by C.G. Banks
Chapter 6: The Contents
Earl’s Ace Hardware was a pretty extravagant affair just short of three miles from her front door. It was not much different (she imagined) than a male Aladdin’s Lamp. Tools of every configuration and size hung from the walls, huge pots and burners, insecticides and mailboxes, brooms and paintbrushes. It was as if an eccentric handyman had willed the contents of some secret cache of sheds, and these people had been the beneficiaries of the spoils.
Already there were work trucks parked outside (one loading plumbing supplies while a group of overalled men stood close by smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee out of stainless steel mugs) amid a bustle of activity around the propane tanks anchored within a fenced enclosure just outside the front door. She pulled into an empty space down from this, at the extent of the building where the strip-mall center began: a miasma of mismatched private enterprises, a karate clinic, floral arrangers, one derelict and lonely old place advertising frames in thick gold lettering. The sign over the front of the hardware store was so faded that it could barely be read from the road, but that didn’t seem to deter any business.
Patsy got out of the car and made her way past the plumbers (noticing as one caught a quick peek at her ass as she moved by) and through the front door. A checkout counter stood rooted into the floor a couple of steps away, practically wilting under the weight it had heaped on top. Racks of fish bait and quarts and gallons of honey, stainless steel pots (with related burners and implements) and a whole mess of dirty rental tools. There was not a soul behind it, but there were random shapes moving about in different places of the store. She glanced to the walls and moved right, skirting the side of the counter, sounding out for anything she might need and had forgotten to put on the list. Or had never known existed in the first place, she realized now as she looked around, suddenly glad the Impala had a big empty trunk. Because now inside, though she’d always considered hardware stores a man’s domain, she found herself inexpressibly captivated by all the stuff. Who would have even thought of half of it? Most of it she had no idea for what or even how someone would use it. But it was obviously not for decoration, all these pipes and joints, the plethora of casters and bins filled with nails of all sizes and practically all shapes; no, undoubtedly there was purpose. And lamps, to boot, (derelict looking enough to be mistaken junk from some grandmother’s garage), and enough insecticide to kill a small town. Bird houses clustered in a corner next to paint samples and gardening equipment, and there was even one lost corner devoted to the presentation of country/rustic mirrors and chimes.
Nothing seemed to fit together and it was just great.
It reminded her a lot of herself, really, and before she could take that train of thought any further a voice beside her said:
“Hep ya m’am?”
She jumped slightly, bringing both hands up in an unconscious act of self-defense. But she was lucky to catch herself in mid-stride and paint it off as something else because the face stuffed down beneath the brim of the Cat Diesel hat would have made a baby laugh. Tiny little doe eyes beneath an overhang of bristled black brows, the thin pointy nose and too-fat cheeks, the absence of chin and ponderous Adam’s apple. Like staring at Ichabod Crain in stained jeans and a baseball cap, all the incongruities endearing him like a clown with big, brightly colored shoes. She had to stifle the laugh that threatened and brought her right hand up to her mouth. She nodded her head, yes, quickly.
“Well, whad’ya need?” and the guy looked off, as if knocked askew by her rigorous examination and not all the healthier for it. Patsy coughed into her palm and carried her hand away. Finally in control.
“As a matter of fact, you could,” she said. She reached into her purse and withdrew the scrap of paper she’d been filling out before leaving. She had twelve items printed in her tiny script and Cat Diesel took the document almost reverentially. He looked at it for a moment and nodded his head. “Yeah, got most’a this.” Then he turned to face her again. “But I ain’t got no 50-watt bulbs. They make 40, 60, and 100.”
She smiled back disarmingly and touched his shoulder. “I’m sure the 60’s will do, if you don’t mind.”
“Yeah, well let me round it up,” he said and tucked his head away, already turning to the duty. “I’ll stack it by the counter,” he added and ducked behind a row of semi-assembled wheel barrels. Patsy stood there and watched him go, hoping she hadn’t hurt his feelings. But let’s face it, he was funny looking. She saw him bend down to retrieve something and, dismissing the moment, walked over toward the wind chimes. They were in both metal and bamboo and she ran her fingers through the closest. She smiled at the cascade of sound but it was as she turned toward the second one that she got the scare. Her eye happened across the surface of one of the rustic, burnished copper mirrors and caught the set of eyes on hers. It was just a quick peek but it held enough impetus to turn her around. And there he was, just now looking away, pretending to look through a stack of shovels pushed back against the wall. Coal-black hair cut at neck length, Hispanic, she thought. He looked back for a second, noticed her staring directly at him, before cutting around the corner and out of sight.
