I need to see you. I'll be at the Borgia at 9:00.

- Scratch

She was late already. Scowling, she pulled on some clothes, grabbed her keys, her wallet. The old man never failed to throw a whole day off course.

He was waiting when she arrived, alone at an outdoor table, waggling one hand at her over his newspaper. She picked her way through close-set tables and scraped a wrought-iron chair back across the concrete.

"Morning," Scratch said cheerfully, and she murmured a reply. Then she waited while he pored and rattled over his paper. Now and again a car sighed by; it was cool and quiet out.

"Says here," he said, his eyebrows visible above the classifieds, "there's a big fire on for the tenth. Not quite three weeks."

"Great," she said, and settled her head on her hand.

"Want your horoscope? Saggitarius, aren't you?"

"No, thanks." She tapped a finger on the underside of the table.

"It's the real thing, this fire. Starts with a mouse in the wiring; I don't think anybody knows that though. Mouse dies. Whole house goes up pretty quick." He made a noisy show of flipping and folding the paper, and reversed it for her to see. SOME TO DIE the headline said. He watched her over his spectacles.

"You're serious," she said, intrigued in spite of herself.

"Yup." He snapped the paper back around before she could make out much of the article itself. "This house is over on Brewster, you know it," he mused. "That old blue house on the corner of Walnut, with the fir tree. Lousy house. Starts up about quarter past seven." He frowned. "One old woman, one even older man, one very young grandson, a couple of cats. Too old, too slow," he said, and shook his head. "How is a person going to get them out of there?

"Two coffees, thanks," he told an approaching waiter, and scrutinized the paper again.

"Can't they just run out of the house?"

"They're too slow, and they don't notice fast enough," he said. "They get all worked up trying to put out flames in the kitchen when it's already too big, then they get tangled up with each other trying to get to the kid, and by that time everybody's breathing smoke. Real mess. Utterly unnecessary." He thought a little longer and rapped the page with the back of a knuckle. "You'd probably smell it before you saw it, if you were walking by. And if you're paying attention, you'd see a little uneven glow in the laundry room window, it won't look quite right, so that would give you a real reason to suspect a fire, and you'd know right away which house."

"Couldn't you just warn the people, then? Or call somebody?"

"Calling is something," Scratch allowed. "Not enough time for the trucks to arrive though. You'd have to get the people out. And that old man is going to try to put out the fire himself." He folded the paper at last and watched her across the table.

"You'll have to tell the old lady to get the kid, right away," he said. "If she gets out with the kid, the old man will have time to leave once he sees the fire is too big. But he has to know they're already out. Then you ought to be fine."

"You mean me? Can I do that?"

"You have the sharpest nose of anybody within fifteen miles. Do you know that? You've had it since you were born. A genuine gift. You'd smell smoke on that street. It doesn't smell like a wood fire. You've never smelled a house fire before, but you might remember one night when you were little, you passed a burning car on the road, and you could smell that. There's a little of that smell in a house, too. You remember it?"

"I do," she said, and she did remember it: a stinging smell, acrid and alarming. She had forgotten. Then she made a face. "My nose? That's my special gift? I have a good nose?"

"Like a bloodhound. Don't be mad. That's a good gift." He looked back at his paper. "The light upstairs would tell you there was a kid up there. So when you get inside and see a couple in their seventies, you can see what the situation is. So get the lady and the kid out, and you're all set." He chewed one corner of his mustache absently.

The waiter set coffee in front of her, and she looked at it. "What about the cats?"

"Got to get the cats. I know. It isn't a hero story unless you save the cats too." Scratch tugged his beard, eyeing the paper on the table. "One look in the kitchen will tell you there are two cats, since there are two bowls on the floor. That's enough of a clue, and it's impressive that you'd notice. Leaving the front door open ought to get this little calico out of there; she's already spooked. For the old tom, you might have to open a window; he's asleep in the study when it starts, and he's almost deaf. The study window is around the side here." He turned the paper so she could see a picture of the study window. "There's a fallen branch on the ground somewhere around there. Knock the window out, clear the glass away, and call the cat. He'll come on out when he smells smoke inside."

Christine lifted her hands off the tabletop. "Why do you want me to do this?"

"What do you mean? You have a chance to save lives. Haven't you always wanted to make a difference?"

"But why me?"

"You can handle it. You'll keep a cool head and get it right. I need your help, Chris. They need your help." He stabbed the paper with his fingertip.

"There's a catch."

"No catch."

"You're trying to trick me out of my soul, right?"

"Your soul? Listen to yourself."

"If I save the people in the fire, does someone else die because I wasn't there? Or what?"

"What do you mean? You just save them."

"It's like that, isn't it," she said. "I have to do something wrong in the process. I can't save them without doing something terrible. Scratch, come on."

"Look, cross my heart, you don't have to do anything bad. Just walk by, smell smoke, go into the house and get them out of there. Done deal."

"Okay." She straightened. "Okay, well, that's good. As long as you mean that."

"Sure, it's good. They don't die."

"So I just go there, get them out, and go? That's it?"

"Sure. Well, you don't just go, of course. The place will be crawling with people."

"Well, I don't want to deal with any of that. I'll go home before the people show up."

"No. No, that's no good. What will anybody say? This old couple, they don't know you."

"They'll be okay by then, though. They'll be safe, right?"

