Free The Messenger of Magnolia Street by River Jordan

were still alive as if she doesn’t have better things to do with herself with Wheel of Fortune coming on. Trice has been known to wander in and start reading right in the middle of a spin and that’s just about a sin. Not quite, but justabout. Magnus starts mulling over what exact types of sins there are that may not be listed in the Bible. She is thinking if she was God, she’d make everybody sit down and be quiet during Wheel of Fortune.
    â€œTrice, I need to get going if you’re coming.”
    â€œAll right, all right,” Trice says and gets up, releasing a tense ball of orange named Stella to the ground. Magnus names the cats. Trice buries them. Heavy work for her graceful hands, the very same ones that can go shooting off into the clouds and across the horizon when she needs to express her latest passion, but those dancer hands can grasp a shovel and hit the solid dirt with an iron will. Those hands will not back down. When the problem meets Trice, the outcome is really very simple, Trice wins. It is an unsuspecting advantage. One we might just be counting on.
    Friday, 5:57 P.M .
    Nehemiah is sitting at the kitchen table, holding a cup of coffee in both hands. He is staring into the cup so intensely that his eyes reflect back in the dark pool. He is still staring when Billy pulls up, still staring when he hears voices spilling up the porch steps. The screen door opens and Billy and Trice make their way into the house as Billy calls out, “Nehemiah?”
    Finally he hears “Back here” in response. From the hallway the only thing evident is Billy’s bulk on all sides, but when he steps into the kitchen there is Trice behind him in a white T-shirt, a blue jacket, and jeans. The sight of her brings him an unexpected comfort.
    â€œWell now,” she says, puts her hands in her back jeans pockets, leans against the kitchen doorframe.
    â€œYeah, I seem to have that effect on people.”
    â€œYou look like your old self.” Trice says, and I look from Nehemiah to Trice and back to Nehemiah. I write down electric current squared.
    Nehemiah opens his palms, looks at the empty skin. “We need to talk, Trice. We need to go over your dream again.”
    Billy walks to the counter, pours a cup of coffee. Gets the milk and sugar out. “Trice, you want coffee?”
    â€œMight as well, I have the feeling it’s gonna be a very long night. And it wasn’t as much a dream, Nehemiah, as an awakening.”
    Now they are where they are meant to be. Circled. Listening. Touching the very fringes of the truth. I want to shout, to encourage them, to say, “Yes, yes, now you’re moving. Hurry. Hurry.” But that’s not my job. My fingers stay wrapped around the liquid, my eyes focused on the fire.
    Nehemiah is contemplating how much to say, which stories to tell and which ones to hold at bay. He decides one piece will connect to the other. There will be no telling without all the details.
    Billy figures they need a starting point. Figures he should be good for something, so he offers to break the ice. “Nehemiah, why don’t you tell Trice about you knocking me down to get right back in that bed today and sleep like you were a dead man.”
    â€œTrice, have you ever heard a chiming clock down at the diner?” Nehemiah ignores Billy’s prompting, tries to assimilate. To figure everything out. And hopes, so very much, that he is not trapped all alone in some strange hallucinogenic psychosis. He thinks if anyone is going to be in the river of strange with him, it will be Trice.
    â€œNo.” She narrows her eyes, says in a hushed voice, “but I am hearing one right now.”
    Nehemiah and Billy freeze their positions, hold their breath, strain to hear the chimes.
    â€œGuys, I’m just kidding.”
    â€œLook here, Trice, I am serious, and I came down here on the hem of your dream, so the best thing you can do is help me out