Sidetracked

by Lola Karns

  Inside the office, the workers participating in sick out shifted places, leaving the building understaffed in key areas. This time, part of the billing department played hooky. He drank the rest of his Mylanta by noon.

  The rain stopped by the time his workday ended. His windows were even filthier than earlier. Bits of leaves stuck to the areas he hadn’t been able to clean properly. The gas station car wash was out of order, but the attached convenience shop had glass cleaner, bottled car wash detergent, and a fine selection of antacids. As he passed through the residential streets, he spotted Claire’s leather jacket and saucy gait. She pulled a passenger in her little red wagon.

  He pulled over to the sidewalk. She looked beautiful, her cheeks slightly flushed and hair coming loose from her ponytail. The bright red streak on the side was the same shade her lips grew when enflamed from kissing. Her expression exuded the easy-going warmth that drew him to her.

  “Claire!”

  Everything changed as he shouted her name. Her mouth hardened as she protectively placed her body between him and the child. She glared at him, her eyes daring him to confront her.

  She hated him, yet he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to hold her in his arms, make her understand how much he needed her. That evening on his porch and that night she came to dinner, she’d freed him from the daily grind. Since that day at his office, that grind became a pulverizing. He climbed out of the car. Her body tensed.

  “I have nothing to say to you.” The flatness in her voice pained him more than the insult of a thousand eggs thrown at his house. She stared at him a second longer then leaned her head towards her charge. “Come on Kevin. Let’s go.”

  Finding his voice, he shouted “Wait!” She didn’t. He called down the street. “Nothing personal. It was a business decision. I miss you.”

  She didn’t break her stride as she covered the boy’s ears with her hands. She wouldn’t return his calls; she wouldn’t speak to him here. He suspected she hid when he tried stopping by her house. Yet he knew, more than anything that he needed to hear her voice, and not only to persuade her of the rightness of his decision to cancel the trains. As much as he hated to do it, there was one place he knew he would find her where she wouldn’t have an easy out.

  THE JINGLING OF BELLS drew her attention to the arrival of another customer. Usually, the store didn’t become busy until after two on Saturday. She had wanted on a quiet morning to get the bills paid, organize paperwork, and prep orders for shipping, but customers were good too. Without looking up from the antique engine she carefully wrapped for the customer at the counter she called out. “Welcome to CJ’s. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  “I’ll wait.” Her heart sank upon hearing that deep masculine voice. Of course he would wait.

  Closing her eyes, she folded the last piece of tissue paper and closed the cardboard box before returning her full attention to the middle-aged woman across the counter from her.

  “I hope the recipient will be pleased with the work.”

  “Thank you. Dad is going to be so excited to see this again. You’re a miracle worker.”

  No matter how many times she heard it, she never knew how to respond. She was an expert in tools and paint, time and patience, but not a miracle worker.

  “Thank you. If I could get it looking that good on the cheap, that would be a miracle.” The customer smiled at her awkward attempt at humor.

  “You’re worth every penny,” she replied as she ran her credit card through the machine.

  Claire handed her the receipt and the woman picked up the box and started toward the door. James paced by the central display. Claire clicked her tongue. It was too late to turn the open sign to closed. The bell jingled. Crap.

  “Mrs. Appelbaum?”

  “Yes,” She paused with her hand on the door. The cool air fluttered one of the banners on display.

  “I almost forgot. If you send me a photo from the happy present day, I’ll add your father to my wall of fame.” She gestured toward the left wall where photos stretched back to a time before she was born. The customer tittered, but she knew she’d soon get an email of the woman’s father wearing an engineer’s cap and the ear to ear grin of a young boy as he held his newly restored train.

  She longed for another customer to walk in. Anything to postpone dealing with the man who broke her heart in more ways than one. She turned toward the back to refill her water, keeping an eye on him in the security mirror as she did so. The curved mirror further distorted the disgusted wrinkle of his nose. He looked like a man who had smelled week old rotten fish. His rigid stance seemed uncomfortable, even when he startled slightly as one of the larger trains on display burst through a tunnel near where James stood. She turned from the mirror and pressed a counter button to play a whistle. He jumped and looked around half-panicked. Good.

  He approached the counter. She could barely stand to look at him. He was handsome and a great lover, but what a waste. Unless he came here to today to reinstate the train display, she had nothing to say to him.

  “Claire—”

  The ringing phone was as welcome as a stay of execution.

  “CJ’s Hobbies. How may I help you?”

  “What are your Saturday hours? We’re coming in from out of state.”

  “Ten to Six through December 23rd.”

  “And do you know when the Adena display opens?”

  She cocked an eyebrow at James and put the call on speaker. She used her public speaking voice, the one that carried across the meeting hall.

  “I’m so sorry. The new Adena management decided not to continue the holiday trains as they were a waste of money. I’m trying to find a new home for them, but it may not be until the end of December. I know what a disappointment this is. At the very least, you’re welcome to visit the store. I’ll have the holiday décor up by next weekend. In the meantime, I suggest you contact Adena’s acting president to voice your opinion on the decision.” She rattled off the number from memory. “Thanks for Choo-choosing CJ’s.”

