by Beth Goobie
The store buzzed with the regular Friday after-work rush. Pushing open the Employees Only door, Shir peered into the back aisle, then wheeled out a trolley loaded with boxes of canned vegetables. At the third aisle, she steered the trolley into position and got to work, shifting the cans that were already on the shelves to the front and setting new ones behind them—a practice designed to ensure nothing stayed on the shelf longer than its “best before” date. Though Mr. Anderson had been smiling when he had explained this system, she knew he expected her to follow it; several times since, she had seen him pick up a can from the front of a shelf and check its best-beforedate against those behind it.
As she slid cans onto the shelves, people came and went in the aisle, picking up tomato soup and kidney beans, rustling packages of pasta. After several minutes, a mother with three children came by, the youngest trailing behind and stopping to stare up curiously at Shir.
“Hello,” she said, her eyes wide. “Are you a goblin from the deep, dark woods?”
Instantly, Shir froze, staring rigidly ahead as invisible heated waves swarmed over her. Then, inexplicably, they faded, and she found herself turning to the girl and saying, “No, not a goblin. I’m a moose head.”
The child continued to gaze up at her, expression confused but intent, her eyes … Not mean, thought Shir, studying the little girl’s face. Just curious. Honestly curious.
“A moose head?” repeated the child. “What’s that?”
Shir considered, a small smile teasing her lips. “It’s sort of like a goblin,” she admitted, “but not from the deep, dark woods. A moose head is from New Brunswick.”
“New Brunswick,” muttered the girl, frowning slightly. Then, appearing to lose confidence, she turned and ran after her mother, crying, “Mommy, Mommy—what’s a moose head?”
A full-fledged grin leapt across Shir’s face, and, taking a deep breath, she got back to work, slicing open a box of canned corn. But, just as she was lifting out the first few cans, a familiar voice broke into her thoughts. “Well, what d’you know?” it demanded from the front of the aisle. “It’s Dog Face, stocking shelves in a store because it’s her job. Hey, Dog Face—you know what? You’re good at that. Real good. So good, I’m going to give you a toonie for it.”
Shir’s head snapped up and she turned to see Wade approaching, a fixed grin on his face. This time he seemed to be alone, without any sign of maraschino-cherries Ben, but still Shir stepped instinctively backward, bumping into the trolley and sending it rolling toward the rear of the store. Boxes of canned goods slid dangerously; letting out a cry, she chased after the trolley, but before any damage could take place, a man stepped around the end of the aisle and stopped the trolley neatly with his foot.
“I’m sorry,” moaned Shir, coming to a halt beside him. “It was an accident, I—” Abruptly she fell silent, a new wave of panic hitting as she realized that the man thoughtfully readjusting the boxes on the trolley was Mr. Anderson. A carefully serious expression on his usually smiling face, he was looking past her, his gaze fixed on the approaching Wade.
“You here to buy something?” he asked, his voice neutral and contained.
“Um … yeah,” said Wade, coming to a halt and glancing at Shir with the same fixed grin. “Just looking for the maraschino cherries, sir.”
“They’re in the next aisle,” said Mr. Anderson. “Halfway down, second shelf. You’re welcome to buy as many as you’d like. But you’re not welcome to come into my store and harass my staff. Is that understood?”
Slowly, Wade’s grin faded. “Um … yeah … sir,” he said, backing up a few steps. “I just so happen to know her from school. I wasn’t harassing her—just saying hi, that’s all.”
“Next aisle,” Mr. Anderson repeated tersely. “And then the till and you’re out of here.”
“Yes, sir,” said Wade, turning and retreating up the aisle. Within seconds, the bell over the door announced his departure from the store.
“Good riddance,” muttered Mr. Anderson, a grim look on his face. “I’ll tell Cathy to keep an eye out and call me the next time she sees him come in.”
Wordless, Shir stood with her gaze glued to the floor. “He wasn’t exactly harassing me, sir,” she faltered, not wanting her boss to think that what had happened would in any way interfere with her ability to do her job. “He was just—”
“I heard what he said, Shirley,” said Mr. Anderson, placing a hand lightly on her shoulder. “That was definitely harassment, and I won’t have it in my store—especially when it’s aimed at one of my best staff. Come on now, I’ve got some deliveries waiting for you out back.”
