere among the soaring music, the sweet treats, and the gentle affection, the stress of the day caught up with her and she drifted off to sleep on a cloud of rich symphony and warm compassion.

Tracy woke up with the light of morning bright on her face, rousing slowly from a warm, relaxing dream that slipped tantalizingly just out of her memory, even as she reached for it.  She came to her surroundings gradually, before impressions of last night swelled to full recall with a thrilling rush that made Tracy squirm happily as she stretched the night's kinks out.

She was laying on the couch, wrapped up in a thick, soft comforter and curled around several pillows.  She breathed deeply of the cool air from windows cracked open.  Sing must have opened them for her, knowing how she liked fresh air.  Her eyes blearily focused on the room around her, and she looked at the coffee table, where the rose Sing had given her lay between the two extinguished candles with a small folded note forming a tent over the stem.

Regretfully, Tracy unwound herself from the warm comforter and faced the morning, sighing with the necessity of waking up.  One of these days, she was just going to stay in bed all day, wrapped up in a warm blanket and breathing cool air, and perhaps eating nothing but chocolate and day-old popcorn.  Picking up the card, she opened it up and let her eyes linger over the words penned within.  Smiling warmly, she read it again, more slowly.  Sing really was such a sweetie.  She walked over to the front door and threw the deadbolt that he hadn't been able to lock on the way out, her eyes watching the card more than where she was idly walking.

The card was a soft cream, made of thick card stock.  He must have had it ready for use, just in case, and she couldn't bring herself to be surprised over the discovery that he could write with beautiful calligraphy.  She smiled wistfully, thinking about the previous night as she wandered on over to her bedroom.  She read its gentle poetry one more time before opening her jewelry box and slipping it in underneath the upper tray.  It seemed an appropriate place to keep it.

She lingered for a while, smiling at the box, thinking of the previous evening fondly.  Her eyes wandered lazily around the room, until they settled on the clock.

“Oh no!” she exclaimed to herself.  “I'll be late!”  She leaped to her feet and hurried to the bathroom, almost tripping over Nameless.  “I can't believe I slept so long!”  Nameless jumped up on the counter as she pulled off her clothes, getting ready for the shower.

“And now I'm talking to myself,” she said, shaking her head with a smirk on her lips.  Nameless let out a quiet mew, curiously.  “No, Nameless.  A lady living by herself and talking to her cat isn't much better.”

She showered swiftly, then quickly got dressed in a simple black skirt and white blouse.  “No time for the bus,” she mused, “I'll have to take the truck.”

St. Michael's was a small church, old and made of stone.  It used to be a Catholic church, but it had been replaced with a new, bigger church a few blocks down.  Tracy's current church had bought the place shortly after, but had left the name unchanged to honor its history.  It had been a little bit of controversy, but Pastor Wallis had insisted, and that had settled it.

Tracy liked the building.  It was small, sure, and its basement was a little tight when there was more than one study group, but it had a good, old feel to it.  It was solid and traditional, and had the old handmade artwork and detail that modern churches lacked.

Tracy liked church.  It often seemed like the only way anyone got to know their neighbors anymore.  Most of the churchgoers weren't very community-minded, of course.  They showed up at the last minute, then hurried away almost before the pastor bid them go in peace.  About twenty or twenty-five people, though, tended to show up early and tarry long afterward, catching up with each other and lingering over cheap coffee and donuts.

She liked the sermons - Pastor Wallis was a good speaker, and never used the sermon to talk politics or beg for money, but instead really made her think about how she approached the world around her.  She loved the singing, the joyous mingling of more than a hundred voices in reverent and energetic praise.  It was a light touch in the lives of others, reminding her that there was more around her than the rushed, impersonal, automated world.  It reminded her that she belonged to a larger purpose than just her own small life – something everyone knew, but something that had to be understood in the heart more than the head.

