Our Daily Bread

by Lauren B. Davis

“Think you can sleep?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’ll leave the hall light on, okay?” He kissed her on the top of her head, which smelled of her special coconut shampoo. Ivy’s hair tangled so.

  “I love you, Daddy.”

  “I love you, Ivy.”

  He went back downstairs to the living room.

  “Why didn’t you tell me Ivy’s so scared of the dark?” he said.

  “She is? I didn’t know that.” Patty frowned and raised an eyebrow. “This must be something new. She tell you that?”

  “I don’t think it’s new.”

  “It must be. I would have noticed.”

  “Well, she’s sure as hell scared now. Checking her hair to see if it’s turned white, for God’s sake.”

  “No! Really? I used to be like that when I was a kid. Scared of everything.”

  “You’re going to have to keep an eye on her when I’m not here. Check on her a couple of times a night. I promised her you would. And I said I’d fix up a new light switch, so she doesn’t have to go down the hall in the dark.”

  “Don’t fuss over her too much, Tom. She’s got to grow out of it.”

  “I won’t have her being afraid. I gave her Dad’s old Scout whistle to blow in case she gets scared. Just so you know. I don’t think she’ll use it. More like a talisman to keep the bogeymen away.”

  “What did you do that for? She blows on that thing and I’ll have a heart attack.” She turned back to the ghostly morgue on the television screen.

  He checked on Ivy before he left for work. She slept with the whistle in her hand and the cord around her neck. He told himself it was all right, that she wouldn’t strangle as she slept. But she might. I should take it off. But what if she loses it in the bed and wakes up frightened? I said it would be there. Better to leave it. He made a move toward the bed, and then stopped, started again. He shook his head to clear away the cobwebbed indecision. Christ, get a grip. Tomorrow he’d get her a night light, fix the switches. He’d build a moat around her bed if necessary.

  Two days later, Tom was getting gas at Ed’s Garage, talking with Ed about the possibility of a poker game one of these nights. Both men leaned with their backs against the truck as the pump clicked away. Ed was a wiry little guy with abnormally hairy ears. Ivy called him an elf and had been afraid of him until recently.

  “You wanna get out of the house more often,” said Ed. “Guys are starting to think you’re whipped.”

  “It’s not Patty. It’s just the hours. I’m dead by nine o’clock. I’d fall asleep in my beer.”

  “Maybe you’d finally lose once in a while then.”

  Another car pulled up and Ed called for Bill Bodine. “Where is that asshole? Supposed to be changing oil for Pataki, but do you see him anywhere? Probably in the can with a joint again. I’d fire his ass if he wasn’t such a good mechanic. Don’t go. I want to pin down a date.” And he stepped away to serve his customer.

  Tom turned and unhitched the nozzle from the gas tank when the pump hit twenty-five dollars.

  “Hey, Tom, long time no see,” a woman’s voice said. He looked up to see Rita Kruppman—correction—Rita Cronin standing in front of him, tossing her car keys from one hand to the other. Rita was tall and lean, with dark honey-blond hair pulled back into a simple ponytail. Her face was makeup-free, covered with more freckles than ever and her eyes clear and blue.

  “Hi, Rita,” he gave her a peck on the cheek, “how are you?”

  “Well. Fair I guess. Holding up.”

  “Oh? Kids okay?” Tom looked past her into the blue SUV she was driving these days. Rita’s freckled twins, Gabrielle and James, sat in the back, both with little headphones in their ears. They stared at him with bored expressions.

  “They’re thirteen.”

  “Right.”

  Tom noticed Ed looking at him. Ed grinned and winked.

  “You all right?” She looked in rude good health. “Not sick or anything?”

  “You must be the only person in town who doesn’t get the gossip.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Tom, Harry and I are divorcing.” She dropped her eyes and went pink between the freckles.

  “Oh, man. Rita. I’m really sorry. I thought you guys were doing great.”

  “Yes, well, so did I. He said he felt stifled, that he needed to toss, and I’m quoting here, ‘a grenade into the trench of our marriage.’ Sadly, he forgot the children and I were still living in that trench.”

