by J. C. Davis
Ken plops the box on the counter between us and I eye it warily.
“What’s that?”
Ken smiles. It’s one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever seen. He’s a certified grump, probably has an official membership card and everything, so anything that has him looking this happy has to be bad. Maybe there’s a tiny severed head in the box.
“Find a new place for these,” Ken orders, dumping out the black plastic bin closest to the cash register. Two-dozen blue-wrapped chocolate balls go spilling across the counter.
I scramble to catch them, snagging one as it rolls over the edge.
Ken is completely oblivious. He opens the top of the box, pulling out a plastic bag filled with red, pin-back buttons, the kind politicians hand out close to election day. I’m too busy trying to figure out what’s going on to worry about the chocolates, so I herd them into a loose pile and resolve to sort them out later.
“Buttons?” I ask, pointing at the bag.
Ken’s grin gets even wider. “We’re going to sell them for two dollars each.” He dumps the buttons into the newly empty bin and plucks one out, handing it to me.
It reads, in blocky, yellow letters, i saw cheesus. You’ve got to be kidding me.
“Great, aren’t they?” Ken says. “Everyone’s going to want one. Especially the tourists.”
I hold in a laugh with gold-medal-worthy restraint.
Ken stays long enough to tape a small price sticker to the front of the bin, give me one last warning lecture, and then insist I ask each customer if they’d like to buy a button as I ring up their purchases.
Because my day hasn’t been crappy enough, Dad calls just before my shift ends. I stare at the phone for a moment, pulling up a mental calendar. Dad always calls late in the evening on the last Sunday of the month for his obligatory “I’m still your parent and I really do give a crap about your life” call. We both know he’s only going through the motions. He’s a week early and he’s got the wrong day.
I consider not answering—Ken does have a no cell phone policy during work hours—but to hell with it. Maybe Dad’s decided to head back to Texas.
“Yeah,” I say. Not the most gracious greeting but at least I answered. Dad should be grateful he’s getting that much out of me.
“Sweet Pea,” Dad says. “How are you?”
I wince. Sweet Pea was his nickname for Claire. Geeze. Is the air so thin up in Montana he can’t even remember the right nickname? Mine is Buttercup, by the way, and Emmet usually gets Champ. I never said they were great nicknames.
“I’m fine,” I grit out. “How’s Uncle Carlos?”
Uncle Carlos and my dad’s parents, Abuela Silvia and Abuelo Antonio, have lived in Billings, Montana, forever. They stand out in that city like tropical flowers in a field of daisies, but refuse to move back south. Abuelita says she’s had enough of the southern summers and prefers a bit of cold. When Dad bolted from Texas, he wound up back in his childhood home. I wonder if my grandparents are pissed he’s living in their garage. Dad works with Uncle Carlos now, helping change tires at Carlos’s auto shop.
“Carlos is great and so are your grandparents. Abuela sends her love.”
There’s an awkward silence. I don’t do small talk and Dad’s never been great at it either.
Finally, he blurts out, “I saw Clemency on the evening news.”
I groan and let my head thump against the counter. I guess everyone’s heard about our little miracle problem if they’re talking about it in the wilds of Montana.
“Peachy,” I mutter.
I can hear Dad’s frown even through the phone. “There’s no need to be sarcastic, Del. I just wanted to know what’s going on. Are miracles popping up all over town?”
“Yes, Dad. Jesus is strolling down Main Street handing out ice cream cones and lollipops and the Holy Ghost is serving lattes at the coffee shop.”
“Del!” Dad snaps. He was raised a strict Roman Catholic, even if he left Catholicism behind when he married Mom. Some things stick with you, though, and in Dad’s world, you don’t joke about God. Ever.
“What? You saw the news story. I’m sure they covered things. You want to know more? Try coming home.”