For the second time in as many days she found her heart racing, her breath coming in short little stabs. He’s just looking at you like the plumbers did, she tried to tell herself but to little affect. No, this wasn’t usual. She made her way down the back wall, working toward the side where the store opened up. There, right there, two rows down and facing the other way. Him again. She caught another glance he tossed over his shoulder and this time it was Patsy who looked away, hating herself even as she did so. She quickly forced her eyes back and he was moving again. Toward the door, not looking back now. Passing the counter where Cat and somebody else were rifling through something (probably her stuff), waving a hand to them as he pushed through the front door. And just like that he was gone. Patsy started forward, threading her way down the packed aisles and through all the stuff spread out along the floor, and when she got to the front door, she saw a light blue Ford full-size pickup backing up and driving quickly away. She could have sworn the driver (and it was him, definitely him) was looking her way as he went by.
Patsy turned back to Cat and his friend.
She thought about asking about the Hispanic guy but considered after her earlier faux pas she’d best leave well enough alone. She was the newcomer here, not these people. These people would all know one another, would have probably grown up around them all their lives. This was no time to be starting fires because they always had a way of growing, and she was a single woman. That thought stuck in her head like a dart into a dartboard and once again she was briefly revisited by the terror of the night before. The little table in the attic, the supposed movement in the back corner, the light suddenly flickering to black. Christ, thinking about it right now, in the light of day standing lost in the hardware store, it really was laughable. Something a kid would think up, some childhood paranoia that always caused the adults to pat them on the head while they winked at each other, telling the kids that everything was just fine. Just your imagination playing tricks on you, of course. And she knew that was right; what else could it be? She was making a pretty sad go at being a responsible adult, new homeowner or not.
“M’am, you okay?” she heard and Patsy found Cat rising from his knee, concern clouding his humorous features. It brought no laughter now. She noticed her hands were shaking and clasped them together in front of her. “You okay?” he repeated, on his feet now and moving her direction. The other guy was still down on one knee, looking, a little corner of grin sticking to his face. Fuckin’ women, he must be thinking, Patsy found herself thinking as Cat got closer. She looked at Cat and swallowed hard. Claustrophobia was coming down on her hard and fast. This time it was his turn to touch her shoulder. “Yer white as a ghost,” he said. She brought her hand up to her forehead, noticed how cold and clammy it was.
“Outside,” she managed. “Air.”
&n
bsp; “Yep, okay,” Cat Diesel said, and steered her in that direction. He pushed open one of the double glass doors and pulled her through to the outside. She knew how ridiculous this looked, how ridiculous it felt, and was supremely thankful that the group of plumbers had finished their business and gone on to fiddle with their pipes. “Sit down right here,” she heard as if from a tunnel and let herself be led in the offered direction. Cat sat her down on an oversized cypress rocking chair and took three steps back. “Ya feel awlright?” he said. “Ya color’s a little better.”
She nodded and managed a yes. He asked again if there was anything he could do and she said, “Water…please.” By this time the other guy was standing in the half-opened door, the question looming large on his face. When Cat moved past he followed the older man into the store and Patsy was left alone in the rocking chair. She was starting to feel normal again and realized what a horse’s ass she’d made of herself in front of these strangers. Here it was, the first place she’d visited since moving into her house, and she was having some sort of post-traumatic freak out. She put her head in her hands and stayed very still. That seemed to be the thing to put her back together again, but of course her mind raced on ahead. Maybe she’d forced this move; maybe she really had no business whatsoever buying the house and trying to pretend that everything was fine, that everything could return to normal. Again, the image of the gun underneath the car seat flashed through her mind. A goose walked across your grave, a hideous voice whispered way back there somewhere, and she shivered involuntarily.
