The Last Time I Was Me. Cathy Lamb

for Kosovo or Mongolia.

      But how was I to know that a naked run along a river, a raucous bar fight, a self-painting ritual to decrease my self-anger, and a court trial that exploded into a media circus, would follow?

      How was I to know that I would finally be forced to do battle with my deep and abiding obsession with liquor?

      Oh, and one more wee little tidbit: How was I to know that the woman in the café who looked like she’d stepped off an Italian Renaissance painting, who spoke at great length with the cook about germs and germ-killing, would decide that a certain man had polluted our earth long enough and would execute the Elimination Plan, and that the other woman in there would help hide his body?

      That “other” woman?

      That would be me.

      How was I to know that?

      Had I known, I would have choked on my pancakes.

      And that would have been a shame because I love pancakes.

      “Welcome to Weltana, young lady,” the chef said to me as he rang up my bill, his braid over his right shoulder. “Are you staying around town or passing through?”

      I’d put him at about seventy. He reminded me of a white crane-but he was the most attractive white crane I’d ever seen. His name was Donovan and I later found out he used to be an opera singer in New York.

      “I’m not sure,” I told him. “I’m not too far from the ocean, am I?”

      He shook his head, handed me my change. “No, ma’am. You’re about three hours from it. Did you want to see the ocean?”

      Did I want to see the ocean? I sure did. Up close. Intimately knowing my own grave site would be helpful. “Yes.”

      “Well, by gum, if you take the highway outside of town toward the city you can bypass Portland and head straight on out by driving west. The sunsets are spectacular.”

      I could use a spectacular sunset. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d seen one. I had been too busy working my way into burnout and convincing myself that my faster-than-lightning life was dandy. That takes a lot of time, you know. Lying to yourself.

      “’Course we have spectacular sunsets here, too. Take a drive straight up the mountain. You know, a sunset is God’s last painting of the day. It’s his last gift to all of us before he gives us the gift of a sunrise.”

      I nodded. A last gift. I had given my ex a last gift and Slick Dick had called the police. It had been a particularly prodigious, poignant, and profound present to the prick that his psyche would probably be hard-pressed to forget. (I have always liked alliteration. Goes back to a favorite English teacher in eighth grade named Mrs. Gaddinni. In times of stress it comes in handy.)

      “Are you on vacation?”

      Vacation. “Well, I wouldn’t call it a vacation.” I needed a scotch on the rocks.

      “Ahhh.” Those blue eyes looked hard at me. Like I was worth something. “So, makin’ a change in your life?”

      Got me. “Yes, you could say that.”

      “Changes are good sometimes. Changes keep our hearts pumpin’.”

      “Sure does.” Sure as heck they do. Sometimes a change allows us to disappear, too. Disappearing for good appealed greatly to me.

      “So you’re looking?”

      “Looking?”

      “For a place to stay, a place to settle down for a while.”

      Hmmm. He was a smart one. He was peering at me closely and I knew he was paying more attention to what I wasn’t saying. “I guess you could say I am.”

      “Gee whizzers. I’ve got the perfect place for you.” He looked longingly at the Italian Renaissance woman for several seconds before he said, his voice gentle, “Rosvita, this is…” he paused.

      “Jeanne Stewart,” I said.

      “Jeanne Stewart. Jeanne, this is Rosvita DiLorenzo.” I shook hands with the Italian Renaissance woman. Her black hair, shot through with angel-wing white hair, was wrapped in a loose bun with a red flower tucked in the back. She wore no makeup. She had one of those curving figures and was wearing a sparkling red shawl, red jeans, and cowboy boots. She wore white gloves.

      I was later to admire her work with a .45.

      “Nice to meet you.”

      I murmured some pleasantries. I can be polite when pushed.

      “Rosvita has the finest bed-and-breakfast in town, Ms. Stewart. Rosvita, this young lady is looking to settle down for a while, although she wants to see the Pacific Ocean.”

      I looked at the chef. He reminded me of banana bread and cinnamon.

      I had not decided to settle here. Not at all. But I had to admit that I liked the tiny main street of town. I liked all the trees and Mount Hood towering behind me. I liked the pancakes and this chef who was pleasant and sung opera so well I shivered. Not a bad start.

      “I have a room if you’re interested in staying in town,” Rosvita said, her gaze intense “It overlooks the river, breakfast is included, and there are no germs there. I clean with disinfectants, two types, and bleach. I vacuum each day after dusting. Food is fresh and the refrigerator is completely cleaned out and scrubbed down twice a week. With bleach.”

      I nodded.

      “All food is cooked to a pulp to kill any and all bacteria. So you don’t need to fret that you’ll get salmonella poisoning. Salmonella poisoning is caused by gram-negative bacilli. Salmonella is a virulent member of the Enterobacteriaceae family. A family you don’t want to belong to, Ms. Stewart. Symptoms are fever, stomach pain, and diarrhea, although constipation can also occur.”

      I nodded again. Valuable stuff.

      “I make sure that the bathtubs are cleaned spotless. Inside a tub that other people have used can lurk many germs and diseases, and I am utterly aware of it. In fact, I’ve even heard that in a hot tub there’s a possibility-however slim-of contracting herpes. You do know what herpes is? Herpes is caused by Her-pesvirus hominis which is an infectious agent, not unlike a secret agent, and it does horrible viral damage. Symptoms are-”

      “Rosvita, please.” The chef held up both hands. “Let us not talk about herpes in a place that sells pancakes and bacon. It’s bad for the digestive system.” I could tell he found her immensely entertaining, despite the herpes talk.

      Rosvita put her hands on her red jean-clad hips. Closed her mouth. “My brother is a famous criminal defense attorney and he will tell you that there are many businesses that have been sued for enormous amounts of money because of diseases they have inadvertently passed on to the customer-”

      I jumped when Donovan burst into an opera song, his voice diving and soaring. When Rosvita stopped talking, Donovan stopped singing. “My dear Rosvita, why don’t you show Ms. Stewart your place?”

      She looked me up and down. “Come along.”

      As we left, Donovan stared with mopey eyes at Rosvita, threw his arms out wide and burst into another opera song about unrequited love.

      Rosvita’s house was not far off the main street. It was painted light blue with white trim. Flowers tumbled from boxes at each window. The yard was huge with a rolling expanse of grass, a few old fir trees, and a gated garden that was high on flowers. She guided me to the backyard and down some steps to the river. The river water was pure and rippling, trees towering on either side, the sunlight dancing off each crest.

      We stood in silence for a moment as I breathed. I still needed a scotch, but the quiet rush of the river was de-sizzling my overheated mind.

      Rosvita abruptly sat down and crossed her legs into a yoga position.

      What