Our Daily Bread

by Lauren B. Davis

  “Sorry.”

  “I’ll say you’re fucking sorry. One sorry little shit. Don’t talk to me, all right? Just keep your mouth shut.”

  They drove some way in silence, Bobby twisting the corner of his jacket between his fingers. Albert’s mind raced. It could have gone wrong back there. Stan was a steady customer, one he didn’t want to lose and, frankly, he didn’t want to start shit with the Corkums. There was a loose sort of alliance between mountain people. Each one knew the other looked down on them, felt superior, but they kept things civil since all held such a dubious position in town. They were like packs of half-wild dogs, gnawing away at the edges of things, finding it easier to hunt together than to tear each other apart over a kill. But what would young Bobby, middle-class townie that he was, know about such treaties?

  It took a couple of miles for Albert to calm down and realize Bobby was snuffling and sniffing. “Are you crying?”

  The boy put his knuckles to his face and dug at his eyes, grinding the tears in more than wiping them away. “No,” he said.

  “Yes, you are. Jesus Christ.” Albert pinched the bridge of his nose and concentrated on the road, a long thin line of country road going nowhere in particular. Albert pulled over to the shoulder, nothing but stubble-rough fields on either side. The sky looked like bluish milk—thick and close.

  “You want me to get out?” snuffled Bobby, not looking at him.

  “No, I don’t want you to get out.”

  Bobby wiped at his nose with his sleeve and looked out the window. “Can I have a smoke?” he said.

  Albert gave him one, lit one himself. “Man, if you get this bent out of shape by a little disagreement between friends, well, I don’t know.” He blew a smoke ring toward the rear-view mirror. Having a friend was complicated. How did people manage it?

  “It’s not that. It’s my parents,” Bobby said at last. He looked over at Albert as though waiting for him to make a joke. Albert merely raised an eyebrow and rolled down the window for the smoke to escape.

  “You can tell me, Bobby. It’s all right.”

  “They’re all fucked up. Fighting all the time. I don’t know. Something’s up with my mother. The guys at school. They’re saying shit about her.”

  “What kind of shit?”

  “Like my old man’s blind. That she’s cheating on him. I hate it there. I wish I didn’t live there.”

  Now, this was something Albert knew a thing or two about. “Bobby, young Bobby,” he said, with a wide grin, “welcome to the real world, my man. Step right up. Learn to take it, young Bobby, because the shit keeps coming and if you don’t learn to swim in it you’ll drown with a mouth full of crap. I appreciate you telling me your secrets, I do. And maybe it’s time I told you a few of my own. Why do you think I don’t take you up to my place? I got some stories to tell you, young Bobby, stories that will make you glad you got the family you got. But more important than that, I’m going teach you how to live beyond them all. That’s right. You are going to learn to live in spite of them, not just to spite them, if you know what I mean.” He leaned over and put his arm around the boy’s shaking shoulders, felt how he was all bone and nerves. “It’ll be all right, Bobby-boy, it’ll be all right. You got an older brother, now. You understand? An older brother.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The morning’s rain had stopped, but the sky was still heavy. Ivy walked along Bank to Elm Street and turned left. She didn’t go through the forest shortcut anymore. She carried her science project, a box of twenty-nine properly labelled rocks, as well as the ten-page report she had written with no help from anyone. She had not only labelled everything, but classified each rock: igneous, sedimentary, metamorphic and minerals.

  “Gelsey, do you think Ivy’s ignoring us?”

  Cathy and Gelsey had been behind her since she left school.

  “She must be, or else she’s just retarded.”

  Ivy would not turn around. She would ignore them. She concentrated on the warm glow of Mrs. Sergeant’s praise. When the teacher had said how good her project was she hadn’t been able to keep the smile off her face no matter how she tried.

  Something struck her between the shoulder blades. Something small, a pebble, probably, and it didn’t really hurt, not through her raincoat, but she flinched.

  “Hey, turn around,” Cathy called. “Are you a retard?”

