by Diane Kelly
“I can send five hundred,” he said. “Would that help?”
“Heck, yeah.” It was a start, at least. “Thanks, Matthew.”
“No problem.”
“By the way, do you know if it’s legal to sell a kidney in the U.S.?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Damn.”
CHAPTER THREE
WAS IT REALLY THE POT ROAST?
I pulled into a parking spot in front of my shop, cut the engine, and yanked the uncooperative brake into place. My shop was housed in an older white brick building that was always ten degrees too cold in the winter and ten degrees too hot in the summer. Luckily, my clients were in and out in mere minutes and didn’t suffer. I had learned to compensate, layering my clothing on cold days, dressing sparely on hot ones. One good thing about being built like a skinny eleven-year old boy was that I could trot around during the scorching summers in short shorts and tank tops without appearing trashy. On winter days like today I opted for sweat suits. The sweats did nothing for my sex appeal, but at this point in my life I was far more concerned with staying warm than looking like a hottie.
The County Cork Cobbler nestled in the middle of the building’s three spaces. To the right was El Toro Loco, a small Mexican diner, its booths constantly occupied by customers indulging in the best cheese enchiladas north of the border. While El Toro had been in business as long as I could remember, the space to the left of my shop seemed cursed, no tenant remaining more than a few months. The currently occupant was a yoga studio, a vast improvement over the karate studio that occupied the space previously. Not that I have anything against martial arts, it’s just that the constant kee-yahs! audible through the vents were a little unnerving.
The sign over the door to my shop had once read “Smith’s Shoe Hospital.” After dropping out of college, I’d taken a job working for Mr. Smith. While Riley turned cartwheels in my uterus, Mr. Smith taught me how to repair shoes. One day a trio of IRS agents showed up and hauled Mr. Smith away in handcuffs, but not until after they’d cleaned out the cash register to cover taxes owed on income he’d failed to report. Apparently Mr. Smith maintained an undisclosed offshore account where he’d hidden thousands in profits from illegal gambling. No wonder he’d been happy whether or not his favorite team, the Dallas Cowboys, won their games. He’d bet against the ‘Boys, an emotional hedge of sorts. If the Cowboys won, he could celebrate their victory. If they lost, he could celebrate his winnings.
When the door slammed shut behind them, I’d stood there dumbfounded, not sure what to do. But when a customer arrived a few minutes later to pick up his shoes, thankfully writing a check since I couldn’t make change, I realized I knew enough to continue the business myself. The following day, when I learned Mr. Smith had been released on bond and promptly fled to Mexico, I’d bought two cans of paint. One white. One green. I painted over the sign out front, opened my own business bank account, and renewed the lease in the name of my new business. I’d been stuck with Mr. Smith’s utility bills, but I now owned a modestly profitable business without having to come up with an initial investment.
I had an uncanny knack for shoe repair. What’s more, I enjoyed being my own boss, not having to answer to anyone else, setting my own schedule. I’d taken only three days off from work when Riley was born. My father covered the shop for me. I returned to work with Riley in a cradle behind the counter, putting an inflatable donut on my stool to take the pressure off the stitches down there. Riley’s father was six-feet six-inches tall, a former power forward on the Fighting Irish basketball team. Riley’d taken after Matthew, weighing in at nine pounds three ounces at birth. Yee-ouch! Squeezing him out of my petite body had taken its toll.
I set up a playpen by the front window of the shop so my chubby, pink-cheeked son could watch the activities on the street. When he’d begun to crawl, I put down a colorful area rug. When he was a toddler, I kept a set of toys at the shop for him to play with. When he’d eventually started kindergarten, I’d had a hard time adjusting to being alone in the shop, but Ma and Da made a point of stopping by often and, after a few weeks, I’d accepted the inevitable. Now, Riley came by most days after basketball practice to help out, sweeping the floors, dusting the shelves, wiping fingerprints off the windows and door. I paid him minimum wage plus all the hugs and kisses he’d accept—or that I could ambush him with.
I opened the car door and was instantly greeted by the smells of garlic and onions from El Toro. Mmm. If I didn’t already have dinner plans with Brendan, I’d be tempted to pick up an order of their six-layer nachos.
