#laughingmango

Two stories of one day in this park were told: the first Alma heard at the hospital on the day it all happened and the second when, together with Cabanela, they finally pulled the real story of what had transpired that day from Jowd. It was difficult to believe either version had happened here on a tranquil day like this, with the sky a high, hazy blue and the sharp smell of incoming snow hitting her nose, yet there the crater remained as proof.

Somewhere in the past, but also as recently as a few months ago, a little girl had played here among the leaves, been held hostage, and been saved all within a span of time that seemed impossible. Somewhere in the past but also not so far as all that, the man she loved had been…damaged. A mistake had been rectified. Somewhere…somewhen… the timelines had righted themselves, and she had been replaced in the history from which she had formerly been excised. She, too, was proof, just as the crater was; somehow this living truth made it no easier to understand.

She scuffed the ground a little with her toe. Cabanela would be scandalized to see her treating these shoes that way, but the dirt around the crater was loose and easily kickable, a darkish loam that wafted the dark earthen scent of upturned soil upwards. The crater itself looked much less soft, the sandy soil there gone slightly slick and packed in with the heat of the meteor’s entry. It glinted blue, in her peripheral vision, but looked nearly normal as she gazed at it straight on.

How deep did the meteorite penetrate? Shards, at least one, had flown elsewhere. As they knew all too well, one had hit Jowd before earthing itself in Sissel. It had passed over the fountain–Mino still hadn’t been replaced–and was diverted through Sissel and Missile’s efforts. She looked forward to one day meeting this wonder pup. As for the meteorite itself?

Someone else had beaten her to this bit of investigation.

The figure at the bottom of the crater appeared to be a small man crouched in the dirt; if he had noticed her he’d given no sign. A tourist perhaps? Someone else curious about the meteorite from the news or a passerby whose attention had been caught by this crater in the middle of the park? Either way, she shifted restlessly, hoping he would leave soon.  

“There a reason you’re gawking at me?” he said without turning around. “There’s plenty of things to look at in this park without standing there.”

Alma raised an eyebrow, pursing her lips in soundless, contemplative thought. A tourist with a sharp tongue, it appeared, and no inclination to move before he was done doing…whatever he was doing. She saw no reason anyone else would have much interest in this lonely spot in the park, so many months after the meteor’s fall. Or–she glanced at him with new, warier interest–perhaps he was a threat? Someone who knew the meteorite’s fell secrets and wanted to dig it out for inimical ends? Some patterns it was all too easy to see how they might repeat. The other timeline had had its villains; there was no reason to believe that this one would or could be any less dangerous.

With caution, Alma turned away. She’d tell Cabanela, she decided, and they could decide where to take it from there. Before she could think further on the issue, something–some small feathered thing– landed on her head. Instinctively, she reached to brush it off and discovered it to be both larger than she’d realized and, importantly, entangled in the crown of her hair.

“Coo!”

She froze, startled. A bird? A pigeon by the sound of that call. Lifting cautious gentle fingers she reached up once more to work out where the bird ended and her hair began.

“Easy, little one, I’ve got you.”

It wasn’t a difficult task and the bird was remarkably docile. It was but the work of a moment to find herself with her hands full of blue pigeon. The small bird chirped at her, yet showed no signs of flying away.

“Hey!”

Alma looked up from her rescue to see the man had finally vacated his spot and now stood in front of her. Eyes as sharp as his tones glared up at her from behind thick glasses over a nose as beaklike as any bird’s. Jowd’s descriptions, the blue bird sitting quite peacefully in her hands: it all fell into place. Her prior irritation and concerns faded and she smiled.

“Why, you must be Lovey-Dove’s human.”

The man surveyed her. His mouth twitched. “Hmph, is that how Jowd described me, then?”

“How did you know it was Jowd?”

He jabbed a thumb back at the crater. “See any other woman as tall as he is with an interest in meteorites?”

Alma’s mouth quirked in an answering smile. “I suppose not. Jowd told me it was called Temsik. Is that familiar to you?”

The man sniffed. “Silly name. But yes, that’s what they’re calling it in the forensics lab.”

“And what else are they saying about it in the lab?” Alma opened her hands, allowing Lovey-Dove to fly free if she wished. It seemed, however, that the lady did  not  wish, only snuggling a little deeper into the cup of Alma’s palms.

The man watched her in tense fascination, but relaxed as he realized his pigeon friend was safe and comfortable. “Not much,” he admitted. “No one else seems much interested in a meteorite and sparkly blue dirt.”

