Finding Noel (3 page)

My mother used to tell me that angels walk the earth disguised as people. Tonight I'm a believer.

MARK SMART'S DIARY

NOVEMBER 3, 1988

“What the…”

My windshield wipers swung wildly in a vain attempt to clear the snow from my windshield, as my sixteen-year-old Malibu coughed, shuddered, then stalled, the dashboard lighting up like a Christmas tree. It was almost midnight and Salt Lake was in the clutch of an early snowfall. A blizzard, actually. I had just finished work and was headed home on snow-packed roads, wondering if I was really capable of ending my life. Considering the direction my thoughts were taking, it seems peculiar that my car breaking down bothered me. But it did.
Just another sign of God's boundless love
, I thought cynically.

I coasted the Malibu to the side of the road, bumping into the snow-covered curb. I punched the steering wheel in frustration. For all the time I spent in Stu's shop, I knew relatively little about cars. Stu would've known what was wrong before I came to a stop. I saw a movie once about a horse whisperer, a guy who could talk to horses and heal them. Stu was a kind of “car whisperer”; he could tell you what was wrong with a car before popping its hood.

The driving snow cocooned my car. When I could no longer see through my windshield, I climbed out and looked around, sizing up my predicament. Every building on the street was dark except for one about a half block up. I trudged over the unplowed sidewalk toward the light.

A sign outside the building read
THE JAVA HUT
, or
JAVA THE HUT, COFFEE HOUSE
; because of the placement of the words on the sign, I wasn't sure which. As I approached the shop, a young woman turned the
OPEN
sign in the front window to
CLOSED
. She then walked to the front door, reaching it about the same time I did. She jumped a little when she saw me. I'm sure I was a sight, my head and shoulders frosted with snow. She was shorter than me by at least six inches, about my age, with reddish-brown hair, a wide face and fawnlike eyes the color of Coca-Cola. She was the kind of beautiful that usually tied my tongue in square knots. She opened the door just enough to stick her head out. “I'm sorry, we just closed.”

I awkwardly stared at her, my hands deep in my pockets. “My car broke…I just need to borrow a phone.”

She looked me over, then slowly stepped back and opened the door. “Come in.”

I stomped the snow from my feet, then stepped inside. She locked the door behind me, as I unbuttoned my coat. “The phone's back here.”

I followed her to a back office. The room was an unabashed mess. The desk was piled with paper; it looked like
someone had emptied a trash pail on it. The place smelled like coffee grounds. She pointed to the phone.

“It's right there. You can sit at the desk if you want.”

“Thank you. Do you have a phone book?”

“Yellow or white pages?”

“White.”

She retrieved the phone book from a pile on the nearby credenza and handed it to me. I looked up the number of a friend whose brother fixed cars. I let the phone ring a dozen times then set it down. She looked at me sympathetically. “No one there?”

“I guess not.”

“Do you want to call someone else?”

I couldn't think of anyone. “I don't know who I'd call.”

“I know a mechanic,” she said, then frowned. “But he wouldn't be there at this hour. Do you want to call a cab?”

I hadn't the money to pay for one. “No. I'll just walk.”

“In this blizzard?”

“It's not far,” I lied.

Her brow furrowed. “Alright. I'll let you out.”

I stepped out of the office, buttoning my coat as I walked. She followed me back out to the front of the store, took out her keys and unlocked the door for me.

“Thanks anyway,” I said.

“Don't mention it.”

She looked at me for a moment then suddenly asked, “Are you okay?”

No one, outside of my mother, had asked me that since I
left home. I'm not one to cry—my father saw to that. Still, to my embarrassment, my eyes began to fill. As much as I wanted to, I couldn't look away from her.

“You're not, are you?” She looked at the tears welling up in my eyes, then stepped forward and put her arms around me. I couldn't tell you the last time I'd had physical contact with anybody. She felt warm and nurturing and safe. I dropped my head on her shoulder and I openly began to cry. It was more than a minute before I regained my composure. I stepped back, wiping my cheeks and feeling embarrassed to be crying in front of a complete stranger.

“I'm sorry.”

“Tell me what's wrong.”

I just shook my head.

She pulled a chair from a nearby table. “Here, sit down. I'll get you a hot chocolate.”

I sat down in the chair, furtively wiping my eyes as if someone else were in the room and might notice I'd been crying like a baby. In a moment she came back with a steaming cup of cocoa with a cloud of whipped cream rising above its rim.

“There you go.”

I took a sip. It was hot and rich. “Thank you.”

“I have a secret ingredient. I add a little maple flavoring to it.”