  The weight of James’ stare pushed against her body, but she was an expert in resistance training. Sometimes a job required crazy contortions in order to actualize her vision. She met his gaze and rocked back on her heels, daring him to say something. Since the cancellation, she’d told anyone who asked about the holiday trains to call his direct office line, once Ryan provided her with the number. From what she heard through the rumor mill, a number of her loyal customers had lodged a complaint. It gave her a small sense of satisfaction, but she doubted it would do any good.

  He refused to look away. She wasn’t sure what she hated more. The way the left side of his mouth crept up into a cock-eyed grin, or the way she wanted to lick it away. Thank goodness for the counter in front of her. She gripped the edge and drummed her fingers on the wood top. It should hold her up if her knees gave way.

  “So I have you to blame for overwhelming the phone lines?” His voice sent shivers down her spine in a way that would be oh so pleasant if he weren’t such an idiot.

  “No. You brought this on yourself. Can I help you with a purchase or are you wasting floor space, being unproductive in a place of business?”

  “Don’t be like this, please?” He reached across the counter and touched her arm. Her traitorous body refused to flinch. With great effort, she convinced her legs to back away and break the connection.

  “Like what?”

  “Angry.”

  She harrumphed, picking up the electrostatic cloth she used for dusting.

  “It wasn’t personal. How could it be? You surprised me in my office simply by being you. Clearly, the decision was made before the meeting. The first time I saw you in the diner you said something about needing muscle. I remember because it was so strange and because you and your laugh were so beautiful. You must have known something.”

  He thought she was beautiful. No-one called her that. Cute, quirky, and adorkable, yes. But beautiful implied something else, a depth th
at had nothing to do with what she wore or how she colored her hair. She had thought his eyes beautiful until she discovered the lack of soul behind them. She stared at the dust cloth, much safer than looking up and sinking into a trap.

  “I figured there would be layoffs and people needing a paycheck. And, gee, surprise, there are. No one, except maybe Walter, thought the trains wouldn’t run on time.”

  “Breaking the contract was strictly a business decision based on numerical evidence.”

  “You’re an outsider, exiled to fly-over country. You obviously don’t understand that business is personal in a town like this.” She wiped a nonexistent smudge on the register. They could have been interlopers together, at least for a few months.

  He caught her hand, covering it with his, reminding her of how well they fit together that night at his place. She looked up and their gazes locked.

  “I miss you.”

  She could have said the same thing, but she didn’t, and she wouldn’t. Her body might miss him, but he’d brought too much instability to town and to her life. Her fingers twitched and curled toward the foreign fingertips resting on her palm. Previously unfocused energy coursed through her and sought an outlet. His touch completed some sort of strange internal circuit, but he was the wrong track.

  “So? I miss the bubble-gum that came with baseball cards, but it isn’t coming back.” She pulled away, turning her back on him.

  “Can’t we keep work, at work, behind office doors, and us as something entirely separate—”

  “No.” Looking at him would weaken her resolve. She fussed with perfectly organized shelves to keep busy. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do in my place of work and since you think work and play can be separate, you should get out of here if you’re not buying.”

  His sigh reached her ears. She listened to his foot falls, each farther away than the last. The bells jingled, but the door failed to emit its customary squeak.

  “At the very least, will you call off your dogs?”

  She turned. “What dogs?”

  “You know. Ask those people to stop egging my house, messing with my car and above all the flaming bags of poop.”

  She chuckled in spite of herself. “Not my style, but classic.”

  “I waste all this time cleaning – which is a lousy way to spend time. If I can’t spend time watching sunsets with you, I’d rather get this job done and get the hell out of town since it’s pretty clear I’m not welcome. Ask them to stop? Please?”

  Not welcome. He had to use that phrase in that particular tone, a mix of defiance and defeat. The engine in her brain steamed past echoes. Age four: turned away from the preschool she loved because Mom’s checks were no longer welcomed. Age five: cast out of two or three houses, the blow-up mattresses in various damp carpeted basements ran together in her mind. As tiny Claire clutched the pink backpack with all her worldly possessions and her mother’s hand, a door slammed, and words rang out “Junkies not welcome.”

  The phrase, so often shouted at her mom while she hid behind her mother’s legs meant sleeping under a bridge or in an alley until her mother got clean, or found a new boyfriend, or Clem and Norah tracked them down.

  He looked tired. His arms dangled by his side, pulling his shoulders forward. One could pack for a week in the bags under his eyes. The deep purple did nothing for his complexion, except make the rest of his face look wan in comparison. What had been crinkles near his eyes when he smiled drooped as if trying to slink away and crawl back to bed. She knew the signs all too well.

  “You’re not sleeping.”

  “Nope.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “We could not sleep to— “

  “No. You want to know why? I’m scrambling about a hundred hours a week, running this shop, finishing custom orders, handling phone calls, drafting alternatives, and trying to find a new home for a beloved tradition. I have help, but it’s still thirty to forty unpaid hours a week above what I expected. I don’t have time to sleep or waste on someone working against me.”

