The Grip Lit Collection

by Claire Douglas

  And Chandler was stuck with us. Well, not with me. I was headed off to college. With Mom and Dad, though. Between them they’d racked up nearly forty years of service, would have to give the administration one seriously good excuse to get rid of them.

  So they went ahead and did.

  Mom held it together at first, arriving at the art studio on time, keeping up with her teaching responsibilities, but then she began calling in sick two, three days a week, and when she did appear, she would dismiss her classes halfway through the period. And Dad started to develop a reputation for serious weirdness. Stuff he normally did, like pounding the back of a student struggling for an answer, as if the number or equation were caught in the kid’s throat like a fishbone, would go on for too long or, worse, would turn into a hug that also went on for too long, until the kid said, “At least buy me dinner first, Mr. Baker,” or “Hey, Mr. Baker, I can’t breathe!”—something to snap him out of it. A couple of complaints were lodged and—voilà—the administration had all the ammunition it needed.

  Chandler was generous in triumph, though, I’ll give the school that. Mom and Dad were each offered a severance package that included a full year’s pay, excellent references, and assistance in searching for a new position. The catch was, both had to accept or neither could. And if either did decline, both would be forced to take a one-year unpaid leave of absence. “A grief sabbatical,” it was called.

  That my parents would acquiesce to Chandler’s wishes seemed a foregone conclusion. No way could they afford not to generate income for that long. Besides, a clean slate was probably just the thing for them, and for the school. It was in everybody’s best interest that they say yes.

  Which, apparently, was not a compelling enough reason for my mom to do so. The fight between her and Dad over her answer was an epic battle that lasted from the day the offer was presented in mid-May to the day their response was due on the first of June, the final day of the school year. I should say, in the interest of full disclosure, that I was well into my drug phase at this point, and I more felt the quivering mouths and hostile glances, the barbed words and tense silences, than saw or heard them. I was on my dad’s side, of course. Not that I was much of an asset in my narcotized state. Not that I would have been much of an asset in any state. Not against my mom. She was too determined to get her own way. And I certainly wasn’t surprised when I found out that she’d won and that the severance packages had been turned down. The only surprise was that Dad had managed to hold out as long as he did.

  Two days after Mom declared victory, she was gone, off to some artists’ commune. A fellowship she’d applied for at the beginning of the year had come through. Six months of room and board, plus a living stipend. It was just so typical of her. She’d made her point, her grand gesture, happy to fuck herself if she could fuck Chandler, too—who cared if she was also fucking my dad?—then ducked the consequences, left that part, the no-fun drudgery part, to him.

  Shep must sense the movement of my thoughts because he suddenly turns pale. “Oh, Grace,” he says, raising a hand to his mouth. “I’m so sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” I say quickly.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “No, I know you didn’t.” And I do know he didn’t, but he did, and I feel angry at him for it, then angry at myself for feeling angry at him. “It’s my own fault,” I say. “I have to learn to be less sensitive. It’s just”—and here my voice falters, tears sting my eyes—“the thought of my parents, of my mom, really, gets me riled up and weird.”

  He starts to say something, then just nods his understanding.

  “I’m not kidding,” I say. “All I have to do is think of her, and I go cross-eyed, basically.”

  Softly, “Yeah, I’m sure you do. I mean, I get it, Grace.”

  I drag my sleeve across my eyes, try to smile. “Of course you do. You’re a guidance counselor. You know how it is between mothers and daughters. All those petty jealousies and pent-up resentments, arguments about missed curfews and wire hangers.”

  “Is that how it is between you and your mom?” he says.

  I feel another kick of anger at him for not allowing me to make fun of my situation, lighten the mood, for insisting on speaking the language of the inner self at all times.

  He watches me pick at a loose thread on my shirt. Then he says, “Does she know you deferred admission at Williams for a year?”

  “If she knows, it’s not from me. The reason I gave the school was family emergency so maybe someone in the admissions office contacted her.”

  “You haven’t heard from her then?”

  My no is hard, sharp, short.

  “Has your dad?”

  A sullen shrug. “You’d have to ask him. We don’t really talk about her. I’m sure she’s fine, though.”

