A Hole in the Universe

by Mary McGarry Morris

  The door above him opened. “Gordon? Gordon, are you down there? . . . Gordon?” Neil paused halfway down the creaking cellar steps. “What’re you doing?”

  “Looking for a ladder.”

  “It’s already up here. You were on it.”

  “I thought there was another one. A higher one.”

  Neil almost seemed to be grinning. “No, you’re hiding down here, that’s what you’re doing.”

  He felt sick to his stomach, so drained that his bones ached.

  “I didn’t know who he was at first,” Neil said. “Even when he said the name, Tom Ferguson. I didn’t make the connection. He said he just found out you were working here and something snapped inside. He was on his way to work and he just kept driving. From New Jersey. Six hours—he never stopped. All he knew was he had to see you. He said it all blew up, all those feelings, things he hadn’t thought of in years.”

  Gordon remembered him sitting between his bewildered-looking father and devastated mother, the younger brother who often wept during the trial. He used to wonder why they subjected him to that, why he wasn’t in school. Now he knew. So that he wouldn’t forget. So that when they were gone, some part of them would still speak her name.

  “I told him you’re a good guy, and that’s all I know.”

  Gordon nodded.

  “What else could I say? You never talk about anything.”

  Gordon shrugged.

  “You keep it all in, huh? Not like that Dominguez, always mouthing off at somebody. If it wasn’t for his grandmother, I’d fire the sour little bastard.” Neil picked up a sooty coal bucket by the handle and swung it back and forth. “You know, this may come as a surprise, but I envy you. No commitments, no anchors, nothing to hold you back like this shithole here.” He laughed, his gleaming eyes skittering over the dusty crates, teetering stacks of pallets, and cob-webbed signs and warped shelving. Propped against the wall was the original marquee. NASH STREET MARKET, proclaimed the red glass script, dull with grime and dead fuses. “Feels like a tomb down here, doesn’t it? A fucking grave!” He let go of the bucket and drop-kicked it into the marquee.

  Gordon jumped with the explosion of neon tubes.

  “I should have sold it when I had the chance. But all I could think was, Yeah, and then what the hell do I do? I figured it was too late to start over. I mean, I had a family to support. What was I gonna do, go sell cars someplace? It was like being frozen, like I was encased in this block of fucking ice I’m always trying to see out of, and then one day there you are, and it hits me. I don’t have to do this anymore. I served my time. I can be free, too. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure.”

  “But the thing is, it’s gotta at least look like it’s worth something if I’m ever gonna sell it.”

  “You’re going to sell the Market?” A lump rose into Gordon’s throat.

  “Sure. If I can find someone stupid enough to buy it.”

  Lisa called a few days later. Jimmy’s eleventh-birthday party was going to be two weeks from Sunday. Dennis could pick him up, or he could take the bus if he’d rather. “And if there’s anyone you’d like to bring, Gordon, feel free. We’ll probably be outside, so the more the merrier!”

  “Oh, okay,” he said, trying to hide his dread.

  “Oh, and another thing, Gordon. I meant to call the other day and tell you, but guess who I ran into at the mall? Delores Dufault! It was just a quick visit, but I enjoyed seeing her so much. She’s so nice!”

  “Yes. Yes, she is.”

  “And I told her how much I miss her. I used to love our rides up to see you, she’d be so funny. Well, anyway, she said you’d been to her house for dinner a couple weeks ago.”

  “Yes. That’s right. I did.”

  “Was it good? I’ll bet she’s a great cook.”

  “Yes, she is. It was good. It was very good.” What he remembered was the sweetness of the strawberries and his excitement at the prospect of being with Jilly, who he thought about all the time, last night even dreamed about.

  “So you had a good time?”

  “Yes, very nice.” He smiled, thinking of the dream. Jilly and his mother were playing cards on the deck of a dry-docked boat overlooking the ocean, where the waves had been too loud for him to hear their conversation.

  “But you haven’t called her or anything since then, right?”

  “Well, I’ve been busy. I . . .”

  “I know, that’s what I told her. I said how busy you’ve been and how maybe she should just give you a ring. But then I felt bad. She said she’d stopped calling because she didn’t want to bother you anymore.”

