Henry knelt down to work on the bottom shelf, and Robin knelt down with him. She whispered, “Do you remember what we talked about other day at the kitchen table?”
“You mean about going to court?”
“No.” Robin looked around to make sure no one was close by. “Do you remember saying that you wanted to be forgiven? That you wanted Mom to forgive you?”
Henry stood and worked on the top shelf, and Robin stood with him. “Does this have anything to do with that?”
“I don’t know. No! Maybe …”
“Maybe what, Dad? What’s going on inside your head? Maybe what?”
“Maybe if I begin to act responsibly, I can live life normally. Maybe that’s all there is to it.”
“Oh, I see.” Robin walked away a few steps to distance herself from her father so she could calm down and think. She wanted to tell him that everyone had done things in their lives that they regretted doing, and we all have to learn from our mistakes no matter how horrible they are, and to forgive ourselves, and move on. That’s what life’s about and that’s the mature thing to do.
Robin watched her dad stock the shelves. He tossed a look at her, smiled briefly, and continued working, an unwavering determination, she thought.
Okay. If that’s what he wants, she’d back off. She was willing to try. At that moment, she decided that there was only one thing to do, and that was to let go, like a mother does when she’s waving goodbye to a son going off to school for the first time.
Dad was at a crossroads in life, Robin conceded privately. So was she, for that matter, what with her mother dying and her relationship with Sharon being redefined. Although she was uncertain of where they were both heading, she surrendered to this energy and promised herself that she would not interfere with Dad’s quixotic quest. Let the chips fall where they may, if she could.
She looked over to Asa who quickly looked away. She felt a little pang of guilt for talking to Asa the way she did when she first walked in. In a matter of a few seconds, she reviewed her life growing up with him, and remembered Asa as a very influential part of her middle childhood, especially back in the baseball days when she was very interested in sports and competed with the boys. She admired Asa for always keeping his cool. No matter what happened in the game, whether the other teams got three hits in a row, which happened only once, or whether someone hit a home run, which also rarely happened, Asa would always look her way and smile. She would be touched by his courage and sensitivity. She remembered the winking. When someone got a hit, she’d be at shortstop and he’d wink at her. She’d wink back. They did a lot of winking. She felt a little twang at remembering. She had forgotten to tell Doctor Tucker that … about the winking.
At this moment, she sensed there was a ‘lingering something’ between them. There had always been a ‘lingering something’. She fantasized for a moment what it would be like on a date with him, sitting in a candlelit booth, sipping wine … then she remembered her confession during her session with the doctor. A dinner date would be filled with talk about ‘most valuable players’ and ‘earn run averages’. She shook her head. There was no need to think that one through. Besides, those thoughts were interfering with the task at hand.
She turned to Henry and said, “Okay. Have it your way, Dad. I’m leaving.”
And she left her father, taking the long route past Asa. “You should’ve called me, Asa,” she said while passing. “I have to hear about this through gossip.” Robin didn’t allow Asa to respond. In a flash, she was out the door and walking to her car. She wondered why she didn’t smile at him. He might’ve winked. She would’ve winked back. She thought about going back inside and apologizing for being rude. No. She couldn’t do that. She had to stay focused and go back to work.
* * *
HENRY WALKED to the window and watched Robin drive away. As her car disappeared from view, Henry noticed Dixie coming out of a dark alleyway with the headset covering her ears. She was dancing with a wild, tribal elegance, then bumped into a pedestrian. She turned and swaggered down the street – a new cadence like an ocean wave that has no care or purpose except to rise and fall and repeat the process over and over, an unrestrained rhythm. She bounced off a shop’s window, and then steadied herself. She stumbled, for no apparent reason, and quickly recovered and continued down the street.
Another figure mulled in the dark alleyway from where Dixie had just emerged. He was striking a flint of a lighter and the sparks shot out like projectiles in every direction. Henry tried to focus but it was too dark and too far away to see anyone. Then a flame ignited and illuminated a face that Henry now recognized.
