by Beth Goobie
Instant alarm shot through Shir—had she done something wrong; should she have made more noise coming in; was she about to be fired? Then common sense took over, and she stood, letting her breathing slow. The boss was just having a private conversation, that was all, she told herself shakily. Maybe he had a mistress and was running a hot secret affair. Whatever, it wasn’t her concern.
On a nearby counter, she noted four boxes packed to go, their delivery addresses written in black marker across the top. Crossing the room, Shir scanned them intently. Joe’s Pizza, Mrs. Duran, and the Pleasant View Seniors’ Home—she had made deliveries to each of these places before and they tipped okay. The last address, however, was new—the Sunnyville Rec Center on 9th Avenue. Oh yeah, she thought with a flash of recognition. She knew the place, having attended a day camp at the center the summer she turned eight. But that was twenty blocks west, she thought, a frown crossing her face. Why in the world would a rec center twenty blocks west phone in a Sunday afternoon delivery to, of all places, Bill’s Grocer?
Briefly she pondered the question, then ditched it with a shrug. Whatever, she thought. A customer’s reasons were his own private business. She just made the delivery. Picking up the nearest box, she hefted it experimentally. Heavy enough, she thought, grunting softly. From the sound of it, the box was full of cans. For this one she would put on an extra-sweaty, worn-out look when she carried it to the door. That should bring in an extra buck on the tip.
“Early and raring to go as usual, I see,” said a voice behind her.
Startled, Shir turned to see Mr. Anderson coming through the back entrance. As usual, he was smiling, his upper lip hidden under a dark, bushy mustache, his plump face wreathed in congenial lines. Just looking at that smile, Shir thought, smiling back instinctively, you don’t notice what a porker he is. Or how bald.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Lucky I did most of my homework last night so I was free today.”
A flicker passed through Mr. Anderson’s eyes the way it always did when she lied about schoolwork. As if he didn’t quite believe her, thought Shir. But why wouldn’t he? she wondered, giving him an uneasy glance. What would Mr. Anderson know, one way or another, about what she did when she was off work?
“Great,” he said heartily, coming toward her. “Just what we need—a scholar on staff. Now, like I told you on the phone, I’ve got four deliveries for you. You’ve done three of them before, but one is new. It’s a rec center—”
“Yes, sir,” Shir said immediately. “I know it.”
“You do?” asked Mr. Anderson. Inexplicably, his eyes narrowed, and he shot her a sharp glance. Panic hit Shir, jagged heartbeats there and gone.
“Just went to summer camp there, sir,” she blurted, cursing herself angrily in her head. Damn it all, what was the matter with her? She should know better than to interrupt the boss. So what if she already knew the way to the rec center? If Mr. Anderson wanted to explain every millimeter of the route, she could just goddam stand there and listen.
“Great, just great!” Mr. Anderson exclaimed heartily, the brief sharpness gone from his face. Reaching out a hand, he touched Shir lightly on the shoulder, and she was released from the frightened, angry yelling in her head. “You’re sure you know the way there?” he asked gently.
“Yes, sir,” said Shir. Flooded with relief at the change in her boss’s tone, she stared fixedly at the floor. So, she wasn’t going to be fired, she thought wearily. At least, not yet. Not yet, not yet…
“Great, just great,” repeated Mr. Anderson, and handed her the keys to the delivery van. “When you get to the rec center, ask for a Mr. Dubya. The order is to go directly to him and no one else.”
“Yes, sir,” Shir assured him.
“And keep to the speed limit,” he added with a wink. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“No, sir,” Shir grinned back. “I definitely won’t, sir.”
Grabbing the box that contained the rec center’s order, she headed out to the van, a nondescript gray vehicle parked in the alley behind the store. Since the rec center was her furthest delivery, she placed the box on the back passenger seat, then returned to the storage room for another one. Mrs. Duran’s was the closest address, only a few blocks away, and then there was the seniors’ home. If she drove slowly, she should be able to stretch the four deliveries into an hour, maybe an hour and a half.
