“Maybe someone drank it, I don’t know.” She opened the closet, put her purse up on the shelf, then stood there a moment. The apartment smelled of his feet. His rolled tie was on the coffee table. His worn shoes lay akimbo by the bathroom door where he’d kicked them off. The bathroom was always his first stop. The water was running in the toilet. She jiggled the handle. Her newspaper was open across the sink where he’d left it propped for easy reading. She shook the air freshener can hard as if it were not just his odor she wished to obliterate, but him.
“What do you mean, maybe someone drank it?” he asked from the doorway.
“Over the weekend, I don’t know.” She eased past him.
“Don’t tell me he was here again, that Loomis character?”
“It was the weekend, so what does it matter who was here?” she said, taking the vodka from the bin, where it had been covered by ice cubes. “Here.” She handed it to him.
“No, I know. You’re right,” he agreed, eyeing the precise measure of vodka and vermouth. “It’s just I worry about you, Doe, that’s all. A woman alone in the city here, you’ve got to be careful.” He mixed the martini gently, with the sterling-silver stirrer she’d bought him last Christmas. Every year she’d filled his stocking with gifts he’d always leave here. “He may act like a nice guy, but don’t forget what he did.” He added a jumbo Spanish olive, gave a quick stir, then took a sip.
She refused to discuss Gordon, not just because it hurt so, but because Albert seemed so titillated by the relationship. “Actually, I’ll probably be moving in a few months. I need a bigger bedroom. For May Loo. And a yard for her to play in,” she said, smiling as always with talk of the child.
“So you’re really going to do it, huh? You’ve thought it all through, the ramifications, I mean, trying to raise her on your own and the whole, you know, different race thing?” he said almost squeamishly.
“Yes, I’ve thought it all through,” she said, bristling. She had forgotten that demeaning tone. And how inferior he could make her feel until she was second-guessing her every move.
“Raising kids, it’s not as easy you think, you know,” he said with a grunt as he stretched out in front of the television, stocking feet on the hassock. Even the oversize television had been bought to get him to come more often. “You gotta have the right instincts, and some people just don’t. They think it’s food and shelter and everything else’ll just fall into place. . . .”
She went into the bedroom to change. When she came out and went into the kitchen, he was still talking, now about his own parenting skills. He spoke in that hushed tone that came when he felt most profound. One of his biggest complaints about his wife had always been her flightiness. She had no depth, no interest in anyone’s opinions about anything, most especially not his. Delores turned the water on low. She was peeling an onion under the faucet when he came into the kitchen, looking irritated. He asked if she’d heard what he’d said. Most of it, she said, quickly turning off the water.
“I was telling Cheryl about you wanting to adopt, and she reminded me of her cousin Sandy and how she got turned down because of her fiancé. I told you about him, the ex-con? Remember? The rape? Statutory, but still. You see where I’m going with this, right? You’ve gotta be so careful. It’s like anything else, like with the business. It’s all about presentation. This perfect image you have to create. You can’t be having Gordon Loomis hanging around here. I mean, a convicted murderer, how’s that look to people? But especially an adoption agency? Is that the message you’re trying to send here? I don’t think so. Plus, I should think you’d be a little nervous yourself.”
“I can’t believe you told Cheryl. How could you do that?” She could just picture the two of them with nothing between them, nothing to share but titters about her. And Gordon.
“So I told Cheryl, so what? She could care, so what’s the big deal?”
“It’s a very big deal. To me.” Eyes stinging, she stared, knife in one hand, wet onion in the other. It took all her effort to put them down.
“Aw, come on, Doe. Don’t be mad. I’m thinking of you, that’s all. And of me too, I’ll admit it. I mean, I know how you feel, it’s like Cheryl said, ‘Tick, tick, tick,’ the whole biological-clock thing, so don’t be making any foolish, fast moves here, thinking all of a sudden you’ve gotta go find a job, a guy, move, and get a kid all before next week, before the sun sets, or your ovaries do whatever it is ovaries do. Because that’s what’s happening here. You’re, like, whoa”—he flapped his arms—“all over the place.”
He followed her into the living room, her silence inspiring him to new heights of benevolence. “So slow down, because we’ve got a very good, very solid, very important thing here, Doe. Just you and me, right? The two of us, still together after all these years. That’s pretty special,” he said with his most indulgent smile. “Don’t you think?”