“Come on, boy.” As I helped Blarney down from the car, a flash of green streaked by in my peripheral vision. By the time I’d turned around, whatever the green thing was had disappeared down the sidewalk and around the corner of the building.
A young blond woman dressed head-to-toe in black spandex walked toward the silver Mustang parked next to me, a rolled-up yoga mat tucked under her arm, her thumbs furiously texting on the pink cell phone in her hands.
“Excuse me. Did you see that?”
She looked up from her phone. “See what?”
“Something green scurried around the building.” I pointed and her eyes followed.
“Nope.” She held up her cell. “I was sending a text. Sorry.”
“Probably just my imagination.” My imagination seemed to be out of control today.
The woman opened her trunk, tossed her yoga mat inside, then climbed into her car and drove off.
I stood on the sidewalk, still staring at the corner. I had seen something, hadn’t I? Then again, it was after five o’clock and the winter evening had begun to grow dark. Maybe it was nothing more than a shadow. But a green shadow?
Off leash, Blarney headed down the sidewalk and sniffed the air, just like he’d done earlier at the vet clinic. I followed him to the corner of the building and peeked around it. Nothing there but a big dented dumpster. The green thing, whatever it was, could be hiding behind the garbage receptacle, but I wasn’t about to go closer to that stench. Of course I’d have to face the smell later when I took out my trash, but I’d take a deep breath, hold it, and run, tossing my trash on the fly, like always.
Blarney put his nose to the ground and snuffled, followed an invisible trail to the dumpster. He stopped, lifted his head, and looked from left to right. Apparently the smell of leftover beef enchiladas rotting in the dumpster masked any other scent he might be trying to identify. He tilted his head a moment, as if trying to listen for clues, then gave up and trotted back to me.
Oh, well. If Blarney with his superior senses didn’t see any reason for concern, then neither should I. Right?
I pushed open the door to my shop, the soft, sweet smell of Brendan’s roses welcoming me from their spot on the countertop. “Hi, Ma.”
A hairpin fell from her thick, dark bun as she looked up from the County Cork edition of The Irish Examiner, the daily paper she’d read every day when the family had lived in Ballincollig, a small town north of Cork City, Ireland. She and my father had chosen to leave Ireland shortly before she’d given birth to me, but she still liked to read her hometown paper, maintain a link to her heritage. She’d faithfully maintained her subscription since they’d left, though by the time the newspaper reached her by mail a week later the events reported therein could hardly be called news. I’d suggested she get an internet subscription. She’d suggested I shut my mouth. Ma was nothing if not traditional.
“’ullo, darling.” Ma picked up the hairpin and slid it back into her coal-colored hair, which, thanks to Miss Clairol, was the same hue she’d been born with. Like Brendan, my parents and my five siblings were dark-haired and darker-skinned. Somehow I’d been the only one in the family to end up with the stereotypical Irish red hair, fair skin, and freckles. Must have something to do with recessive genes. Who knows? I’d never been good at science. At any rate, in all of our family photos, my brothers and sisters looked like virtual quintuplets with their brown eyes and h
air, while I looked like an intruder, an outsider who’d horned in on their family.
After noisily lapping up a mouthful of water from the big metal bowl behind the counter, Blarney sat patiently and looked up at my mother, waiting to be rewarded with one of the treats she kept in constant supply in the pocket of her wool cardigan. She tossed Blarney a treat and a “g’boy,” then turned her head and called back into the stockroom. “Riley, your Ma’s back.”
Riley rushed out of the storeroom, a young giant at six foot two, the top of his head nearly brushing the doorframe. As usual, he’d rushed through his after-practice shower, and his hair stuck out in random spikes as if he’d combed it with a hacksaw. He ran over to Blarney and knelt down on the floor, looking his beloved pet over. “Hey, boy.” Blarney licked his ear and Riley giggled and squirmed, a boy in a man’s body. The silver braces on Riley’s teeth glinted in the fluorescent light as he laughed.
“’ow’d it go at the vet’s?” Ma asked.
Riley looked at me, his green eyes moist with tears he was doing his best to blink back. “Is Blarney going to be okay?”