  “Ouch.”

  “No other woman, or so he says. He’s moving to Utah. Maybe he saw Brokeback Mountain and got ideas.”

  “Meaning?”

  Rita shrugged, looked at Tom pointedly.

  “No way. Harry’s gay? Come on, Harry’s not gay.” Tom had played football with Harry. It wasn’t possible; the guy was a linebacker in high school.

  “Well, if he is, he couldn’t very well live in this town, now could he?” Rita shook her head. “I don’t know. I really don’t. Let’s just say the twins were a miracle.”

  Tom was speechless. He jingled the coins in his pockets.

  “Oh, shit. Too much information. Sorry.”

  “It’s all right. I’m just kind of shocked.”

  “You and me both. Don’t say anything about that last bit, will you? I don’t even know why I told you.”

  “No, course not.”

  “The good news is he left us set for cash.”

  “That’s good. You still teaching?”

  “Which really, is what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “School?”

  “Well, Ivy, actually.”

  “What about her? I didn’t think you were teaching her this year.”

  “I’m not, but, Tom, well, I’ve seen some things around the school and I wasn’t going to mention anything. I mean, it’s not anything serious. It’s just that Ivy’s such a sweet kid, and so smart.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But has she talked to you about getting picked on?”

  “No.” Tom’s stomach suddenly felt sour. He looked around and realized Ed had disappeared into the office. Why? Discretion? About what? Ivy or Rita? “What do you mean, picked on? Bullying?”

  “No, no, nothing that serious. Just some girls who think they’re special looking for someone to, I don’t know, set apart. You remember how it was at school, one week it would be the kid who’d let loose a loud fart and everybody teased him, the next somebody had a huge pimple—you know what kids can be like and, I’m sad to say, especially girls.”

  “What are they picking on Ivy for? And why isn’t the school doing anything about it? Nobody’s called us. Nobody’s told us a damn thing.”

  “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger, Tom. If we thought it was really serious, of course the school would be in touch. It’s not like that. I just thought you should know. It’ll all blow over, of course, and next week I’m sure they’ll be on to somebody else. You know . . . She’s so sweet . . .”

  Rita reached out and put her hand on his arm and then took it away again. Gabrielle rolled down the window and yelled, “Mom, I’m going to be late!”

  “Hang on a minute! Look Tom, it’s all schoolyard nonsense. No one holds any store by it. It’s all for effect.”

  “I’ll talk to her.”

  “I know you will. You’re a fantastic father.”

  Gabrielle hollered again. “I have to go.”

  “Rita, listen, I’m really sorry about Harry.”

  She looked at him, her expression sad and weary. “Life just doesn’t turn out like we planned, does it, Tom? See you around.”

  Tom paid Ed, not really listening to what he was saying about poker or how good Rita looked these days, now that she was single again.
All Tom could think was Ivy, getting teased like that and not saying anything. He didn’t have the faintest idea how to deal with it. Driving along Franklin, he scowled at every face he saw. The world was full of shadows, places where things were happening that he couldn’t see. So much could happen when you weren’t looking, when you weren’t paying attention. Look what happened to Rita and Harry. Look how that ended up. A horn sounded and Tom slammed on the brake just as he was about to run a red light. The driver in a landscaping truck swore as he passed. Tom shook his head, realized he was trembling. See? Just like that, you weren’t looking and then everything changed.

  Chapter Seven

  Proverbs 11:19. “As righteousness leads to life, so he that pursues evil pursues it to his own death.” When a good man dies he not only goes to heaven, drawn thither by the natural forces of spiritual gravity, by the approval of God and angels, but when a good man dies he goes to heaven by the common consent of every intelligent creature in the world. When a bad man dies he not only goes to hell, drawn thither by the natural forces of spiritual gravity, not only by the approval of God and His angels, but when a bad man dies he goes to hell by the common consent of every man in the world.