She opened the door and set his smelly shoes and his tie down in the hallway. “You’re ridiculous, that’s what I think,” she said, her burst of laughter flooding her with relief. His whiskery face quivered in peevish confusion, but she couldn’t stop. “I’m sorry, but you are. You’re so ridiculous!”
CHAPTER 21
A
thunderbolt split the night with a savage
crack.
The room glared white. Gordon jumped out of bed, then stood dazed by the jagged edges flashing black-white-black-white, the hot, pulsing negative of nightmarish images slowly taking shape—rumpled bed, closet door, the cowering form in the mirror, his own. It was 3:43 in the morning. Needles of rain pelted the windows. Home. He was home. He sank onto the bed, head in hands. Dennis was right, he shouldn’t have come back.
Don’t, don’t do this,
he told himself, but the dark miseries were already nudging one another for the lead. There were too many distractions. Ever since he’d come home he’d been losing focus.
He went to the window and looked out. The rain was letting up, the thunder stalled in sluggish rumbles like a dead engine someone kept trying to start. He leaned closer. The bags were still on Mrs. Jukas’s porch. He grabbed the phone, put it down. He couldn’t call her this late. Had she walked right by without noticing them? The milk and juice were probably spoiled by now, the butter melted. Everything else would be all right, but the rain would ruin the sugar and baking soda.
He hurried through the side yards and picked up the wet bags. Somehow this would be his fault. She’d expect him to replace what had gone bad. This couldn’t have come at a worse time, no money, job, or friend in the world. He thought of Bernie Samuels in the next cell for the last two years. For Bernie, as often a prisoner as he was a free man, life on the outside was far too complicated. Bills, needy children, hounding women, cars that broke down. Going back in had been almost a relief. Just as criminals are locked up to protect society, so are the imprisoned safe from society’s expectations, the nuances of which are like an unfathomable language for some men. Maybe he was one of them, he thought as he toweled dry the last can. Maybe freedom was the worst punishment.
Nine in the morning, three calls, still no answer. Wincing, he tried again, more fainthearted with every ring, dreading her crabby tirade about the constant calls when she was trying to sleep. Relieved, he hung up, then left to get the paper at the drugstore. He’d had to buy it ever since the clerk caught him copying the want ads. He noticed Mrs. Jukas’s newspaper wedged between her doors. She always brought it in as soon as it came. He climbed the steps, rang the bell, then gave a few sharp raps on the door before starting off again for the store. He was on his way home when Jada Fossum came around the corner.
“Good morning,” he said quietly.
“Morning,” she muttered, and hurried on by, hugging herself in the eighty-five-degree heat. Highs in the nineties had been forecast for the next few days. The newscasts were warning people to drink plenty of fluids and stay out of the sun. Especially the elderly.
“Gonna be a hot one,” the mailman said as he came down the walk from the old Lang house on the corner.
“Yes,” Gordon said with a sudden jolt, remembering the old story of Mr. Petracolli, helpless on his cellar floor for days until a mailman found him.
The mailman slid an envelope into Mrs. Jukas’s door slot. He took a roll of magazines from his bag and stuffed them into her mailbox. “Here you go,” he said, coming up Gordon’s walk with the latest batch of overdue notices.
Gordon thanked him, then asked if Mrs. Jukas had mail in her box. Old mail, he tried to explain. “In her mailbox,” he added with an awkward gesture toward it.
“Just a couple catalogs,” the mailman said skeptically. “First class she has me put through the slot. Why?”
“I just wondered. I thought maybe she didn’t bring it in or something.” He shrugged uneasily with the young man’s puzzled scrutiny. “Her paper, it’s still out there.”
“She’s there, though, right? I mean, she’s not away or anything.” He took a notepad from his shirt pocket. “Must be, she’s not on my hold list.” He flipped it closed. If Gordon was worried, he could call in to his supervisor. They’d get a cop out to check on her.
“Oh no!” Gordon said quickly, knowing how upset she’d be. She was probably just resting, he reassured the mailman. And himself.