With a satisfied grin, she unlocked the van’s front door and settled in behind the wheel. As usual, the raised front seat, with the van’s mass of horsepower revving under her feet, made her feel as if she was sitting on a mobile throne. After a careful shoulder check, she backed out of the parking space and headed down the alley. At 12th Street, she scanned for traffic, but the thoroughfare was empty. A small sigh escaped her. Nothing ahead but sunshine and the faint lacy green of newly budding trees; the world was her oyster.
Giving it some gas, Shir started off slowly. Over the past six months, she had come to realize that two things were of the utmost importance when making deliveries—driving carefully, and using up as much time as possible so she could bump up her earnings and spend the rest of the week swimming in beer. At the first four-way stop, she turned on the radio to find it tuned to a couple of talking heads, the usual CBC stuff Mr. Anderson listened to. With a snort, she adjusted it to CJSR, and the world was rocking. Both hands firmly on the wheel and a wide grin plastered across her face, Shir continued rolling down the street.
At 34th Avenue, she turned right and parked. Mrs. Duran’s house was the second from the corner—a small yellow bungalow with a garden to one side. This early in the year, there was nothing but a few green shoots poking out of the ground, but still she could see the tiny elderly woman pottering around, working the earth loose with a large gardening fork.
“There you are, Shirley!” she exclaimed as Shir opened the van door. Getting laboriously to her feet, Mrs. Duran started across the lawn in her ancient wobbly way. Hastily, Shir snatched a clipboard that lay on the passenger seat, and booted it to the back of the van. If she didn’t watch it, the old lady would try to grab the box that contained her order and lug it into the house herself. Didn’t come up to Shir’s shoulder, but still thought she was Wonder Woman or something.
“Where would you like this, Mrs. Duran?” asked Shir, hefting the box securely into her own arms and giving the elderly woman her best smile.
“This way, dear,” Mrs. Duran beamed back. “Follow me.”
Slowly, she started off along the side of the house, creaky step by creaky step. Not bothering to hide her grin, Shir followed. She got a real kick out of this old lady, the way she was always doing something—painting her porch, raking the lawn, or gardening. One time, she had actually caught Mrs. Duran halfway up a stepladder, trying to knock a dead squirrel out of the eavestrough. Shir had helped her down off the ladder, then done the job for her. It had gotten her an extra toonie, but she had turned it down. A tip for deliveries was one thing, but helping little old ladies knock dead rodents out of eavestroughs—well, you couldn’t take money for that.
As she turned the back corner and mounted the porch steps, Shir could smell cinnamon and nutmeg. Baking again, she smiled to herself. Mrs. Duran had about a million grandchildren, and was always mixing up another batch of cookies.
“Just set it over there, Shirley,” said the elderly woman as they entered the back hallway. “On that chair there. Now, let me see if I can’t find you a lovely loonie for helping out an old geezer like me.” Fishing around in a jewelry box of loose change she kept by the phone, she placed a toonie firmly in Shir’s hand. “Now, don’t you think you need a cookie and a glass of iced tea after all that hard work?” she asked, peering up at her.
“I sure do, Mrs. Duran,” grinned Shir, knowing this was the way Mr. Anderson would want her to respond—polite and friendly, treating the customers like real human beings. Hefting the delivery box higher in her arms, she carried it into the kitchen and set it on the table where it
would be easier for Mrs. Duran to unpack it. Then she sat down and munched her way through several cookies while the elderly woman sat opposite, warbling on about her zillion children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, and what it had been like during the war years. And that wasn’t the Iraq war, or Afghanistan, or even Vietnam, thought Shir, studying the wrinkled face opposite. It was World War II, which put Mrs. Duran well into her eighties. And she wasn’t anywhere near dying yet. Just sitting there, Shir could practically hear the little old lady’s heartbeat, steady and sure, filling the walls of this pretty yellow house.
A feeling of softness crept over Shir and she let herself sink back into her chair, breathing in the room’s quiet, nutmeg-scented air. It was nice here, her favorite place to make a delivery, and with Mrs. Duran’s quavery storytelling, they managed to knock off twenty minutes before the elderly woman signed the clipboard, acknowledging delivery, and Shir was back in the van, waving goodbye and heading down the street.
