Dead on Delivery by Eileen Rendahl

room and dragged a box out from underneath my bed. The book I was looking for was near the bottom, underneath a collection of the various belts that I’d gone through in my years as Mae’s student. I fingered the frayed edge of my white belt with its orange stripes. I remembered the day that Mae had tied it on me, showing me how to loop it properly. I’d been so little, she’d knelt on the floor in front of me to tie it. “This is a new beginning for you, Melina,” she’d said.
    I’d nodded. I’d been seven, but not stupid. This lady was different from other people. She didn’t make my skin feel funny the way the strange things that nobody else seemed to see did, but she made me feel different than my mom or my teachers or my aunt. I’d felt safe with her in a different way.
    I put the belt back in the box, shut it and shoved it back under the bed. Mae had changed my life when she had come into it. She’d made things make sense. Her leaving my life had made everything make a little less sense, but there was nothing I could do but cope with it. The knowledge that she’d given me had helped me be less afraid. Maybe a little more knowledge would help Norah, too.
    I came back out, plopped the book in front of Norah and said, “As long as you’re not doing anything today, I think you should read this.”
    She picked up the book and read the title. “ A Grimoire of Northern California .” She looked up at me, her head tilted to one side.
    “It will help you make sense of a lot of stuff. At least you’ll know what you should be afraid of and what you don’t need to worry about.”
    She still looked doubtful.
    “Just try it,” I said. “It can’t hurt you to try.”
    And with that, I hit the road.
     
     
    I WASN’T SURE WHO HAD MENTIONED MY CAR TO THE COPS and if they would be at Neil Bossard’s memorial service or not, but I didn’t think it was wise to take chances. I parked on the other side of the cemetery and hoofed it over to where the service was taking place. As a result, I was late. This is not exactly a news flash. I’m late a lot. It’s rarely my fault, or so I maintain. It’s hard to be on time when you never know what’s going to pop up and insist you deliver something to the opposite side of town right away.
    This time was my own fault. I shouldn’t have spent so much time with Norah this morning, but it wasn’t exactly right to let her sit there in the apartment and stew.
    When I got there, it wasn’t hard to blend in. There was a huge crowd. Elmville wasn’t that big. Half the town must have turned out for young Neil’s burial. There was a fairly large age range, with quite a few young people present. Lots of pretty young girls holding tissues to their faces. Lots of young men staring resolutely at the horizon and not meeting anyone’s eyes while they clenched their jaws.
    “That Neil should be taken from us so soon after he had been returned to us seems like the greatest cruelty,” the minister intoned from the graveside. I made a mental note. I needed to find out where Neil Bossard had been. “So many times when someone as young as Neil dies, people ask me how God can be so cruel.”
    I figured the middle-aged couple standing nearest the minister must be Neil’s parents. His mother’s face was chalk-white, her pain etched indelibly on her face. My own heart clenched a little as I watched her try and control herself. His father was a somewhat older version of the clench-jawed young men around us. He had the added duty, however, of making sure that his wife’s knees didn’t buckle beneath her. Next to him was an older woman in a wheelchair. Of the three, she seemed most clear-eyed and in control. Perhaps when you got to a certain age and had seen death enough times, it was easier to put it in perspective.
    On the other hand, I didn’t think there was any perspective where it would seem right for a parent to bury a child. It was one of those moments in the universe where one