by Beth Goobie
Legs suddenly weak, Shir stumbled over the threshold and was halfway across the yard before she remembered: $2.50. Gareth had said $2.50 per can if she came inside, and $2 if she sat and chatted.
Well, she thought, continuing on grimly, he doesn’t deserve it. Not after what he did.
But, the thought came back at her remorselessly, he’s your main supplier. You’re going to need beer again, and soon. And you’re going to have to buy it from him.
Just inside the open gate, Shir came to a halt. Slowly she unzipped her gym bag, set the two cans of beer inside it, and placed the bag next to the fence. Then, heart in mouth, she tiptoed back across the yard and peeked through the open door. Relief flooded her as she saw, not a corpse, but a moaning Gareth, now seated slumped against the wall and clutching his head. A thick welt was rising on one cheek and his left eye swelling badly, but both were open.
Sensing her presence in the doorway, he turned his bleary gaze toward her. For three short breaths they remained like that, silent and staring at each other.
“Five bucks,” Shir said finally, digging into her pocket for a five dollar bill. “You said $2.50 a can if I came inside, and I want them both.”
Laying the money carefully on the stoop, she backed up, turned, and ran for her gym bag and the open gate.
Above the sink, the clock ticked. Across the table, Mom and Stella talked. Head down, Shir sat listlessly pushing a spoonful of macaroni around her plate as her sister regaled their mother with tales about her afternoon gym class. An affectionate smile on her lips, Janice Rutz nodded as Stella animatedly recounted her scintillating conquest of the box horse and parallel bars. From the way she was describing things, Shir thought resentfully, Stella could have been first in line for the next Olympic gymnastics team.
Shir, on the other hand, had dropped Phys Ed as soon as it was no longer a requirement. Even though the classes were segregated, she had discovered way back in junior high that girls were as skilled as guys at getting in their digs. Without warning, locker rooms could morph into an obstacle course of elbows and stuck-out ankles, taunts and jeers that were all the worse when you were dressed only in a bra and panties … and sometimes not even that. Shir hadn’t taken a shower after gym since the time in grade nine when she had turned off the tap to discover her jeans and t-shirt stuffed down a nearby toilet. The toilet had been flushed so the water was clean, but the comments she had gotten as she had pulled on her sopping clothes had contained their own kind of filth.
Today, after escaping Gareth’s kitchen, she had unlocked the Black and taken off at top speed in the direction of the river. But within ten meters, she had skidded to a halt, pulled one of the beers out of her gym bag, and popped the tab. A touch of the magic fluid, that was what she had needed—so badly, her hand had been shaking as she had lifted the can to her lips. But the moment the magic fluid had first touched her tongue had been heaven. There was no other word for it—that honey-golden glory had poured down her throat like absolute nirvana. As she had glugged the can nonstop, the memory of Gareth’s vice-like grip on her arms had faded, and after sucking in the dregs, she’d had to stop herself from reaching for the second can.
Hold off, she had coached herself silently. If you sit down to supper looking like Gareth, Mom’ll be right onto you. Save it for later—bedtime, dream time, magic hour.
Resolutely, she had dropped the empty can into a nearby garbage bin, then headed to Myplace for twenty minutes of solitary peace, which she had spent massaging the sore spots on her arms and watching the swallows fly low over the water. Dumb, she had thought to herself as she’d stared out over the quietly rippling water. Going in there had been dumb—even though the day had been ugly, even though she had needed the beer. Never again would she walk through Gareth’s door, no matter how bad things got. Never.
“One girl,” announced Stella, pulling Shir’s thoughts back to the present tense. “Well, her name is Annie Cooper and she’s a bit of a dweeb … Anyway, she was jumping over the box horse and her foot caught. She went flying off to the side and landed smack on her head. Lucky the mats were down. You should’ve seen the teacher take off toward her.”
“Was she hurt?” asked Mom, pausing with her fork halfway to her mouth.
“Nah,” Stella shrugged carelessly. “She got up and walked away. Sat on a bench by the wall for a bit. I think she takes drugs—she’s always half gone.”