  Another pebble. She kept her pace steady, shifting the heavy box from one hip to another. She thought of the rocks’ physical properties: colour, which was self-explanatory; lustre (the way a mineral reflected light), hardness (measured using Mohs Scale of Hardness with diamond being the hardest at 10, and talc being the softest at 1; cleavage, a word that resulted in much giggling, something Ivy found very immature; and streak, the colour a mineral rubs onto a white porcelain plate after the mineral’s been ground to a powder. There were so many words here to love: the regal sounding galena, the religious-sounding hematite, magical metamorphic, warrior-like anthracite, scholarly bituminous and quiet little shale. She made an incantation of them, and they transported her to deserts and caves, deep hollow-hearted canyons and twinkling stream beds.

  Something else hit her back. Softer. The smell. The laughter. Dog poop.

  “Oh, my, what a smelly retard.” Giggling.

  A car horn blared, and Ivy nearly dropped her box. A truck rolled to a stop next to her. Someone got out. She recognized him. It was Albert Erskine, scary Albert Erskine. He wore a leather jacket, like some old-time biker, and carried a baseball bat. He stalked toward Gelsey and Cathy, who were frozen on the sidewalk, mouths open. Gelsey held a plastic bag from which another piece of dog shit fell.

  “You little brats,” snarled Albert. “Don’t you run. Don’t make me chase you. What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Nothing,” mumbled Cathy.

  “Hey, Ivy. This should be good.” Bobby’s face grinned from the truck’s open passenger window, his arms dangling, drumming lightly on the door panel. The green of Bobby’s camouflage jacket was nearly the same sludgy colour of the truck.

  “What’s he doing?” said Ivy. “What are you doing with him?”

  Bobby rested his forearms on the lowered windowsill and lay his chin on his arms. He had a loopy grin on his face. “Hanging. Hanging loose,” he laughed.

  Albert was within grabbing distance of the two girls now. He loomed over them. Ivy, her stomach flipping, looked around to see if anyone would come, if anyone would stop Albert Erskine from killing Cathy and Gelsey. There was nobody.

  “Make him stop,” she said.

  Albert bent down so his face was close to the girls.’ They stepped back and he made an eh-eh noise, like they were misbehaving dogs. “If I ever see you near Ivy Evans again, I will be forced to come to your house some really dark night and I won’t bring a bat, I’ll bring an axe. And what do you think I’ll do with that axe?”

  Cathy’s face went white. “I’m going to tell my father.”

  “I hope you do. And when you do, and he comes looking for me, I’ll tell him what a little cunt his shit-throwing daughter is, and then I’ll scoop out his eyes with a rusty spoon.” Gelsey started to cry. “I know where you live you little bitches. Now, say you’re sorry.”

  “We’re sorry.”

  “Not to me, you idiot. Say you’re sorry to Ivy.”

  “We’re sorry.”

  “And you’re never going to bother her again, are you?”

  “No.”

  “That’s what I thought. Now. Take that shit you’ve dropped and wipe it on your hands. Yeah, that’s right. Do it. Right now. Very good. And just be glad I don’t make you eat it. This time. If there’s a next time, remember, it’s going to be different. Now get the fuck out of here.”

  Cathy and Gelsey ran down the street as though chased by a rabid pit bull. Albert tu
rned and smiled at Ivy. “I don’t think they’ll do that again, but if they do, you tell ’em Albert’s watching.”

  “Say thank you, Ivy,” said Bobby. He raised a cigarette to his lips, smoked almost down to the filter, and inhaled deeply.

  Everything looked like it was far away, like in a movie. Nothing made any sense. Not Bobby in a truck with Albert Erskine, not seeing Cathy meekly rub dog poop between her palms, certainly not being defended by an Erskine. She had no idea what this meant for tomorrow. What was she supposed to do now? “You smoke?” she said, “Dad’s gonna kill you!”

  “And who’s going to tell him?” said Bobby as he flicked the butt into the street. “Say thank you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Hop in,” said Albert.

  “No, thanks. I’ll walk.”

  “Get in, Ivy.” Bobby opened the door and stepped out, then reached back into the truck and pulled out a handful of “McDonald’s” napkins. He cleaned off the back of her coat, and ushered her into the middle seat. “Ivy, this is Albert.”

  “Hello,” said Ivy, not looking at him.

  “Hey, honey,” said Albert, getting back into the truck. “I’m not going to bite. Get in.”

