She glanced, saw a black man in jeans and sweatshirt on his knees at the end of the couch. He smiled, light eyed, and waved her over.
She crouched, looked where he pointed: in the tunnel between the sloping back of the couch and the wall, a shadowy outline and frightened eyes.
"Oh, oh, Ernie!"
The man eased back, made room. “He's been in there since we got here."
"Is he okay?” She reached in, felt Ernie nuzzle her fingers.
"I'm sure he is. I'm Eric, by the way. I live above you with Dan.” He pointed to the tousled-haired man talking to the police officer. “Dan got up to pee and glanced out the window in time to see a guy hotfooting across the lawn with your TV set."
"Oh . . . You called the police?"
Eric nodded. He held up a bright yellow bag with a cat on it, and shook out a handful of fishy-smelling treats. “Let's try these."
By the time the landlord arrived, Ellen was sitting on the couch with Ernie draped over her lap. Eric had made tea and she held the mug in both hands, the heat burning through the porcelain. She shivered, cold racing over her scalp. Eric sat beside her, touching casually at hip and shoulder. She sat close so that she leaned into him, while trying to pretend not to.
Her landlord barreled in, knocking aside police officers. He stopped in the center of the living room, casting about at the mess, and latched onto Ernie. He rattled loose a string of rapid-fire sounds in a language not English, and the only part that made sense was “No pets!"
Eric winked and tucked the cat treats behind his back. Ellen let the landlord's words stamp her deeper into the crevasse, to where dust filled her throat and closed over her.
Ernie whined and nudged her elbow. She stroked his coat, and with every motion felt the frayed threads of her catch and take anchor. She looked up at the landlord, and shook her head.
The landlord hardly paused. A tall willowy woman had arrived with the landlord. She drifted about the room, fingering the shattered ornaments, and picked up a broken frame. Fragments of many photographs fluttered free: Bert, Ellen, Lizzie, a collage of their past. Their first house, Lizzie in her prom dress, Bert's big car, and his fishing boat.
The tall woman set the fragments in her palm, piecing them together, but they slipped and slid apart. The woman carefully wrapped the pieces in a tissue. She spoke to the landlord in the same language, her voice tripping his. He blinked, stopped. The woman kept talking, words like water running over pebbles. The landlord rumbled, grumbled, then harrumphed and stamped off to yell at the police officers.
The tall woman leaned forward and folded Ellen's hand about the wrapped photographs. She rubbed Ernie's ears. “Dog stay."
Dan left the police officers to the landlord. He fetched a kitchen chair for the woman and righted the coffee table for himself, and the four of them sat drinking tea and talking about nothing.
The police officer asked Ellen who else had keys to her apartment. The front door, he said, had been unlocked, not forced. Only Lizzie, she said, in Nunavut.
Dan explained how he'd run down the stairs armed with a camera-phone, but had gotten outside in time to see taillights peeling away. The police officer asked Dan to describe the robber he'd seen from the window: “Hoodie."
The second police officer came in from outside carrying a bundle of cloth. He showed Ellen: a pillowcase, flecked with bright porcelain shards. The police officer asked, “Is this yours?"
She shook her head. Eric murmured to Dan, “That's why we didn't hear anything."
The police officer nodded. “Muffled the sound. We found this too—” He held up a hammer. “—out on the grass."
Ellen shivered, deep down, and hugged Ernie tighter. Eric squeezed her hand. “Hey."
The landlord said strongly, “I get new lock. Dead bolt."
"Yeah,” said Dan, “and maybe it's time for a security camera."
The landlord waffled. Ellen broke in, “Why, I mean, why did he do—” She gestured at the wreck of her livingbroom. “—all this?"
The police officer shrugged with ancient weariness. “He needed to prove he'd won."
The police officers closed their notebooks and said that they'd do their best, but that she should call her insurance agent. Dan left to go to work, but Eric stayed to tidy up and help Ellen make a list of what was missing or broken. She was rhyming off the ornaments on the TV cabinet, left to right, when she realized that the Russian lacquered jewelry case was gone. It had held her wedding and engagement rings. Eric was upset about the rings, but with a ripple of surprise she realized that she wasn't.