Then, “M’am,” she heard Cat’s familiar voice and looked up. She hadn’t heard the door open and this time he’d left his friend inside. She could still see him, though, through the glass doors, standing by the counter but definitely looking their way. Cat had a tall glass in his hand and he held it out to her.
“Thank you,” she said, taking it from him and finishing off half the contents at a single gulp. Then she ran a hand across her brow and placed the glass in her lap, taking a moment to compose herself before raising her eyes to meet his. He was standing back a bit (a safe distance, the warning voice whispered again), his little doe eyes as wide as they’d get, his hands clasped in the classic fig-leaf pose. “I think I’m okay,” she told him, hoping her voice sounded better than she felt. “I just got a little dizzy,” (and then the lie) “that happens sometimes. Low blood sugar,” she added for legitimacy. Cat stood there and nodded his head as if, yes, he’d heard of that sort of thing, and it was really nothing out of the ordinary. But under his silence and the dull gaze she bit her lip, looked down at her lap, and finished off the rest of the water. He held his hand out to her as the ice clinked sharply to the bottom. She gave it back and he edged toward the door another couple of steps.
“Umm, m’am,” he said, clearing his throat and looking just past her left shoulder. “I’ve got them things ya had on yer list. Everthing. I can hold ‘em till later when ya feel better, or we can ring ‘em up an’ Ed an’ me’ll load it in yer car. Whateva ya want…” and he stood there in his aw shucks pose, looking in desperate need of a can to kick. His discomfort almost succeeded in bringing a smile to Patsy’s face, but she knew what he wanted more than anything else right now was to be finished with this strange potential lawsuit that’d walked in off the street.
“I think I’m all right now,” she said and made as if to stand. Cat held out his hands imploringly, his little doe eyes stretching impossibly wider.
“No, no! You just sit there while we handle everthing. All’s I need is a credit or debit card and you can check everthing off from the receipt. Ya still look a lil pale and there’s a lotta stuff you might trip over if ya get dizzy again,” and this time the implication was clear. They’d be better off with her gone. She cast her eyes down to the Welcome mat and swallowed back the acrid taste of irony. Then she nodded and dug through her purse until she found the wallet. She opened it and extracted the debit card, held it out to Cat.
“It’s a debit,” she said so he wouldn’t have to ask her any more questions and he nodded and headed back inside. He came out a few minutes later and handed both the card and the receipt back to her. She took them wordlessly and put them both in her wallet without so much as a glance. She was feeling better now, but she really, really, wanted to be the hell away from this place. She could scratch this one off the list for the future. She pointed down to the end of the hardware store where her Impala was parked, and stood up, her composure back in full it now seemed. She pulled her keys from the purse and touched the button that sprang the trunk. “Thank you for the water, and…the help,” she told him as he brought the first bag to the trunk, and he smiled back. The other guy, Ed, came shouldering up with two more bags and thankfully her hardware run was over and she could head back to the house.
She opened the driver’s door and started to get inside. “Ya be careful, now,” she heard Cat say and she raised her hand in acknowledgement. Then they were off and away down the sidewalk, heading for the double doors, glancing over their shoulders a time or two on the way as she sat and watched them go. Patsy breathed out a great sigh of relief and started the car. In retrospect she could hardly understand what had brought on the crazy spell in there. My God, for a second she’d thought she was going to pass out. It really didn’t make any sense. There were plenty of guys over the years who’d scoped her ass and tits (hell, what about the plumbers?) but it hadn’t been like that. With that guy it’d been something different, almost like she’d been a target of some kind. But of course that was crazy because she was doubly sure she’d never seen him before. Anywhere. But he’d sure left the goddamn hardware store in a rush. Peeled out of there like his ass was on fire, and for what? She hadn’t the slightest. She wasn’t from around here, didn’t know anybody around here, and couldn’t imagine what a middle-aged Hispanic guy would want with her other than to fuck her.
So, yes, a mystery. But one she’d have to mull over later, hopefully not in the dark with the house settling around her, but she had no control over that. Come what may. She put the car into Reverse and backed out of the parking spot. By the time she got to the pull-out she had only one thought on her mind. And that was if Cat and his trusty helper had forgotten the bolt cutters. She was getting into that box today come hell or high water.