40 Finally

Maggie was somewhat weightless as she and the cool breeze drifted together down Andrew Jackson Ave’.  She had just had one of those cathartic conversations with Mary and felt as if she had spent a weekend cleaning out the attic of her soul, pitching out old baggage, abandoned hobbies and photos of ex-loves.  She was emotionally exhausted and liberated at the same time, the way we all feel after a good Spring Cleaning.

A few blocks away Maggie watched a pair of lovers giggle and whisper naughty secrets into each other’s ears outside of Favorite Things.  This brought a smile to her face as she rounded the block to her old man’s house.  Cicadas buzzed their cacophonous electric synchronicity, a delightful but deafening din.

Old Man Kennedy’s place was a fantastic bungalow with a deep porch supported by four robust columns.  The term ‘Craftsman’ was not wasted on the house’s moniker: stone and wood were expertly composed throughout its design, not in an overly ornate manner, but rather with a sense of being well-appointed.  Maggie caressed the stained handrails as she ascended the few steps to the porch and thought that this old house embodied the sturdy spirit of her father.  She was vaguely reminded of the passage that says that “some people have entertained angels without knowing it,” and felt that she would be proud to have audience with an angel in this place, a very Amish notion.

One block closer towards town, the shabby-chic glitter of the Arts District twinkled in the night.  One block further away from town, neglect and poverty squatted like a feral animal in the pitch black.  In that darkness, a small square of light stole the image of Maggie Kennedy making her way to her father’s front door.  A hand masked in a teal surgical glove tapped an address onto the small screen: kris@justicia.net.  Send.

Distant music wafted across the bungalow porch as Maggie unlocked the door; Art Slam was in full swing down in BeBo.   She flipped on an old lamp and, as it was a pleasant night, left the front door open.  The beautiful detective unwound herself from her work digs, rolled up her sleeves and contemplated what would be for dinner.  She discovered that she had one whole onion and some pork, and that was as good a place as any to start.  As she went about slicing the onion, she turned the small, blue radio in the kitchen on to help fill up the lonely house, and so in this way, she did not hear the screen door creak slowly open.

A figure in a woolen denim coat crept up behind her on boots which made no sound. 

Maggie loved this song; she was bopping away to George Michael as the Figure reached over her head and throttled her with a white extension cord.  Maggie had just enough breath in her to utter a single word . . .

“Finally.”