She arrived later than usual this Sunday, pulling into the the small lot and finding a place far in the rear to park.  Most of the last-minuters were already here, and she was lucky to have found a spot at all.  She drew a small pocket watch from a side pocket of her purse, squeezing it between thumb and forefinger to open it up and read the time.  Still a couple minutes left - she'd barely made it.

Her steps echoed loudly from the high stone walls around the church, cutting off the sight of a short stretch of grass and the industrial park beyond - the reason the Catholic Church had abandoned it in the first place.  She was so used to the smell of chemicals and smoke creeping unhindered over the wall that she barely wrinkled her nose at it any more than the automatic reaction and a faint surge of annoyance.

“There you are!” exclaimed Hadi as Tracy came in through the thick oak door.  Hadi was a young girl with a somewhat olive complexion and wild black hair.  She could be found almost every Sunday at the front door handing out song sheets.  “I was wondering where you were!”

Tracy smiled a bit bashfully.  “I overslept,” she apologized, taking one of the last of the song sheets.  “Had a busy day yesterday.” She paused and debated whether to continue, then.  Trying to make it sound off-hand, but unable to keep the excitement out of her voice, she went on, “With a date that went a little late.”

Hadi gave a delighted grin, her eyes sparkling with mischievous glee.  “Oh, you'll have to tell me about that after the service!” she murmured excitedly.

Together, they went to find a pew.  The church was in the old style, with an arching ceiling and old stain-glass windows made with dark, small bits of glass.  The electric lights that had been added in afterward didn't dent the solemn twilight of the room much - they instead seemed more like small, foreign invaders trying feebly to make themselves known.  With the sunlight creeping through the stained glass windows, the electric lights could be turned off - and usually were - with no real difference in illumination.  They were saved for late-night prayer vigils, or those rainy or winter mornings where the sun was reluctant to wake up in time for church.  The scent was deep and a bit musty, a mix of scented candles and incense, of thousands of people over thousands of days, and of old, worn, well-kept wooden furniture.  The church had kept some of the fixings from when it had been a catholic church, and the old cast-iron candle holders still held lit candles at the front of the church.  The plain wooden pews were still there, but they'd had the kneelers removed, and a basket full of seat cushions was perched at the end of each pew for the churchgoers to claim and use for their comfort.

Normally, Tracy found the service to be relaxing, letting her focus on the message and center herself.  A chance to sit down and listen to people singing - not the practiced harmony of professional singers, but the comfortable buzz of countless voices lifted in the same song.  It had its own pleasant beauty, a common beauty she really enjoyed.  Usually, it was a chance to become introspective about how she was living her life.  She would consider mistakes she had made, plan how to do things better in the future.  An internal confession.  It generally left her with a sense of peace.  Something that took away the stress of the past week, and left her ready to face the next.  A ritual.

Today, however, she couldn't find herself and her center.  She felt distracted, as if her thoughts were skittering everywhere, and yet she couldn't actually say where they were skittering.  They were less actual thoughts and more the potential of thoughts, never manifesting.  She found herself impatient, bored, annoyed, and put upon, yet at the same time she was calm, and peaceful.

How could she feel such conflicting things at once? A bubble of amusement welled up through her, and then she heard a muffled giggle not too far behind her.  She remembered what Jacob had said, the previous night, when she had been unexpectedly empathic with him.  The emotions were pressing in on her from all sides, and stealing her own from her.

Once again, she went through the mental exercise - forming the bubble, then pulling it inwards.  Her Aikido meditation helped, there, as she brought her mind to rest, and to peace.  By the time she was done, though, she abashedly realized she had missed most of the pastor's sermon.

He was talking, today, about how the Lord doesn't give us anything we couldn't handle, but that doesn't mean we have to do it alone.  He spoke of how the church was spoken of as a single body, that marriage brings two people together to be a single person, how the community is a person in itself, and how our strength as individuals includes our ability to work with others.  As usual, he brought it down to a very practical level, telling them to focus, this week, on looking beyond themselves to watch for a new way to work with someone else on a project – either helping them with something they needed help with but might be too proud to ask for, or asking someone else for help on a personal difficulty.

