SOMETHING WAITS

by Bruce Jones

  The girl looked up and caught him staring. He looked away quickly, pretended to be interested in one of the sale books. In a moment she’d crossed over closer to him. Picked up a book of her own, paged it, put it back. Crossed over closer to him. Right next to him, actually.

  What was this? Was she interested? In me? Guy my age? Is she making a play here?

  From the corner of his eye he could see the globes of her breasts move when she sighed boredom, turned a page. She wasn’t wearing a bra! Was she--?

  He shifted his position again, cleared his throat nervously. What now? She was obviously inviting conversation. He was supposed to say something now, break the ice. But what? He was out of practice. He found himself craning around with a sudden hooded look of fear; of course Kim would show up now!

  But she didn’t. And the girl inched closer. He could smell the oil in her hair…

  He pictured himself turning to her, smiling, asking innocently about the book she was reading. Nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong with conversing with someone while he was waiting around here, no law against that. Just a quick word to open the conversation. He glanced askance quickly and thought he caught her smiling. She was interested! Never mind why, this absolutely beautiful knock-out doll was without a doubt coming on to him! Next thing he knew he’d be buying that book for her, escorting her to the exit door. Then a quick hamburger somewhere, if she wanted it, back to her apartment, a drink or two, and wham--into the old sack. He saw them heaving feverishly across the bed, bodies locked, her long nails digging his back, round hips bucking up to him, lovely mouth opening as she cried out in writhing orga—

  The girl was gone.

  He blinked once. Craned around. She was gone.

  Jerk. Standing here in the middle of a neighborhood department store the night before Christmas Eve fantasizing about ravaging some poor innocent girl young enough to be your…

  He looked at his watch. It was over two hours now. This was beyond ridiculous! Where was his wife!

  A sudden chill found him. Wait a sec! What if she’d run into some kind of trouble? What if she couldn’t get to him? It had never occurred to him. He stood there trying to imagine what kind of trouble she might be in--couldn’t think of anything. Still, you never knew; this was an incredibly long time to wait. No check-out line was that long…

  No. Something must have happened. This was serious. Two hours! Better go check on her, he thought, picking up the packages, better go see what’s wrong...

  Then the thought: but what if she came down while he was going up? If he missed her now it would only delay things further. “You just stay with the books,” she’d said, “I’ll come find you.” Fine, but what if she had run into trouble, was in some kind of difficulty? He’d never forgive himself for just standing around doing nothing while she suffered.

  He grimaced frustration. Lindy, Lindy! Why do you do these things to me?

  But, hold on! His packages! If he left his packages here with a check-out girl, his wife might recognize them—a signal to wait for him to come back. Also, he wouldn’t have to worry about lugging them upstairs through that mob. Yes. That’s it, leave the packages down here.

  “I was wondering if I could leave these with you for a few minutes?”

  The ‘girl’ at the cash register was a fat, middle-aged woman with doughy face, blank expression, and red-rimmed eyes with no remaining patience in them.

  “Someone’s supposed to meet me and I thought she might come by here and see the packages. I have to leave for a few minutes. Would you mind?”

  “You want me to watch yer packages, mister?” flatly, drily.

  “If it wouldn’t be inconvenient.”

  She lowered her fat neck slowly to the presents in his arms. Arched a dubious brow. “Well, I can’t be held responsible--”

  “Of course not. Just keep one eye open, that’s all!”

  “Well…I dunno…”

  “Please. It’s important.”

  “Okay. Fine. Leave ‘em. But I don’t get the blame if they ain’t here when you come back.”

  He lifted the gifts to the counter and pushed them to one side out of the way. She regarded them with lifted nose as if they were wrapped excrement. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, leaving them with this moron. Well, too late now.

  He turned and struck off for the escalator.

  * * *

  He searched the entire second floor for Women’s Apparel. He couldn’t find it.

  By then he was furious. With her, with himself, with the whole night, the whole stupid season. I’ll wring her neck, by God, I’ll wring her neck!

  He began pushing angrily into the crowd again, not apologizing when he lurched into someone. It had become a separate entity, the crowd, a mini-Tsunami washing against him, blocking his path, crushing him against a shore of others. His head was pounding with every step, every jolting shove. The store was suffocating, reaching down and pulling him inside out. He longed now for the chilly blasts of wind in the parking lot, would have emptied his wallet for one quick breeze.

  “Is there a lingerie department on this floor?”

  The simpering high school girl behind the counter shrugged her small shoulders, snapped gum. “I’m not sure, sir, I’m just Christmas help.”

  He clenched his fists until the nails dug into his palms. Was there no end to this madness? He stood glaring at the girl, hating her. “Well, is there someone who might know?”

