heard
since I’d been living there. I had no idea I was going to shout before
the sound had already echoed fl atly off the walls. I did not like to hear
a noise that loud coming from inside me.
I stuffed the phone in my jeans pocket and stormed out onto the
deck, down the external stairs, and along the walkway over the dune.
It was still raining, but I didn’t know where else to go, or what else
to do.
At eight the next morning I called the restaurant. It rang and rang.
I gave up, tried again half an hour later. Finally I heard it being
picked up.
“Pelican?” An unfamiliar voice.
“Who’s that?”
“Eduardo.” The cook sounded cautious. Addressing the public
didn’t come under his brief. “Who is it, please?”
“It’s John,” I said. “I need you to fi nd something on the com-
puter.”
“I don’t know,” he said, doubtful again. “I don’t think Ted is happy
if I was fooling around on there.”
“There’s no reason for him to hear about it.”
“I don’t know computers.”
I forced myself to keep a level tone. “Eduardo, it’s no big deal.
54 Michael Marshall
I’ll tell you exactly what to do. I just need to get a number off the
database.”
“Whose number?”
“Becki’s.”
“Ah, it’s easy,” he said, sounding much happier. “She print it off,
leave it here, after the burglary. Everybody’s is here. Is okay.”
“Great,” I said, relieved at not having to lean any heavier on him.
“Give me hers, and while you’re at it, Ted’s home phone, too.”
He recited them, slowly and painstakingly. I thanked him, and
was halfway to putting the phone down before he asked something.
“You okay?”
“I’m fi ne,” I said.
I called Becki fi rst. I wasn’t banking on her to be up, certainly
not to sound so businesslike at that time of the morning. She listened
without interruption, and immediately agreed to the two things I
asked of her. So fi nally I called Ted.
“Don’t tell me it’s happened again,” he said straightaway.
“Nothing’s wrong with the restaurant. I’m at home.”
“So . . .”
I told him that I would be gone a day, maybe two. That Becki had
agreed to cover for me on the fl oor, if reservations merited it. The
truth was they probably wouldn’t.
Ted listened as I laid it out for him. “What’s this about?” he asked
fi nally.
“Family business,” I said.
“Didn’t realize you even had one. A family, I mean.”
“Well, I did,” I said. “I do.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“I appreciate it, but no.”
“You let me know if that changes.”
He was being kind but I wanted this over with. “I will, Ted. It’s
no big deal. Just, it has to be now.”
B A D T H I N G S 55
“I hear what you’re saying,” he said.
I’d packed a small bag and locked the place down half an hour
later, and ten minutes after that Becki arrived to drive me over to
Portland.
I was on a plane at 12:40, business class, which is all I’d been able to
get at short notice. I spent the bulk of the fl ight staring at the back of
the seat in front, trying to concentrate on how strange it felt to be in
the air again. I’d fl own a lot in the past. For work, and longer ago for
other reasons and under different circumstances and in planes that
did not offer hot beverages. Sitting on the fl ight to Yakima, I realized
it must be the fi rst time I’d been on an aircraft in over three years.
Yet my hands strapped me in without conscious thought. I passed
my eyes dutifully over the laminated “let’s pretend a crash isn’t going
to fi nish us all in a shrieking fi reball of death” sheet, and accepted a
coffee from the stewardess with the frequent fl ier’s casual indiffer-
ence.
The distance between then and now is always far shorter than
you think. By the time the plane had reached its cruising height, I was
cradled in the past’s unyielding embrace, and listening as it told me
the same old story again.
That
since I’d been living there. I had no idea I was going to shout before
the sound had already echoed fl atly off the walls. I did not like to hear
a noise that loud coming from inside me.
I stuffed the phone in my jeans pocket and stormed out onto the
deck, down the external stairs, and along the walkway over the dune.
It was still raining, but I didn’t know where else to go, or what else
to do.
At eight the next morning I called the restaurant. It rang and rang.
I gave up, tried again half an hour later. Finally I heard it being
picked up.
“Pelican?” An unfamiliar voice.
“Who’s that?”
“Eduardo.” The cook sounded cautious. Addressing the public
didn’t come under his brief. “Who is it, please?”
“It’s John,” I said. “I need you to fi nd something on the com-
puter.”
“I don’t know,” he said, doubtful again. “I don’t think Ted is happy
if I was fooling around on there.”
“There’s no reason for him to hear about it.”
“I don’t know computers.”
I forced myself to keep a level tone. “Eduardo, it’s no big deal.
54 Michael Marshall
I’ll tell you exactly what to do. I just need to get a number off the
database.”
“Whose number?”
“Becki’s.”
“Ah, it’s easy,” he said, sounding much happier. “She print it off,
leave it here, after the burglary. Everybody’s is here. Is okay.”
“Great,” I said, relieved at not having to lean any heavier on him.
“Give me hers, and while you’re at it, Ted’s home phone, too.”
He recited them, slowly and painstakingly. I thanked him, and
was halfway to putting the phone down before he asked something.
“You okay?”
“I’m fi ne,” I said.
I called Becki fi rst. I wasn’t banking on her to be up, certainly
not to sound so businesslike at that time of the morning. She listened
without interruption, and immediately agreed to the two things I
asked of her. So fi nally I called Ted.
“Don’t tell me it’s happened again,” he said straightaway.
“Nothing’s wrong with the restaurant. I’m at home.”
“So . . .”
I told him that I would be gone a day, maybe two. That Becki had
agreed to cover for me on the fl oor, if reservations merited it. The
truth was they probably wouldn’t.
Ted listened as I laid it out for him. “What’s this about?” he asked
fi nally.
“Family business,” I said.
“Didn’t realize you even had one. A family, I mean.”
“Well, I did,” I said. “I do.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“I appreciate it, but no.”
“You let me know if that changes.”
He was being kind but I wanted this over with. “I will, Ted. It’s
no big deal. Just, it has to be now.”
B A D T H I N G S 55
“I hear what you’re saying,” he said.
I’d packed a small bag and locked the place down half an hour
later, and ten minutes after that Becki arrived to drive me over to
Portland.
I was on a plane at 12:40, business class, which is all I’d been able to
get at short notice. I spent the bulk of the fl ight staring at the back of
the seat in front, trying to concentrate on how strange it felt to be in
the air again. I’d fl own a lot in the past. For work, and longer ago for
other reasons and under different circumstances and in planes that
did not offer hot beverages. Sitting on the fl ight to Yakima, I realized
it must be the fi rst time I’d been on an aircraft in over three years.
Yet my hands strapped me in without conscious thought. I passed
my eyes dutifully over the laminated “let’s pretend a crash isn’t going
to fi nish us all in a shrieking fi reball of death” sheet, and accepted a
coffee from the stewardess with the frequent fl ier’s casual indiffer-
ence.
The distance between then and now is always far shorter than
you think. By the time the plane had reached its cruising height, I was
cradled in the past’s unyielding embrace, and listening as it told me
the same old story again.
That
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