“Who was the woman?”
“I wrote it down.” She unfolded the paper. “Jukas. Elsbeth Jukas.”
Delores tried to hide her relief. “Why didn’t they come in an ambulance?”
“He couldn’t get her to. He said she wanted him to drive her car, but he doesn’t have a license. Naturally! I mean, I didn’t even think of it until he said that, but he probably doesn’t even know how to drive, right?”
“Probably not.”
“Twenty-five years. God! I mean, think of all the things you’ve done in the last twenty-five years. Can you imagine?”
For eleven years there had been her job in the bank and shy Robert Cleary, five years younger and a high school English teacher. He told her through the teller window one fine June morning that he had accepted a job in Japan and would be leaving immediately. She wrote, but he never did. After Robert, there had been other men she met in clubs, on singles cruises, men she worked with, bowled and played softball with, single and married, blind dates, personal ads, it hadn’t mattered until she found herself spread-kneed on a paper-lined gurney with her feet in stirrups, hands muffling her ears against the ravenous sound of the suctioning. She was still bleeding and hating herself the day Albert Smick shuffled up to her window with his store’s deposits and a weary sigh. His salesgirl had quit just when he was finally able to take his wife and children to Disney World. He couldn’t afford to close down the business, so he was on his way home to tell them they’d have to go without him. Go, she said; she’d run the store for him. She had tons of vacation time, and if ever she needed a change in her life, it was then.
“It’s weird,” Karen was saying. “He’s older, of course, but he stills looks the same. It’s like nothing’s changed. Like not having his license, like nothing’s happened, nothing’s left its mark on him. It’s like he’s not really real, you know what I mean?”
“Did he know who you were? Did you say you were my sister?”
“I did, but he was, like, out of it. He just sat in a corner, staring down at the floor while they worked on her.”
“Is she all right? She didn’t die, did she?”
Poor Gordon, having to go through that alone.
“No. They took her up to Cardiac Care, but the whole time he’s like, wringing his hands together, and all I can think is, Oh, my God, they’re so huge, that poor Janine Walters, she never had a chance.” Karen leaned over the counter. “When you went up there on those visits, did he ever do anything, you know, to make you nervous?”
“No.”
“He just seems so . . . so, like, coiled.”
“He’s just quiet, that’s all. He’s shy, reserved.”
“Did he ever say anything about the murder?” Karen’s eyes gleamed. “He did, didn’t he? Come on, Delores. You can tell me.”
“No. But I wouldn’t say anything even if he did.”
“Oh, come on, you know you would. You’ve never been able to keep a secret, Delores, and you know it.”
Mrs. Jukas was still in the hospital. “She’s a tough old bird,” the nurse had told Dennis when he called. Gordon felt almost as useless as the night Mrs. Jukas called, gasping that she was having a heart attack. There was little she’d let him do, other than wait on the porch for the cab, then help her into it. The only thing she’d said before they wheeled her away was, “Keep them away from my house.” Her grass needed mowing, but he wouldn’t dare cut it without her permission. Sticking out from her door was a white card that hadn’t been there yesterday. He hurried onto her porch. It was from the gas company, a postcard for reading the meter. He slipped it through the brass mail slot in her door, so no one would know she wasn’t home. A brief but violent windstorm had littered both yards with broken branches. He bundled them all and left them on the curb in front of her house for pickup along with one of his own trash bags for additional signs of life.
Across the way, Jada’s puppy was caught in a frenzy of barking at the end of his tangled rope. Tied to the railing, he had only a few inches of slack left after all his jumping and running in circles. Gordon felt bad for the frantic creature but continued on his way to work. The kinder he was, the more the girl wanted from him.
That night he had just finished dinner when Jada showed up with the puppy in her arms. He spoke to her through the locked screen door. She asked if he had any leftovers. She had run out of dog food.
“What about your mother? Can’t she get some?” He had seen Marvella Fossum leaving the house only moments before with Ronnie Feaster.
“She’s asleep,” the girl said, lowering her voice as if not to disturb her. “And Leonardo’s hungry. My poor little baby’s starving, aren’t you?” She kissed the puppy.
“That’s what you named him? Leonardo?”
