A Plague Year

by Edward Bloor

  “Poor Mikemurphy.”

  Mikeszabo looked away again, down the street. He whispered, “Yeah. Poor Mike Murphy. Poor Dad and Mom. Poor everybody.”

  Lilly came back down behind me. She had taken the wool blanket off of her bed. Mikeszabo stepped back and opened the Hefty bag for her. Lilly folded the blanket into squares in midair. Then she leaned out and stuffed it into the bag.

  Mikeszabo said, “Thank you,” then added, “I’ll see you guys at the church.”

  I asked, “Aren’t you going to school?”

  “Nah. There’s no reason to.” He set off for next door, hoisting the black bag over his shoulder like Santa Claus.

  Mikeszabo was right about school. This was the Friday before Christmas break. That meant that all the tests at school had been taken; all the grades had been recorded. There was no reason in the world to be at Haven Junior/Senior High. It was obvious the moment Mom dropped us off. No one but the Battlin’ Coal Miner was standing outside.

  Lilly threw up her hands. “This is ridiculous! There is nobody here. I could be sleeping.”

  Mom answered automatically, “It’s a school day. That means you go to school.”

  “But there’s nobody here!”

  “Of course people are here.”

  “Where? Do you see anybody?”

  “They are all inside.”

  I thought, Mikemurphy sure isn’t here.

  Lilly held up an angry index finger. “I will go to one class. One. If nobody is there, I am calling you, and you are coming back to pick me up.”

  Mom, to my surprise, conceded. “All right. But you’ll see—people are here. It’s a normal school day.”

  I thought, A normal day? Not in a plague year. As it turned out, though, Mom was partially right. There were teachers and students inside, just not very many.

  I entered my first-period class, sat down next to Ben Gibbons, and looked around. Mikeszabo (I guess I can just call him Mike now) was not there, of course. He was collecting clothes for the needy. Jenny was not there, either. (I would later learn that the Weavers were making Christmas baskets for the needy. I thought, Damn! I could be doing that, too.)

  Coach Malloy was there, in body at least. He was seated behind his desk, with his nose stuck in a Sports Illustrated magazine. (Maybe he should have been reading Strawberry Preserves magazine.) When the bell rang, he announced, “It’s a free period. You can all do homework.”

  Ben raised his hand. “It’s the last day of the semester, Coach. Nobody has any homework.”

  The coach lowered the magazine and looked at him. He growled, “Okay, so it’s just a free period, then.”

  The TV blipped to life. Mrs. Cantwell addressed us as if it were a regular day. She made a very solid pitch for Mike’s clothing project. “The Student Council is collecting warm clothes for the homeless and the needy. That is becoming a big problem here in our community.

  “I know that, historically, when the town of Blackwater has faced a problem, the people have come together and solved it. I remember my grandmother telling me about the Great Depression, back in the 1930s. People with only two blankets to their name gave one to people with no blanket at all. That’s how we do things here. We all pull together, and we all get by, so please give generously.”

  Mrs. Cantwell would normally have been followed by Wendy Lyle reading the news, but there was no Wendy Lyle because her father had withdrawn her, and there was no news because it was the last day of the semester.

  The Pledge of Allegiance came on, so the coach rose out of his seat. We did, too. We remained standing for the national anthem. Then we all sat down, and most of the kids went to sleep.

  Ben and I did not, though. We stared at each other for a moment. I finally said, “How’s the play going?”

  “Good.” He added, “That Chris guy sucks, though.”

  “Does he?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t have the time, you know? Between the play and work.”

  Ben looked surprised. “Chris doesn’t work.”

  “Yes, he does. At the bowling alley.”

  “Not anymore. He got fired.”

  It was my turn to be surprised. “Why?”

  “For stealing the shoe money! People would pay two bucks for shoe rental, and he’d put it in his pocket.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He told us about it. It’s like he didn’t care who knew it.”

  “Huh. Well, how’s Wendy Lyle? She’s good, right?”

  Ben’s eyes lit up. “She’s great. She’s a great actress.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  Then Ben lowered his voice. “I like what we’re doing with the counseling group. You know? At the new place.”

  “The church basement?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah. Me, too. It’s better away from school.”

  “Definitely. That way, parents can come. And siblings. And anybody who is, you know, messed up. I’m trying to get my mom to come. And my sister.”

  “You have a sister?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Does she go to Haven?”

  “No. She’s older. She went to high school in Pittsburgh. Then she joined the army. Then she got kicked out.”

  “Whoa. For what?”

  Ben shrugged and said, “I don’t know,” in such a way that I believed him.

  “What’s she doing now?”

  “She’s at home.” He added, “My dad was in the army. He joined up when he was eighteen, and he retired when he was thirty-six.”

  “That’s a sweet deal.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “What’s he doing now?”

  Ben looked puzzled. “I just told you. He’s retired.”

  “Oh. Okay. How about your mom?”

  “She’s at home. They’re all at home.”

  “Really? So, you’re the only one who gets up and goes out in the morning?”

  He thought for a moment. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

  I remembered what Wendy had told me, that Ben was a “designated patient.” Then I remembered Catherine Lyle’s ethical rules. But I decided to ask him anyway. “Do any of them have problems?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you have that pica disorder, right?”

  “Right. I eat—”

  “Yeah, yeah. How do you know about that?”

  “Uh, I got diagnosed at school, back in Pittsburgh, by a social worker.”

  “Are you the only one in your family with a disorder?”

  Ben looked offended. “Yeah. Like I said, I got diagnosed. Nobody else in my family got diagnosed.”

  “Okay. Sorry. Well, I hope they do come to the meetings.”

  Ben eyed me suspiciously. Had I crossed a line? If so, I decided to keep going. I told him, “My mom will be coming. She’s hoping to get some help from the group.”

