Hope thought of all the empty buildings around them. “Big deal.”
“It is to me.”
She looked directly at the handsome man. “Thanks.”
Dylan held her eyes with his until she looked away. He said, “Never guess who’s been pullin’ traps for me, last couple a days.”
“Yeah? Who?”
“Jim-Jim.”
“I hope you keep a line on him.”
“That’s the thing. He’s sober.” He pronounced the word the Maine way: sobah.
“No.”
“Ayuh. Sober as a judge for at least a month.”
Hope considered his news. James Jameson had been Dublin’s town drunk for nearly thirty years. He had been tolerated, even celebrated because of his sunny personality and his penchant for causing creative trouble with the best of good intentions. Far too gone to get a driver’s license, he used a John Deere riding lawn mower as basic transportation. The Dublin police had long ago removed the blades after he had cut a three-block swath through several flower beds one morning while courteously repositioning people’s copies of the Bangor Daily News from their front lawns up onto their porches. Another time he swam out into the harbor and accidentally set a yacht adrift while attempting to tow it to a mooring closer to the landing for its owner’s convenience. Most recently Hope had heard he flooded his apartment while trying to install a second bathroom without his landlord’s permission. After that, Jim-Jim had been forced to move into Willa’s shelter. It had been sad news, but Jim-Jim’s stubborn independence in the face of his addiction had inspired a perverse admiration in Hope, the kind one feels for scrawny boys who won’t lie down when schoolyard bullies beat them. Jim-Jim might be a hopeless drunk, but at least he was still here. It was more than she could say for Riley.
Still, the concept of Jim-Jim sober was akin to learning that a moose had typed a letter or Bill Hightower had voted Democrat. Wondering if Dylan was pulling her leg, Hope asked, “How’d he do it?”
Dylan shrugged. “Says he just woke up at the shelter one day and didn’t want a drink.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Just tellin’ ya what he said.”
“And he’s okay pullin’ traps? He safe?”
“Ayuh.”
“Huh. . . .” She considered this latest bizarre news. It was the fourth or fifth such story she had heard in recent months. Then it occurred to her to ask, “What about Willa? Doesn’t she need the money?”
“She’s the one suggested it. Said she’s too old for buggin’ now, and besides, she’s too busy, what with all these homeless people from away.”
Willa had her hands full at the shelter; that was true enough. With so many homeless coming in, maybe the old woman didn’t have the time for part-time work as Dylan’s deckhand anymore. But all those people left her needing money more than ever. Hope could see it was a real dilemma.
Thinking like a mayor again, she wondered how the township could increase support for Willa’s shelter. With the tax base shrinking every month they’d have to give up something else. There ought to be some kind of a strategy, some way to convince the council. But as Hope’s mind explored the problem it led to thoughts of the shelter and suddenly she remembered Brice, dead on the floor.
She tried to turn to pleasant thoughts. “So Jim-Jim’s really actin’ sober?”
Dylan shook his head. “I don’t think he’s actin’ is the thing. The man’s been cured.”
“There’s no cure. But if he’s really not drinkin’, that’s good.” She nodded, looking down the street. “Good on him.”
“Ayuh.”
They stood together without speaking as only old friends and State of Mainers could, one looking this way, one looking the other.
Down in front of the church the last of the crowd broke up at last, splitting off into families and couples and individuals, walking to their cars and trucks. Soon downtown would be vacant, some of the shops closed just for Sunday, some closed for the season, all too many closed forever. Hope felt a little lonely at the thought of winter coming on. Summer visitors could be annoying, but they brought in most of Dublin’s money and lent a lively air to the streets. Without them everything looked dead.
Shivering, Hope clutched her elbows to herself. Dylan moved imperceptivity closer. She found herself leaning toward him. Suddenly the car horn sounded. Bree, of course, ruining the moment.
“All right, all right,” called Hope. “Keep your teeth in.” Moving away from Dylan she walked around the front of her car. “Gonna be a little brisk tonight, I guess.”