As Eric was leaving, she said awkwardly, “Thanks. For helping me, I mean."
"Oh, don't be silly.” He cracked a warm smile. “That's what people do."
For the first time, a swell of emotion stung her eyes. She wanted to say, But they don't, not really. Instead she ducked her head, hiding.
"Hey, now.” Eric pulled her into a hug. He patted her back. “Come on. You're safe, Ernie is safe. Everything else is just stuff."
By the time the insurance agent had been and gone, and the landlord had installed new locks, it was early afternoon. She phoned in sick to work, took Ernie for a lap around the block, and went to bed. She awoke in the half light of dusk and wandered out into the living room in bare feet. Emptied of familiar objects but clear of debris, the room felt as if the robber had punched holes in her past. Now, emerging into a blank landscape, she felt not angry or afraid, but stripped.
* * * *
That night as Ellen pushed the broom, Jonesy came to the lock-cage door and called her name.
She stopped, leaned on the broom, too tired to walk over.
He called again, “Come here."
She sighed, let the broom slap to the floor, trudged to him. He said, “I had to do your work last night."
She said, “Oh,” and couldn't think of anything to add.
"Where were you?"
She fumbled, untangling meaning. “I had a break-in."
Now Jonesy said, “Oh.” Then, “What did they take?"
How could words fill the blanks? “The TV. The microwave.” She stopped, blocked by the knot of memory.
Jonesy peered at her face. “That it?"
She backed up a step, wanting to go, back into the shadow of routine. But Jonesy said, “You got off light, then."
She barked, swallowed, couldn't help herself: “They did . . . damage."
"Huh."
She waited, tears prickling her eyes, for him to say, poor you, or they had no right. Wanting him to make it real.
He stared, eyes flat. His mouth opened, lips pulled back. He asked softly, “How did it feel?"
"How do you think it felt!"
She blinked, surprised. Felt her throat fill with a froth of amends, to smooth, to soften, to lessen. But she couldn't, and what's more, she didn't want to.
She left Jonesy slack jawed, left the broom where it lay, and stamped back to the breakroom.
* * * *
As she unlocked her front door Ernie cannonballed into her legs, panting, whining. Struck by his fear, she stroked his head, hushing him so she could listen. As she tiptoed through the apartment he sprang from foot to foot, never taking his eyes off her.
The apartment was still and quiet, the blanks already edging on familiar. Ellen knelt, hugged Ernie, and said, “Poor you, it must have been awful, I won't leave you alone."
The next night she took Ernie with her on the bus. At the warehouse she made him a bed of shipping blankets and he lay quietly on the blue serge, watching while she drove the forklift. If anyone should notice dog hair on the blankets, she didn't care.
As she walked through the aisles Ernie trotted along at her side. She found herself talking to him, explaining how this crate had to go out with the Listowel driver, this one to Kitchener. Ernie snuffled and wagged his tail, and the hours seemed to roll by a little quicker.
Later, Jonesy came to the breakroom. He hovered in the doorway, keeping an eye on
Ernie. “You can't bring that dog in here."
Ellen said, “Really?” and turned back to the newspaper.
Jonesy shifted from foot to foot. When she didn't look up at him, he said, “Look, about what happened . . . Did you have insurance?"
Ernie got up from his blanket and crept, tail tucked, under Ellen's chair. She reached down to him. To Jonesy, “What? Yes."
"That's okay, then. You can make it right."
She bit back a sharp bubble of laughter, but then thought that yes, in time she would.
Jonesy continued, picking up steam. “I know you don't have a car. If you need to replace something large, I will drive you."
"Oh.” She hesitated. Saw the half hidden eagerness in his face and wondered if this might be his way of making amends. And if it was, could she rebuff him? “Thank you."
He nodded, stepping back through the door. “Don't forget."
Bert phoned. Bert, with brisk, take-charge efficiency: “I heard about your little problem."