“You know things are complicated—”
I cut him off. “I’m working. Ken doesn’t let us take personal calls on the clock.” Before Dad can get in another word I hang up and turn my cell phone off. I hope he doesn’t call next week. I’ve had all the parental quality time I can handle this month.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Flirting and Blackmail
Sunday, just before noon, Maybelle Jensen totters into the Gas & Gut, white hair swirled on top of her head like an ice cream twist. Her reading glasses cling to the edge of her nose, doing their best to escape. Everything about Maybelle is vague and formless, sagging under the weight of her eighty-three years. Except her eyes. Those are sharp and intelligent. She could turn back a battalion of invading soldiers with a single stare.
I stand behind the cash register, resigned, and wait for Maybelle to launch into a lecture about my lack of church attendance, or more likely that damn interview.
Maybelle smiles and my stomach sinks even lower.
“There you are, Del. I wondered what you were getting up to this morning.”
She’s so full of it. Everyone in town knew I’d taken the Sunday shift ten minutes after Ken agreed. If gossip is the unofficial town sport, Maybelle is the reigning MVP.
“Your mama was at services with that brother of yours,” she continues. “I was surprised you weren’t there. Have you seen that amazing cheese wheel? Pastor Stevenson gave a wonderful sermon about how religious signs are God’s way of reminding us that he is with us every day in everything we do. God can reach out his finger and make miracles. Our town is blessed.”
I smile weakly and nod. “Yes, ma’am, I’ve seen it.” I can’t help picturing a giant finger descending from the clouds and poking Clemency, repeatedly. If I laugh, Maybelle will murder me.
Maybelle eyes the display of mini doughuts and pokes at one of the packages like God’s divine finger. “It’s positively criminal that you weren’t able to attend services this morning. I should talk to Ken about closing the store on Sundays. It’s the Lord’s day, after all.”
Horror holds me still a moment too long and Maybelle swings her gaze back to me, frowning at my lack of response.
“Coffee?” I squeak. Without waiting for an answer, I dash for the coffee machine and fill a cup. If she scalds her tongue off, she won’t be able to talk to Ken.
“Aren’t you sweet.”
“No charge,” I add.
“Now that wouldn’t be right, dear. I’ll pay for my coffee like anyone else. Add a cheese wheel to my order and one of those bear claws.”
“I’m sorry, we’re out of Babybels again. Can’t keep the things in stock, they go so fast. There should be more tomorrow. Would you like a button?”
I snatch up a button and contemplate stabbing her with it.
Maybelle eyes the garish design and shakes her head. “I wouldn’t want to put holes in my Sunday best, but thank you for offering.” She pauses by the door after I’ve rung her up. “I won’t forget to talk to Ken for you. I’m sure a bit of guidance from Pastor Stevenson would go a long way toward helping you see the miracles for what they are. It’s so easy to get mixed up when you’re young.”
The door clatters shut behind her and I glare at it, trying to melt the glass.
“Easy to get mixed up when you’re young,” I mutter under my breath. “I knew she couldn’t resist lecturing me about that interview.”
Stupid Maybelle, always getting in everyone’s business. She carries a lot of weight in this town and it’s not all stuffed under her floral muumuus. Her grandfather was the original town founder. Thanks to that and her spot on the town council, Maybelle’s managed to strong-arm a lot of people. If she corners Ken about my Sunday shift, there’s no doubt I’ll be hearing about it.
By the time Andy breezes in at ten till eight, I’ve stopped glaring at the freezer case and I’ve sold four pins. I’m also bored out of my mind.
“How’s it hanging?” Andy asks, leaning against the counter. “Any excitement?”
I snort. “As if anything interesting ever happens.”
“There was the cheese wheel,” Andy says.
I nod grudgingly. “Was Wendy telling the truth in that ABC interview? Are you back at St. Andrew’s?”
Andy drops his gaze and becomes very interested in the button display. “Uncle Bobby can be persuasive when he wants.”
I narrow my eyes. Perhaps Maybelle isn’t the only one strong-arming people in town. I wonder what Bobby said to convince Andy to attend services again. Must be some new argument because I’m sure he tried them all when Andy stopped going two years ago and declared himself an atheist. Could Bobby have persuaded Andy to plant that cheese wheel at the Gas & Gut in the first place and now he’s using it to blackmail his nephew?