From everything Jowd had told them, that was something to be grateful for, or so it seemed. The fewer people who knew of its properties the better. But. This man had maintained an interest in it all those long years according to Sissel. That was how he and Cabanela had come together, after all. Now the mystery was reborn anew and she couldn’t imagine Jowd had said a word about it to him, not when it had taken the combined efforts of both herself and Cabanela to finally get him to open up. How much did he know now? How much ought he to know that Jowd withheld? Weren’t some patterns worth repeating? She’d initially planned to talk with Cabanela about this man; now it looked like she ought to be talking to Jowd instead, and soon.

For now, she took a deep breath and gave him a serious stare. “I’m interested. I’m… invested. There’s more to all this…but Jowd worries about it falling into the wrong hands.”

He snorted. “With good reason, I imagine, knowing him.Took a chunk through the leg and clammed up about anything else.”

Alma nodded in fond exasperation. “We have the same problem then. Or…had, anyway.”

The man’s forehead wrinkles raised in surprise. “He told you?”

“...Eventually.” Alma’s voice was dry. “It was a dual effort between Cabanela and myself. Have you met him?”

“The white coat? No. I’ve seen him, for what that’s worth. He’s a hard one to miss. And the stories…the forensics lab folk are a lot more interested in the white coat than in the blue rock.”

Alma puffed out a surprised laugh. “I imagine that’s true! But I think you’d be surprised by the truth of the man. You should ask Jowd some time. He has  stories. ”

He shrugged. “Maybe I will. But will he tell me anything more about the white coat than the blue dirt, is the question. Gods forbid the coat and the dirt should meet.”

There was more truth in that than he knew. “Tales to tell indeed.” Whether he  would was another matter entirely. “Of course no tale lives up to the man himself.”

“So I’ve heard. Grand gestures…”

“...And grand errors,” she finished softly. “Well, he certainly never does things by halves. From what Jowd tells me, you have that in common.”

Lovey-Dove made a burbling noise that sounded a lot like a chuckle, or perhaps it was just a coo. Alma couldn’t say, but she scratched the blue pigeon’s head with gentle fingertips, chuckling a little herself.

“You know, Jowd has told me stories of your work together as well. It’s nice to finally meet you.” She couldn’t say she’d expected to meet him like this or here of all places. This park certainly had a way of bringing people together. She’d skip the fatalism–that was more Jowd’s mindset than hers– but this had the feel of some kind of destiny to it.

“I’m sure our work together is the stuff of fascinating dinner table conversations,” he said, his voice wry. “Thrilling tales of cases and autopsies past, no doubt.”

“Exactly,” Alma said, beaming. “And other stories besides. He respects you so much, you see.”

Lovey-Dove chirped. Alma hadn’t known a bird could sound so…knowing. Or possibly smug.

“Is that so.” He sounded nonplussed. “I suppose you’d know better than me on that one.”

“Of course, I’d love to hear more from your side as well.” She stroked Lovey-Dove’s head. “Would you both join us for dinner?”

She’d surprised a faint smile from him. “You in the habit of inviting your husband’s work colleagues home?”

“The right ones, certainly!”

“And does that include a certain white-coated detective?” He gave her a sharp look. “Is this to be a triple effort to get Jowd to tell more of his tales?”

“Not this evening,” Alma said candidly. “Cabanela is certainly a frequent member of the family’s dinner table, but he won’t be there tonight.”

“Hmph. So that’s the way of things, is it?” His glasses were an inscrutable blank in the afternoon light. “Well, anyway, dinner sounds… tolerable.”

Lovey-Dove gave out a happy “coo!” before launching herself from Alma’s hands to his shoulder. Alma snorted. She’d known this man and his pigeon for only a few minutes, and already his grump was revealed to be just as performative as any of Cabanela’s grandest gestures.

“I see Lovey-Dove’s in favor,” she added, smiling. “Please let me know what I can get for her to eat too.”

The previous faint smile grew a little more real. “I was just going to get some of her favorite birdseed,” he said, his voice gruff, “and I was considering warming myself with some tea on the way. You’d be…welcome to join.” Immediately, he looked surprised; Alma would be willing to bet it was rarer than pigeon teeth for those words to come from his mouth. Nevertheless, the invitation  was welcome. The day was getting colder and the snow was becoming less a faint promise in the air and more actual flakes flickering by her ears.

“I’m honored,” she said. “Perhaps you’d tell me more about how you and Jowd met?”