"Oh,” she said pointlessly. “I'm fine."
"Good, good. What about the insurance? You'll need to contact the agent."
"How did you hear?"
He waffled a moment. “Lizzie told me."
Of course. Lizzie had dispensed advice from half a continent away ("You need to . . ."). How like Lizzie to call her father to make sure Ellen followed the plan.
Bert kept nattering about insurance. She broke in, “They took the Russian case."
Blank silence. She could hear him thinking, What Russian case? She added, “The one your mother gave us."
"Damn it, Ellen, that was valuable."
"I'm sorry.” She bit down.
"Well, we can deal with that later. You can't stay in that apartment now. We need to get you somewhere more suitable."
"Don't..."
"I'm only telling you what you need to hear."
As he'd always told her. He'd bound her with his expectations and towed her behind him, bouncing and bobbing.
She wanted to shout, to be heard. “I don't . . . want your help."
"Well, you obviously can't manage on your own.” His tone changed, became offhand. “My place has room, if you wanted to, you know, move back."
She went cold and still. Felt herself form around a single word, What?
"Not like before,” Bert cautioned. “Just . . . you know."
Not as a marriage. Just to clean his house and buy his clothes and every night lay out four pieces of white bread with a slice of cheese and a slice of beef.
She heard herself say, “Single life not what you expected?"
He huffed. “I'm thinking of you."
Now she did laugh, high and ragged.
Bert, little-boy sullen: “There's no need to be like that."
"Get out of my life."
She felt herself crack along her spine, her outer layer splitting like a carapace. She pushed the old shell apart, clambered out big and awkward and angry.
Bert said nastily, “You need me."
"No."
"I thought this would show you."
She slammed down the phone. Walked from room to room, yelling at him.
The day the check from the insurance come through, Ellen went out into the warehouse to find Jonesy. She rattled the lock-cage door and called his name, half-expecting him to pop up from behind the towers of freight.
The deck chair, crushed pop cans, cigarette butts, but no Jonesy. Crates and boxes stacked floor to ceiling, except for a single empty space.
From behind, a rolling rattle. Ernie started, raised his hackles. As Ellen reached for his collar, a man she'd never seen before trudged out from the aisles, pushing a dolly. He edged past her without making eye contact, unlocked the cage door, and nudged the dolly up to a stack of loose boxes. He piled the boxes onto the dolly, backed out, locked the door and trundled away into the shadows.
Ellen followed. She felt the cold night breeze first, then saw the bright yard lights. At the back of the warehouse, the loading door stood open. The man with the dolly eased his load down the metal ramp and up onto a second ramp to a pickup truck. He grunted and swore, boots scrabbling for purchase. Another man came from the front of the truck to help, and the two of them strained, leaning almost horizontally.
Jonesy stood on the edge of the loading dock, calling to the men, “You tell Mr. Burke anything he needs, just say the word."
The men heaved the boxes onto the pickup and pushed them behind another stack. As the men pulled a tarp over the load, one glanced back, saw Ellen. He jerked his chin at Jonesy.
Jonesy glanced, and turned around fast. “What do you want?"
Ellen hesitated. The men fastened the tarp, slipped into the truck, and started the engine. As the truck drove out of the reach of the yard light, Ellen asked, “What was that?"
"I told you not to bring that dog in here."
Ellen glanced down at Ernie, glued to her leg. Jonesy pulled down the loading door and kicked the lock shut. He stared at Ellen with hard eyes.
She tried again, “Who were those guys?"
"Customers. Collecting their freight."
At midnight? And where was the paperwork, the signed proof of delivery? She opened her mouth to ask, but Jonesy pushed past her, headed back into the warehouse.
She trailed a few feet behind. At the lock-cage he unlocked the door and stood with one foot braced across the doorway. “Did you need something?"
She faltered. “I got the money, for the insurance."
"I don't have time for this."
She felt a fool. Turned away, cheeks burning.
"Wait a sec . . . What were you going to get? A television?"
She nodded.
Jonesy grinned, features moving together like cylinders sliding into place. “Yeah, all right. I'll show you what to buy."