Jason puffed on a cigarette, moved into the sunlight and leaned his shoulder against the building while observing people passing in front of him. Henry’s heart sank - a momentary squeeze - as Jason stepped onto the sidewalk and drifted in the opposite direction from Dixie.
* * *
HOURS PASSED and Henry finished his first day of work at the pharmacy. “All the shelves are stocked,” Henry said to Asa, “and I organized the boxes of inventory in the back according to which aisle they belong.”
“Oh, that’s nice.” Asa said enthusiastically. “You did that? I like your initiative. Terrific, Henry.”
“Here’s a list of the items you need.” Henry handed Asa a piece of paper.
Asa extended his hand and congratulated him on a job well done on his first day. “And tomorrow,” Asa said, “maybe I’ll teach you how to work the register.”
Henry promised to be in bright and early at eight-thirty, and then left.
* * *
HENRY LAY on the couch at home. He felt exhausted and rubbed his legs, massaging them. He wasn’t used to standing on his feet for so long.
Next door, Henry could hear Danny and Mr. Petzinger yelling at each other. Henry braced himself for the worst, a slap, or a table or chair crashing into a wall. But there was no slap, no suggestion or sign of abuse, just the slam of a door. Henry got up and walked to the kitchen window to see if Danny needed any comforting. Much to his surprise, it wasn’t Danny who had left the house in a storm. It was Mr. Petzinger. He caught a glimpse of him getting into his car and driving away.
Henry reclined on the couch again and felt a sense of achievement for completing a successful first day of work. He had the physical aches and pains that went along as proof in case he had any doubts of his accomplishment.
He retraced his activities of the day. Thoughts of Dixie entered his mind and a sad feeling erupted in the center of his heart and pervaded his body like a torrid virus. He looked up and prayed a little for her, and a warm sensation finally reached his head, a little squeeze of the brain. That was the last thing he remembered before falling asleep.
Chapter 12
Derick sat in his chair leaning back with a lit cigar in his mouth, his feet on the desk and the phone to his ear. Blood was dripping from his boots. The calendar on the wall read 2030, August.
“Mrs. Leonard,” he said, “I’ve been working at CCA for most of my life. I know an opportunity when I see one and I am about to present an opportunity to you. Depending on whether you accept or reject this favorable offer will determine whether you have a good day or a very bad day. You want to have a good day, don’t you, Mrs. Leonard?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Leonard’s voice echoed through the receiver.
“Well, let me tell you, your name is written down in the Debtor’s Book of Shame. You have reached the bottom rung of life’s ladder. You’re a social disgrace and people look at you with disdain and disgust. But now, I offer you this opportunity to erase your name from the Debtor’s Book of Shame and start a new life where people respect and welcome you into their world of cornucopia and opulence. All you have to do is make monthly payments and your soul will be wiped clean. It’s like an indulgence, Mrs. Leonard. You know what an indulgence is, don’t you?”
“Yes. I do. I’m Catholic. In fact, I can trace our family back to the tenth century when we
purchased indulgences at a discount. Let me tell you, Derick boy, this deal you are talking about sounds real good. What do I have to do to take advantage of this great opportunity?”
“Just write out a check for ten thousand dollars a month.”
“Okay. That sounds reasonable. How many months do I have to do this?”
“What are you, joking? For the rest of your life, of course.” Derick cackled hard.
Sharon’s conscious mind surfaced and the sound of Derick’s voice blended with the disc jockey’s cacophonous roar coming from the clock-radio alarm. Her dream vanished as the cruel reality of the alarm clock invaded her consciousness. She turned over and slammed down hard on the radio and stayed in bed for a few seconds, wishing to savor the serene limbo state between the quiet lull of nothingness and the roar of reality. The moment passed and she rose from her bed full of uncontrollable moans, and popping sounds from her joints. She shook the cobwebs out. Might as well go to work since her dreams took her there anyway.
