Little Spark

20 - Tate

Mr. Tate isn't there when Candis and I get to Common Grounds—both sweat-soaked and breathless from sprinting out of the house and through the woods like we were being chased by rabid Rottweilers—so I have to spend the next twenty-eight hours with the gun in my possession. I put it in the Dead Bulbs box in my closet the moment I get home, but knowing it's in there keeps me awake for most of the night thinking about whether or not my fingerprints are now all over what could be the murder weapon from my dream of the couple.

When school lets out the following afternoon, I have to go home and retrieve the thing, and I'm so scared it'll accidently discharge in my backpack, I bike to Common Grounds as fast as I can get my shaky legs to carry me. By the time I get there, I'm so frazzled, I can barely get my bike in the rack.

Mr. Tate smiles at me from behind the counter as I enter. "Mr. Tate, I need to talk to you," I blurt, collapsing forward and putting my hands on my knees to catch my breath.

"Whoa, girl, slow down. Don't forget, I'm an old man."

"I'm sorry." I stand up straight. "I need to speak with you sir... in private."

"Okay, have a seat over there," he replies, pointing to an empty table. "I'll be with you in just a sec, alright? You want a croissant or something? You look like you could use some sustenance...."

"No, I'm fine... Just need to talk."

"Alright, go on over and grab your breath. I'll be right with you."

I nod and do as he says, the weight of the mysterious pistol adding what feels like a hundred pounds to my shoulders. I sense the familiar tingle in my wrists and shove my hands into my jacket pockets, digging my nails into my palms to steady myself.

After a couple minutes, Mr. Tate comes to get me. "Okay, Miss Myer," he says, gesturing for me to follow him. "Right this way."

We go to a set of stairs at the end of the hallway with the bathrooms. As we climb, his shoulders shake.

"Are you okay, Mr. Tate?"

He glances back at me. "Well I just think it's real ironic, is all. You see, the only woman to ever ascend these stairs outside of my wife and two mamas was your mama. She used to come up here to study when she was about your age. Shortly before your daddy died, she started coming to search through my newspaper archives. Never would tell me what she was looking for." He shakes his head. "Anyway, I just find it funny that the fifth woman to ever come up here is the fourth one's secret daughter. Sounds like something out of a telenovela."

We reach the top of the stairs and walk through a large great room that has big, bay windows and a brick fireplace with a cozy looking leather sofa and chair in front of it, then continue down a hallway on the left until we reach the last door on the left.

"This isn't our final destination, but I wanted to show you your mama's favorite place," he says as he pushes the door open. "This is my library."

I gasp. Wall to wall, floor to ceiling books. "This is amazing!"

He smiles. "Figured you'd say that. You've got her essence. She used to say the smell of old books—called it 'the fragrant incense of paper, leather, and dust'—helped her stay centered. There were times when her visions would get pretty intense, and when she was younger, she didn't know how to handle it. They got real bad around the time she started hanging out with this other young girl, but she never seemed to put two and two together. Rest of us saw it clear as day... Anyway, I'm rambling, aren't I? Come on here to the office so we can talk."

I clear my throat as we head back down the hall. "So who was the girl?"

"Well when your mama was about twelve or so, a new family moved to town. They had a little girl your mama's age who was pretty as a picture, but terribly shy. As I'm sure you know, your mama had a soft spot for underdogs, so she befriended the girl. As it turned out, though, that pretty little blond, blue-eyed thing had one heck of a mean streak. Just got real ugly, is all." We step into the office. It's quite bare in comparison to the library—just a desk, a couple of leather chairs, a grandfather clock and one sparingly stocked bookcase—but there isn't a speak of dust in sight.