The Seventh Direction

PART THREE: Stalking Violet. Episode 89

                                           ["D/A" narrates —A.A.]

"No kidding. I think this whole room is fu-u-u. . . unctionally screwed up." she said, and broke-up, laughing.

                 ---tap---tap---tap---      ---tap---tap---tap---

Aces jerked her head toward the window, the laughter startled out of her: "Did you hear that? What was that?"

"That," I said, "is our Master J'."

"Outside the window? Get outta' town, Dorothy."

"I will be, soon," I ventured. "Come, let's go see." I was up and grabbed her hand.

"It's way too dark to see out there," she said, looking from a few steps away. "Besides, the window's frosty."

"He'll figure something out. If he wants to." We reached the window.

"I'm sure he will," she said, her excitement growing.

Side by side, we both peered at the frost. Nada. Couldn't see squat through it. We sideways gawked at each other. I nodded back to the window. All the while, the frost had begun to melt and a warm glow shone wrinkly on the pane. "It's just a flashlight," Aces said, "they're washing the windows."

"At night? Watch," I said. Maybe Aces would come to love that word as much as I did.

"Can't you hear the scaffold's motor, Dorothy?"

Whirrrrrrrrrr

"Yeah, I can hear it. Watch."

"Yikes!" Aces whispered. The window pane had cleared itself a foggy porthole. And through the foggy porthole, bluebird was frantically flapping his fine-feathered wings. "He thinks he's a hummingbird," she whispered. "He's funny. He's whirrrring. Is he grinning?"

"Probably," I said, and the light on the pane went out, and the whirring stopped, and the streets below bled blurry through the porthole. It was still a little foggy on the window—maybe from bluebird breath or maybe because the window really  was dirty.

"Where'd he go, Dorothy," she sounded like a little child. But In a good way, but a little nervous.

"Don't turn around," I said. I knew she would. But she didn't. "Don't look at your chair." I hadn't turned around either, but I knew he was there.

"I'm afraid," she said, her teeth were chattering like a kid who'd just got out of the tub.

"We'll do it together," I said. We must've looked like idiots, looking out the window, bent over with our bums in the air.

"O-k-k-kay," she chattered.

"On three . . ." I whispered: "Three!" And we both turned together, and there he was, grinning and sitting, radiant in her chair. I walked toward him, but Aces stayed put. I stopped, and looked back. Aces butt was resting on the sill, her hands white-knuckled and holding on for dear life.

"Come child." Jay stood and motioned "the child" to come, his voice gentle, so smooth I can hardly describe it. The tone. I'd never heard him use it before! He sounded like Jesus himself must have sounded when summoning a little child. Nice one, Jay. (Master J'.) Mm-hmm. But we all know how old Jay is . . . how old he seems. Aces showed no hesitation. She went right for him. She didn't seem to be under hypnosis, or mesmeric manipulation. Master J' smiled me a warm one, raised a brow (as if), and took Aces gently in his arms. She folded right in there . . . and they held for a long, long time. Relatively speaking. As hugs go.