  “I’m sure she is.”

  Shep and I stand silent for a while, long enough for my guilt to reawaken. Why do I keep directing my anger at him? He hasn’t done anything wrong, is just trying to help. I take a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Anyway,” I say, once more attempting a smile, “what you said before isn’t true. I won’t be the only Baker on staff at Chandler this year. My dad’s bartending at the downtown Holiday Inn nights, but he’s SAT tutoring here in the afternoons.”

  “Speaking of afternoons, what are you going to be doing with yours? The A/V room closes before three. You want me to put my feelers out, see if any of the coaches are looking for an assistant? I’m sure you could use the extra cash.”

  “I appreciate the offer. I really do. I think I’m all right, though.”

  “Okay,” he says, but I see the look of worry in his eyes.

  “Honestly, I am.”

  “You know best, Grace, obviously. I just feel like it might not be good for you to have too much free time on your hands, time to brood, think about things.”

  “No, I mean, all right as in I’ve got a lead on a second job. Like you said, I could use the extra cash.”

  That ear-to-ear smile again. “Well done, you! Jobs are tough to come by these days. Especially in Hartford.”

  “I don’t have the job yet. I’m heading over there this afternoon for an interview. In fact”—I twist my neck to read the face of his watch—“if I don’t get going, I’ll be late.”

  “Then I guess you better get going.”

  I nod, grateful to have a legitimate, non-trumped-up excuse to end the conversation.

  “Good luck,” he says, as I start off down the hall. He says something else, too, but it doesn’t make it across the growing gap between us.

  I throw a wave over my shoulder. Then, pushing the bar on the door, I step outside.

  Chapter Seven

  Fargas Bonds is located in Blue Hills, the worst neighborhood in a town full of bad ones. The building it’s housed in, which also contains a liquor store and a Check N’ Go, looks like the kind that’s only standing because it’s too much trouble to tear down—moldy blue-green paint peeling from the cracked concrete, bars on all the windows, fast-food wrappers trapped in the knobby branches of the bushes out front. Above the door is a neon sign that says OPEN 24 HOURS, next to it a handwritten one that says HELP WANTED.

  I get out of the car. On my way to the curb, I step over a shattered pint bottle and a used condom, floating bloated and corpse-like in a puddle of drain run-off. I start to wonder if maybe this isn’t such a hot idea. The inside of the office, though, immediately puts my mind at ease. It’s nothing like the sleazy outside. In fact, it’s sort of homey, like walking into someone’s living room. Behind the receptionist’s desk is a shelf lined with knickknacks: a box of dominoes, a shot glass filled with toothpicks that are also Puerto Rican flags, a photo of a grinning kid in a Little League uniform. In the far corner is a minifridge, a Mr. Coffee machine, a potted fern not doing too badly.

  I think that I’m alone, that the receptionist must have ducked out, gone to the bathroom or something, but then I hear, coming from behind a closed d
oor, the faint, stutter-step sound of hunt-and-peck typing. “Hello?” I say. “Mr. Fargas?”

  “In here!” a voice calls out.

  I don’t know what I’m expecting to see when I open the door, what image of a bail bondsman I’m carrying around in my head, but whatever it is, the person sitting at the desk doesn’t match it. He’s a neat, quiet-looking Latin guy in his late forties or early fifties. Clean-shaven, dark suit, no tie, reading glasses. A little heavy in the gut, maybe, but heavy in the shoulders, too. He’s poking at the keyboard of a computer with two index fingers.

  “I’m just finishing filling out a Power of Attorney form,” he says, eyes on the keyboard. “Have a seat. I’ll be right with you.”

  I lower myself into a chair. Eyes still on the keyboard, the man nudges a bowl of Hershey’s Miniatures toward me. I take a couple to be polite, slip them in my bag. Slip, too, one of the business cards stacked on a metal tray at the desk’s edge. BONDS, FARGAS BONDS, it says, followed by a phone number and an e-mail address.

  Finally, the man hits the Return button, looks up. “Thanks for waiting,” he says. “Let me tell you how we work. We accept collateral in the form of—”

  “Actually, Mr. Fargas—”

  “Max.”