He nodded. “Down ta twenty’s what I heard.”
“You coming over for supper?”
“Ayuh.”
She paused at the door, leaving it unopened. Looking across the car roof at the handsome man, Hope felt a familiar longing. “He’s back, you know.”
“Ayuh,” said Dylan, looking elsewhere. “I expect he is.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
TO RILEY KEEP’S VERY GREAT SURPRISE, HE AWOKE.
He opened his eyes to a simple world composed only of two great blocks of color, a large green shape above him and a pale blue field beyond. After a minute of concentration he realized he was lying on his back, looking up at the side of a garbage bin against the open sky. He rolled his head into an errant ray of sunshine. Squinting, he rolled his head back again and sat up with a grunt. The empty bottle dropped off of his naked chest and shattered. Tiny flakes of frost crackled in the wrinkles of his skin, showering to the alley bricks as he scooted on his bottom toward the garbage container, the bits of ice and broken glass around him sparkling in the morning light. When his bare back touched the freezing metal bin Riley flinched and jerked away. Shivering, he leaned forward and drew his shirt and undershirt and coat over to his side. One by one he shook the frost from them and put them on, and then he leaned against the bin once more. He blew on his hands and tucked them underneath his armpits. Sitting there that way, he frowned. It was cold, wicked cold, even in the sunshine, so cold his body heat had not stopped frost from forming on his skin. Why was he not dead?
Slowly, the light shifted until it was full in his face. The slight warmth of it felt good, though his feeble eyes could not abide the brightness. He rose to his feet, grunting again at the effort and the spikes of pain in his joints. He shuffled down the alley to stand where it opened onto Main Street.
Unlike the evening before, he saw people here and there. Not just homeless people from away, but Dublin folks as well. Riley was surprised by this at first, but then he remembered it was Monday morning, a workday. A panel truck slowed and turned down the alley, then abruptly stopped, facing him. Riley looked up at the man behind the windshield, who gestured impatiently, indicating he wanted to drive on. Blowing into cupped hands, Riley got out of the workingman’s way and set out along the sidewalk. He was hungry and hoped it was not too late for breakfast at the shelter.
He passed Henry’s Drug Store half a block away without a second glance. Farther up the hill someone called behind him.
“Hey! Hang on!”
Barely noticing, Riley kept walking.
“Hey! Hold up a minute, will ya?”
The voice was closer to him now. Riley turned and to his surprise found a man was calling him. The slender fellow wore a plaid jacket and chinos and stood in front of Henry’s store, too far away for Riley’s weak eyes to make out any details. He said, “Weren’t you in my church yesterday?”
Riley had some dim recollection of this, and felt a sudden fear. “No,” he said.
The man walked toward him. “Sure, I saw you. You’re the one Bill kicked out during Communion.”
“No, not me.”
“Aw, come on. I saw you.”
Riley started walking away as fast as he could. The man caught up and fell in beside him. “What’s your hurry?”
“I don’t want any trouble.”
“Trouble? Naw, you got me all wrong. I was gonna offer you a job.”
Riley kept on walking.
“Don’t ya want a job?” The man made a show of looking Riley up and down. “You look like you could use the money.”
“Why?”
“Well, no offense, but I mean, just look at yourself.”
“No, I mean why do you want to give me a job?”
“Oh. Well, I need help, and you obviously need money, so. . . .”
Riley slowed, then stopped. “What kind of job?”
“Just this an’ that round the drug store there. Sweepin’ up. Straightenin’ the stock. That kinda thing.”
Riley squinted at the man to see a neat, short haircut touched with gray and the shadow of heavy whiskers dark on his clean-shaven chin and cheeks. “Do I know you?”
“Don’t think so.” The man reached out and laid a hand on Riley’s shoulder. “My name’s Henry Reardon. What’s yours?”
The light touch of the man’s hand and the fact that someone wanted to know his name affected Riley all out of proportion to the situation. To his complete amazement, he began to cry.
