Coffeehouse Angel Read Online Free PDF Page B

it, will you leave me alone?"
    "I suppose I must. I have a message to deliver." I held out my hand and he dropped the bean into it. "Go on. Eat it."
    As if I'm going to eat a bean that's been sitting in a crazy homeless guy's pocket. Who knew what kind of germs lurked in there--maybe a few from that London sewer pipe.
    If I ate it, I'd get E. coli or dysentery or a huge tapeworm.
    "Go on."
    His wonderful, unidentifiable scent blew over me-- spicy and flowery at the same time. But even the world's best scent can't kill E. coli germs. I pretended to pop the bean into my mouth but kept it in my hand, an old trick from childhood when Grandma Anna used to give me cod liver oil capsules. While chewing air, I secretly slid the bean into my jean pocket. Then I fake swallowed.
    Alley Guy scratched his head. "Well, since I have no more business with you, I guess I should be leaving."
    "Okay. Good-bye."
    He collected his satchel and, to my relief, started up the steep hill. "Farewell," he called, his kilt swaying with each step. "Have a long and healthy life, Katrina Svensen."
    Along with the man reading the newspaper and the woman holding the grocery bag, I watched as he walked away. No doubt about it, that had been the strangest encounter of my life.
    "His eyes shine like the moon," the Hispanic woman said. Then she reached into her grocery bag and pulled out an enormous tin of coffee. She looked at the tin as if she had never seen it before.

Five
    W hy do we drink coffee?
    As kids we hate it. It's disgusting. But somewhere along the way we learn to accept the bitter flavor, even crave it. When does that happen exactly? I think it happens right around the time we realize that maybe nothing exceptional will ever come our way. That maybe we should just forget about Shirley Temples and pineapple punch and limeade, throw away the festive paper umbrellas and the maraschino cherries, and settle for a mug of brown liquid.
    On that winter afternoon, condensation coated the picture windows at Anna's Old World Scandinavian Coffeehouse. A wave of muggy air hit me as I stepped inside.
    "There you are," Grandma Anna called. She stood behind the counter holding an armful of wet towels. "I was worried about you. I almost called Officer Larsen."
    "Sorry."
    "Hello, Katrina." Four men waved from the corner table--Ingvar, Odin, Lars, and Ralph. Burly, wind-worn men who had captained fishing boats in the years when king crab had ruled the Bering Sea. Ralph was the only Native American in the group, and though an occasional argument arose about Native fishing rights, they were a solid bunch of friends. Retired, they met every other day to play an ancient Viking board game called Hnefatafl, which means "King's Table." My grandmother called these men The Boys.
    "Why's it so warm in here?" I asked.
    "Dishwasher went kapoot," Ingvar explained, an unlit pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth. "Spewed steam like a farting dragon."
    "Made a real mess," Odin said, moving one of the white pieces across the board. "Hey Anna, where's those sandwiches?"
    I followed my grandmother to the back room, where she dumped the towels into a basket. Her loafers squelched, soggy with sudsy water. "You didn't call Officer Larsen about the dishwasher, did you?" I asked.
    She smoothed her short gray hair. "Officer Larsen doesn't understand appliances.
    Ralph looked it over. He said it blew a pump and I'll have to order a new one. That's two dead appliances this month. I don't know how I'm going to pay for them." She sighed, then gave me a hug as she always did when I came in after school, squishing me with her big soft stomach.
    "Are we still broke?"
    "Now don't you worry about that." Grandma Anna shook a finger at me. "That's my concern, not yours."
    "Anna!" Odin cried. "You want a man to starve to death?"
    "You're too fat to starve to death," she yelled back. She grabbed the mop from the corner. "Could you make The Boys some sardine sandwiches? There's still a puddle to