I forced a smile, not wanting to alert my son or my mother to Blarney’s potentially fatal condition. I’d find a way—somehow—to pay for the surgery he needed. No sense worrying them. Riley’d never be able to concentrate on his schoolwork if he knew Blarney’s life was at stake, and having raised six children and now caring for a husband who’d barely survived a stroke last year, Ma had suffered more than her fair share of worries already. This was my problem to take care of, mine to worry about.
I hated to lie, breaking two of the Ten Commandments at once by failing to honor my mother with honesty and by bearing false witness against my dog, but rules were made to be broken, right? Even ones etched on stone tablets carried down from mountaintops?
“Blarney’s fine,” I told them, my heart contracting as the lie left my lips. “Turns out it’s nothing serious.”
Riley exhaled in relief and buried his face in the shaggy fur of Blarney’s neck as he gave his dog a hug.
Not satisfied with my vague answer, my mother narrowed her eyes at me. “Nothing serious? What is it, then?”
Yeah, Erin, what was it? PMS? Nope, Blarney was a male dog. Herpes? Nope, Blarney was celibate, having been neutered as soon as he was old enough to have his testicles removed. Unfortunately, PMS and herpes were the only ailments that immediately came to mind. Should’ve watched more ER. My mother stared at me, waiting for an answer. Think, Erin. Think! Luckily, inspiration struck. “Hemorrhoids!” I cried. “Blarney has hemorrhoids.”
“Ew!” Riley grimaced. “That’s jacked up.”
My mother’s face scrunched in what I hoped was surprise and not skepticism. “Dogs can get hemorrhoids?”
“Of course they can. They have a rectum, don’t they?” I looked down and began digging through my black canvas tote bag so she wouldn’t see the worried look on my face. I retrieved the small bottle of pills from my bag and shook them. “Dr. Delgado gave me these pills and suggested we add some fiber to his diet.” I tossed them back into my bag before she could ask to read the label. “Blarney should be fine in a few weeks.”
I stowed my tote under the counter and turned to find my mother on her hands and knees behind the dog, no easy feat for a woman of seventy-six. Her hand grasped Blarney’s tail, holding it up out of the way so she could get a good look at the poor dog’s butt. Blarney glanced back at my mother, his forehead furrowed in bewilderment.
Mom tilted her head, first left, then right. “His arse looks fine to me.”
“My goodness, Ma!” I shuddered.
She dropped his tail and struggled to her feet, putting a hand on the countertop to pull herself up. I went to help her, but she shooed me away. Typical Ma. Fiercely independent. I might not know where my red hair came from, but it was clear where I got my tenacity.
“Thanks for covering for me.”
“My pleasure as always, dear.”
I noticed the floors had been swept, the windows cleaned, and the shelves dusted. Cleaning my shop may not be exciting work, but Riley could always be counted on to do a good job.
“Did you finish your homework, Riley?” I asked.
Ma shot Riley a wink and answered for him. “Straight away and without complaint.”
I didn’t believe that for a second. The kid considered homework cruel and unusual punishment and procrastinated as long as possible each night. But since the two of them were clearly lying to me, I didn’t feel quite so bad about lying to them. Riley was still on the floor with Blarney, so I ruffled his hair as I walked past. I gave my mother a kiss on her soft, wrinkled cheek and plunked myself down on the stool in front of the register for the daily bookkeeping. I counted out the bills and coins on the countertop, returning exactly one-hundred dollars to the register for tomorrow’s business. Next to me, Ma went back to perusing her paper, giving an occasional “tsk-tsk” or “hmm” as she read the news.
When I finished counting, I scooped the coins into a zippered bank bag and added the stack of bills and checks to deposit the next morning. “Two-hundred thirty-six dollars and eighty-nine cents. Not a bad day.”
“You do good work, hon,” my mother said, flipping a page of the newspaper. “You deserve—”
When she failed to complete her sentence, I turned to look at her. The color had drained from her face and she’d put a hand to her chest.
“Oh, dear Lord,” she whispered.
I stepped over and put a hand on her trembling shoulder. Though she’d shrunk some over the years and acquired a small hump, she was still four inches taller than me. How I’d ended up so short when my mother had been average height and my father stood a full six feet was beyond me. “You okay, Ma?”
