Failing Upward

Chapter 6 (part 2): Lucky Charms

The insurance company was in a renovated Victorian home. The ginger breading both inside and out advertised a quaint small town atmosphere--a distinction many of the homes converted to businesses promoted in town. I stepped into the waiting room where it looked like a time machine belched--the Art Deco furniture out of place.

Ellen, Mr. Johnson's ample partner and my mom's best friend, stood waiting for me, and we walked back to her office together.

"I'd been worried about you," she said, giving me a quick hug. "How are you doing, I mean, really doing?"

I could never lie to her--I still call her my "other mother," an endearing name my mom christened her with long ago.

"I've been worse," I said, smiling best I could. I followed her to her office. "Guess you'll need my policy number...its..."

"Oh, Sherlock phoned with it already. Such a thoughtful young man. He gave that to me along with the policy number on your renter's for contents on the house," she said, sitting down behind her desk.

"Well, yes that's the other reason why I came down here." I took a seat in a wing-back chair facing her desk.

"Yes, honey. You forget--I know all, see all. Small town. Um, and the adjuster's already been out to your home."

"What about my car?"

"A total, payoff will be blue book value." She looked at her PC, then at me over the rim of her glasses.

"How long?"

"It depends. On the car, not too long. I'll need a formal a change of address done--paper work, you know. Sherlock said to fax it to him. Now, as for your renter's, we were looking over your policy, and you did have contents for replacement value and a thorough list of items in your home. However, the cause of the fire may hold up matters." She shifted in her seat and leaned her elbow on the desk. "I'm sorry, John. I'll do my best to help speed this all as much as I can."

"It's because it's arson," I stated. Well, that was no surprise.

"Yes. Frankly speaking, I know you had nothin' to do with it, honey, but I'm not the one that issues the check."

I nodded.

"I'll pick up the check here. Call me at the flower shop or on my cell when it comes in." We both stood up at the same time, and Ellen gave my hand a squeeze. She sniffed. Hell, she was actually crying. I always hated it when she cried. Made me sad right along with her.

"This is too much a reminder of the fire before," she said, waterworks now on full. "I've felt sick to my stomach since this all happened. Brings back the pain of losing your family in that horrible fire." Shit, now she had me sniffling.

We talked. Really talked. Sherlock was right. It was good to talk to someone.

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I was already pretty late getting back from lunch, but I walked back from the insurance agency like the living dead. My head throbbed from crying and from trying not to cry. If talking to Ellen about my family's death was so healthy, why did I feel like shit? The first six months or so I tried pretending it never happened--like I could call them up, and they'd be there, and say, "Hello, Mom?" But I couldn't keep that up for long. Then, I tried to keep myself busy with work and the band and not think of what happened. With all that's happened in the last weeks, I can't do that anymore. Ellen made it impossible for me to ignore. So did Sherlock.

I stuck it out the whole day at work feeling like forgetting but unable to forbear reflecting. Uneventful, except for a pop-in visit from Mary with more clothes just before closing. She said it gave her an excuse to come down and visit "Phil." She left me to a customer and ducked outside to see Anderson off.

I was surprised to Sherlock and Anderson talking civilly to each other when I came out the door, which struck me as all very weird. It's been happening a lot, but then a lot of odd shit has been happening lately, Anderson and Sherlock sharing pleasantries seems minor in comparison. Sherlock slid over and opened the door for me.

We rode off with Mary yelling, "Don't tire John out too much!"

I felt a bit of satisfaction when Sherlock blushed.

On the way home, I shared with him Mrs. H's experiences with the Lestrade clan. He told me what Anderson had to say. I should have known he was feigning politeness for information.

"This is all linked together. I just need to find the connection," he said as he parked the car.

"Yeah, but how?"

"Not sure. I researched today. Interesting background on Emma Lestrade," he said. "I hope you don't mind, but I picked up a temporary change of address card for you at the post office. You can fill it out, and I'll take it back for you tomorrow while you're at work." We pulled into the driveway and walked up the stairs.

Change of address? He opened the door for me.

"And Smith left a long, boring message on my cell today. Frankly, I couldn't listen to the entire thing. It was too painful. Then, he irritated me a second time when he stopped by and dropped this off at our apartment for you," he said, shutting the door.

Our apartment? Sherlock handed me "this" from his pocket, an envelope with my name scrawled on the front. He stood at the kitchen counter and sighed in resignation as he tapped his cell until he got to Smith's hesitant and comical and "boring" voice message:

Yeah, John? I hate these fucking...You're not home, damn. Any how, why I called... Umm...the guys took up a collection. We figured there's stuff--yeah, some stuff you might need--you know. I'll drop it by and put it in the mail box if no one's home. And wait, one other thing. We got a gig at the Adam's Den for Friday and Saturday night. We should get together and practice again if you're feeling like it. And the guys said, no pressure. Call one of us. If you can't play both nights, that's okay. We'll see ya there. Oh and hey, Sherlock--take care of him. Oh yeah and Bill says, "Don't forget to buy leather slacks."

"Leather?" Sherlock wondered aloud and scratched his nose with a blush. "Well, wish I would have listened to all of it now."

I took a chance and leaned into him, grazing his mouth with my lips and watching his eyes. He didn't pull back. This time I opened my mouth--cinnamon danish, coffee, cigarettes, and the world trickling through rapid beats of my heart. His tongue lightly brushed mine, then he stepped back afterward and took a deep breath. That wasn't the reaction I was hoping for.

"What happened today?" he asked, a bit more flushed than before. Shit, he deduced me too well. I sat down heavily at the kitchen table with him envelope still in my hand.

"They'll pay off on my car, but it looks like there'll be a holdup contents because of the arson investigation."

"You know that's not what I meant." He sat down in the chair next to mine. "I saw it the moment I picked you up. Eyes puffy, nose red. So, you talked to Ellen, didn't you?"

I nodded, starting to open the envelope with my thumb.

"Good. Good. You needed to talk to someone." I heard the disappointment in his voice. That shouldn't have made me angry, but it did.

"Even if it's not you?" I bit back.

"Well, yes," he said, contritely. "You are avoiding. Me."

"It didn't feel like that a moment ago."

"Please, don't be dense. Talk to me. I want you to talk to me !" I knew he was right. He should be the one I talk to. "Damn it, John! Talk to me!"

I sat there, envelope half opened, staring straight ahead at his fucking wallpaper, a flocked trellis pattern on a shimmery metallic background.

He huffed out a sigh, then reached into his pocket and handed me his keys. "Take my car and go to the mall or grocery or where ever you'd like. Buy some bacon and eggs," he said. "Buy the leather pants. Use the money from the band." He slapped the envelope for emphasis.

I stared down at the keys in my open palm, then down at the floor. I couldn't meet his eyes. "I don't want to drive," I admitted.

"At least I can do that for you," he said with a hint of bitterness as he took the keys from me.