“Yeah! Cool, huh? That’s who he reminds me of.”
“The painter? Leonardo da Vinci?”
“No!” she hooted. “Leonardo DiCaprio! The guy on the
Titanic
,” she added, seeing his blank expression.
“Just let him have the meat. He might choke on the bone,” he said when he came back. He passed the foil-wrapped packet through the door, then locked it.
“Smells good.” She and the puppy sniffed at the packet. “What is it?”
“Chicken.”
“Oh! KFC? I love their new barbecue kind. But this isn’t, though. I can tell by the smell.”
“It’s baked. I made it.”
“Oh!” She parted the foil. “Well, I gotta see how good a cook you are, then, right?” With the dog straining to get at it, she bit into the drumstick. “Delicious,” she said, then took two more bites. “You’re a really good cook!”
He smiled. “Maybe I should get you another piece, huh? I think you’re as hungry as he is.”
“Well, I am, a little. We were gonna have takeout, but then my mother had to . . . go and fall asleep.”
As he ripped off a larger sheet of foil, he heard the door handle jiggle against the lock. He wrapped up another drumstick, a cold baked potato, and some green beans. She thanked him, then glanced across the street. “I’m not supposed to be over here. My mother, she thinks every guy I talk to’s tryna come on to me.”
Two nights later she returned with the puppy. Her mother had bought dog food, but Leonardo hated it, and her mother said, well, too bad then—it could just sit there on the floor and rot until he got hungry enough to eat it. “She said she doesn’t need two fussy eaters in the house!” Jada called after him as he headed into the kitchen.
She was halfway across the street with her packet of steak and macaroni and cheese when Ronnie Feaster’s SUV pulled up. Her mother got out and started yelling at her. Gordon closed the door. A few minutes later, Ronnie Feaster knocked on his door. His smile was like the flick of something sharp in the night.
“What do you want?”
“No, it’s not me, man. It’s Marvella. She’s like flipped out over there. She’s knocking the kid around, she’s gonna call the cops, she doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing, so that’s why.” Each phrase was punctuated by his open hand across his chest. “I’m just the messenger, that’s all. She’s a weird kid, you know, like way too . . . well, you know what I mean, so just don’t be . . . don’t be thinking, you know, cuzza Marvella, it’s okay or anything.” His cold eyes fixed on Gordon’s. “Cuz it’s not. It’s really, really not.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, horrified.
“Like I said, I’m just the messenger.”
“I gave her food for the dog.”
“That’s what she said, but that Jada, she’s got more stories. Like, she says you’re always tryna give her things.” Feaster’s eyes narrowed. “Just don’t try giving her
that
thing. Okay?”
“Hey, wait up!” Jada called the next morning. He walked faster. He didn’t want Marvella Fossum to come screaming out her front door. “Wait! I gotta tell you something!” The girl ran after him. “Guess what today is,” she said, catching up. Her quick smile had a glare to it. Like light in a dingy room, it made her young face seem haggard and gray.
“I don’t know,” he said, relieved to be turning the corner. “What day is it?”
“My birthday!” That’s why she was going to school early. To tell all her friends, she said in that glass-bright, too easily shattered voice that was held together by lies and hope. He thought of Rodney Swift, whose high-pitched, breathless tales of wealth, fame, and thousands of sex partners ringing through the night only brought him threats and kidney punches the next day. No matter how they bruised and bloodied him, nothing could ever make Rodney sad. His irrational joy only seemed to thrive on the abuse.
“Happy birthday. How old are you?”
“Thirteen.”
“Well, that’s a good age, thirteen.” He didn’t remind her that she’d told him a few weeks ago she was thirteen.
“How come?”
He tried to think why. “Well, now you’re a teenager. That’s a big step.”
“Yeah, but I still can’t do anything.”
“What do you want to do?”
When they got to the drugstore, she scurried around grabbing handfuls of scratch tickets from the sidewalk. She peered closely at each one, discarding them as she talked. “Like go in there and buy my own cigarettes. Jeez, one more spade and I’d have a free one,” she said with the next toss.
“You smoke?”
“Yeah, sometimes. But now I gotta buy them from Thurm.”