There aren’t any customers in the store. Might as well take advantage of the lag while it lasts. If I ask Andy some questions about the cheese wheel, maybe he’ll slip up and confess everything.
“It’s pretty lucky you finding that cheese wheel,” I begin.
Andy frowns and rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, guess so. Course, you’re the one who almost bought the thing. Could have been you holding the miracle cheese.”
I haven’t let myself dwell on that thought, but it’s hovered in the back of my mind. If Andy hadn’t been goofing around, I’d have taken that cheese wheel home and Emmet probably would have snarfed it without looking twice. No Baby Cheesus. No miracle mania. Funny how one decision can change everything. But if Andy planted the cheese wheel, he would’ve made sure he was the one to open it. How do I even know the cheese wheel he opened is the same one I tried to buy? He could’ve switched them when I stepped out of the store.
I force a laugh. “So close to greatness, yet so far.” I mentally scramble, trying to find a way to ask him about the cheese wheel without outright accusing him of planting it. There isn’t one and I don’t want to tip my hand too soon. Instead I switch gears.
“When you unwrapped Baby Cheesus, was there anything weird about the wax covering the cheese wheel?”
“Weird how?”
“I don’t know. Did the wax feel different? Were there any marks on the wax? Was it the same red as the other cheeses? Was the little pull tab thingy fixed all the way down in the wax or was it sticking up?” I’ve been thinking up questions for days and they all tumble out. I desperately want to grab a notebook and pencil, but I figure that might frighten Andy off. If he did fake the miracles he’s not going to want me writing down info that might incriminate him. But he might answer my questions if I catch him off guard.
I prop my hands under my chin, smile flirtatiously, and stare at him like he’s the most fascinating thing in the world. “Well?” I prompt gently.
“That’s a lot of questions.” Andy sounds shell-shocked.
I shrug and try to act casual. Andy’s eyes drop to my chest and I hold in a grimace. “So anything weird?”
“Hmmm,” Andy’s eyes snap back to mine and his cheeks redden. “No. It was just like every other Babybel. Nothing special until I opened it.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, hiding my disappointment. He could be lying, but unless I find a spare polygraph machine lying around there’s no way to tell for sure.
“You got plans for later?” Andy asks.
I stop smiling. Damn, I must be better at flirting than I thought. “No, but you do. Night shift, remember?”
“Yeah, yeah. Want to keep me company?”
“Stick around this place for another couple hours? Are you nuts?”
“Possibly. Come on, it’s not that long and I hate Sunday nights, they’re always slow. I will die of boredom if you don’t take pity on me.” Andy grabs my hand, widening his eyes and hamming it up.
I force out a strained laugh and yank my hand away. “Sorry. I’ve got a paper due and Gabe’s picking me up.” Over Andy’s shoulder, I spot Gabe’s car with a sigh of relief. “Looks like he’s here already. I better dash.”
Andy drops the joking manner and nods. “Okay, no big deal.”
As I slide into the passenger seat, Gabe glances between me and Andy, just visible behind the main counter. “Something going on between you two?” There’s a little growl in his voice and it makes my stomach flip over. He can’t actually be jealous.
“Nah, we were only goofing around.”
“If you say so.” He doesn’t sound entirely convinced, but he loosens his hold on the steering wheel.
I settle back in my seat, propping my feet on the dashboard, and pull my notebook out of my backpack. “We can go over notes on the way to your place. Andy says he didn’t notice anything odd about the cheese wheel when he opened it.”
“If there’s a pretty girl around, Andy wouldn’t notice a gorilla in a tutu dancing in front of him.” Gabe’s voice still sounds weird and did he just call me pretty?
I try not to read too much into that. Gabe’s just acting strange because he thinks Andy’s too much of a player to be hooking up with his best friend. I can’t tell Gabe I was only flirting to get information out of Andy, though. Just admitting that to myself makes me feel low. How far am I willing to go to prove the miracles are fake?
Monday evening my cell phone rings. When I check the display, I find the Gas & Gut’s number. I don’t have a shift today and I’m pretty sure I didn’t burn down the store last time I was there. Maybe it’s Andy calling to flirt some more? Although I really, really hope not.