Gordon realized he had circled almost every ad in the column when he came to the Harrington Brewery ad. “Warehouse/stock. Excellent benefits. 555-2233.” Dennis had wanted him to do this in the first place. If he had, he might not be in this mess. He couldn’t very well ask his brother for help now, but doing it on his own might close the breach between them.
The man who answered said he was sorry, the position had already been filled.
“Mr. Harrington? Is that you?” Gordon asked, his throat constricted by such unnatural brashness.
“Uh, no, this is Bill Powers. Did you want Mr. Harrington? I’ll put you through.”
“No, that’s—” Gordon was saying when another voice came on the line.
“Mr. Harrington’s office. May I ask who’s calling?” said a woman’s clipped English accent. When he didn’t answer she repeated herself.
“Gordon Loomis,” he finally said, then heard a click.
“Gordon,” Mr. Harrington answered almost immediately. “What can I do for you?”
“I’d like a job, sir,” he said, eyes closed, cringing. “If you have one. Available, that is.”
“Certainly, Gordon, but off the top of my head I’m just not sure what’s available right now.” Had he tried Personnel? Yes, he just had. Mr. Harrington took his number. He’d look into it and get back to him as soon as he could.
The phone rang moments later. “Gordon. Tom Harrington here. I think we have something for you.” There had been a new hire, but Personnel said it hadn’t been finalized. Harrington asked when he could come in. Now, Gordon said. Right now.
He walked so fast to the bus stop that he was almost running. If they hired him and let him start today, he’d have almost a full week’s pay. With health insurance he could get a doctor to look at his aching hand. The slightest pressure caused a foul-smelling yellow fluid to seep out. He’d be able to pay some bills, maybe start putting a little aside every week, a cushion against emergencies. The house had seemed perfect at first, but now he was noticing the hairline cracks in the plaster ceilings and the rattling pipes. The paint on the back of the house was peeling, and the garage roof was starting to rot. With a steady salary he could buy what he needed to do the work himself. As the bus creaked along, he gazed out at the hot streets with growing pleasure. If he did get the job, he’d be Mr. Harrington’s best worker. He wondered if he should tell the interviewer he didn’t drink. It might be a plus. They’d never have to worry about that being a problem on the job, but on the other hand, maybe some knowledge of the product was required.
The bus passed Delores’s building and he peered up at her windows. He wondered if Delores liked her new job. She was probably very good at it given her own flashy sense of style. He had thought of her often in the last few days. With every problem he’d find himself wondering what Delores would say or do. By now she would have given him the inside story on the brewery, who was who and what to look out for. Thinking of her fortified him enough to push open the gleaming dark green doors of the brewery.
“Mr. Loomis!” The receptionist’s wide smile greeted him as if her day were complete now that he had arrived. He accompanied her down two flights, then through a series of unmarked steel doors. The familiar
bang! bang! bang! bang!
closing hard behind set him oddly at ease. They continued through a long, winding gray corridor. He’d never find his way back alone but it didn’t matter. She was tall and thin, with dark curly hair, a large hooked nose, and a watery trill of a voice. He wondered if she was single, then thought of Delores and felt guilty. “This is such a good place to work,” she was saying. “Everyone’s always so nice. And at Thanksgiving we all get turkeys. And then Christmas there’s a big party downstairs with lobsters and shrimp and every kind of hors d’oeuvre. I think you’re going to like it here a lot.” She paused at the double steel doors at the end of the corridor.
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m just here for the interview.”
“No problem. You’re in.” She opened the door into the bright, cavernous warehouse, where hundreds of green-and-gold cases of Harrington beer rattled along conveyor belts onto pallets, which forklifts moved onto wide ramps into the trailers of waiting trucks. The workers all wore green jumpsuits and weight belts.
“Mr. Loomis!” the barrel-chested supervisor grabbed his hand and shouted through the windowless clamor and stark lights. Gordon grinned. For the first time in weeks a sense of calm, of relief, settled over him.
Jada’s feet stuck to the floor as she tiptoed into the hot, airless bedroom. The old lady’s statues were still on the dresser. She reached out for one and her mother groaned, struggling to sit up. For the last twenty-four hours she had been drifting in and out of awareness. The old lady’s money had bought twenty rocks, and her mother had smoked them all. There was fifteen dollars left. Jada wanted to buy food, but every time she felt under the mattress for the money, her mother would wake up.