  It seemed rude not to, especially since he had rescued her. She sat in the middle, her feet dangling near the gearbox with the rock collection on her lap. Albert was smoking and she coughed. The polite thing to do would be to throw the cigarette out, but there you were. She was a bit dizzy from the smoke, and from what had happened. Thick grey electrical tape bound a split in the seat underneath her and it had rolled up at the corners. It was uncomfortable and she shifted around. The underside of the tape stuck to her tights. The cab was strewn with junk: empty plastic cassette cases, empty pop cans and cigarette packs, as well as a few squashed butts, fast food wrappers and a couple of tattered paperbacks. She could only read the title of one. The Grapes of Wrath. Music played on the radio, something sharp with electric guitars and a screaming singer. Bobby drummed his thumbs on his knees. Albert caught her looking at him and grinned, that same mongrel grin all the Erskines had. Not that they all looked the same, some didn’t look like they were related at all, but some others looked so much alike you thought they might be older or younger versions of themselves. Most of them had that smile, though. It made her feel wriggly inside. Was she supposed to think of him as her hero? She glanced at Bobby, smirking behind his hand. The heat from Albert’s leg oozed onto hers, even through his pants. He emanated a strange warmth that was at once both disturbing and intriguing.

  She focused on the word emanated. She had recently learned it and loved the way the sound rolled over her lips to the back of her throat, the roof of her mouth, and then tucked between her teeth. She practiced now, silently, moving her lips and tongue through the word’s dance.

  “What you thinking, there, little sister?” said Albert.

  “Nothing.”

  “Your lips were moving,” he said.

  “Shouldn’t you be watching the road?” she said.

  He laughed and looked at her long enough so that flame crawled up her cheek. “I’m a talented guy. I can do more than one thing at a time.”

  Bobby played around with the radio and then switched it off. After a few minutes the silence in the truck felt like not silence at all, but like they—or not they but Albert—was listening to her, even though she wasn’t speaking. She tried to nudge Bobby with her elbow to make him say something, but he was too involved with whatever was going on inside his head.

  Obsidian, she thought. Scoria. Igneous. Apache tears. Cinnabar. Coquina. Scoria—a much better word than slag.

  “So,” said Albert. “Where do you want to go?”

  Ivy’s eyes flew wide. “Aren’t you taking me home?”

  “Of course we’re taking you home, pipsqueak. You think we want to hang out with a little kid?” said Bobby.

  “I don’t know,” said Albert, his eyes on the road, not looking at her at all, which seemed strange now, as though he were not looking at her on purpose. “Maybe Ivy would like to go for a drive before we take her home. Make sure her little friends got the message.”

  “Are you kidding?” said Bobby. He laughed, like it was a joke because, Ivy thought, it had to be a joke, didn’t it?

  “Yeah, of course I’m kidding. We’re taking you home, little sister. No worries. I’m not the big bad wolf, you know.”

  “I know that,” said Ivy.

  “Oh, you do, huh?” And still Albert looked straight ahead. “Well, let’s not tell your pals, okay?”

  “We could go shoot some pool,” said Bobby. He sounded a little put out, a little whiney, which made Ivy feel slightly proud for some reason, as if she had something Bobby wanted, but it wasn’t a nice proud feeling, like when she looked at her rock collection and was proud of how perfect they all were, but a slithery sort of proud, which didn’t feel good at all.

  “I guess. Not for long. I got things to do,” said Albert.

  “Yeah?” said Bobby.

  “Yeah, fuck,” said Albert and Ivy jumped at the bad word.

  Biotite. Basalt. Graphite. Gypsum.

  “I got things to do. Money to make, people to see.”

  Bobby stopped drumming his fingers and sunk lower in the seat. “I could help, maybe.”

  “Help?” Albert took his eyes off the road and looked at Bobby over Ivy’s head. “Help, huh? Maybe. Not today.”

  “Okay. Okay,” said Bobby, his chin tucked into his jacket.

  Albert’s eyes went back to the road. “We’ll go for a while,” he said.

  They were driving down Elm now, passing Farmhouse Antiques. Seeing the store sent a rush of longing careening from the centre of Ivy’s chest along her arms and into her fingertips like electricity. “Stop! I forgot. I have to go see Mrs. Carlisle. You have to let me out.”

