The Song of David(14)

And yet she didn’t hesitate at all.

I respected that, admired it, so I stayed behind the bar for several long seconds, a silent show of support, even though my heart was pounding and my palms grew slick. My sister’s face flashed in my mind. She’d disappeared into the night once too. And I never saw her again.

“Vince?” I called out to the young bartender swapping stories with a couple of regulars down at the far end of the bar, completely unaware of the drama that had unfolded in the last ten minutes.

“Hey, Tag.”

“You’re going to be alone here for about a half hour. I’ll be back to finish out the shift and help you close. Morgan had to leave. Will you be okay?”

“Yeah, boss. No big deal. It’s been kinda slow all night.”

I grabbed my jacket and was out the front door without another word, running down the street toward the ATM on the corner, catching up to Amelie before she’d made it half a block. She was surprised when I reached her, but shrugged easily when I referred back to the rules.

“But I didn’t even work tonight,” she protested.

“Humor me, okay?”

She shrugged again, and I stood back patiently, giving her privacy to make her deposit, which she did easily, her fingers gliding over the key pad with confidence.

When she was finished, I moved to her side and she linked our arms the way she’d done the night before. We walked in easy companionship, me humming softly, Amelie matching my stride like she trusted where I was taking her.

We were almost to her door when she stopped, her hand pulling against my arm with urgency.

“Listen!”

I searched the darkness with my narrowed eyes, suddenly nervous that we weren’t as alone as it seemed.

“There it is,” she said.

And then I caught the hollow whistle of a distant train and the clattering of wheels on a track.

“Ten pm. Right on time,” Amelie breathed.

The sound thickened and deepened and the whistle came again, louder, bugling through the night with a warning that felt more like a song. I had always loved the sound of a train, but it had been a while since I’d stopped just to listen.

“Trains are like time machines. If you close your eyes—not that I have to—it’s easy to imagine the world hasn’t changed much in a hundred years. You hear that sound, and it could be 1914 instead of 2014.”

“Or we could be getting ready to head to Hogwarts for the new school year,” I teased.

She laughed again, and I liked the way she didn’t hold back. “You aren’t a Harry Potter fan. No way.” She poked me in the side.

“Not really. But I know the basics.”

“I love Harry Potter. And I love the sound of a train,” she sighed. “It’s one of my favorites.”

“You have favorite sounds?”

“Yes. Lots of them. You?”

“I guess I never thought about it,” I confessed.

“I collect them,” she said breezily.

“How do you collect sounds?”

“The same way you collect memories.” She tapped a finger to her temple.

I had no response to that, but she didn’t seem to need one.

“Speaking of collections, would you mind saying hello to my little brother? He is a huge sports fan. He would love to meet an actual fighter. He’s a little awkward, but he would be thrilled.”

“Sure.” I shrugged. I was curious to see the inside of the house, curious to see how she lived, curious about parents who let their blind daughter wander around the city and dance half-naked in a bar.

She fished a key from her coat pocket and felt her way to the lock. It didn’t take her long and she didn’t ask for help, so I was silent at her side.

The door groaned as she pushed it open into a foyer that was dark. The house smelled slightly of mildew and furniture polish, which was probably due to its age more than anything.

“Henry?” Amelie called, setting her stick aside and pulling off her coat, hanging it on an old-fashioned hat and coat-tree to the left of the door with only a hint of fumbling.

“Henry?” she called a little louder.

I heard a door open overhead, the sound of sports commentary spilling out and then cutting off again as the door was closed. Footsteps sounded above and a chandelier came to life, showering light from the top of the ornate staircase that the house had been built around.

A boy in his early teens appeared from around the corner, his hair an unruly mass of red curls. He’d either been asleep or combing his hair wasn’t a priority. He wore a black, Chicago Bulls Jersey with a pair of flannel pajama pants, and he folded his thin arms across his chest when his eyes met mine, shifting from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable with the unexpected company.