  “Oh. Well, I don’t know. I have been putting in a lot of time at the Market.”

  “Why don’t you give her a call? Just say how busy you’ve been. Ask her what’s going on, and . . . well, you’ll know what to say.” She paused. “You shouldn’t be alone so much, Gordon. You need someone to share things with.”

  It was early morning. The cloudless sky was a brilliant blue, and the sun already felt hot. Gordon knelt in the damp grass, measuring out a quarter cup of fertilizer from the hardware store. The label said to pour it in a circle around the base of each bush. That done, he tilted the old watering can and thoroughly soaked the harsh-smelling granules into the humusy black soil. Every day the bushes were greener and fuller. He could almost feel their gratitude after so many years of neglect. Sometimes when he was done he would glance back, half expecting an anxious voice begging him to stay. He gathered up his tools and started toward the house.

  “Hey! What’re you doing?” Jada Fossum called from across the street.

  “Good morning,” he answered, then continued inside as if he couldn’t hear her still calling to him. Last week, she had asked him to bring her home some milk, bread, and peanut butter. He had almost said no because she had never paid him for the other groceries. But he did, and then when he brought them to her, she said she’d have to pay him later, her mother wasn’t there and she didn’t have any money. Two days later she came into the store and bought ten dollars’ worth of food, for which she had only three dollars and fifty cents. The rest must have fallen out of her pocket, she said. Serena asked her which things she wanted to put back. Gordon kept sweeping. He didn’t know what to say when she tapped him on the shoulder and asked to borrow the six fifty difference. She’d pay him back that night, swear to God.

  “No, you can’t do that!” Serena told her. “You can’t come in here and be hitting people up for money!”

  “I’m not hitting people up!” Jada spat back. “I know him. He’s my friend. He can help me if he wants.” Edging closer, she peered up at him. “I really need this stuff. I’ll pay you back, I swear,” she said in a low, hungry voice. “Thank you! Thank you so much!” she squealed when he gave the money to Serena.

  He gazed out the window as he washed his hands in the kitchen sink. Bright yellow dandelions covered Mrs. Jukas’s yard. Yesterday she had been out in her bathrobe, stuffing blown papers and twigs into a trash bag. When he’d gotten home from work last night, a woman in a pink uniform and dreadlocks had been shaking rag rugs over the back railing. Mistaking her for a nurse, he had asked if Mrs. Jukas was sick.

  “If she is, she didn’t tell me,” the woman said, then told him she was the cleaning lady. She came once a month.

  He sprayed glass cleaner into the sink, then dried it with a square of paper toweling he kept there for just that purpose. Every week he’d start a new square. Thriftiness gave him some small sense of control in his life. The hardest part of freedom was his accessibility. Like Tom Ferguson and Jada Fossum and Delores, anyone could get to him at any time. Instead of being pleased, he was irritated by invitations. He didn’t want to go to Jimmy’s birthday party. He dreaded meeting Lisa’s parents and seeing the horror in their eyes. At least Jilly Cross had been honest about her reaction. So far no one at work had said anything, but he could feel them watching him. Serena and June h
ad become nervously solicitous, as if they needed to stay in his good graces now more than ever. Neil hadn’t said another word about the incident with Ferguson. He had given Gordon two hundred and fifty dollars yesterday to thank him for all his hard work and for never saying no to him. Not once, no matter what he ever asked him to do, he had said.

  Gordon made up his mind. As soon as he finished breakfast, he would call Jilly. His toast had just popped up when the doorbell rang.

  “Hey!” Jada grinned up at him through the screen. “I was calling you. Didn’t you hear me?”

  “What is it?” he said, unable to hide his irritation.

  “Here!” She held up a fistful of bills with a furtive glance back at her house.

  He opened the door and took the money. She dropped a handful of change onto the bills. “I was in kind of a hurry, so if it’s not right, let me know and I’ll bring over the rest.”

  “Thank you,” he said after a quick count. Eighty-nine cents short, but he’d let it go.

  “You didn’t think I was going to pay you back, huh.”

  “Well, yes. Of course I did.”