“It's good.” I looked up into her eyes. They were fixed on mine.

“What's your name?” she asked.

“Mark.”

“I'm Macy.”

“Macy.” I repeated. “Like the parade?”

She nodded. “My father used to tell me the parade was for me.”

“What's your last name?” I asked.

“Wood.” She knocked on the table even though it looked to be Formica and steel. “What's yours?”

“Smart.”

“That's a good name to have. From your accent I'd bet you're not from Salt Lake.”

“Alabama. I came out for the U.”

“Then you're a college boy,” she said, sounding impressed.

“I was. Now I'm just working.”

“Where do you work?”

“At West High School. I'm a custodian.”

“I went to West,” she said. “For a while at least.” She looked at me. “Tell me what's wrong?”

“What's not?” I said. Then I breathed out deeply. “My mother died last week.”

Her face fell. “I'm sorry.” After a moment she reached across the table and laid her hand on mine. “Tell me about her.”

“She was my best friend. No matter how bad things were, she was always there for me.” I choked up again. “I didn't even go to her funeral. No one knew how to reach me, so I didn't find out about it until two days after she was buried.”

“I'm so sorry,” she said. After a minute she asked, “Is your family down South?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“So you're going through all this alone.”

“Yeah.” I took another sip of chocolate.

“Nothing heals the soul like chocolate,” she said. “I just
love
chocolate. It's God's apology for broccoli.”

I smiled in spite of myself.

“There's your smile,” she said softly. She sat back in her chair, watching me closely. “So you have no family here. What about friends?”

“I don't know many people in Salt Lake. I had my roommates, but when I left school…” I looked at her. “I had a girlfriend…”

“Had?”

“We were together for four years. Three days ago she wrote to tell me she's engaged.”

Macy shook her head. “You weren't kidding. When it rains, it pours.”

“Buckets,” I said. I drank more of the hot chocolate, then turned back to her, raking my hair back with my hand. “I can't believe I'm telling you all this.”

“We always tell our deepest secrets to strangers.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Maybe it's because they can't use them against us.”

That made sense to me. “I feel like everything in my life has changed, like I was playing a game and someone switched boards in the middle of it. I feel like an orphan…”

Something about my statement seemed to affect her. “I know how that feels,” she said softly.

We were quiet again and I finished my chocolate. I held up my cup: “Thank you.”

“You're welcome. Do you want more?”

“No. I'm fine.” I glanced down at my watch. It was now almost one. “I should let you go.”

She looked at me sympathetically. “I'm still worried about you.”

“I'll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Will you let me drive you home?”

I smiled at her. “If you insist.”

“I do.” She stood. “I just need to clean up after us.” She took my cup and went back to the counter. While I sat there, she asked, “Do you want a scone? We have cranberry or cinnamon.”

“No, thank you.”

“How about one of our death-by-chocolate brownies? We're famous for them.”

“I'm okay.”

“Your loss.” She came out wiping her hands on a dish towel. “I'm ready. My car's out back.”

I followed her to the back door. I stepped outside while she switched off the lights, then set the alarm and shut the door. It was still snowing, but not as hard as before.

“Do you own this place?” I asked.

“No. I wish. The place is a gold mine.” She locked the door and put the key in her pocket. “I'm the assistant night manager.” She pointed to a car that looked more like an igloo than a vehicle. “That's me over there. That big mound of snow,” she said dolefully. “I don't have a scraper.”

I looked around and found a cardboard box sticking out of the dumpster. “There's something.” I tore a flap off the box, then used it to scrape the snow from the car's windows. She waited until I finished, then she unlocked the doors and we both climbed in. The car was a Ford Pinto with brown vinyl upholstery and plastic prayer beads hanging from the rearview mirror. The plastic dashboard was cracked in places and bandaged with assorted decals, mostly from radio stations. It took several turns of the key before the engine turned over. The windshield was fogged, and Macy revved the engine a couple times then turned on the defroster. The air gradually turned warm. My hands were wet and red from scraping snow, and she reached over and lightly rubbed them.

“Your hands are freezing. Thanks for cleaning the snow off.”

“You're welcome.”

“Don't mind my car. It's held together with prayer and duct tape.”

“At least it runs.”

“That's right, be grateful it runs.” She shoved a cassette into her stereo and soft music began playing. “Where do you live?”

“I'm over on Third South. Just over the viaduct.”

“I thought you said it was close.”

“I didn't want to trouble you.”

While we waited for the windshield to clear, she reached into the back seat and brought up an open box of ginger snaps. “Want a snap?”

“Sure.” I reached in the box and took one. She took one as well.