  “What are you going to see her for?” said Bobby.

  Albert turned on to Quaker. Ivy sat forward and banged on the dashboard. “Stop, Albert. I have to get out. Stop.”

  “Hey, hey, all right, simmer down,” said Albert. He slowed the truck, and pulled over. The driver of a car behind them beeped his horn and Albert stuck his finger out the window and flipped the other driver the bird. He looked at Ivy and his face wore an annoyed expression, the pressed together lips turned up at the corners. “You want out, huh?”

  “I promised I’d help her,” said Ivy.

  “With what?” asked Bobby.

  With both Bobby and Albert’s attention centred on her she fidgeted and worried she was about to cry. It felt hot inside the cab suddenly and the cigarette smoke made her queasy. Her skin was clammy. Albert’s leg was too close to hers. She didn’t want him touching her. She pushed at Bobby. “In the store, dusting and stuff. Let me out, Bobby. Let me out.”

  “Let her out,” said Albert.

  “Geez, all right. Don’t freak out. What’s wrong with you?” Bobby opened the door and she scooted over. As she did she glanced back at Albert. He wasn’t looking at her at all, just staring out the windshield. She scrambled down, careful not to drop her rock collection. The solid ground felt like a welcome mat under her feet.

  Bobby held the door. “Mom and Dad know where you are?”

  “Do they know where you are?” she said, bold again, now that she was out of the truck.

  “Like they give a shit,” said Bobby. “But you keep your mouth shut, Ivy, and so will I.”

  “They’re not going to mind me visiting Mrs. Carlisle.”

  “You think your parents would mind your brother hanging out with me?” said Albert from behind her.

  She shuffled her feet and didn’t look at him. “I don’t know.”

  “You mind your own business, Ivy,” said Bobby, glaring at her. “I don’t know why we even helped you.
Trying to do something nice for anybody in this family is a waste of time.”

  And she felt sorry then, for she saw that he had been trying to show off his new friend. His new friend who protected her. Maybe she had been rude for no reason. “I won’t tell,” she said.

  “Yeah, well. When you going home?” He climbed back into the truck cab.

  “Soon. About an hour, I guess.”

  “Tell Mom I might not be back before dinner,” said Bobby.

  “What if she asks where you are?”

  “Like that’s going to happen. Better you should ask her where she’s been.”

  “What does that mean?” she said.

  “Nothing, just tell her I’m at a friend’s house.”

  “All right,” said Ivy and stepped on to the sidewalk. But then, now that there was distance between them, she remembered her manners. “Oh, and thank you, Albert. Thank you for what you did.”

  Albert Erskine stopped grinning then and leaned forward in front of Bobby. “You’re welcome, little sister,” he said. “Anytime. But I don’t think they’ll be bothering you anymore.” His voice, like his expression, was solemn. For a moment, their eyes held, and what she saw in Albert’s eyes jolted Ivy, for it wasn’t at all what she expected. It wasn’t scary at all. It was far away, and kind of locked down, and unutterably sad.

  Then he turned away and the truck jumped forward and Ivy was left on the sidewalk, wondering how it was possible to be so uncomfortable around a person one moment and want to give them a hug the next.

  She put her hand inside her collar and pulled up the string with the Boy Scout whistle her father had given her. She felt the metal, smooth and warm from being next to her skin. It felt alive and she was sure it had the power to keep her safe.

  Dorothy was rearranging some of the plates in a corner cabinet, enjoying the reassuring cosiness of her shop, the dust motes floating through the beeswax-scented air. Ivy came through the door carrying a flat box and with a most peculiar expression on her face.

  “Hello, dear.” Dorothy was no longer surprised to see the girl at her door. Poor little mouse. Her face was quite pained. From what she’d told Dorothy, meted out in scrips and scraps, she was this year’s goat. There was one every year, chosen, if she remembered correctly, for any number of arbitrary reasons. Although she had yet to hear from Ivy herself what the reason was in her case, Dorothy couldn’t help but wonder if her slightly eccentric mother didn’t have something to do with it, although she didn’t wish to look too closely at this scenario. There were rumours and if Dorothy, an adult who did her best to avoid hearing things, had heard them, it was more than probable they had filtered down to the schoolyard. Well, she wouldn’t push the girl.