Turning, he headed to the storage room and Shir followed, blinking back a rush of tears. How had it happened, she thought fiercely, that someone like her had ended up working for someone like Mr. Anderson? He was simply the best boss in the world and she didn’t deserve him—really she didn’t. Hastily brushing at her eyes, Shir ducked through the door Mr. Anderson was holding open for her and saw a long row of boxed delivery orders sitting on a counter on the far side of the room—twelve, to be exact.
“Another full evening of deliveries,” grinned Mr. Anderson, handing her the van keys and cell phone. “How about you start taking them out to the van while I finish taping these last two?”
As he spoke, he picked up some tape and began sealing the top of a box. Beside him, Shir reached for a different box, then hesitated. “Mr. Anderson, sir,” she said slowly.
“Yes, Shirley?” he asked, smiling at her.
“Well,” she said, swallowing carefully. “I was wondering why you’re taping all the boxes shut these days.”
For a second, Mr. Anderson seemed to freeze, and then he said casually, “Oh, well, we can’t have another accident like the one you had at the Fox and Brier, can we?”
“No, sir,” said Shir. “It’s just that I remember that you used to tape some of the boxes shut, but not all of them. Why …” Again she hesitated, then blurted awkwardly, “Well, sir, why did you used to tape only some of them shut?”
Before she had even finished her question, Mr. Anderson’s expression began to change, his eyes narrowing, mouth tightening. Suddenly, the man Shir was looking at felt like a total stranger. Clearing his throat, Mr. Anderson said briskly, “It gets busy in the store as you know, Shirley. I’m constantly being interrupted. Sometimes I get all the boxes sealed, and sometimes I don’t. Now how about you start carrying boxes out to the van like I asked while I finish sealing this last one?”
Shir stopped breathing and stood frozen, her hands in the act of reaching for a box. Fear, she thought, her mind racing. No question about it—what she had just seen on her boss’s face was full-out fear, caused probably by the fact that she had noticed something she wasn’t expected to, or if she did, was not expected to mention.
Head down, she whispered, “Yes, sir,” and carried a box out to the van.
Having loaded the last few boxes, she put the van into gear and headed down 12th Street. The first three addresses on her delivery list were in the downtown core—a specialty coffee shop, a clothing boutique, and what appeared to be a consulting firm. Refusing to think about the obvious—why would any of these businesses require a grocery order, especially late on a Friday afternoon—Shir completed the deliveries with a smile and pocketed her tips. Then, climbing into the van, she hesitated only slightly before heading in the direction of the river. Within minutes, she was turning into the driveway beside the church and easing down the slope into the parking lot. A quick scan of the walking bridge brought a grin to her face, and she pressed one hand hard on the horn.
“Hey, moose head!” she called as Finlay’s startled face peered around the third eastern pillar. “I’m making some deliveries for my job. Want to come along?”
“Sure!” he shouted. Scrambling to his feet, he worked his way down the arch and trotted over to the van.
“Put on your seatbelt,” Shir said importantly as he got in. “And remember—
whenever we stop for a delivery, you hit the floor. If someone saw you, I could get fired.”
“Yes, boss,” said Finlay. Clicking his seatbelt shut, he watched curiously as she drove up the driveway. “So what do you deliver?” he asked. “Pizza?”
Idling the van at the end of the driveway, Shir shot him a sidelong glance and a brief warmth flared in her face. Today, with Finlay, felt different. Their Wednesday afternoon conversation at the bridge, plus yesterday’s phone call, had changed things. Now there seemed to be a kind of … energy between them, she realized, confused—invisible but definitely present, as if the air was humming gently to itself.
“I work at a corner store,” she explained as she steered the van into the street. “It’s called Bill’s Grocer. Part of my job is making deliveries. Well, actually, that’s most of it these days. I used to stock shelves and sort produce, too, but lately, it’s been pretty much just deliveries. There’s one of my regular stops coming up now.”
Turning the van into the alley behind a small strip mall, she parked and pointed to an open doorway. “Joe’s Pizza,” she announced. “That means it’s hit-the-floor time until I tell you it’s okay to come back up.”
