The Shining Girls

Harper ^{13 JUNE 1993}

Harper sits at the back of the Greek diner, under the mural of the white church and the blue lake, with a short stack of pancakes and crispy bacon, watching passers-by through the window and waiting for the stoop-shouldered black man to finish with the newspaper. He takes cautious sips of his coffee, which is still too hot to drink, and wonders if this is why the House would only allow him as far as this day. Because he never goes back to the goddamn place. He feels remarkably calm. He’s walked away from everything in his life before, too many times to count. He could be a drifter just as easily in this age, even with its crush and fury and noise. He wishes he’d brought more money with him, but there are ways and means to come by cash, especially with a knife in your pocket.

The old man finally gets up to go and Harper fetches another little packet of sugar and snags the newspaper. It is too soon for them to be reporting on Mysha, but perhaps there will be something on Catherine, and it’s this bite of curiosity that lets him know that he is not done. He could stay here, but eventually he would find other constellations. Or make up his own.

It’s only because the Sun-Times is folded over to the sports pages that he happens to see her name. Not even a real article, but a list of the Chicagoland High School Athlete of the Year awards.

He reads it carefully, twice, mouthing the names like they might help him unlock the glaring obscenity at the top: ‘By Kirby Mazrachi.’

He checks the date. It is today’s paper. He stands up slowly from the table. His hands are shaking.

‘You done with that, buddy?’ A guy with a beard to hide the fat around his neck asks.

‘No,’ Harper snarls.

‘Okay. Relax, man. Just wanted to check the headlines. When you’re done.’

He walks carefully across the diner to the payphone by the toilets. The directory hangs from a grubby chain. There is only one Mazrachi in the phonebook. R. Oak Park. The mother, he thinks. The fucking cunt who lied to him that Kirby was dead. He tears the page out of the book.

As he walks towards the door, he sees that the fat man has taken the newspaper anyway. He is overtaken by fury. He strides over, grabs the man by the beard and smashes his forehead into the table. His head ricochets back up, into his hands, his nose gushing blood. He starts whining in disbelief, a strangely high-pitched sound for such a burly man. The whole diner goes quiet and turns to stare as Harper shoves through the revolving door.

The chef with the mustache (gray, receding hair) is moving out from behind the counter, yelling, ‘Get out! You! Get out!’

But Harper is already on his way to the address on the listing crumpled in his hand.