  “Good, cuz I’m very honest, you know.”

  “Yes, well, anyway, thank you for bringing this over.” He started to close the door.

  “Umm, that smells good.” She sniffed against the screen. “What kind of coffee’s that?”

  “Just regular, that’s all.”

  “High test, that’s what I drink. That decaf stuff, it’s like, ugh. I mean, why bother?”

  “Well, anyway—”

  “Could I have a cup? We don’t have any. We ran out.”

  Saying he’d be right back, he went inside and quickly poured her a cup. He glanced at the clock. Jilly would be leaving for work soon. When he came back with the coffee, Jada was in the living room. She asked if he had any milk. She could drink it black, but if he had milk, she’d like it a lot more, she said, following him into the kitchen. He had a really nice house, she said, looking around.

  This was a mistake. She was taking over, but he couldn’t very well ask her to leave. He handed her the milk carton.

  “Thanks!” She pulled out a chair and sat at the table. She poured milk into her cup, then took a long, slurpy sip. “Hey! Don’t forget your toast.” She pointed to the toaster. After each sip she added more milk. “What do you put, butter on your toast? Or jelly?” Sip. “I like both.” Sip. “Actually, I like everything.” Sip. “I don’t care, I’ll, like, try anything.” Sip. “I’m, like, always hungry.” Sip. “Sometimes my mother says, ‘I think you got worms, you must—nobody can eat that much food and be so skinny.’ ” Sip. The cup was filled with milk. “You gonna eat that toast?”

  “In a minute.” Determined to outwait her, he wet the sponge and wiped off the countertop.

  “If you don’t want it, I’ll eat it.” Her eyes fixed on his with a hard swallow. “But can you pop it down for a minute?” she asked as he started to take it out. “That way the butter’ll melt. I love this house, it’s so nice. Where I live it’s just like nobody gives a shit, oops, sorry, but you know what I mean? The landlord, all he cares about is his rent.” Her voice grated like the scrape of the butter knife on the dry toast. “We’re gonna move. I’m not sure when. But pretty soon. We were gonna move in with JumJum, but then that turned to shit, I mean, like, well, you know what I mean. Thanks!” She snatched a slice before the plate was even on the table. “The problem is, we only got one bedroom. I hate that. My mother’s like this wicked loud snorer. Could I have another piece?” she asked, licking her fingertips and leaning close to the dish as she pressed them into the crumbs. “I’m not getting on your nerves, am I?” she said as he gave her the second slice. “My mother says I’m a pain in the ass I talk so much, but I can’t help it. I don’t like quiet all the time. I mean, it’s like there’s nothing there, you know what I mean?”

  “Actually, I like things to be quiet,” he said as deliberately as he could.

  “Whoa! Well, I guess I better go, then.” She stuffed the rest of the toast into her mouth and headed for the door.

  He’d played this out in his head a thousand times, and now he was finally dialing the number. He winced with each ring. He had everything planned. Dinner at the Yellow Brick Inn, which he’d overheard June say was the best restaurant around. When Jilly picked him up, he’d show her the roses. He’d break one off and give it to her. Or maybe he’d have a bouquet already cut and waiting. But they’d probably wilt in the car. So maybe the restaurant could put them in a glass of water for her. And there they’d be all through dinner, those red petals, velvety soft like her cheeks.

  “Hello?” she answered breathlessly.

  “Hi.” The restaurant, roses, her sweet voice, it all ran together in his head. He didn’t know what to say next. “This is Gordon. Gordon Loomis.”

  “Oh, sure—Gordon! How’ve you been? I’ve been meaning to call you. I was wondering what you thought of the condos I showed you.”

  “I liked them. They were very nice. And I really appreciated seeing them. I mean, I appreciated your time . . . the time it took to show them to me.”

  “Well, I’m glad to do it. Did you get your appraisal yet?”

  “No. That’s not why I’m calling. I wanted to know if you could go to a restaurant. That’s what I wanted to ask you.”

  “A restaurant?” She sounded confused.

  “Yes, to eat dinner. That’s what I meant. And any time’s fine. Any night, whenever you want. I mean, I know you have appointments and things sometimes at night.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Gordon, but I can’t.”

