When Pigs Fly by Bob Sanchez Page A

like a fighter getting up from the canvas, the birthplace of textiles and Jack Kerouac. Concord was wealthier, the birthplace of the Revolution and Ralph Waldo Emerson.
     
    A loud bang came from the parking lot, like a firecracker or a gunshot. Cal flinched and looked around. Mack felt bold enough to brush her arm. “Backfire,” he said. “The gunfire’s long gone from this town.”
     
    She laughed, apparently relieved. She had dark brown eyes, smooth skin with no obvious makeup, and a smile that was the loveliest he’d seen since—well, the loveliest he’d seen in a long while.
     
    “Where are you going in California?” he asked.
     
    “Don’t know, I’ve never been there. I’ll alight where the spirit tells me.”
     
    “What do you do for work? May I ask?”
     
    “Certainly. It’s a fine question that I ask myself daily. A writer, a waitress, a department-store clerk, an actress, an English tutor, a clown for birthday parties, a driver for a delivery service, a teacher’s aide and a few other forgettable things. Do you detect a lack of focus?”
     
    “I detect a survivor,” Mack said. “And if you’ll pardon my brashness, an attractive one.”
     
    “Thank you. I like how you slipped in that non sequitur. Are you single?” she asked.
     
    “I’m widowed.”
     
    “Oh, I’m sorry. Is your great-grandfather really buried here?”
     
    Mack nodded. “Not universally mourned. Can I buy you a cold drink?”
     
    A half hour later, Cal poked at a lime with her straw, making the ice clink at the bottom of her glass while he told her about the urn in the tote bag. She told him her full name, Calliope Vrattos.
     
    “Calliope. What a gorgeous name,” Mack said.
     
    “As a kid I hated it. Keep talking, though.”
     
    “I have great memories of carnivals, sneaking under tent flaps to see the bearded lady or the eight-foot-tall man, sauntering down the fairway, tossing rings at milk bottles, eating cotton candy, riding The Whip and the bumper cars and the roller coaster while the calliope played and the merry-go-round gave the little kids the rides of their lives.”
     
    “My dad was thinking more along classical Greek lines. It’s a word meaning beautiful voice—he must have liked the way I screamed as a newborn.”
     
    Overhead, a ceiling fan rearranged the air that lifted heat from Mack’s skin. His eyes traced the contour of the tanned shoulder he thought would be so soft to the touch. She noticed his gaze, glanced at her shoulder and shrugged. “You’re staring at me,” she said.
     
    “I’m busted.” Mack’s face warmed with embarrassment. “I was thinking along classical Greek lines.”
     
    “And I assume Mack is a nickname for—?”
     
    “Mackenzie. Scots-Irish heritage from way back. My mom called me Mackenzie when she caught me smoking or picking on my sister. To my friends I’ve always been Mack.”
     
    “Then Mack it is. It’s sweet that you plan to spread your friend’s ashes over the Grand Canyon. Would you show me the urn?”
     
    He held up a white ceramic cylinder with ornate red roses and gold trim painted around the circumference and on the lid. The design was definitely not George’s choice. He would have picked a manly motif, like a hunter in a duck blind. “Sweet? No. George Ashe didn’t do sweet, and he wouldn’t want sweet done to him. Seeing Arizona was his final wish.”
     
    She touched the container. “I’ve never seen one of these before. This is beautiful.”
     
    “Let me take you to dinner tonight,” he said.
     
    She puckered her lips and whistled. “Nice segue,” she said.

Chapter 16
     
    Back East
    Just after midnight, Ace and Frosty bought their round-trip tickets to Tucson and boarded the Greyhound bus in Boston. The driver stowed their bags in an underneath compartment, no questions asked, already a plus compared to flying. They shuffled down the aisle and sat in the back of the bus where there was extra room and they could