She stood frozen, saying nothing.
I glanced down at the page she’d been reading. The obituaries. “Ma? Something wrong?”
She looked over at me as if just realizing I was standing next to her. “Uh . . . no, dear. Everything’s fine.”
Ma folded up the paper and tossed it into the trash bin under the counter. Strange. She normally put her newspapers in a stack in the back room so I could use them for dying shoes.
She pulled her cardigan tighter around herself, as if she’d suddenly grown cold. “I just realized I forgot to thaw the roast. I don’t know what I’ll feed Riley and your father for dinner.”
Ashen and shaking over a pot roast? Then again, she did pride herself on her domestic skills. Not me. I prided myself on the fact I could execute four dozen fuete turns in a row before becoming so dizzy I had to stop. Thirty years of dancing and I hadn’t yet lost my touch. “Defrost the roast in the microwave,” I suggested.
My mother shot me her usual don’t-think-you’re-smarter-than-your-Ma look. “You know I don’t like that newfangled machine.”
“Newfangled. Right,” I teased. “Just like indoor plumbing.” Her old-fashioned ways weren’t always convenient or efficient, but they gave her a quaint, old-world charm.
She pointed a finger in my face. “Don’t sass your Ma.”
“Yeah.” Riley stood. “What kind of example does that set for your innocent, impressionable son?”
Now it was my turn to point a finger at him. “Don’t you sass your Ma, either.” I should probably ground the smirking twerp but, truth be told, I was glad the kid had some fight in him. He’d need it to survive in this world.
Riley retrieved Blarney’s leash and my mother’s full-length coat from the coat tree, helping my mother into her coat and clipping the dog’s leash onto his collar. My mother tucked her pocketbook under her arm as she turned to leave. “Have fun on your date with Brendan, dear.”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s not a date, Ma. You can’t have a date with a man who has taken vows of chastity and celibacy.”
Her eyes darted to the bouquet on the counter and she smiled a knowing smile. “Whatever you say, dear.”
Ugh. Irish mothers. They could be so exasperating. St
ill, even if it wasn’t truly a date, I knew I would have fun with Brendan. We always had a good time. Brendan had a way of making anything, even doing nothing, fun. He was good-natured, compassionate, perceptive. When I grew frazzled or frustrated, which happened quite often, he had a unique way of calming me, lifting my spirits, restoring my soul. Knew his way around a toolbox, too. He’d installed the ceiling fans in my shop, fixed that pesky leak under the kitchen sink at home, tinkered with Ma’s washing machine when it went on the fritz. Kept himself in good shape physically, too. Jogged nearly every day. If only he hadn’t given himself irrevocably to the mother church he’d make the perfect husband for me.
Whoa. Husband? Where had that ridiculous thought come from?
A hot blush rushed to my cheeks at the sinful thought that had popped—uninvited!—into my head. God would probably strike me down with a lightning bolt for having such thoughts about a priest. Brendan and I were friends. Good friends. Nothing more. Our relationship wouldn’t—couldn’t—go anywhere. Right?
CHAPTER FOUR
VD BLUES
After Ma left, taking Riley and Blarney home with her, I began to close up the shop. I put the “Sorry we missed you!” sign in the window, setting the red plastic hands of the little cardboard clock to 7:30, indicating the time the shop would open the following morning. I locked the door, turned the blinds, and switched off the lights out front. My final task was to take out the trash. As I carried the bin out the backdoor to the dumpster, I noticed The Examiner resting on top.
Was my mother truly distressed over the frozen pot roast, or had my first impression been right? Had something in the paper upset her? Something she didn’t want to talk about?
I took the paper out of the bin, rolled it up, and stuck it under my arm. I inhaled deeply, held my breath, and took off running, tossing the trash over the side of the big metal box. Was it just my imagination again or was there a skittering noise behind the dumpster? Either way, I wasn’t about to find out. It was dusk, the alleyway was dark, and whatever was there—raccoon, rat, brain-eating zombie—was surely better left alone. I rushed to the rear door of my shop, slammed it closed behind me, and threw the deadbolt. I leaned back against the cold metal door, panting.