South of Main Street

by Robert Gately

  Henry could see that her heartache was genuine, and if he had something to offer her as solace, he would, but he had nothing to offer, except the countenance of a good listener.

  “I did see a change for the better. Those twitches … those little facial fits she used to have, they were starting to go away. She seemed calmer, is what I’m trying to say, Henry. I had hope once again. I hate that, when hope gets you up and then you come tumbling down. You lose sleep when that happens, you know. She has so much to offer, Henry. She’s such a pretty girl, don’t you think?”

  “She is a beautiful girl,” Henry said. “Inside and out.”

  “Yes, but the devil’s got her, Henry. The devil’s got her.”

  Henry didn’t want to think about a devil and hell. Life is depressing enough at times, he thought, so why complicate it by thinking about hell and a proprietor of such a nasty place.

  “God is patient,” Henry said.

  Mrs. Swanson chuckled for a second and then looked Henry right in the eye. “He can afford to be patient, Henry. He has all the time in the world.”

  He mused over that thought for a second and wondered just how much time could be afforded Dixie. “Imagine, Mrs. Swanson,” Henry said. “Imagine you’re taping the seventh game of the World Series baseball on TV because you had to go to work. And at work, you tell everyone you don’t want to know the outcome of the game because you taped it and you want to watch the game at home and be surprised. But a customer comes in and tells you your team won.”

  “Okay, Henry. I’ll play along. Let’s say I’m imagining my team won.”

  “Well, imagine going home and watching the game that you just taped, and during the game your team is losing. You don’t get excited and you don’t get mad or any of those things. You have patience because you know that your team is going to win. Well, that’s how I think it is with God. He knows the outcome, so he doesn’t get too excited. It’s that kind of patience.”

  * * *

  MRS. SWANSON SCRATCHED her head and then put her hand over her chin. She never thought of it that way, but it made incredible sense to her now that Henry mentioned it. Still, she had a heavy heart. “Well, that’s a very good way of looking at it,” she said. “I guess it explains things when the outcome is good, Henry. But what if the outcome is bad? What if God knows that Dixie is going to die from an overdose? It happens, you know. Worse, what if she dies and goes to hell. If He knows it, why doesn’t He jump in and change things for the better?

  “I see things a little differently since Mary died, Mrs. Swanson. This I believe: God would not have made Dixie if He knew she was going to hell.”

  Mrs. Swanson expelled a single grunt from her chest, which was supposed to be a laugh. “But what about free will, Henry?”

  “Free will?” Henry asked. “God didn’t ask Dixie if she wanted to be born, did He? He didn’t say, ‘You have the freedom to make a choice here, Dixie. I’ll make you and place you on earth and if you do good you go to heaven, and if you do bad you go to hell’ and then wait to see if she’d accept the challenge. No. Free will has nothing to do with it. God made us then plopped us down here for a good reason. I don’t know what that reason is; maybe it’s a simple thing like we’re here to live harmoniously with one another. But Dixie going to hell? No, I can’t imagine anyone putting an innocent infant in harm’s way like that, let alone God. It would be against moral law.”

  For a brief second Henry’s answer made incredible sense and the pain seemed to vanish. But Henry’s answer didn’t remove the sorrow she felt for her daughter. And, in philosophical way, Henry’s answer disturbed her because of her Christian beliefs, which was founded on the bible and the concept of the devil and angels and heaven and hell. So, shaken over the conversation, she excused herself, but before she left, she thanked Henry for his concern for her daughter and told him that if he was going to stick around in Dixie’s life he better get used to her cycles.

  “If I wasn’t her mother,” she said, “I would’ve given up a long time ago.

  * * *

  HENRY WALKED to town intending to put in a couple of hours at the pharmacy. Another week had passed, another Saturday had come. He would go Christmas shopping after work. He had already gotten paid for the week and had cashed his check. He felt quite the responsible person with a nice little nest egg of about two hundred dollars in his pocket.