"That's not the point." He pried the paper open again, peering through his reading glasses. "How will anybody know who saved them? They don't know. Says right here. If you don't stick around, they don't know who it was."

"I don't care. I don't want anybody to know about it anyway. That's not the point."

"Look, you don't have to stay too long, but at least tell the emergency people that it was you. It'll be over pretty soon."

"Hey, listen. I don't want to take credit for this. You gave me the tip, anyway. You want me to tell them that?"

"Ha!" He slapped the paper back down on the tabletop, sloshing her coffee. "Not one person would believe you. No. This isn't about me; it's your big chance. You can't just run away from it. You have to take your bow. You deserve it. Or you will."

"I get it." She shook her head. "Why do you always have to have an angle? Why can't we just do this for the people in the house?"

"You are. You really do save them, Chris. Otherwise they die."

"So I'll save them! But I can't take credit for that. It's prideful. Especially since I only know about it because you told me."

"What's the difference? An angel could have told you, and then you'd listen, wouldn't you?"

"Look, you can let a miracle happen to you, or through you even, but you don't turn around and call it your own miracle. It's vanity. And it's nuts."

The old man slouched back in his chair, a long arc of ash drooping from his cigarette. "You know, you really worry too much about pride," he said, smoke curling up around his forehead. "It's pretty innocuous as crimes go."

"Listen. Pride is a real sin, and you know it's the one I have trouble with. You know that."

"You're saving people, you know, not hurting them. Isn't that the way you're supposed to behave? Isn't that something to be proud of?"

"Proud," she said, "not prideful."

"This is stupid. You don't have to do much. They'll take a statement and that's about it. Just tell them how you did it."

"Just forget the part about taking credit."

"No good. No good!" Scratch slapped the paper off the table, upsetting the salt. "You think He cares what kind of pride you've got? You think He's sitting around fretting whether you're meek and mild enough? Are you really so sure He's out there at all? He has His own business to think about, let me tell you that. All He wants from you is that you be a good servant, and look out for His creatures. You get innocent people out of a needless early death, you're doing His work, you understand me?"

"All the more reason," she said with a deep breath, "not to claim it as my own." Scratch gave her a deep scowl. He was huge; it was hard to see around behind him. He pointed.

"This is humility? You're letting people die just to save yourself from a mark on your record."

"I said I'll still save the people."

"Forget it," he snapped, teeth bared. "You think you know so much about Him? You think you know what He wants? When did you last ask him?"

"He'll tell me what He needs me to know. He doesn't drag me out of bed to try and pull some scam on me."

"I tell you what you need to know, honey. When you need to know it. I don't need to wake you up. If I want to I can come tell you in your dreams."

"Don't talk like that," she said.

"Tell you what. I'm make you a deal right now, just you and me, no intermediaries."

"I don't want it."

"You give me your soul--"

"No! Scratch, I can't believe you! I told you--"

"Listen. I do this all the time, you know? Lots of people give me their souls. I have thousands. Millions."

"But not mine, okay?"

"I know. Now, here's the thing--give me your soul, and I'll give one of the others back."

"No. What?"

"No, make it two. Five. You sign your soul over to me, and I'll waive my claim to five others. Five for one."

"I don't believe this."

"Get it? You save people, you really save them, you save them from eternal perdition. I'll let them go free. I'll never lay a finger on them. Get it? You get to save people in the deepest way possible."

"I can't do that. It's wrong."

"Wrong how? What, is it wrong to make any kind of a deal with me at all? Doesn't it make any difference what you're doing it for?"

"I was given a soul. I'm supposed to take care of it."

"You're supposed to care for His other children, too. You can free five others by sacrificing yourself. Isn't that what He would do?" He drew back, dragging one fingernail across the tabletop. "I don't think you mean it's wrong," he said. "I think you're just afraid of doing it."

Sirens whined in the distance. "You tell me," he said. "Are you trying to earn passage to Heaven? Is that all? That's your whole plan? Does your religion give out on the day you die?"

Christine shook her head. "You can't do this." Somewhere God was listening, she knew. Didn't the Accuser work for Him? Doesn't he stand at His very elbow? Can the same person cast flaming out of Heaven, to suffer eternally, for sins we cannot understand, be His agent even still?

What sin is it, so terrible that in all eternity even He cannot forgive?

All at once Christine knew what to do. The bells were ringing, all around town, murmuring discordantly in everyone's ears: here there are people who still have their faith. She was late.

But now she would take him with her, and they would walk into His house together, and together they would ask forgiveness. She believed in His boundless love; she couldn't imagine that He would turn anyone away, anyone at all, who came to Him truly repentant. And she had nothing to fear as long as she held to that faith. The only thing that could really harm her was beyond anyone's reach but His.

The feet of her chair rasped on the sidewalk as she stood, her face clear and certain, her hand outstretched and beckoning. The old man watched her carefully, unmoving, and she smiled, and opened her mouth to invite him to church with her.

And she made no sound. She tried again, not sure she'd really begun the first time; she tried again, watched the old man's eyes studying her, tried to speak, even one word, even his name--tried to shout--tried harder--

The Neighbors.The Tide.All Good People.Speaking the Law.The Other Cheek.Standing and Waiting.Faith.Trial by Combat.Death.The Opportunity.Confessions.Not God.Suffering Enough.Acts of God.Witness.Killing the Messenger.Audience.Not God.The Secret.Indifference
Christine, Dreaming