“Hey,” said the man, giving his shoulder a little pat. “Hey now.”
Riley kept his eyes down, wiping them with a filthy palm. “I’m sorry.”
“No need. No need. You’ve had a pretty rough time of it lately, I’m guessin’.”
Riley nodded, regaining some control. “Ayuh.”
“So . . . what is your name?”
“I, uh . . .” Riley’s natural suspicion kicked in. He knew this man from somewhere, and didn’t want to give him an advantage until he knew where from, exactly. Looking away he said, “Stanley Livingston.”
“Nice to meet ya, Stanley. So, how’s about it? You wanna job?”
“Ayuh.”
“Good. Real good. So, hey . . . let’s get to work.”
Inside the little drug store Henry said, “No offense, but we gotta get you lookin’ a little more presentable, okay?” He gave Riley a small blue plastic basket and led him up and down the aisles, dropping items in. A toothbrush and toothpaste, comb, deodorant, and a pack of elastic ponytail holders. In the restroom, Riley stripped to the waist and washed his hands and face and armpits at the antique porcelain sink. Using tap water and his new comb he tidied up his long hair, pulling it back into a ponytail. He ignored his beard, which hung nearly to his chest and was beyond any form of grooming. Riley was careful not to look into the mirror. Dressed again, he emerged into the stockroom with his coat draped over his arm. Henry grinned when he saw him. “All right,” he said. “Now you look like an old hippie, which is good ‘cause so do half my customers.”
Riley allowed himself to smile, exposing the black empty spaces in his mouth. “What do you want me to do?”
Henry looked around the stockroom. “Well, let’s start by makin’ some sense a things back here. Needs a good sweepin’, then all that stock in the boxes back by the door needs to be carried up front, unpacked an’ merchandised.”
“Merchandised?”
“Fancy retail talk for ‘put it on the shelf.’ Just look for wherever we stocked it before an’ put it there, with the front label facin’ out.”
“Okay,” said Riley doubtfully.
“Hey, Stanley, don’t worry ‘bout it. You’ll be fine.”
“Why are you doing this?”
Henry cocked his head. “You really don’t remember me from yesterday?”
“I . . . I’m sorry.”
Henry laughed. “No problem. It’ll come to ya.”
Within the hour Riley had the stockroom floor swept and the restroom scrubbed clean. Without being asked he decided to tidy up the small break area, scrubbing the microwave inside and out and organizing the disposable knives and forks and paper plates. He noticed one of the break area chairs had a wobbly leg, so he found a screwdriver and fixed it. He got out a stepladder and changed a light bulb. When there was nothing left to do in the stockroom area he went out through the rear receiving door, hoping for some kind of work back in the alley. To his surprise, he was standing exactly where he had met the day. At his feet was the shattered Scotch bottle, and to his right the dark green garbage bin. He went back inside for the broom, returned and swept the shattered glass into a pile, then picked it up and threw it in the garbage bin. He looked around the alley for more work to do, and decided the whole thing needed sweeping. It was maybe an hour later when Henry came outside. “Hey, Stanley,” he said, dressed now in a pharmacist’s white lab coat. “What’s up?”
“Just cleaning here.” Riley swept the bricks furiously.
“The alley?”
“Ayuh.”
“Uh, think you’ve about got it whipped?”
Riley looked around. He had indeed swept the entire alley, from the intersection with Main Street all the way back to the drug store’s receiving door. “I guess.”
“Okay. Great. So, how’s about that stock?”
“Okay.”
“Good. Great. You need anything?”
“No.”
“All right, then.”
After Henry disappeared back into the store, Riley stooped to pick up a final little pile of dirt and trash. He pitched it into the garbage bin. Inside the stockroom he placed the broom where it belonged and turned to face the stack of boxes by the door. There was no way to avoid it any longer. The time had come to carry something up front. He lifted a box and walked to the swinging door that opened onto the sales floor. He paused, looking through the circular window in the door, out into the world beyond with its clean fluorescent lights and its ordered rows of goods for sale and customers with homes and money and cars and jobs and other people in their lives.