  She pointed a skinny arm without looking. “Miss Chadwick, next aisle over.” Thanks a holly jolly bunch, bitch!

  He stopped short suddenly in the middle of the aisle.

  Who said his wife was in lingerie anyway? He’d said it—he’d assumed it—not her! Christ, she could be on the third floor or the fourth, in dishware or chocolates! Anywhere in the damn store!

  He hissed a curse under his breath. He’d spent twenty minutes up here, wandering around like a lunatic drug dog, while his wife was probably waiting downstairs for him right now, standing next to that obnoxious pig “guarding” his packages. Or no! Not at that counter! Lindy was waiting for him at the book department!

  He rushed for the escalator. That’s where she was all right, he could just feel it, waiting downstairs for him in Books, craning about worriedly, wondering where in hell he was. He was a fool to ever leave the book department. He pushed onto the silvery moving stairs, waited impotently for the slow, mechanical descent. Please, he begged unseen forces, please don’t let her leave! Let her stay with the books until I get there!

  Robert Wilkes jumped from the last step back into the first floor melee.

  But which way? His head jerked about randomly. He turned a tight circle. Everything looked unfamiliar.

  Goddamnit now, you were just here minutes ago! How could you forget so fast! His eyes fell on the glass-encased directory beside the escalator. “You see,” he told himself, breathing funny, “no need to panic. Try using your brain once in a while.” He quickly combed the list of departments here on the first floor. There was no book department listed.

  He stepped back, wiping at his forehead. “What the hell is this!”

  A pungent smell rolled over him suddenly. That same sickly odor again. Enough to make you gag. Where was it coming from?

  Someone banged into his shoulder, spinning him lazily in place. He felt dizzy, light-headed. He couldn’t take much more of this, he needed to get out of here, to breathe! He shuffled off, directionless, trying to distance himself from the awful smell. It seemed he’d encountered that odor once before. Where? He got a quick flash of dun landscape at night…couldn’t expand on it…

  He found himself wandering aimlessly in the music department, hollow eyes searching listlessly ahead for the overhanging sign that read, Books—Stationery. You’ll find it, you’ll find it, just don’t fly off the handle. It’s got to be here somewhere. Right around the next corner, it’ll be right around the next corner.

  Five corners later he was totally lost.


  He stood in the middle of Household Appliances, a whine building in his throat. This isn’t happening. This is a dream, a nightmare. He crossed on trembling legs to the nearest check-out station. The girl looked seasoned, sharp. Good! She would know where he was.

  “The what?”

  “Books!” he repeated above the din. “The book and stationery department. Can you tell me which way it is!”

  “I’m sorry, we don’t have a book department in this store.”

  He stared sightlessly at her. “But I was just there!”

  She shook her head. “Must be confusing it with another store, sir.”

  “I’m telling you—“

  “Sir, I’ve been working here for six years now, and we’ve never had any kind of books. Ever.”

  He became aware his mouth was hanging open. “…but I…was just…”

  She turned away to take someone’s money. He felt the crowd around him, eyes staring at him.

  “God rest ye merry gentleman, let nothing you dismay…” The music rang dully from the ceiling speaker above him. Through him. Stabbing into his brain. He stumbled numbly down the aisle, bumping off people like a pinball. “…remember Christ our savior was born on Christmas day…”

  A fat man banged into him, jarring his teeth, almost knocking him over. “Sorry, buddy.” He looked up helplessly at the bright sprawl of Christmas decorations festooning the walls, the ceiling. He tried to think. The decorations swam.

  And then it came to him—where his wife would be. The car! Sure! She’d gotten tired of waiting for him in the store and gone to sit in the car, get off her feet! She had her own set of keys—it was where she’d expect him to look for her!

  He pushed with renewed will to the first exit he saw, a wave of relief sweeping him. It was almost over now. Soon he’d be beside her in the car, putting it in gear, backing out of the congested lot. Tomorrow they would laugh at this! The packages? She’d probably picked them up herself. And that girl at the other check-out station was off her nut—no book department indeed! He’d been there, hadn’t he?

  He wormed through the exit doors into sharp winter air again, basking in the cold wind, hurried across the dark, icy lot as fast as his legs would carry him. Even his headache didn’t seem so bad now. He grinned. It was going to be okay. He could feel the bed under him, the heating pad across his back…

  He couldn’t find the car.

  He combed the freezing lot twice, carefully checking every vehicle, shaking his head in bewilderment. Nowhere among them was his yellow Tempo.

  He looked at the watch with giddy panic. It was almost ten. Over three hours now. The store would close in a few minutes. He started back across the big lot a third time. Please…please…

  Then it struck him. She’d left! Something had happened and she’d driven on home! Probably she’d looked for him at Books, failed to find him and couldn’t wait around. He hurried back to the store, heart pounding. Why in hell had he not brought his cellular? Got to get to a pay phone, call home, before they close!