The seniors’ center was more businesslike. Shir didn’t know anyone personally, and the old people didn’t seem to do much more than sit around, staring out the windows. Still, the kitchen staff were friendly, and Shir left with a loonie tip in her pocket and a smile on her face. Next was Joe’s Pizza, which was packed with customers, waitresses hollering back and forth, and kitchen staff madly shredding cheese and slapping on anchovies. So it was just a quick stop—in and out, with a wave to Lucille, Joe’s wife, and another toonie in her pocket.
Back in the van, she mentally rehearsed her route to the Sunnyville Rec Center and started off. It would take at least fifteen minutes to get there—the place was halfway across town. You would think, thought Shir, there would be a grocer in the Riverdale area that did deliveries, but maybe not on Sundays. Tapping her fingers against the steering wheel in time to an old AC/DC song, Shir made good time down Madden Road, a four-lane route, then slowed as she entered the city’s west end. Sunnyville was on 9th Avenue, just past St. John’s high school. Yup, she thought, as she caught sight of the familiar building. There it is. Carefully, she swung into the parking lot and parked the van.
Glancing out the side window, Shir saw that the grounds were empty except for a single guy, who was leaning against the rec center’s closest wall and smoking a cigarette. Beside him, the door to the gym stood open, releasing the sounds of shouts, squeaking runners, and a bouncing basketball. Obviously, a game was in process. Getting out of the van, Shir opened the back door and slid out the last box. Then she hefted it into her arms and walked toward the guy.
He was in his twenties, tattooed, and wearing a muscle shirt despite the coolish weather. As Shir approached, his eyes flicked casually across her face and she ducked her head, wanting to avoid the inevitable expression of shock that hit strangers the first time they saw her. “Delivery for the Sunnyville Rec Center,” she said, studying the tear in the tip of her left runner. She was back to wearing her old pair again—her new ones were probably still lying somewhere in Dana Lowe’s rear hallway. “Do you know where I can find a Mr. Dubya?”
“In there,” said the guy, jerking his chin at the open doorway. “He’s reffing the game.”
“Thanks,” said Shir. Hefting the box, she stepped through the doorway and stood, letting her eyes adjust to the indoor light. As she had thought, a basketball game was in progress, two teams of teenage boys sprinting around the court. A few meters to her left stood the only adult in the room, a man in his fifties, wearing a whistle around his neck.
“Mr. Dubya?” asked Shir, approaching him.
“From Bill’s Grocer?” responded the man, and she nodded. “Okay, put it over there,” he said, pointing to a bench along the wall.
Setting down the box, Shir held out her clipboard. “Could you sign here, sir?” she asked, the way she always had to with a new customer. “Just to say you received your order?”
Mr. Dubya’s eyes flicked across her face, then came back to linger with casual curiosity. Sucking her lower lip, Shir fought the urge to look away. She could just imagine the thoughts running through his head: How’d you get to be so ugly, kid? Someone drop you when you were a baby? Onto a freeway? A busy one?
But instead of signing, the man simply said, “Just tell Anderson that Dubya got the goods. He’ll be okay with that.” Then he turned back to the game.
“But I’m supposed to get a signature,” protested Shir, riding a small wave of panic. “To prove that you got it, I mean.”
Mr. Dubya glanced at her, his eyes suddenly so cold, she felt a shiver run up her spine. “You tell him Dubya got the goods,” he repeated tonelessly, as if reciting something, then turned once again to watch the game.
Bewildered, Shir blinked at him but Mr. Dubya ignored her, his eyes fixed on the rapidly shifting players. Abruptly, he grabbed the whistle around his neck, blew it and shouted, “Foul!” A collective groan rose from the boys on the court and he strode toward them. Mouth open, Shir stood staring after him, then jammed the clipboard under her arm and headed for the door. No point in hanging around—she had obviously been dismissed.