Irritation buzzed through Shir like a slow fly. Anyone, she thought sourly, who listened to Celine Dion had nothing to say about anyone else being half gone. “Maybe she was tired,” she muttered as Stella paused to swallow, then froze, realizing her mistake. Drunk or sober, it was never wise to interject a comment into a conversation between her sister and mother. Instantly the mood at the table shifted; forks were laid onto plates, glasses of milk set down, and two pairs of matching narrowed brown eyes focused directly on her.
“Do you know Annie Cooper?” Stella asked slowly.
“Nope,” said Shir, slouching down protectively in her chair.
“Well, I do,” Stella said emphatically. “And I think you should keep your opinion to yourself, especially about things you don’t know anything about.”
In the ensuing silence, Shir could hear the whir of the kitchen clock, keeping pace with the buzz in her mother’s brain as she honed in on her elder daughter, assessing, calculating. One beer, Shir reminded herself. One beer doesn’t cause side effects. Still, something had to happen here, and fast—a distraction, a decoy, a temporary peace offering.
“Maybe,” she said reluctantly, aiming for the kiss-ass tone Stella particularly liked. If Stella was happy, their mother was happy. “I just thought Annie might be having a bad day. You never know.”
Keeping her gaze lowered, Shir held herself tensely and waited out the silence that had descended onto the room. To her right, Stella forked a spoonful of salad and began to chew, bits of celery crunching between her teeth. Abruptly she set down her fork with a clatter. “Is that blood under your fingernails?” she exclaimed.
Shir didn’t need to be told which hand, her eyes zeroing in on her right to see dried blood caked under the second, third, and fourth fingernails. When she had gotten home, she’d brushed her teeth to get rid of the smell of beer, but she hadn’t thought to check her hands for blood … Gareth’s blood.
“I fell,” she mumbled, shoving her right hand into her lap. A wave of nausea washed over her—thick, deep, and ugly. “It happened when I was on my bike, coming down 25th Avenue. My front wheel caught in the train track.”
Warily, Shir darted a glance at Stella, then her mother, to find them both still narrow-eyed and watching her. It was something they did every now and then, the two of them together—just stared … as if Shir was a talking lump, or a weird disease one of the kitchen chairs had suddenly developed. Finally, wearily, Janice Rutz let out a burdened sigh.
“So, Stella,” she said, breaking the invisible log jam of silence. “What happened after your gym teacher helped Annie?”
Stella perked up visibly. “Well,” she said, reaching for the bowl of carrot sticks. “I decided to work on some cartwheels …”
Shir’s shoulders slumped in soundless relief. She had been dismissed, which meant the moment of danger had passed, leaving her once again in the twilight zone, fingerprints of pain throbbing softly up and down her arms as she listened to conversation carried on by the rest of the human race.
Twelve
The store was the usual busy combination of voices, ringing cash registers, and the scent of citrus and Tide. Head down, Shir wove carefully around customers selecting oranges and cauliflower in the produce aisle, then pushed through the Employees Only door. Glancing around the storage room, she saw it was empty. With a sigh, she slipped out of her jacket and turned to hang it on one of several hooks Mr. Anderson had installed next to the door.
Behind her, the store’s rear door opened. Whirling, Shir saw two figures standing in the doorway, backlit by the aft
ernoon sun—Mr. Anderson and an unfamiliar man. The uniform the man was wearing, however, was very familiar. He appeared to be a cop, one currently on duty, and as he came into the room, he was chuckling with Mr. Anderson as if they were lifelong friends. Wide-eyed, Shir stood gaping at her possible drug-syndicate boss and his buddy, the police officer.
“Ah, Shirley,” said Mr. Anderson, his chuckle broadening to a jovial smile as he caught sight of her. “Here early, as usual. Hank, I want you to meet Shirley Rutz, the most reliable delivery person I’ve ever hired.”
“Shirley Rutz?” repeated the cop, holding out his hand. To Shir’s surprise, his dark eyes honed in directly on hers, then held her gaze steadily without the slightest trace of double-take. “How in the world did Anderson sucker you into working for him?” he demanded with a grin. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Officer Tursi.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Shir said hesitantly, taking the proffered hand.