  —Reverend Sam P. Jones,

  visiting preacher, Church of Christ Returning, 1885

  Albert stepped into mavericks first, with Bobby on his heels. Since that day by the bridge, Albert managed to run into Bobby six or seven times as the kid walked home from school. He was always alone, except for one instance, when Bobby had been with a group of jocks who clearly only tolerated the skinny, sunken-chest boy. On that occasion Albert passed on by with only a toot of the truck horn. The other times they’d gone for a drive, talking about Bobby’s family, mostly. He said his little sister was a prissy pain in the ass. According to Bobby, neither of his parents gave a shit what he did as long as he didn’t get into trouble. There was trouble in the Evanses’ marriage, apparently, but Bobby wouldn’t elaborate. Albert didn’t push. There was no rush. And today was a big day. Today he’d get the kid his first beer in a real bar.

  Maverick’s was a long room—the ancient, battered wooden bar on one side, with a mirror behind it, and a few tables on the other. In the murky light beyond that lurked a row of booths, tall backed, favoured spot of those wanting to do a little quiet business in private. A cigarette-burned pool table and a few stools were tucked into an alcove off the bar. Stevie Ray Vaughn’s guitar moaned from the speakers mounted on the walls. A small television sat on a shelf behind the bar, turned to a boxing match. The floor was blotchy with various stains, some darker than others and if you looked in the corners you would find piles of dust, ash, hair and mouse turds dating back to the late eighteen hundreds when the place first opened. A window stood on either side of the padded vinyl door, and the bent venetian blinds permitted only slats of mote-strewn light. The room was empty at four o’clock in the afternoon, before the shift workers from the paint factory and the county crews came in for their wind-down Rolling Rock just after five. Finn the bartender was the only guy in the place, filling plastic bowls with peanuts and pretzels. The air reeked of old beer and last night’s cigarettes. Finn was a man with a permanent frown and deep pouches under his pale eyes, characteristics gained from too many late nights and too many disappointments concerning the nature of man. When he saw Albert come through the door he nodded, as though expecting him, and then he saw Bobby.

  “He can’t come in here, Erskine,” he said.

  “You want what you want, or not?” Albert slid a paper bag across the bar, which Finn quickly grabbed and tucked into some crevice below the bar. Albert took the bills Finn handed him, counting them before he put them in the pocket of his decrepit leather jacket. “Where are your manners, Finn? Don’t you even say thank you?”

  “I’m eternally grateful, but like I said,” the bartender pointed at Bobby, who still stood by the door, “he can’t come in here.”

  “Don’t be like that, now, Finn. He’s eighteen,” said Albert, while Bobby rocked back and forth on his heels, his hands deep in the pockets of his army surplus jacket.

  Finn snorted. “Even if that were true, it doesn’t mean shit, now does it, since the legal age is twenty-one?”

  “Kid can have a fucking soda, can’t he?” said Albert.

  “Sure he can. Take him over to Gus’s Corner,” Finn said, naming the diner a few doors down the street.

  “I can’t get a beer in Gus’s. Come on, man, don’t be a hard ass. It’s not like he’s the first underage guy ever been in here, now is it?”

  “This isn’t the fucking Olive Garden. Who is he? He’s not one of your cousins.” Finn looked Bobby over. “Aren’t you—”

  “You’re worried about too many Erskines in one place? Is that it?”

  “I don’t care, man, let’s go,” said Bobby.

  “Don’t make a fucking federal case, Erskine.”

  “Me? That’s rich. I just come in with the kid to get a fucking beer.”

  “Sit at the back. You see a uniform walk through that door you get the fuck out like your ass was on fire. Clear?”

  Albert clapped Bobby on the back. “You’re a real prince, Finn, a real prince. Bring us a Bud and a cola. And bring some peanuts and a pack of chips.”

  Albert and Bobby sat in a split-leather booth at the back, near the bathroom fumes of piss, the under-note of vomit and whiff of rotting garbage from the alley. Bobby faced Albert, where he couldn’t be seen from the door. Finn put the beer bottle, with a glass upturned on top of it, and another glass of cola on the bar, next to a bowl of nuts and a plastic package of chips.