On Saturday Ellen left Ernie with Eric (and Eric's cat) and waited outside her apartment. She half expected Jonesy to stand her up, and half wanted him to, but he came, barreling into the parking lot in a big black pickup truck.
He slowed to walking pace, leaning over to push open the passenger door. She scrambled onto the running-board and up into the cab. “Thanks."
He pulled out onto the street, reaching to crank up the stereo to a window-thumping level. They drove across town to an electronics retailer and he led her to where televisions crusted the wall like shimmering jewels.
Ellen looked at the price tags and thought, I couldn't possibly.
Jonesy parked her in front of a television that was bigger than her kitchen table. She backed up a step. “Oh, no, I don't need . . . I thought, something smaller..."
"Why not?” Jonesy looked as if she were mad. “The insurance is paying."
The insurance from the rings, the theft, the damage, all of it one swoop. A wedding ring for a flat-screen television: not a bad trade.
Jonesy added, “If there was ever a time in your life to spend money on yourself, this is it."
She shivered all over, suddenly giddy, spring-lamb silly.
A sales rep in a suit slid up to her elbow and started on about pixels and digital compression. She cut him off. “I'll take it."
The sales rep blinked. “Okay."
She laughed. Glanced at Jonesy, saw his face alight, and knew that he understood.
The sales rep's eyes fairly lit with dollar signs. Smoothly, he segued into the service package: For an extra two hundred dollars the retailer would guarantee the television for three years. If it broke, they'd replace it, no questions asked.
She nodded along. Bert had been a big believer in service packages. But before she could agree, Jonesy cut in, “Hold it."
The sales rep fixed his gaze on Ellen. “Your call. But if you don't get the service package and the TV breaks down, we can't help you. You'd have to send it back to the manufacturer, wait while they ship it to Japan . . . I wouldn't want to see you without a TV for three months."
Jonesy grinned. As the sales rep sprouted a pen,
Jonesy said sweetly, “I think we can do better."
The sales rep strode into his spiel, but at each point Jonesy stuck out a verbal foot. The sales rep tripped, backtracked, charged forward, only to tangle in Jonesy's snares. When it was done Jonesy had the service package rolled into the price of the television, while the sales rep blinked and looked like he didn't know what he'd agreed to.
Ellen signed and paid and the two of them scuttled out of the store like bandits. In the truck, Ellen gave in to hiccuping giggles. “Oh, thank you."
Jonesy flapped a hand. “Those things are a ripoff anyway."
"What are?"
"Service packages. They only sell them because they know the TV won't break down. It's free money for them."
"Oh."
Jonesy swung into the next lane, cutting off a sedan. He glanced over at Ellen. “He was trying to rob us. I couldn't let him get away with that."
"But we didn't need to get the service package. I mean, now it'll come out of his commission."
Jonesy shrugged. “Serves him right. He started it."
* * * *
Ellen spent the weekend watching game shows in the glory of high definition. For variety, she switched to the weather forecast. She came to work Monday night seeing stars, and wanting to repay Jonesy.
After she'd sorted the deliveries she took Ernie into the office and went from desk to desk scooping out in-boxes. She dumped the paper mishmash on her old desk and sat down to sort. She sifted out shortage claims (not settled), proofs of delivery (not invoiced), invoices (not mailed), and dog-eared storage bills. No wonder the lock-cage was bursting at the seams.
She typed, photocopied, stapled, enveloped, stamped. Wrote up a set of instructions for the office girls and taped a copy to each of their desks. Then she drew up a list of what should be in the lock-cage and went out to compare notes with Jonesy.
He wasn't in the lock-cage. On the loading dock she opened the man-door to the parking lot, but his big pickup truck was gone.
She shrugged and went back inside to make tea. To pass the time, she started work on the unsettled claims. Damages (box versus forklift) and shortages (a box too few and a finger pointed at the warehouse). Ellen sorted and reviewed, and stopped when she came to a shipment of dog dishes that had passed through the warehouse last week.
AHMM, October 2010 Page 10