  “A hundred hours a week? That’s crazy.”

  “Yup. So you seem my time is pretty limited. I certainly wouldn’t waste what I have egging houses or asking friends for dog poop.”

  “I never thought you would—”

  “Ask the police for help, not me. If I hear something...” She shrugged and raised her palms toward the ceiling. She wouldn’t commit vocally to help, but her heart knew better. She steeled herself against the squishy thing and straightened her spine. “James, this is a mess of your making. People here are pretty passionate about their trains and their community.”

  “That, I’m learning the hard way.”

  WHEN HE REACHED HIS car, a piece of paper flapped up from his windshield. On closer inspection, there were three pieces of paper. Frowning, he looked at them. The first invited him to what was bound to be a dreadful high-school production of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. The second was parking ticket. The third was a fine for failure to keep his vehicle in operable condition.

  He walked around the car, expecting to find a broken light or a cracked window. He found neither. The tires looked the same all the way around. No pennies on the key locks, either. He checked the parking meter. The display indicated ten minutes remained. From the meter, his car appeared to be over the white line and resting in the next spot. He walked to the front of the car. The bumper encroached on the other parking spot which must have been the cause of one fine, but inoperable vehicle didn’t make sense, especially when the car started on the first try.

  He drove to the local mechanic, who claimed he was too busy to get to his car today, but if he wanted to leave it overnight, he might be able to look at it Wednesday. He sat in the parking lot and rested his forehead on the steering wheel. The sooner he found a buyer and dismantled the company, the sooner he could move on with his life. Otherwise, he’d be as stuck as one of the cars in Claire’s train displays, endlessly waiting for the light to turn green.

  Sensing he’d acquire a lot more tickets between now and then if he didn’t figure out the source of the problem, he decided to drive the marginally bigger town to the north. The mechanic took one look at his car and laughed.

  “Someone done let the air out of your tires. Not all the way mind you. We’ll fill ’er up, but you might want to get yourself a pressure gage.”

  Back in Belkin, he went to the diner for a late lunch. The parking lot stood empty except for three cars, but he parked far away from the door and as precisely between the white lines as humanly possible.

  Jo, or someone, decorated the door with a construction paper turkey and a sign announcing new hours for the upcoming holiday season and a request to pre-order pies. He walked through the double doors toward the counter. The few customers in booths glanced up, scowled at him and looked away. As he approached the row of empty seats, Jo spun around, coffee cup and pot in hand. At least I can count on Jo. Anticipating a decent cup of coffee and an excellent slice of pie, he sensed his day was finally turning around.

  “Sorry, no shoes, no shirt, no trains, no service. Didn’t you notice the new sign?”

  He surveyed the nearly empty shop. “I. No. Are you kidding me? You’re going to turn away money?”

  She shrugged, the coffee in the pot dangerously close to spilling. “Okay, I didn’t really put up a sign, but you get the idea. You’re not welcome here.”

  “I’m a paying customer.”

  “Yes, but I have the right to refuse service to anyone for any reason. That is on a sign – this one.” She pointed to a list taped to the cash register, but kept glancing at the other customers, as if she were putting on a show for them.

  Taking in the desserts on display beside the cash register, he tried another tactic. “How about a slice of pie to go?”

  “No can do.”

  He noticed the green train beside the register first, then the jar behind it emblazoned with the words “Save our Train!” and a small photo. U
sually, a plain plastic bottle collecting for some childhood disease sat in that spot.

  She gave him a hard stare. He got the picture. He turned to leave, understanding how much of a pariah he’d become. Beside the door hung a slightly askew homemade train poster, this one featuring a photo. The older gentleman dressed as an engineer had been in some of the photos on Walter’s wall, but his smile was familiar for another reason. Beside him stood Jo and the frail little boy who had been in Claire’s wagon the other day and another kid, boy or girl he couldn’t tell. The other child was completely bald. He studied the photo for a moment.

  “Is that your son and Claire’s grandfather?”

  “That was taken two years ago at the Belkin Holiday display. Kevin was so sick – pneumonia on top of a fractured tibia - we didn’t think he could go. The pediatric nurses helped Clem and Claire clean the whole place for a special ‘germ free’ night. He still talks about it, and about his friend, also named Kevin, who died a few months after that photo. Childrens’ probably won’t be able to make the trip this year. Claire can’t figure out a way to accommodate the wheelchairs in her shop.” She turned away, but he noticed she bit her lip. “I don’t know why I told you all that. It was personal, not business, but sometimes the lines blur. Now leave.”

  He stepped out into a cold drizzle. The raindrops rolled down his coat, but the gray dampness chilled him to the bone. “I hate this place.”

  TRAFFIC PICKED UP AT her shop midafternoon. George caught her between customers.

  “I won’t be in later. Dinah’s cousin’s anniversary party is tonight, but I wanted to give you a heads up.”