  No further incidents had occurred between Henry and Mr. Kruchuk. They kept their distance from each other purposely. Still, Asa was very happy with the way the store looked now. Everything was in its place, thanks to Henry. Asa praised him several times during the week, even when Kruchuk complained Henry was slow. Asa told Kruchuk he liked the methodical way their new helper worked. Everything was documented and in its proper place.

  Asa told Henry, in front of Kruchuk, that he received two compliments from customers on Henry’s friendliness and helpful attitude. Kruchuk just grunted in a bah-humbug sort of way. Henry could tell there was a rift between the two owners, but he didn’t know whether it was always there or it began building since Henry’s first day. Asa seemed comfortable not paying any attention to his partner’s mood swings, as if he had been doing that a long time.

  On Saturday, the pharmacy didn’t open until ten, so Henry walked to work a little later than usual but early enough to engage in his favorite pastime of watching the town in motion. He walked over the bridge and scanned the area below for Wheezy or Joe. He looked to the east and west side of the bridge but couldn’t find them. He leaned on the rail and looked under the bridge as far as he could and spotted two pairs of legs side by side; one leg was missing a shoe. The exposed sock, torn, and the toes stuck out of the holes. It appeared that Wheezy and Joe were taking a nap. Henry reached into his pocket, pulled out two pairs of wool socks with the initials HW embroidered on them. He tossed them down the embankment.

  One of the pairs hit them on the legs and they moved. Henry heard moaning and wheezing sounds. Feeling relieved that they were a least alive, he turned and continued on his way. He wondered if he should invite them over to the house for some hot chocolate. Yes, he made a mental note to do this - to invite Wheezy and Joe up to his house.

  He turned the corner of Main Street and spotted Dixie sitting on a bench close to the pharmacy. Her CD player rested by her side and she was sitting with her back to Henry.

  He approached the bench not knowing what he should say. A feeling of pure delight overcame him because he had missed her so much. More importantly, she was alive and well, or well enough to be sitting on a bench on Main Street. He wanted to yell ‘boo’ in her ear, but that didn’t seem like the thing to do under the circumstances. Still, he pondered what to say as he stood behind the bench. He felt almost paralyzed.

  He coughed.

  Dixie turned. “Hi,” she said calmly.

  Henry was still searching for something to say. A simple ‘hi’ wouldn’t do, he felt, but he didn’t know what else to say. Dixie looked at him waiting for a response. Henry interpreted the look on her face as guilt.

  * * *

  DIXIE FELT more shame than guilt. This recent fall from the wagon was particularly hard. Her chest felt sore, like they used to when she was a kid and was getting over a bout of bronchitis. She felt tired all the time no matter how much sleep she got. She didn’t know what to say, so she tried to speak with her face, her eyes. She smiled. This was her way of telling him she was sorry for disappointing him. There had been too many ‘sorry’ statements in the past; she couldn’t bear saying it again. They would ring hollow, even to her. Besides, saying ‘I’m sorry’ to Henry would only imply that promises were forthcoming, promises she probably couldn’t keep.

  “Wasuuuuup,” Henry said while shaking his head back and forth vigorously like a terrible Richard Nixon impression.

  She laughed. “You are one weird dude,” she said.

  “Yeah. Well, if I’m weird, then what are you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Dixi
e asked.

  “I’m just kidding,” Henry said. “It means if I’m weird, then you’re double weird, that’s all.”

  It didn’t appear that Henry was mad. In fact, it felt like their relationship was just the way it was before she fell off the wagon. Still, she didn’t want to start a conversation with Henry this way. She didn’t feel very good physically, felt numb emotionally and spiritually. Too many conversations got started on the wrong note when she felt this way.

  “I’ve said I’m sorry too many times in the past,” Dixie said, “and it would only sound hollow if I say it again.” Dixie waited for a response and didn’t get one.

  “I’m in trouble, Henry.”

  * * *

  HENRY’S MIND KEYED on the word ‘trouble’ and a few scenarios immediately ran through his mind. Trouble with her mother? That didn’t seem plausible considering his recent encounter with Mrs. Swanson. It would be more like ‘business as usual’ than trouble. Trouble with the police? If so, maybe, he could talk to the judge and … No. No, he couldn’t do that. He didn’t want to enable her. If she were in trouble with the police, that would be good, actually, because then she would …

  “Henry! Did you hear me? I said I was in trouble.”