  A picture of his child flashed before his eyes. Something had happened to Lonnie! The bath tub? The sitter had called the store, had them paged, but he couldn’t hear it in all the bustle! But Lindy had heard, and had left without him!

  Dimly at first, he became aware it felt warmer outside. He was actually sweating under his heavy coat and his breath wasn’t making vapor anymore. My God, the temperature must have risen thirty degrees! Then the awful smell washed over him again. Even out here?

  He gagged. What was that reek? A restaurant garbage dump? It was nearly unbearable.

  He reentered the store and quickly found his way to a pay phone. He punched his number with shaking fingers, waited for the ring tone. Waited. It never came. An operator came on instead.

  “What number are you dialing, please?”

  Now what? his mind cried. He gave her the number, voice shaking.

  “One moment, please…”

  He clutched the receiver tightly. Please God, why are you punishing me?

  “Sir?”

  “Yes!”

  “I’m sorry, there is no listing for that number. Would you care to check the number and have me try again?”

  “Operator, that’s my home number, I think I know it!”

  “One moment, please…”

  He waited in agony. Above him the song started again. “God rest ye merry gentlemen…”

  Shut up! His mind screamed. Shut up! SHUT UP!

  “I’m sorry, sir, but there is no listing for—“

  “Operator for the love of God!”

  “Sir, do you wish me to try another number?”

  “No, I wish you to do your job you moronic bitch!” He slammed the receiver into the cradle. He stood shaking uncontrollably. I’m sick. I’m sick, that must be it. The flu or something. After a moment he lifted his head, lifted the phone again, punched in his number.

  Pause.

  “What number are you dialing, please?”

  He replaced the receiver slowly, gently. Stood for several seconds staring quietly at it. It looked like an alien thing. “It’s the store,” he muttered aloud, “the store hates me…the store is trying to get me…” It was alarming how real the idea seemed. He could feel his heart laboring painfully in his chest, his breath whistling.

  He took the receiver again and dialed information. “May I have the number of the nearest cab company in the Shadybrook area?”

  The cab arrived in front of the store in ten minutes.

  Robert Wilkes rushed outside and jumped into the back seat, slamming the door behind him. He was dripping sweat. It was almost humid outside.

  “Where to, Mac?”

  “Ninety-seven twenty-three Maple Drive.” He felt himself pushed back against the seat cushion as the cab accelerated. A few more minutes now and it would all be over, the whole horrible night would all be over.

  The smell assaulted him again through the cracked window. He could hardly take a breath. “Where’s it coming from?” he asked the driver.

  “What that, Mac?”

  “That odor, that smell?”

  “Can’t smell a thing, pal, got a head cold.”

  He sat in silence the rest of the way. All he wanted was to get home and find out what was happening—put an end to this hideous evening. Until he did, he didn’t want to think about smells or phone numbers or book departments or anything. Those things could wait; right now the sole occupant of his thoughts was his wife. He shivered once spastically. Somewhere deep within him, he’d begun to fight the insane notion he’d never see her again...

  The tires made a crisp sound on the pavement as the cab turned onto his street. He watched the familiar line of his neighbors’ houses passing by. The homes on either side were butted together in an unbroken line: welcome to suburbia. Welcome home.

  His house was not among them.

  He couldn’t seem to find his voice.

  ”Which one is yours, Mac?”

  He blinked out at the night. “Are…are you sure we’re on the right street?”

  “This is the only Maple Drive in this burg, pal,” and the driver set the brake.

  Wilkes opened the door carefully and stepped into the street, staring intently at the line of homes. There could be no mistaking it. This was his street all right. He just didn’t live here anymore.

  A horn blared behind him. “Hey, buddy! You payin’ tonight or what!”

  He fished bills from his wallet, handed them absently to the cabby. The taxi jerked away in a cloud of fumes. Silence settled around the man on the empty street. He came to the sidewalk, stepped up on the curb, stared numbly at the houses before him.

  He closed his eyes and felt a sob break in his chest. God help me…I’m losing my mind!

  He felt a wave of suffocating heat wash over him. A fever? Something he’d eaten earlier? Sweat ran in rivers under his clothes. He opened his eyes and stumbled backward in shock.

  The line of houses in front of
him was gone. Replaced by a broken landscape of charred rubble, little islands of dirty, drifting smoke.

  He turned with a gasp and began running blindly down the steaming sidewalk. As far as his fevered eyes could see, the neighborhood was leveled; an endless black field of twisted, gutted frames canted in terrible contrast before a glowing cyclorama of orange sky. Everywhere was devastation and ruin.