  “Come and get it,” he said, and turned back to the two men knocking the crap out of each other on the television.

  Albert stared at his back for a minute, willing him to turn around. “Fucktard,” he said under his breath, and then fished in his pocket for a couple of bills. “Go get it, Bobby.”

  When he’d fetched their food and drink, Albert pushed aside the cola and poured half his beer into the glass. “Here,” he said.

  “You sure it’s okay?” said Bobby, looking around the corner of the booth in Finn’s direction.

  “Drink the goddam beer,” said Albert.

  “Why are you pissed off at me?”

  “I’m not pissed off at you. Fucking Finn. He expects me to show up here every week with his weed, special delivery, like I’m a fucking UPS guy, and I do, man, I do. I am reliable, a dependable businessman. And then I get attitude. What the fuck’s that about?”

  “Maybe he’s just having a day.”

  “Maybe we’re all just having a day.” Albert scowled into his beer.

  The fact was, it was bad at the compound. The Others, what with their new enterprise, were getting more customers than the bootleg used to bring in. What did they do, have a newsletter or something? How did people know? All these wild-eyed, scraggle-toothed, skin-rotting tweakers willing to do pretty much anything for a fix. The Uncles were picking out some of the prettier girls, getting them to trade sex for meth. One of the side effects of meth was an increased sex drive, along with the paranoia and compulsive behaviour—the hour after hour of going through the complicated rituals of cooking the drug, driving across the state looking for pharmacies where they could get cold medicine without being noticed. Yeah, they were all having a day.

  “So, you like, sell dope?” Bobby kept his voice very low, leaning forward.

  Albert leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, staring at Bobby until Bobby dropped his eyes and sat back as well.

  “Maybe,” said Albert.

  “Maybe I want to buy some,” Bobby said.

  Albert laughed so loud Finn turned and looked at him. “Jesus, kid, you are something else, you know that? What do you want to buy? Crank? Hillbilly heroin? Tootsies? Casper? How much? You got the cash, little brother?”

&nb
sp; “I don’t know. A couple of joints maybe.”

  “Hell, I’ll give you a couple of joints. Between friends, right?”

  “Yeah?”

  Albert leaned forward and grabbed Bobby’s upper arm.

  “Hey,” Bobby said, trying to pull away.

  “Listen, I ever catch you doing crank or oxy or any of that other shit, I’ll break you in half, you got that?” Albert’s face was close to Bobby’s and he could smell the cigarettes on the teenager’s breath. “I sell a little grass, home grown, and that’s all I sell. Fucking slammers and bulb babies are a blight. Zombies, man, that’s all they are.”

  “I don’t do that stuff.”

  The boy’s eyes darted sideways and downwards, and Albert could see the confusion. There was a little bead of sweat on his upper lip, on that soft little fuzz the kid probably shaved hoping it would grow in thicker. He likely didn’t even have pubic hair yet.

  “Come on, man. Honest,” Bobby said. “Let go of my fucking arm.”

  Albert smiled and patted the side of the boy’s soft face. “You’re a good kid, I know that. It’s just that I care about you, okay? I don’t want to see you fucking up your life. There’s things a man can do, and things a man can’t. It’s like a code, right?”

  Bobby rubbed his arm. “A code?”

  “Yeah, a code,” said Albert, warming to the subject. He liked giving Bobby Evans little lectures, liked the way the boy listened, soaking it all in and not interrupting like the kids up at the compound did. They had no respect. Then again, who could blame them? That was the mountain. This was here and the two were not the same in any way. He shook a cigarette out of his pack, lit it and inhaled the smoke deep, enjoyed the slight light-headedness from that first hit. “You know what a code is, right? Okay, so it’s like every man has to develop his own personal code of conduct. He has to decide how he’s going to be, what he’s willing to do and what he’s not, and he can’t break that code, can’t let anybody make him break that code, or he’s not a man. You get that?”