  “Oh. Well. Well, that’s okay, then. I . . . I don’t mean to bother you.”

  “You’re not bothering me! No, it’s not that at all. It’s just that I’m—I’m seeing someone right now. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Gordon.”

  “No, don’t be sorry. I mean, you don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

  CHAPTER 9

  He had been a fool to think that such a beautiful young woman would ever be attracted to him. He had to remember not to expect too much. Reentering the world didn’t make a man free. It was enough just to be here, on his way home from work in the warm afternoon sunshine. As he turned into the front walk, Jada Fossum ran across the street carrying a puppy.

  “Isn’t he so sweet? Oh, I love you so much, you sweet little bee-bee!” she squealed, nuzzling the folds of its plump brown neck.

  “He’s a nice little dog.” He thought of her kicking the old man’s ratty little dog.

  “Pet him. Go ahead!” She grabbed his hand and placed it on the dog’s warm head. “See! He likes you!”

  The dog yipped and wiggled toward him. “He’s friendly.”

  “Yeah, these druggers, they were gonna take him to the pound, but my mother said, ‘No, you can’t do that.’ She can’t stand seeing animals be hurt. She said, ‘They’ll just put him to sleep, and the poor little beebee’s never even been outside or anything.’ They kept him in a cage all the time, the zombies. They did, didn’t they?” she murmured in his floppy ear. “Poor little thing, he keeps pooping all over the house. I’m trying to train him, but every time I put him down he takes off. Hey, you don’t have an old leash or anything, do you?”

  “No,” he said. Then, seeing her disappointment, he remembered the old pieces of clothesline in the garage. She tied the shortest length to the collar. The collar seemed loose, but he knew better than to get too involved. The minute she put the puppy down, he squirmed out of the collar and tore through the bushes, onto Mrs. Jukas’s front porch. Yelling, Jada chased after him. The door opened as the girl dove onto the yipping dog, trying to snare him with the collar.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Mrs. Jukas demanded through the screen.

  “I’m just trying to get my dog, that’s all!”

  “Get out of here!”

  “I am. I’m just tryna get the thing on him, that’s all!”

  “No! Get out of here!
You get off my porch right now!”

  “I am! I am! I just have to do this!” Jada said as the collar slipped off the dog’s head again.

  The commotion had summoned Marvella Fossum to her front door. She seemed confused at first, then hurried down the steps and across the street onto Mrs. Jukas’s narrow porch. “What the hell’re you doing?” she screamed. “If you can’t take care of him, then you’re not gonna keep him. Didn’t I tell you that? Didn’t I? Well, didn’t I?” Jada picked up the dog and was trying to untangle the rope from the leg of the aluminum chair the dog had pulled over. “Answer me! I said answer me!” Marvella cried in the frantic tone of baseless authority.

  “Get out of here! Both of you! You get off my porch right now!” Mrs. Jukas said.

  “Fuck you!” Marvella kicked the door panel.

  The old woman’s head recoiled. “That’s it! I’m calling the police. I don’t have to put up with a tramp like you coming onto my property!”

  “Ma!” Jada pleaded as Marvella charged the door again.

  In the driveway, Gordon raised his hand.

  “Stop it, Ma! Stop it!” Jada cried, and grabbed her mother’s arm.

  “So she can call me any name she wants?” Marvella screamed. “Like I’m nothing? Like I’m just some piece of garbage?” she bawled as Jada managed to get her off the porch with the joyful dog straining at the lead.

  Delores couldn’t believe her ears. Not a word from Albert in days and suddenly here he was with his mousy little Dearborn clerk, Katie, in her denim jumper, saying he was closing the Collerton store in a few weeks.

  “It seems like short notice, I know,” he said.

  “Short notice!”

  Katie was tallying the merchandise count in a steno notebook, but Delores knew she had been brought as Albert’s shield.

  “It was one of those what I call lightbulb decisions,” Albert intoned in that chest-deep voice he used when he wanted to impress someone. “All of a sudden you go, What are we doing, why do we keep carrying this deficit from month to month? . . .”