It was one thing to work alone back in the stockroom. He actually kind of enjoyed it. But out there with this box in his hands he couldn’t hide behind his homelessness. With work to do, he would no longer clearly be himself. They might mistake him for one of them. They might have expectations. That lady over there, and the other one across by the checkout counter, would be able to look right at him without turning away. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be seen. It didn’t feel right, because in fact he was not one of them. He might have clean hands and a job to do, but he was still a ghost.
As Riley stared into the outside world the front door of the drug store opened and a young woman came in from the street. He couldn’t focus on her clearly because of the distance, but she walked straight toward the back and turned at the rear aisle just beyond the door where he was standing, and he watched her profile through the glass as she passed, and felt his heart surge up into his throat. Then she was out of sight, back around to the right at the pharmaceutical counter, but he could hear her well, talking to Henry over there.
“Hi ya, Bree,” said the pharmacist. “How ya doin’?”
“Got that prescription ready?”
“Ayuh. Just a minute.”
A pause, and Riley figured Henry had gone somewhere to find the order. With the box forgotten in his hands, Riley craned to see her through the window, actually pressing his nose up against it, but she was just beyond his field of vision. Then she wandered over to a display at the end of one of the rows. He could see her, and the blood roared in his ears. He couldn’t make out details, but he could see she was beautiful. He stared, and the young woman became a little girl. He thought of dense green canopies and the calls of parrots and the smell of wood fires on the river. He thought of laughter and naked children chasing each other all around his legs and Waytee’s wrinkled smile. He forgot himself and dropped the box he was holding. She turned at the sound of it and he ducked below the glass. Picking up the box, he stood slowly, steeling himself against the possibility that she might still be looking, but willing to risk that in order to see more of her. She had moved back out of sight.
He heard Henry ask, “Don’t ya have school today?”
“I got a pass.”
“Okay,” said Henry. “That’s thirty-nine fifty.”
If the girl replied, Riley could not hear her.
“The doctor said you can’t tell her.”
“I’m not gonna tell her. I’m just kinda worried.”
“You better not.”
“Okay, but are you real sure you wanna do this?”
“Yeah.”
“Because you’re kinda young for this.”
“All my friends are on the pill.”
“Naw, not really. I’m the fella they buy it from, remember? I’d know.”
“Well, you just better not tell anyone.”
Riley held the box in both his hands and watched through the small round window as she threaded her way back through the store. He thought of going out to talk to her. He truly did consider it for half an instant, because Henry was correct: she was too young. He had the best of intentions, but his body would not move. Paralyzed by the enormity of his offense, all Riley Keep could do was think that someone ought to stop her; someone ought to tell her she should slow it down a little, try to wait until the time was right; someone ought to say she could not possibly be ready; she would only ruin it for when she was, and please, please, please won’t you stay a little girl a little longer?
But there was no one who could speak that way to her, not a pharmacist, not a middle-aged stock boy—certainly not Riley—so he stood and watched her go while thinking of those things, and of how beautiful she was, how much time he had let pass, how desperately he longed to have that time again, how impossible that was, how hopeless, how vast and unforgivable the nature of his crime.
His thoughts reached back into a tranquil village he had gained for God and lost to the devil, and that image glowed with stained-glass radiance on bridal lace and merged into a single drop of water trickling down a christened daughter’s forehead. He thought of Bree and of Hope, not in two dimensions tucked back in the corners of his mind but real and out there just beyond his reach. Then all in an instant he remembered Henry, not only as a pharmacist, but also as the pastor of the church right down the street, the man who had married Hope and him, and christened Bree to God; and Riley realized his dear friend Brice had once worked in this very stockroom for Henry’s father, long before his old friend had grown up to be a plumber and a drunk; and here he was himself, Riley Keep, once a minister, a missionary, a teacher of young people at Bowditch College, doing the same job Brice had done after school when they had been as young as Bree.
The Cure Page 6