“No prob,” said Finlay. “Hitting the floor now.” Undoing his seatbelt, he slid to the floor and huddled, grinning, against the opposite door. With an answering grin, Shir climbed out of the van, pulled the order for Joe’s Pizza from the back, and carried it to the pizzeria’s rear entrance.
“Hello!” she hollered through the screen door. “Bill’s Grocer, delivery.” Within seconds, Lucille appeared, her plump face all smiles as she dropped a toonie into Shir’s hand and accepted the box. A taped-over box, thought Shir, watching the woman carry it down the short hall that led to the kitchen. The tops of Joe’s Pizza’s orders had always been taped shut. Pocketing the toonie, she shrugged off the thought and returned to the van.
“Okay, it’s safe,” she said as she got in. “You can come up for air now.”
“Up is good,” said Finlay, returning to his seat. “Where are we headed next?”
Picking up the clipboard, Shir felt her heart kick once, hard, as she read the next address. “The Sunnyville Rec Center,” she said, a sick feeling oozing through her gut.
“The Sunnyville Rec Center,” repeated Finlay. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing,” mumbled Shir, reaching for the ignition.
“Yes, there is,” Finlay said quietly. A short pause followed, Shir sitting motionless, her gaze fixed dead ahead as Finlay studied every millimeter of her face. Abruptly, he asked, “This has something to do with what you said about someone using you, doesn’t it?”
Panic hit Shir, acidic, intense. “No,” she said tersely, turning the ignition. Then, bringing her foot down hard onto the gas pedal so the van lurched out of its parking spot, she added, “And I never said they were using me for sure.”
She headed down the alley and onto the street, the city flowing past, familiar and at the same time alien, like the face of a suddenly panic-stricken, lying boss. Silent, Finlay slouched opposite, knees propped against the dashboard as he observed the passing scenery. After several blocks, he ventured, “Okay, how do you think they might be using you?”
Again, Shir tasted acid, but the wave of loneliness that followed was worse. “Drugs,” she said tightly. “In those boxes behind you. They put them in there and I deliver them—I think.”
Darting a glance at Finlay, she saw his eyes widen. “You’re delivering drugs?” he demanded.
“I said maybe,” snapped Shir. “I don’t know anything for sure.”
Several more blocks went by, and then Finlay asked, “What makes you think it’s drugs?”
Mind racing, Shir thought about what to say, what not to say. Then, hesitantly she began to explain—about the Fox and Brier unlabeled package, odd deliveries like the Sunnyville Rec Center and Manny’s rundown house, and the coded way Eunie had asked Mr. Anderson for a Coke when she had come into the store. “I dumped the weed down the toilet last night like I told you on the phone,” she said slowly, “so I don’t know if there was crystal meth in it or not. But like you said, it’s weird that Eunie would give me free weed, and she does know Mr. Anderson and Manny. If I am delivering drugs for them, I can see how they might want to get me hooked. I drink a lot …”
Pausing, she stared out the window, then added, “Too much, I know. Way too much—all the money I make goes to pay for it. I’ve hardly done drugs, though—mostly because they’re too expensive. If I got hooked on crystal meth, I’d need this job more than ever to pay for it.” A sigh came out of her, long and shuddering. “The more I needed it,” she said, her voice frightened, “the more they could be sure I’d keep my mouth shut.”
A scowl crossed Finlay’s face and he hugged himself, as if for comfort. “Do you think every box you deliver has drugs in it?” he asked.
“Not all of them!” exploded Shir, thinking of Mrs. Duran. “For sure some are just regular deliveries. No, they’re using the normal delivery run as a cover for drug drop-offs, and lately, there’ve been more and more of them. At least, I think that’s what they’re doing. I think,” she stressed heavily. “I don’t know.”
“Okay,” said Finlay, turning in his seat to look into the back of the van. “Let’s find out.”
“Find out!” echoed Shir, her voice shooting upward. “What d’you mean?”
“The Sunnyville box,” said Finlay, still gazing into the back of the van. “That would be the one to pick. If there is a box that has drugs in it, it would be that one, wouldn’t it?”