  “Yes. I heard you. What kind of trouble are you in?”

  * * *

  DIXIE WANTED to be honest with him. She was tired of making up stories. Hell, she couldn’t even say it to herself. ‘I’m doing drugs, Henry, and I need help,’ she wanted to say, but her abdomen erupted with pain, like a blunt instrument had pierced the middle of her belly, twisting and turning. She bent over and let out with a short groan. The pain eased.

  “You don’t look good,” Henry said.

  “Oh, what gave it away, dear Watson,” Dixie said. She felt ragged. She knew her clothes were wrinkled and dirty, and her face was smudged, sooty-looking – almost as bad as a coal miner’s face after a hard day’s work. Wheezy took better care of herself. That thought alone caused a sharp, spiking pain to run through her abdomen. She released a grunt and the sting vanished. She bravely faced Henry. Her dry lips telegraphed her thirst. The rumble in her stomach conveyed her hunger.

  Dixie tried to speak, but her facial tics and twitches interfered with her concentration. It was not just her face. The electric pulses wreaked havoc throughout her body. She waited for the aches to pass. It always did, although the duration of this episode was longer than usual.

  “What, Dixie? What do you want?”

  “Just wait a second, will you?” The pain in her stomach came back and she bent over and put her hands on her knees. She didn’t know which was worse, the raucous in her abdomen, or these spasms, which seem to run through her body, these jagged pulses like an electric shock treatment. The moment passed, and she stood up straight and was finally able to concentrate.

  “I need more money. I owe Jason two hundred dollars, and he has threatened to hurt me if I don’t give him the money.” There! She said it. What was the worst that could happen now? Henry could refuse, she supposed, and that was it. She’d take her punishment from Jason and go on with life; that is, if she managed to escape with her life, well, that wasn’t such a great thing, but if she didn’t, it wouldn’t be all that bad. The quality of life after death, after all, was the same for everyone, rich or poor. One had to assume it was at least peaceful.

  Henry looked away. “I have to go to work,” he whispered.

  “Oh! So you’re too good for me now, huh, you bastard? You have a job now so you can’t associate with me? Up yours, you turd.” This sort of just came out of Dixie’s mouth in a string of words without her thinking about it, like she was having an out-of-body experience and was watching herself say this from a couple of feet away.

  Henry turned his back and walked to the pharmacy. “What do you think, I won’t pay you back. I’ll pay you back,” she yelled. As Henry reached the pharmacy door, she watched herself bending down to pick up a pebble. She threw it at him. “You bastard,” she heard herself say again. She jogged to catch up to him. “Please, Henry. I need the money to …”

  He shook his head. “No,” he said sternly as he turned to face her. “Money is not what you need. Money won’t solve anything. You need …” A tear ran down Henry’s cheek as he talked. “I don’t know what you need. You need to get a grip on your life.”

  “Oh, man,” Dixie exclaimed. “You’re not going to do this to me now, are you? LIFE? I don’t want to hear one of your Forrest Gump bullcrap, piss-ant sayings about LIFE! As if you know what LIFE is all about!”

  Dixie started to walk in a circle with her hands twirling in the air. “What are you going to tell me that ‘life is like a roll of toilet paper. The closer it gets to the end, the faster it goes,’ huh, Gumpy boy-man?”

  As Dixie put on her headset, her hands shook. She turned the volume up to stop the world from caving in on her. But the music didn’t help now. She felt alone. Worse, she felt like she had done something terrible to Henry. If she had a chance to take back the last few moments and do them over, she would. Her body and spirit ached for treating him this way and she wanted to tell him that. She wanted to tell him how out of control she felt and how much she loved him.

  “The hell with you, you bastard,” she said instead, instantly regretting that too. She walked away feeling totally worthless and alone. Her stomach felt like it had a hole in it, and a consuming darkness was rushing in to take over her soul.