“Thurman? He sells cigarettes?”
“Yeah, in the parking lot, but not whole packs. Just like fifty cents a butt. I used to sneak them off my mother, but I can’t now. She keeps them on her all the time. Bummer!” She threw the last card into the gutter. “There was this guy once, he won a million bucks off a card he found. He just picked it up and next thing you know he’s got like a chauffeur and a butler and this big mansion with a heated pool.”
“Really?” He wondered if Thurman was stealing the cigarettes from the Market.
“Yeah. And a stretch limo and his own jet.”
“He certainly was lucky.”
“Yeah, like me. I’m lucky. I’m wicked lucky.”
“You win things?”
“Yeah! I win stuff all the time. Like Leonardo. I won him.”
“Where? Where’d you win him?”
“From a pet shop! Where the hell do you think?” She laughed. “They had this humongous jar in the window. It had like all these . . . these dog-bone biscuit things in it and the person that guessed how many won. Every day I went by that window and I couldn’t figure it out, and then one day I’m walking by, and all of a sudden my brain goes—9,834 dog bones. And guess what? That was it! The exact right number. I couldn’t believe it!”
“Good-bye now,” he said when they came to the Market. The new line was being delivered today. PREMIUM GOURMET COMESTIBLES, read the gilt-edged black lettering on the door of a small red van in front.
“Hey, that steak, that was good. That was so good,” Jada called after him.
Neil was already slicing open the boxes. The Premium salesman squatted next to him, filling the lower shelves.
“Hey, Gordon! C’mere and see,” Neil called, gesturing. “This is it. The icing on the cake.” He held up a jar of capers. “So what do you think? Is this a first-class operation or what?”
The salesman looked up and started to smile.
Gordon hurried past them into the storage room.
“What was that all about?” Neil asked, coming in a moment later. “I ask you a question and you just walk away?”
“I had to do something.”
A smile quivered at Neil’s mouth. “You know who that was?”
Gordon nodded. Eric Reese, Jerry Cox’s best friend. At the trial, Reese had testified that he and Cox had skipped school. They spent most of the afternoon drinking at Reese’s house, which was across the street from the Walterses’. Cox told Reese that Mrs. Walters was always trying to come on to him. Whenever he did yardwork, she walked around inside half-dressed. Wishful thinking, said Reese. Cox then made similar remarks about Reese’s girlfriend. They argued, and Reese told him to leave. A little while later Gordon turned a corner and ran into Cox, who was angry and drunk. Gordon was pleased Cox knew his name and flattered by his confidences as they hung out in the park. He didn’t know who the horny Mrs. Walters was, so Cox said he’d show him where she lived.
“He’s as surprised as you are.” Neil stepped closer. “He didn’t know you were out. Nice guy, you ought to go say hi to him.”
“I don’t think so.”
“He said he always felt bad for you. He said right after Jerry got out they went drinking, and Jerry starts crying and telling Reese the thing he felt worst about, worse even than the girl’s dying, was you. He said you got screwed. The next day he blows his brains out. Reese said after that he always wondered. He just asked me, he said, ‘What’s he say about it?’ ”
“I’m not going to talk about this.”
“Well, I’ve got a right to know. I mean, I’ve got obligations to those people out there.” He pointed to the door. “They don’t know what to think. All they know is what they heard. The girls, they won’t ask you, but ever since that thing with Ferguson, they’re scared.”
“Well, if they are, I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Yes, there is. They want to know, they keep asking me, what’s the story. What am I supposed to tell them?”
“Whatever you want, Neil. It’s up to you.”
CHAPTER 10
G
ordon was getting ready for his appointment with his parole officer. Their first meeting had been little more than a bureaucratic checklist, restating the terms of parole along with names of various social service agencies and temporary shelters if he needed them. He showered, shaved again, shined his shoes: nothing left to chance. Mazzorio would have no doubts about his suitability as a free man. He was struggling with his tie knot when the phone rang.
It was Delores. Her sister Karen had told her about Mrs. Jukas coming into the emergency room, and she just wondered how she was doing. All right, he told her. As it turned out, she hadn’t had a heart attack. She was supposed to come home in a few days.