“You’re crazy!” gasped Shir, turning to stare at him. “We can’t open a box—they’d be able to tell. I’d get into trouble for sure.”
“They couldn’t tell if we opened the bottom,” protested Finlay. “Just stop at a store and we’ll buy some tape to fix it up after we’ve checked what’s inside. I’ve got enough money on me. Come on,” he added reasonably. “If they’re not hiding anything, it won’t matter if we open a box, right? And then you’ll know one way or the other. You’ll know for sure.”
A loud roaring in her ears, Shir clung, white-knuckled, to the steering wheel. Open a box, she thought, her hands shaking, her arms, even her legs, giving off quick shudders. A box of the forbidden. Several blocks went by as she thought about it some more … all those boxes stacked in the back of the van, boxes of fear and knowing. In the distance, an Office Depot was coming into view; three blocks west was the Sunnyville Rec Center and Mr. Dubya-got-the-goods.
“Okay,” she said shakily, turning into the parking lot next to the Office Depot. “But when you buy the tape, make sure it’s good and solid. Packing tape isn’t strong enough to hold the bottom closed.”
“Sure,” said Finlay and climbed out of the van. While he headed into the store, Shir drove to a deserted area of the parking lot, well away from other vehicles. There she called Mr. Anderson, and told him she would probably be held up by traffic for the next ten minutes. Then, crawling in among the remaining delivery orders, she located the Sunnyville Rec Center box, turned it upside down, and sliced the tape that ran along the bottom with the tip of a ballpoint pen. Taking a deep breath, she opened the flaps. Immediately, she saw what she was looking for—an unlabeled package like the Fox and Brier’s, inserted between two cans of tomato juice.
The van’s back door opened and Finlay climbed in. “Here,” he said, extending a roll of wide transparent tape. “I asked a clerk for advice. This should do it.”
Frozen into position, Shir was staring into the Sunnyville Rec Center box as if she hadn’t heard. “Look,” she quavered. Quickly, Finlay knelt beside her and peered into the box.
“That brown package?” he asked. “Between the two cans—is that it?”
Slowly, very slowly, Shir pulled out the package. Wrapped in brown paper and thoroughly taped at both ends, it felt as if it weighed about two hundred grams. “It looks just like the other one,” she said hoarsely. “The
Fox and Brier package.”
“If it’s cocaine,” Finlay said softly, “it’s a lot of money.”
Wordless, Shir stared at the package. Her hands were trembling visibly. “I thought,” she said hesitantly, “the last one might be icing sugar. Or baking soda. Something like that.”
“I doubt it,” said Finlay. “You could tell by the smell, though. Cocaine smells strong, like a chemical. Open it and we’ll check.”
“We can’t!” gasped Shir, open-mouthed. “How would we wrap it back up? They would know for sure I’d opened it.”
“I guess,” Finlay said reluctantly. “But if it is drugs, shouldn’t we take it to the police?”
A memory of Officer Tursi’s grinning face flashed through Shir’s mind. “No cops!” she spat, recoiling. “I just wanted to know, not get stuck in the middle of a drug war.”
Silence filled the van as they stared helplessly at the package in Shir’s hands. “Well,” Finlay said finally, “now you know. It ain’t icing sugar, and it sure as hell ain’t baking soda.”
“No,” agreed Shir, jamming the package into its original position between the cans of tomato juice. “Hand me that tape, would you? I’ve got to get this fixed up and delivered fast. I called my boss and told him I was stuck in traffic, but we can’t hang around here forever.”
Closing the flaps, she took the tape from Finlay and resealed the bottom of the box. “Look in the glove compartment,” she said. “There’s a pair of scissors in there. I need to cut this tape.”
“Okay,” said Finlay. Getting to his feet, he opened the glove compartment and rummaged through it. “Shir,” he said, his voice hesitant. “I don’t see any scissors.”
“Sure there are,” said Shir quickly. “Next to the packing tape.”
“There isn’t any packing tape,” said Finlay.
Heart thundering, Shir stared at him. Abruptly, it hit her—Mr. Anderson had removed the packing tape and scissors so she wouldn’t be able to fix up another box if she opened it. “Oh my god!” she wailed. “How am I going to cut this off? I need scissors. You have to go back to the store and buy some.”