Free Whale Season by N. M. Kelby Page B

winding up for a pitch. Jimmy Ray had a panicked Oh-No-Not-Another-Christmas-Day-Massacre look on his face.
    â€œMaybe we should just have some breakfast,” he said and quickly took the other plate for himself. “Mmm. Mmm. Looks good.”
    He tried to sound cheery. But he was, after all, looking forward to pecan waffles and country ham at The Waffle House.
    Dagmar was not buying his false enthusiasm. She sat down next to him. Glared. Jimmy Ray shrugged. Jesus tucked into the food with ferocity. He barely chewed, just pushed ham and bacon into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in a long time.
    â€œHe doesn’t seem to be breaking any laws,” Jimmy Ray said. “Honey, if there was an APB out on Jesus on Christmas morning, don’t you think I would have heard it?
    â€œI’ve not even heard a 10–96 in a week.”
    â€œ10–96?”
    Jimmy Ray clucked. “10–96. Psych Emergency. Dagmar, I’d expect a woman of your education to know these things.”
    â€œEven I knew that,” Jesus said.
    Dagmar was not in the mood to be bested by a guy in a sheet, but before she could say anything else Jimmy Ray patted her hand. “Sis, the only serious damage he’s doing is to those corncakes.”
    â€œCan’t fault a man who likes your cooking.”
    â€œLet’s not labor that point,” she said, gave Jimmy Ray a look that could melt cheese. “I guess you’re right, though. He seems harmless.”
    Then Jesus took a long sip of orange juice, swallowed hard, leaned in and said. “But I am Jesus and on some level that is profoundly disturbing. Even to me.”
    Dagmar and Jimmy Ray exchanged an uneasy glance.
    â€œI guess this still all boils down to whether you believe in miracles, or not.”
    Dagmar stood up to call the police.
    Jesus smiled. “While you’re up, a little coffee would help.”
    â€œSure,” she said. “Jimmy Ray?”
    â€œNo, sis. I’m good.”
    Dagmar frowned. “I meant would you help me?”
    Jesus smiled. “She wants you to go and call the police with her.”
    â€œI knew that,” Jimmy Ray said, rose from the chair spider-boned, and pained. “I got to stop sitting so long.”
    In the kitchen, Dagmar dialed 911. Whispered the details. After a few minutes, she hung up the phone.
    â€œYou’re right. There’s no APB on Jesus. He could be harmless. The operator was telling me that apparently you get a lot of this kind of thing on Christmas. Perfectly normal people start speaking in tongues. Too much stress.”
    â€œAnd that’s why everybody should be a Buddhist.”
    â€œThen the streets would be filled with guys dressed as Buddha and there’d be after Buddha Day sales.
    â€œAnyway, the operator said that unless we can find evidence of brain trauma—you know, like he’s been in an accident or had a stroke—they usually remember who they are within a few hours.”
    â€œIf he doesn’t?”
    â€œThen he’s probably a flaming nut job. But the police aren’t looking for him, so that’s some comfort.”
    â€œBottom line?”
    â€œTrot has the day off, and since it’s not an emergency, they’re not sure when they can send somebody else.”
    â€œWell, that’s okay. I kind of like him. He’s interesting. Got some opinions about the world. You don’t see that often.”
    â€œWait a minute, you’re the one who thought I should call the police in the first place. Which, by the way, was not very Buddhist of you.”
    Jimmy Ray shrugged. “Inconsistency is a protected natural right of all us old folks.”
    â€œSo what do we do?”
    â€œHe just seems a little lost.”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    The hum of the police scanners filled the moment.
    â€œBut he knew my name,” Dagmar said.
    â€œWell, how’s that a wonder? You got your picture on