I answer with a cautious “Hello?”
“Del?” Ken’s voice rasps over the line. “We gotta talk.”
My stomach drops into my toes. Maybelle must have followed through on her threat. Ken’s going to fire me. It’s that or the store is closing down. Or … I mentally flail searching for another reason Ken would call. I didn’t even know he had my number. He must have looked it up on my employee paperwork.
“About what, sir?” I have never called Ken sir before. Maybe it’ll earn me brownie points.
“Some people are making noise about having a kid working so many hours and especially on Sunday mornings.”
“I only work twenty hours a week!” I’d work more if Ken would let me.
He grumbles under his breath before continuing, “We both know it’s the Sunday shift causing all this fuss. Fact is, I don’t want the Gas & Gullet closed on Sundays—we need the money. Even with sales up thanks to Baby Cheesus, that damned Exxon is still stealing most of the customers coming off the highway. The last thing I need is the town biddies picketing my place ’cause I’m oppressing minors. I had enough of that this summer.”
A few months ago, Maybelle went door to door with a petition to get the Gas & Gut to stop selling cigarettes. She has no traction with the Exxon because it’s corporate, but the Gas & Gut doesn’t have fancy lawyers defending it. Maybelle only got fifty signatures on her petition so she and a few of the other seniors picketed the store. There’s something about little old ladies chanting in unison that is downright terrifying. The Gas & Gut didn’t see much business that week and Ken quickly gave in.
“Please—” I begin, but Ken cuts me off.
“We’re gonna open at ten on Sundays starting this week. That’ll keep Maybelle and her senior terror squad off my back.”
I slump against the wall behind my bed, glad I’m already sitting. At least I’m not fired.
Ken clears his throat and adopts his “I’m the boss” tone of voice. “I don’t need no more trouble, you understand? You better be at church Sunday morning. Make sure Maybelle doesn’t feel the need to come visit me about my ungodly store clerks.”
“Yes, sir,” I mumble.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Politics of Miracles
The house is dark and quiet when I get home after my shi
ft Tuesday night. Gabe has to study for his advanced history test so I’m on my lonesome. My plans are grand and wild: a bowl of Rocky Road ice cream and some quality time with my notes on the miracles. I thought up a few questions I want to ask Pastor Bobby when I have a chance.
Mom’s already at work and Emmet’s disappeared again. The answering machine light is flashing so I pause and hit play. There are three new messages.
Maybelle’s strident voice crackles from the machine, cut by static thanks to our crappy phone line. “Gena, we need to talk about Delaney and what she’s been getting up to. I’m sure you know about her unfortunate interview last week. Them news folks are running it again and stirring up all sorts of trouble. Now I know you’ve been distracted since little Claire passed, and God knows I sympathize. It’s been fifty years since my Janey died and there are still days it’s hard to get out of bed. No mother should ever lose a child. But you have to control Delaney before that girl shames this entire town. Saying such things on TV. I thought it would pass but it’s ju—” Beep. Maybelle is cut off mid-word.
What the hell? I stare at the machine like it’s going to jump up and bite me.
The next message begins, Maybelle again, this time sounding not just pissed but exasperated. “Call me. First thing tomorrow. Maybe Delaney can call that reporter and offer to do a new interview, talk about how these miracles are a sign of God’s blessings on our town.” Beep.
Message number three is even worse. Mayor Thompson’s deep, concerned voice says, “Gena? You there?” A moment of silence, then, “Please call me first thing in the morning. We need to talk about Del and damage control. I’m sure you know all about the current situation.” Beep.
The machine helpfully informs me there are no new messages. The ones we have are bad enough. I consider deleting them, but I know Maybelle, at least, will keep calling until she reaches Mom.
What happened? Why are they freaking out about my interview now, days later?
My cell phone rings and I answer without checking. Stupid. Thank goodness it’s just Gabe.
“Did you watch the ten o’clock news?” he asks. It must be dire if he isn’t even bothering with a hello.