“Old friend of mine,” Mr. Anderson explained as Officer Tursi shook her hand. “Very old friend. Though, for the life of me, I can’t remember how he suckered me into it. Must’ve been because no one else would play with him. We go back to high school, eh, Hank?”
“Rugger team,” agreed Officer Tursi, beaming. “I was first string, and you were—”
“Water boy,” cut in Mr. Anderson with a laugh. “No need to remind me, Hank. Come into the store and I’ll get you that Coke you wanted.”
“Yeah, and a Caramilk,” said Officer Tursi, following him through the door. “And don’t give me one of your measly seconds, the ones you can’t sell because you sat on them by mis—”
The door swung shut, cutting him off mid-word. Absolutely motionless, Shir stood at the center of the storage room, watching it settle gently into position. A cop? she thought, astounded. Mr. Anderson was friends with a cop? A cop who liked Cokes? Well, that settled it then—he couldn’t be a drug dealer. Whatever it was that the Fox and Brier’s unlabeled package had contained, it hadn’t been cocaine or ecstasy, or anything else that was snorted, swallowed, or injected. Her best guess was still icing sugar, or something even more obvious. It was, after all, the obvious explanations that were most easily overlooked in this kind of situation.
Yeah, she told herself sternly, the obvious explanations, as in MR. ANDERSON IS NOT THE KIND OF GUY TO DEAL DRUGS.
Soundless and invisible, a colossal weight rolled off Shir’s back. A deep breath lifted through her and an enormous grin took over her face—a grin that seemed to have no boundaries, stretching past her ears to the far corners of the room. What in the world had she been thinking lately? she thought, exasperated. What kind of loser paranoid brain did she have operating inside her head? One that had been drinking too much of Gareth’s beer, obviously. Now that was a guy who was a clear-cut drug dealer. Put Gareth in a police lineup with Mr. Anderson, and he would be chosen as the suspect every time.
Still wearing an ear-to-ear grin, Shir tied on a work apron and headed out into the store.
It was 7:45 that evening and Shir was easing the van into the curb, about to make her last delivery before heading back to the store. Today’s clipboard list had been long and the addresses spread out across the city, with several located on unfamiliar side streets. The map in the glove compartment had been helpful, but even so, she had been forced to call Mr. Anderson once on the cell phone for assistance. So it was with a decided sense of relief that she turned off the ignition and climbed out of the front seat, then pulled the single remaining box from the back of the van. Its top was taped shut like all the others, but today, even Mrs. Duran’s had been sealed. And Mrs. Duran, Shir told herself in a firm no-nonsense tone, does NOT take drugs.
The address was residential, a two-storey stucco house set back from the street. A bit on the ramshackle side, Shir thought, assessing it, and the porch windows were blocked with what looked to be stacks of old newspapers, but the outside light was on and the yard reasonably well lit. Climbing the front steps, she braced the delivery box against the wall and rang the bell. Then turning, she retreated to the front walk, where she stood observing the closed door. For a second after she had rung the bell, that door had felt like the one that led into Gareth’s place—kind of creepy, as if weird little ghosties were flitting right through it. Nervously, she took a step back and hefted the box higher in her arms.
Inside the house, a door opened. Footsteps crossed the porch, a chain slid out of a lock, and the outer door creaked open. Lit by the overhead light, a man leaned out. Swarthy and muscular, he looked to be in his mid-twenties. Swiftly, his eyes honed in on her face, then widened and made a second disbelieving scan before dropping to the box in her arms.
“Bill’s Grocer?” he asked brusquely. “Hand ’er over.”
“Could you sign for the delivery first, please?” asked Shir, nodding at the clipboard, which lay on top of the box. Without hesitation, the man signed, then slid the clipboard under her arm.
About to heave the box into the man’s outstretched arms, Shir paused as a female voice inside the house called, “You got it, Manny?” Instantly, she felt herself tuning in—the voice was familiar, but not one she could immediately place. As she strained to identify it, Shir felt a quick shift in her brain, and was visited with the memory of an old Chevy pickup bearing down on several high-school bullies. Eunie Jahenny! she thought, startled, as Manny lifted the delivery box from her arms. Beyond his shoulder, she caught a glimpse of someone standing in a dimly lit hallway—a girl who looked to be around seventeen, with long dark hair and a Molsons t-shirt.