  From a distance, Dixie turned to apologize to Henry for being such a ‘jerk’, but he was gone. All she saw was a figure that disappeared into the darkness of the store and the door slowly closing. She looked up to the sky and dispelled a guttural, behemoth howl, a plea for all the monsters inside her to go away.

  But she got no such relief.

  * * *

  HENRY RECEIVED instructions from Asa on how to use the charge card machine. They had been at the register together for quite a while.

  “I’m falling behind on the prescriptions,” Asa said. “You got the hang of it, Henry?” Asa asked. Henry nodded and Asa smiled and left.

  A customer approached and handed Henry her items. “Hello, Mrs. Beltran,” he said confidently as he punched the keys and scanned her products. Henry noticed Mrs. Beltran inspected every item he picked up. She studied the price tag and waited for the amount to appear at the scanner window on top of the register. Henry also noticed Mr. Kruchuk watching him carefully. “Big mistake,” he heard him say to Asa.

  * * *

  ASA DIDN’T FEEL a response was necessary. His relationship with Kruchuk had been deteriorating for some time, even before Henry. It had started last year when Kruchuk needed money for some personal matter and he took the money from the register before the balance sheets were tabulated. Asa told him that was unacceptable, but Kruchuk did it again. Then they began to disagree on what items to stock. What was so perplexing about the current situation was that Kruchuk had hired his brother last year to work at the pharmacy and Asa didn’t object. Kruchuk’s brother did half the work of Henry, and quit after a month. So, Kruchuk was in no position to object to Henry’s employment.

  * * *

  AS HENRY SCANNED Mrs. Beltran’s items at the register, he casually looked out the window and caught a glimpse of Dixie and Jason across the street – on the south side of Main. Jason pulled her into the dark alleyway and out of view.

  “Henry, wait,” Mrs. Beltran said. She took out her wallet. “Don’t check out any more items. I don’t have enough money.” Mrs. Beltran pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. “This is all I have.”

  Henry scrolled the paper receipt spindle and began adding. He looked at the two items yet to be checked. “Well, you are very close to that amount now, Mrs. Beltran.”

  “Oh, my.” She looked at the remaining two items.

  Henry tried to catch a glimpse through the window at what was going on across the street, but Jason and Dixie were still hidden in the alleyway.

  “I really need this ice pack for La
wrence. His back is so bad these days.” She pushed the ice pack forward and pulled back on the hair spray.

  Henry looked at Mrs. Beltran’s hair. He was not much of a connoisseur on women’s hairstyles, he felt, and he didn’t want to say anything. Yet, he knew all too well having lived with two daughters what efforts and emotions were packed into ‘the look’. He wondered whether the haphazard directions of the individual hairs on Mrs. Beltran’s head reflected the desired look, or whether the design was a condition she was trying to remedy with the hairspray.

  The omni-directional pattern of her knotted cowlicks could be used to pick up short-wave signals from extraterrestrial beings, he thought. Or maybe she used her hair for mental telepathy, which would be quite embarrassing for Henry if Mrs. Beltran could pick up his current thoughts. “Stop,” he whispered to himself. His thoughts were going to get him into trouble.

  “Stop what, Henry?”

  “Nothing. Let’s see what we can do here.” As he rummaged through Mrs. Beltran’s items, he remembered how it was when Robin and Sharon were in their ‘hair stage’ – the ghastly early teens. He recalled the time he put his hand on top of Sharon’s head because he thought her hair stood straight up like matted fetlocks. Her screams and obscene half sentences made him feel like a thoughtless thug. Mary later had explained to him that Sharon’s reaction, although severe and unacceptable, was a reaction to Henry’s destruction of hours of work to create ‘the look’.

  He shot one more peek at Mrs. Beltran’s mop and, feeling that her Spanish moss ‘look’ was more due to personal neglect than trying to make a fashion statement, he said, “That’s okay, Mrs. Beltran.” And then Henry included the hair spray with the other items. He hit the ‘total’ key on the register and the amount came to twenty-two dollars and seventy-three cents.