Tracy smiled a little.  The sermon's message was nice to be reminded about, and she knew she wasn't about to have problems following that assignment with what had been happening to her.

At the closing of the service, there was a rush of noise as everyone got to their feet at once.  They trailed trailed out of the church and most were gone within minutes.  Tracy watched them go, leaning against the cool stone wall as they shuffled past in a mass with a low rumble of dozens of quiet conversations.  They were talking about yard work, about lunch plans, about video games and movies they wanted to see.  She thought about the private emotions she had unintentionally been privy to, and suddenly it all came together into a single powerful question.

The great mass of that emotion had been impatience and boredom.  Why would so many people come to church, if so few of them actually wanted to be there?

She hadn't realized she had asked the question aloud until she received an answer.

“Well,” said Pastor Wallis, right behind her.  “I used to think it was because they felt they had to, or because they were forced to.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, turning around and brushing at her skirts with embarrassment flushing her cheeks.  Pastor Wallis was standing right there.  He was getting on a bit in years, but that didn't detract at all from his strong frame and powerful presence.  He'd always been a little short on hair, but in recent years he'd been getting rid of it all except for a faint stubble around the temples.  He had that powerful, everyday demeanor to him.

“Because it was a requirement for Heaven, or because they're scared of Hell,” he continued without letting her surprise interrupt him.  “Maybe it's because people do what they feel they're expected to do.  In the end, I hope, and believe, that the reason they come is because they want to find in the sermon what other people find there.  Because they're looking for something, and this is the only place they know to look for it.  Because … they want to want to be here.”

“Sorry,” Pastor Wallis chuckled quietly, a small smirk on his lips.  “I didn't mean to break in on your private thoughts … they just sort of came out a bit noisier than you probably intended.”

“No, no, it's … it's fine,” she assured him bashfully.  “But … they want to want it … I like that.”

“So,” he said, concern now on his face.  “Are you all right?”

“Sure! Great!” she said quickly.  “Why do you ask?”

Pastor Wallis hesitated.  “Well,” he said, “Normally you're here early, but today you just slipped in right before we started.  Normally, you have a thoughtful look and a peaceful smile on your face during the service, but today I couldn't help but notice that you were … well … distracted.  All over the place.”

“You could tell that from up there?” Tracy asked in surprise.

He shrugged.  “A lot shows on people's faces,” he demurred, “When they don't think anyone's watching.”

Tracy walked with the Pastor back to where everyone was gathered around the snack tables, nearly depleted from the swarm of hungry parishioners who had descended upon it as soon as the service was over.  “I don't know,” she finally answered Pastor Wallis.  “A lot has happened to me in the past two days, and it's … it doesn't all seem real yet.  And I can't talk about it yet.  I don't know if …” she paused, shrugged, let out a breath of exasperation.  “I just don't know.”  She snagged a few of the cherry donut holes that were left over, lonely and scattered on a crumb-covered platter, and the last half of a peanut butter cookie.  While the many pastries had been consumed as if by a swarm of locusts, the few pieces of fruit were barely touched, and she was easily able to claim an orange and a banana.

Pastor Wallis let the subject go at that, and they fell to talking about other things - partly catching up on the week, but also commenting on the sermon, and straying over a few topics theological and philosophical.  Tracy lost herself in the conversations, fading out of one and melding into another, moving among everyone there and finding the peace she had been missing earlier.  Hadi came to her and wheedled and demanded every last detail of Tracy's night with Sing, which Tracy shared excitedly.  Eventually, someone confessed to having to leave, and as always, one person leaving triggered a mass exodus, everyone taking care to wash at least one or two dishes before they went.  With everyone helping, cleanup was fairly painless.