  “Max,” I say, “I’m here about a job. I saw your advertisement.”

  “You mean, on the door?”

  “No, on Craigslist. I called yesterday, talked to a woman, she said to come by at three. Actually, she said to come by any time after three.”

  “That must have been my assistant, Renee. So, I have an advertisement on Craigslist?”

  I nod.

  “Huh,” he says, his voice taking on a thoughtful tone. “What does it say?”

  “Not much. Just that you need someone from three P.M. on. And that a driver’s license is necessary, but experience isn’t.”

  “Oh.” He takes off his reading glasses, folds them, tucks them in his breast pocket. “Are you available after three?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a driver’s license?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then congratulations. The job’s yours.” When I ignore the hand he’s holding out to me, “What, you don’t want it?”

  “It’s not that I don’t want it. It’s just, I still don’t know what it is.”

  “And I’d pay you a dollar over minimum wage, under the table.”

  “Pay me for doing what, though, exactly?”

  “Nothing for me. What you’d be doing, you’d be doing for my nephew.”

  “Okay.”

  “My nephew works for me, as a runner mostly. Usually he’s a smart guy, very responsible. But a couple months back, he got tanked, decided it would be a good idea to go for a spin. He smashed up his car, smashed up his leg, lost his license for six months. Renee’s been taking him around all summer, but starting next week she’s got to pick up her kid after school, so she can only take him around till three.”

  “So, what,” I say, “I’d be like his afternoon chauffer?”

  “And sometimes evening.”

  “When would you want me to start?”

  “Today. Now.”

  This time when he holds out his hand, I shake it. As I do, a sound comes from the front room: a door opening, and two voices talking—one male, one female.

  “That’s him,” Max says, his face lighting up. “Renee, too.” He calls out, “Hey, come in here, both of you. I want to introduce you to the newest member of our team.”

  The woman, Renee, is through the door first. She’s fortyish, blond, a little chubby, in black jeans as tight as leggings. She’s smiling at me nicely, though. And right behind her is Damon Cruz. He’s peeling the lid off a cup of coffee, head down. By the time he raises it, he’s almost walked into me. He stops short, freezes, his face only inches from my own. Up close I notice all sorts of things I missed earlier: the grit of beard, a day or two’s worth, on his cheeks and jaw, the faint smattering of acne scars near his hairline, the bridge of his nose, slightly crooked, like the bone had been broken and then inexpertly set. It’s a tough face, a face that matches up with the wife-beater and the muscles, the morning drinking and the pulpy mouth. There’s one thing on the face that doesn’t match up, though. The eyes. They aren’t hooded, and they aren’t hard and black, the kind that give back nothing when you look into them. They’re bare and a soft liquid brown.

  He’s staring at me, his gaze intense but not quite focused. Then he lowers his lids in a long cutoff blink. When he lifts them again, they barely come up halfway, and I realize that his eyes normally are hooded, were wide only temporarily, with surprise. The softness in them, too, is gone, if it was ever even there in the first place, if it wasn’t just some trick of light.

  “Damon,” Max says, “this is your driver. Her name is—” He turns to me. “What’s your name?”

  Damon takes a casual step back. “Hi, Grace.”

  “Hi,” I say, surprised he knows my name, though classes are small enough at Chandler that it’s hard not to know everybody’s.

  Max’s eyebrows climb his forehead. “She a friend of yours?”

  “Chandler,” Damon says.

  “Then I can save my breath, skip the introductions.” Max holds out a stack of slips. “I just approved these bonds.”

  “Max, I told you, I don’t need a driver. Frankie doesn’t start at U Bridgeport until the second week in September. He said he’d take me around.”

  “The second week of September is in a few days. Forget Frankie.”

  “Then I’ll find somebody else.”

  “You ready to go out again?”

  “But I—”

  “Or do you want to ice the knee first?”

  I glance down at Damon’s knees, see a brace on the left one, black so that it blends in with the dark blue of his jeans, my brain going click, click, click: he wasn’t lurching around Glen Flynn’s office this morning because he was drunk, he was lurching around because he was hurt.