Back in the parking lot, she stood beside the van, breathing in the sun and the late afternoon air. That was odd, she thought guardedly. Kind of creepy, actually, as if weird little ghosties were hanging around, sending out bad vibes. And no tip. With a sigh, she climbed into the van and wrote Mr. Dubya wouldn’t sign onto the clipboard. Then, turning on the ignition, she backed cautiously out of her parking space. Over by the gym door, the wall was now empty, the guy in the muscle shirt no longer leaning against it. For a moment, Shir idled the van at the curb and stared thoughtfully at the place he had been standing. Why had a guy like that been hanging around here? she wondered. He was too old to be part of the game going on inside, and too tough to listen to anyone’s goddam whistle.
Frowning, she sat a moment longer, trying to work it out. But no answer came to her, so she made her usual careful shoulder check and started off down 9th Avenue. A quick glance at her watch showed that it was 4:25. If she drove at a reasonable pace, she would make it back to the store around 4:45, which Mr. Anderson would be sure to bump up to 5:00. That meant she would be paid for a full two hours’ work. With the five bucks she had made in tips, that was more than enough for an eight-pack, which would keep her going until Tuesday, her next shift. Yeah! Shir thought, exhilarated. She was doing fine; she was laughing.
With a broad grin, she turned up the volume on the radio and settled in for the drive back to Bill’s Grocer.
Three
The school halls were the usual, packed with students yakking at their lockers and coming and going from homerooms. Braced against the inevitable onslaught of noise, Shir let the south-entrance door swing closed behind her, then ducked her head and pushed her way into the melee. This year her locker was on the school’s west side, in the languages department, which put it across the building from the east-entrance bike racks. Last year it had been outside the gym, and the year before that beside the music room. Maybe next year, her grad year, the cross-eyed schizoid in the front office who was responsible for assigning lockers would give her one within radar detection range of homeroom 32, a science classroom located in the basement under the principal’s office. Which put it, Shir thought grumpily, as she climbed the stairs leading to the second-floor languages wing, directly under Mr. O’Donnell’s butt. You would think, as compensation, they could at least cut back on the daily locker safari … and the social joys that went with it.
With a sigh, she dropped her gym bag in front of her locker and mentally rehearsed her lock combination. Several times this year, as she had reached for her lock, she had gone into a complete blank—hadn’t been able to remember the correct combination for the life of her. She must have looked a real dork, standing there stockstill and staring at the lock in her hand. It had been a weird kind of mind warp, there and gone, the combination surfacing seconds later in her thoughts. Alzheimer’s for the adolescent—maybe if she ate more broccoli, her brain w
ould improve.
Today, it seemed to be functional—at least, the lock opened on her first try, with its customary satisfying click. Carelessly, Shir stuffed her gym bag into the bottom of her locker. The only thing it contained was her lunch—what with her shift at Bill’s Grocer on Saturday, the party that evening, and then the Sunday-afternoon deliveries, there hadn’t been time for homework. Anyway, she thought derisively, homework was a disease. Who needed history or English to stock shelves and drive a delivery van? School was for eggheads who wanted to become prime minister. And prime ministers were also a disease.
Grabbing her binder and textbooks, Shir slammed her locker door and started off down the hall. From all sides came the usual banter and jokes; head down, she caught a few phrases as she passed.
“Pottberg really tied one on Friday night—smashed in the front end of his dad’s car.”
“No way, you got that hickey from Larry Adawee?”
Overhead, the occasional security camera whirred, taking in whatever it was security cameras took in; at floor level, Shir continued to weave through the jabbering crowd, then down a flight of stairs to the first floor. Next, it was a short hall and another set of stairs to the basement. Here she turned left, and continued her daily locker-to-homeroom odyssey along another crowded hall before making the final turn to the right, and heading toward the open doorway of homeroom 32.
“Hey, what d’you know—it’s Wade Sullivan’s blind love!” called a voice behind her.
A jolt of something ran up Shir’s back, a sensation somewhere between fear and electric shock. Ducking her head lower, she put on a burst of speed.