I don’t believe in horoscopes. Never have, never will. I always picture these syndicated columnists, so-called “seers,” in their basements smoking Newports, sipping highballs and stringing together storylines toward which only the most needy among us could ever feel a kinship.
Janice, our news clerk, was a believer. Every morning she read mine to me when she brought me a cup of coffee, and every morning I shooed her away. While I find her Brooklyn accent charming in a strange way, the whole ritual has grown old, particularly on an important day like today. I didn’t have time for coffee let alone a psychic reading. Today’s, though, was particularly cryptic: “The incremental goals you set weeks ago are starting to bear fruit. Be on the lookout for positive change.”
Of course, from what I’ve seen from the day already, this was, without question, a little off. Rain was beating down in sheets, I had to wedge myself into the backseat of a $400,000 car, and a former New York prosecutor began digging her nails into my skull two minutes into the ride.
Once again, I looked the mayor in the eye.
“Mayor, please.” I shifted in my seat to face her. “He’s a very good friend of mine and I … “
“You what?” she insisted. “Do you know where he is and, if so, why he hasn’t been showing up for work? The deputy’s been calling every day … Sheriff Paul isn’t answering the deputy’s calls or mine for that matter. This is an emergency and I need to know what’s going on. It’s that simple.”
The car squeaked to a stop.
“Well, friends, here we are … stop number one,” Bentley said with a flourish. “The Hughes residence.”
The tree-lined yard hadn’t changed. Its paved driveway still held her father’s BMW and her mother’s Subaru. The tennis court out back overlooking the river was still pristine and barely used since Elyse had been there with the girls when we split up.
The mayor smiled and patted my hand. “I’m sorry, I think you know these people, right?”
I could feel my breakfast bagel rattling around my stomach. “Yes, we’ve met.”
As Bentley helped the mayor out of the car, he handed me my own umbrella. “I’ll take her up the drive. You go ahead.”
I turned toward the house and scampered up the driveway, hoping I didn’t look too disheveled. As if on cue, the front door opened.
“Elyse.”
Tears were welled in her eyes.
“Hi Bernie. Come on in. It’s good you’re here.”
Gunnar Olafsson