I'd Rather Be in Philadelphia by Gillian Roberts Page A

notice the ragged sofa—a piece rejected by shoppers at a previous Not-a-Garage Sale—and then he more or less crumpled into its sprung coils.
    “I’m sure—” I corked the reflex it’ll-be-okay noises ready to pour out. The man had problems. A sick wife with a difficult, high risk pregnancy, and money worries that put mine to shame. Situations did not automatically improve. It could be pretty dark indeed just before it became pitch-black.
    Instead, I poured him a cup of faculty brew, chewable caffeine. There was a typed message above the machine, warning us, in Helga-language, that leaving the coffee machine on endangered the physical plant. Somebody had added an e, so that Mr. Coffee now endangered the planet. I flicked off the switch and took a cup of tar to Neil, who sat straighter, his jaw clenched.
    “I’m not taking it,” he said.
    “No problem. It is pretty sludgy,” I admitted.
    “Not sitting down like this.” He made his point by standing up, and I grasped that he was not discussing my offering. “They think they have me with the fire, but I’ll show them.” He had the revelatory glaze of a fanatic.
    “Neil? Neil, who are you talking about? The fire was arson. Neighborhood kids. Terrible, but—”
    “You’re naive. But someday you’ll understand. I’ll see to that.” His voice lowered. “I’m going to get him, Mandy.”
    With a few long strides he was at the door. “Trust me. Wynn Teller will never, ever, pull tricks on teachers again. Whatever it costs, I’m doing it. After all, what do I have to lose?”
    The coffee sloshed over my hand as I ran after him, reminding him what he had to lose, like his wife and baby. But he was gone. I stood holding the cup until I accepted the idea that it was too late to stop Neil. I checked my watch. If I didn’t hurry, it’d be too late to meet Martha Thornton, too.
    * * *
    I had never before realized the trysting possibilities of Sammy’s Deli. Not only was eau de pickle an instant aphrodisiac, but the brown booths’ high wooden backs provided privacy as well. I had to search for Martha, who had arrived early and claimed the booth farthest from the door.
    She sat over a soda, looking like any suburban granny. No makeup, no purple tap pants, no—it seemed—personality. When I sat down, she smiled nervously while she fiddled with a plate of sour tomatoes and pickles.
    I suddenly panicked, wondering what I would do when she looked me in the eye and said, “He’s going to kill me. Help me.” Up until now, I had thought in macro-terms. I would save the woman in the book, period. I left the details of how to on-the-spot inspiration, and a hotline number I’d copied down.
    Martha fiddled with the pickle plate, then with her straw, and finally with the napkin dispenser, while I ordered half a chopped liver sandwich and simultaneously took a vow of future diet atonement. I would eat no more this day, and tomorrow I would eat the yogurt and apple in the school refrigerator, instead of succumbing to the chili dog and chips lunch menu, as I had today.
    Deferring virtue always relaxes me. Martha and I made talk so small it was infinitesimal. That was okay. She had called the meeting. She could set the agenda.
    Then my order arrived and, as if chopped liver were the secret word, Martha switched gears. “A minister’s wife is something of a public figure, dear girl,” she said abruptly. “One’s private life…well, there’s a reason they call it that, don’t you agree?” She didn’t check whether I concurred, but concentrated on folding and refolding a paper napkin until it was a stubby square.
    A tingle, like a mild electric shock, raced through me. This was it. I felt as if I’d been looking for her forever, although it was only forty-eight hours since I’d found the book. But now, like one of those people who search for water with a stick, I was shaking in the presence of my goal.
    “One is,” Martha said, now unfolding the square,