* * *
SHARON WAS TALKING on the phone at work through a headset to Mrs. Geoff Shuler, a lady whose husband had died a year ago and who was complaining she felt lonely. And destitute. Sharon was putting the squeeze on while standing, doing her morning exercises.
While stretching Sharon looked more closely at Mrs. Shuler’s folder. In it was a copy of her husband’s death certificate and signed copies of credit card applications, as well as information of past loans made over a seven-year period. She noticed that before his death, three credit card applications were requested. Sharon had copies of those applications in his name complete with his signatures. Duplicate cards with Mrs. Shuler’s name were also requested and approved by the credit card companies.
Mrs. Shuler didn’t work and was in debt up to her cheeks in her husband’s name, post-mortem. There was nothing much Sharon could do since the lady - that is, her late husband - had no assets to speak of. Nevertheless, Sharon had been showing no signs of mercy between her leg lifts and knee bends. She had been on the phone for ten minutes relentlessly citing bogus laws and quoting from the ‘famous quotation’ pamphlet, a collection of memorable one-liners Todd had overheard from Clarion employees who were creatively squeezing ‘deadbeats’.
“I’ll have you reported,” Mrs. Shuler said. “You can’t talk to me like that. You’ll lose your job.” Mrs. Shuler was one of the tougher ladies, Sharon felt, but not very convincing with her threats. Sharon laughed and was content on letting Mrs. Shuler talk while she finished her deep knee bends, or until she ran out of steam, whichever came first.
Sharon finished her exercises and sat. While Mrs. Shuler continued ranting about how she couldn’t afford to pay anything, being a widow and all, Sharon noticed the signatures of Geoff Shuler’s most recent credit card and loan applications. She picked up a letter written by Mrs. Shuler, which was a long dissertation on how her husband died of colon cancer and left nothing in his estate except for some old books and greasy, worthless tools. He left her with no money. She was, according to the letter, destitute, a fact that Mrs. Shuler was conveying on the phone call. She was angry because Geoff, her late-husband, had more debts than she realized.
“Wait a second,” Sharon whispered to herself. She hit the mute button and put the receiver in the flowerpot, hanging it on a convenient notch that substituted nicely as a cradle. The woman continued to object to Sharon’s heartlessness and the flower seemed to be taking it in good spirits.
Sharon scrutinized the signature on Mrs. Shuler’s recent letter and noticed something interesting about it. It looked very similar to the ones on the credit card and loan applications. After a careful study, Sharon determined that the same person signed all three documents.
“Well, you sly old fox,” Sharon whispered to herself. She could hear Mrs. Shuler’s voice chattering to the plant, which now seemed to be recoiling from the receiver, leaning towards the partition as if it were trying to make an escape.
Just as Sharon put the phone to her ear, she noticed through the office window that Robin was parking her car in front of the building. “Oh, Lord,” Sharon said. “What does she want?”
Sharon hit the mute button and said softly, but firmly, “Listen, you conniving witch …” She hesitated momentarily to let the ‘witch’ word register. A gasp got stuck in Mrs. Shuler’s throat, it seemed, and Sharon waited for a response. One eventually came.
“What did you call me?”
“I said witch! Witch!! WitCH,” Sharon said beginning with a whisper and ending with a soft, but coarse, accent on the last CH syllable, a technique she had learned in an environment where ‘how’ you say a word was as important as ‘what’ the word was.
She bent over in her chair and looked down at the floor, concentrating hard so she could end this conversation before Robin came in. “I got your number, Mrs. Shuler,” Sharon said. “Let me give you an expedited version of what I think is going on here. It seems your husband died the day after he applied for the bank loan. I figure he had to know he was dying when he signed for the credit card application, right? Now, first thing is, who signs for a loan while lying on his death bed with colon cancer? That’s odd enough, and what’s so doubly odd, Mrs. Geoff Shuler, is that your signature on a letter I have in front of me matches your husband’s signatures on a loan and credit card applications. An amazing discovery of events here, don’t you think?”