  Damon shakes his head, an angry muscle twitching in his cheek, and snatches the slips from Max’s hand. Without a word, he turns, exits the office. For a couple beats I just stare at the coffee cup he left on Max’s desk. Then I snap to, grab my bag from the back of the chair. I have to run to catch up. For a guy in a brace, he moves fast.

  Chapter Eight

  That puke smell sure isn’t fading in a hurry. For the rest of the afternoon I sit in my car, windows down, breathing through my mouth while Damon goes in and out of the courthouse, consults with his uncle via cell. He barely looks in my direction, doesn’t say a word to me other than left, right, stop, and wait. We finish at six. He tells me to take him to the YMCA downtown.

  “Okay,” I say, “sure. But the equipment in Houghton’s nicer.”

  He glares at me. “You think I don’t know that?”

  “So why don’t you go there?”

  He’s silent for so long I assume he’s ignoring me. But then he says, “Because the fob in my Chandler ID expired today.”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot. First day of the new school year. Maybe, though, an exception can be made. I mean, it’s to do your rehab exercises and you were, like, the best guy on the baseball team, right?”

  Another lengthy silence. And then he says, “I met with some asshole administrator who’s supposed to be in charge of maintaining Chandler’s buildings or operating them—some fucking thing.”

  Glen Flynn, Director of Facilities. So that’s what Damon was doing in the Business Development Office this morning. “What did this asshole say?”

  “Current students only. I told him Coach Morrissey would vouch for me, to talk to him.”

  “So did he?”

  Damon snorts. “Said he did, left the room for twenty minutes, but I doubt it. Probably hid out in the faculty lounge.”

  “I can let you in with my ID. Employees are allowed to use the gym too.”

  “Forget it. They don’t want me, they don’t have to have me.”

&nbs
p; I shrug, start the car.

  After dropping off Damon at the Y, I drop off myself at home. I close the door behind me, toss my keys in the bowl on the end table.

  The house is quiet, the only sound the laundry tumbling around in the dryer in the basement, a button or a zipper pinging the sides of the machine every few seconds. I feel a thump of tiredness, sit down on the bottom step of the staircase. Then I feel a thump of hunger, start foraging around in my bag. Find the package of Wheat Thins and two of the Hershey’s Miniatures. I begin to eat. The rhythmic motion of my jaw soothes me, puts me in a trance, and I stare straight ahead, eyes unfocused, munching, munching.

  Dad’s voice comes down from upstairs. “Hello?”

  “It’s me, Dad.”

  “Gracie?”

  “Uh-huh.” I alternate bites of chocolate with bites of cracker: sweet, salty, sweet, salty.

  “Good timing, sweetheart. Dinner’s just about ready.”

  “Do you need me to set the table?”

  “Already done. Just go wash your hands. I’ll be right down.”

  I put the last bite in my mouth but my appetite’s vanished as suddenly as it appeared, and it seems like too much energy to chew or swallow. So I wait for enough spit to build, then let the lump slide down my throat. Slowly I get to my feet, walk to the kitchen.

  I must have seen it a hundred times, so you’d think by now it would have lost its power, fail to affect me. But it always does. Nica’s Dream, the black-and-white photograph of my sister hanging above the table, taking up almost the entire wall length-wise and half of it height-wise. In it, Nica, eleven, is lying in the grass in the backyard of our house, head turned away from the camera. The cutoffs she’s wearing have ridden up so high you can see the pale linty lining of her pockets, the dim hollow of her groin. Her halter top’s twisted around her torso, revealing her stomach, smooth and concave, stretched between the twin knobs of her hip-bones. A Band-Aid hangs off her right heel and the paint on the nail of her big toe is chipped. In spite of the fact that she’s slender to the point of scrawny, totally undeveloped, her body gives off a glow, a heat that’s as undeniable as it is unsettling. Maybe it’s the way her mouth, greedy and carnal, is nuzzling her bare shoulder. Or the way one of her hands is tucked between her thighs, like she’s in the throws of a sex dream, dreaming but somehow also dead, climaxed in death, eyes closed, neck limp, skin waxy. Her other hand loosely clutches a peach, round and dimpled and fuzzed, glossed to sinister perfection. The poisoned fruit from a fairy tale.