It was Eunie, all right. “Yeah, yeah,” replied Manny as she came up behind him. Leaning on his shoulder, she observed Shir without a flicker of surprise. “Professionally bored”—there was simply no better way to describe Eunie’s expression.
“Watch it,” grunted Manny, shrugging her off. “This box is heavy. Anderson’s loaded it up with canned tomatoes again.”
“Gotcha,” said Eunie, stepping back so her face blurred into the porch shadows. “Bring it inside, okay? I’ve got to get going.”
“Yeah, yeah,” muttered Manny, his eyes returning for one last scan of Shir’s face. “No tip tonight, honey,” he said gruffly. “No spare change.” Turning to go back inside, he said to Eunie, “Get the door, would ya? My hands are full.”
“The brain works,” Eunie replied tonelessly, watching him retreat down the hall. Briefly, as she reached for the doorknob, her eyes flicked across Shir’s. “Hi,” she said, her voice still toneless.
“Hi,” echoed Shir, riveted, her mind filled with the memory of yesterday’s revving pickup. “Thanks,” she blurted awkwardly. “For helping me out—with those guys in the parking lot, I mean.”
Eunie shrugged and ran her gaze up and down the street. “Wade Sullivan’s a prick,” she said contemptuously. “I would’ve run him down, no prob, but he’s not worth the jail time.”
“Yeah,” Shir agreed breathlessly. Then, before she could think better of it, she asked, “Hey, do you live here?”
“Here?” demanded Eunie, the boredom slipping from her face in a moment of definite surprise. “Nah, I’m just in the neighborhood. Y’know—visiting.”
Visiting for a Coke? thought Shir, just as Manny shouted from inside the house, “I told you, Eunie—shut the door. We’ve got business here.”
Something crossed Eunie’s face, but in the shadows Shir couldn’t tell if it was a slide into deeper boredom or fear. “The master calls,” she said briskly, straightening. “See ya.”
“Yeah,” said Shir to the closing door. “See ya.” And then she was alone in the deepening twilight, listening to the house’s inner door close as she stared at the crazily tilted newspaper headlines that filled the porch windows: FRAUD AT THE U.N., TWO DIE IN CAR CRASH, POLICE MAKE MAJOR DRUG BUST. Abruptly the light over the door went out, leaving her in dense shadow. Nervously she glanced around the yard. Weird little ghosties were definitely on the prowl now, darting here, there, and everywhe
re. With a hiss, she turned and started down the front walk, forcing herself not to break into a jog. Looming under a streetlight, the delivery van felt like an old friend. The moment she climbed into its front seat and shut the door was enormous, relief collapsing in on her from all sides.
What in the world, she thought, staring down the street, was Eunie doing way across town in a house like that? Sure, she wasn’t one of Collier High’s top scholars, but it was a school night. And what had Manny meant by “business”? What kind of business—the kind that made you so thirsty you had to go out looking for a Coke?
Nah! Shir told herself angrily as she jammed the van keys into the ignition. You’re making up crazy things again. Weird little ghosties are taking over your brain.
Still, her hands were shaking so obviously, she could see their trembling in the van’s shadowy interior. Placing them on the steering wheel, she gripped and released several times, then turned up the volume on the radio, eased the van out from the curb, and headed carefully down the street.
When she got off work, she headed straight over to the liquor store on 23rd Street, zooming along the by-now familiar network of interconnected back alleys. Tuesday evening, the store closed at nine, but there was generally a scalper hanging around the neighborhood for another half hour, waiting to catch latecomers, especially expected regulars like herself. Upon reaching the store, Shir cut across the parking lot and out into the alley that ran along its rear wall; finding this empty, she rode over to the alley one block east and discovered it also to be uninhabited. Putting on the brakes, she stared around in consternation. What the hell was going on? she wondered, peering at the row of black garbage bins that stretched ahead of her. There was always someone here, parked somewhere along these alleys, when she arrived Tuesday evenings—one of several competing scalpers who rotated between the city’s various liquor stores. It wasn’t raining tonight, and the weather was relatively mild. Why wouldn’t they have waited for her like they usually did?