There was silence on the other end of the phone. Sharon looked up and saw Robin walking into the office. She returned to talking to the floor. “You chew on this for a couple of days, Mrs. Shuler, and try to think creatively of how you’re going to manage to pay for some of these bills.” Sharon looked at several collection notices. “By the way,” she continued, “You’re right. My misuse of phone protocol could get me fired. But forging signatures on credit card and bank loan applications is a felony. You’re a bad, bad girl, Mrs. Shuler. You can go to jail for that. And I don’t think you would enjoy that process at all. Not at your age. Although I’m told it’s a place where you can develop some very close relationships.”
Sharon hung up just as Robin approached. Sharon threw her shoulders back and bent her neck from side to side, cracking one of her vertebrae. She webbed her fingers together and cracked her knuckles in preparation to do another kind of battle.
“Must be important,” Sharon said. “You haven’t come to my place of business in months. Or is it years?”
“Hello, Sharon. Let’s go to lunch.”
“Really. It’s that bad.”
“I thought I’d stop by and let you know what’s going on with Dad, just in case you care.”
“Knock that crap off, Robin. I care about Dad. You know I care about him.”
“Yeah, well, he decided to get a job.”
“What? You are kidding me? Where?”
“Adler’s Pharmacy.”
“Really. Asa hired him? Wow!” Sharon thought for a second. “Why did Dad get a job?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it? It’s Christmas time. He needs money for shopping and he refuses any loans from me. Listen … let’s not quarrel, Sharon. Dad’s acting strange, and that’s what I wanted to talk about. I think he’s trying to change, if that’s entirely possible. So, can we have lunch and talk?”
“All right.” Sharon started to clean off her desk. “But none of the guilty-crap talk. If you are trying to make me change my mind, forget about it.”
“What makes you think I have a hidden agenda, Sharon?”
“Because I know you. And because you have already indicted me as the heartless daughter.”
Sharon picked up one of the folders from her desk. “Hey. That’s my life’s work, making people feel guilty.” She threw the folder back down on the desk. “So, please. I know when someone is trying to make me feel guilty.”
“Okay, Sharon. You win. I’m trying to make you feel guilty. It’s not working.”
“Damn tooting, it’s not working.”
“Fine. I shouldn’t’v
e come.” Robin started to leave but spun around and faced her sister. “You know, you sit here all day, all alone, listening to sob stories and excuses from people down on their luck, and you’ve developed this … callousness about everything. You’ve been doing this for so long your arrogance has become part of your personality. When we were kids you used to care how people felt. Life was just games and fun. Where is that ‘old’ Sharon that I used to know?” Robin turned and left the cubicle.
“Wait,” Sharon said. “That worked. You have potential.” She hurried to catch Robin. “But you emptied all the cylinders at once. You need to save some spit for another round, just in case your adversary has a comment or two for rebuttal.” Sharon clutched Robin’s arm and wouldn’t let go.
“You’re incorrigible,” Robin sighed.
“Smile, big sister,” Sharon said as she cocked her head high. “Let’s make believe we’re the best friends in the world.” And then she nodded to some of her co-workers on their way out of the building.
* * *
ROBIN SAT across from her sister at a bar-restaurant. While they talked, Robin thought how normal their relationship must appear to the outside observer. They seemed to be best friends.
Robin waved to the waiter, tapped her wine glass, and pointed to Sharon and herself. He promptly came over and topped their wine glasses and then left.
“So, how’s your sessions with Dr. Tucker doing?” Sharon asked.
“Okay. I’m pretty much done.”
“Come to closure on anything?”
Robin thought for a second and wondered if she had benefited at all from seeing the good doctor.
“Yeah, I did,” Robin confessed. “Do you remember what your nickname was when you were younger?”
“Of course. Dad always called me ‘Flower,’” Sharon replied.
“That’s right. He used to call me ‘Trigger’.” Robin tossed out a short chuckle. “He calls you this nice, thought provoking, feminine-nature word, and he calls me … a name that you give a horse, or a dog. He should’ve called me ‘Spot’ or something.”
South of Main Street Page 20