  “Help for what?”

  “She had a problem with prescription pills.”

  His eyes widened. “Really? Your mom?”

  “Yeah. I hope my dad will come, too. He used to go to AA meetings all the time. Do you know what those are?”

  “Sure.”

  “And my sister had a problem with pot last summer. I hope she’ll keep coming, too.”

  Ben leaned back and exhaled. “Wow, Tom. I had no idea.”

  “Nobody does. You heard Jenny talk about her father’s problem. And hell, Mike’s parents are both in jail.”

  “Right.”

  “Everybody acts like everything is okay at home, Ben. But that’s not true. You know?”

  Ben looked really grateful. He answered huskily, “Yeah.”

  Mrs. Cantwell appeared in the doorway. She spotted the coach behind Sports Illustrated and snapped, “Coach Malloy!”

  He dropped the magazine and jumped to his feet.

  Mrs. Cantwell directed a withering stare at him. I noticed a group of kids clustered behind her in the hall. She said, “We have n
umerous teachers calling in sick today. I will be placing some students in your classroom for supervision.” She added, “I fully expect you to supervise them.”

  Coach Malloy gulped and nodded. Mrs. Cantwell stepped aside, and ten kids shuffled into the classroom. They all took seats, put their heads down, and slept.

  I continued to chat with Ben for the rest of first period. He wasn’t as strange as I had thought. I believe he is being used as a designated patient. (Of course, that’s just my uneducated opinion. I am not a mental-health professional. Or a famous professor. In a field.)

  The bell finally rang. I don’t know where those extra kids went for second period. I don’t know where Ben went, either. Home, most likely. I entered Mr. Proctor’s room by myself and stopped in my tracks. Bizarrely, a sub was sitting at his desk, a sub who I knew.

  Aunt Robin!

  How weird was that? She looked incredibly out of place. She had on a pair of black pants and a very tight white blouse, like something she might wear for karaoke night at the Drunken Monkey. She had teased her hair up for the occasion.

  She certainly looked relieved to see me. “Tom! Are you in this class?”

  “Yes.”

  “What class is it?”

  I said, “English. Language arts.” Then I asked her the obvious question: “Aunt Robin, what are you doing here?”

  Her hands shot upward, like she was signaling a touchdown. “Damned if I know! I got a call from some lady this morning at six a.m. Woke me up. And she asked me to come in here.”

  “Some lady?”

  “The principal lady.”

  “Mrs. Cantwell?”

  “Yeah. That’s her.” She explained, “I came in here a couple of days ago to apply for a job—secretary, cafeteria worker, anything, really. That’s how she got my number. She called me this morning and asked if I would come in as a parent volunteer.

  “I asked her, ‘Do I get paid?’ She said, ‘No, I can’t pay you. But if a paying job opens up, I’ll remember that you did me this favor.’ So here I am.”

  “Wow.”

  “Arthur don’t even know I’m here. He’s sleeping in today.”

  “Yeah. Good plan.”

  She pointed to the sleeping kids in the back. “It’s just like babysitting. I don’t mind.”

  I took a seat in front of her. A few seconds later, Lilly appeared at the door. She cupped her hands around her mouth and whispered loudly, “Tom! I called Mom. She’s on her way here.”

  Lilly had not looked at the sub. But even if she had, I don’t think she would have recognized her. The context was just too wacky. I pointed to the desk and whispered back, “Look! It’s Aunt Robin! She’s the sub!”

  Lilly’s head, followed by the rest of her body, bent backward in disbelief. She managed a friendly smile and a wave. Aunt Robin motioned for her to come in, which she did.

  Aunt Robin followed our lead and continued the loud whispering. “Congratulations, Lilly! I hear you got engaged.”

  Lilly instinctively held up her left ring finger. “Yes!”

  “That’s great, honey! I hear he’s a nice guy, too.”

  Lilly actually blushed. “Yeah.” She held the ring out for Aunt Robin to ooh and aah over.

  “Beautiful. That’s real nice. I got married twice, but I never got a diamond ring.”

  “No?”

  “I got wedding rings, two of them, but I never got an engagement ring.”

  Lilly told her sincerely, “I hope you will come to our wedding. We’ll send you an invitation.”

  Aunt Robin seemed surprised, and touched. “Oh, thank you, honey. That’d be an honor. Did you set a date?”

  “Not yet.”

  “June, maybe? I was a June bride. The first time, anyway.”

  “Is that when you married Uncle Robby?”

  “Yeah.” She thought for a moment. Then she laughed, a little embarrassed, “I can’t remember the exact date now. June the third? The fourth? It was a Saturday, the Saturday after Robby graduated from here.”

  Lilly observed, as if for the first time, “You were Robin and Robby! That’s so cute.”

  “Yeah. That’s what everybody said.”

  “Did you guys get married in a church?”

  “Nah. The county courthouse. No muss, no fuss. Then we went back to Robby’s mom’s house. That’s where we were livin’ anyway.” She recalled, “Your mom and dad came over! Yeah. Your dad brought a case of Rolling Rock with a white bow around it. That became the big joke of the wedding—that my colors were green and white, like on the Rolling Rock beer bottle.”

  Lilly laughed. Then she stole a look at her watch. “I’m sorry, Aunt Robin, but I’m pretty sure my mom’s parked outside.”

  Aunt Robin pointed at the door. “You go! Both of you.”

  As we started out, Lilly assured her, “I’ll be sending you that invitation.”

  “All right. And I’ll start saving up beer bottles for you.”

  We laughed. But I did whisper to Lilly, “Does she know you’re too young to drink?”

  “She’s real nice. Don’t put her down.”

  “I’m not.”

  “And do not tell Mom that she was here.”

  “Okay.”

  So the ride home featured no talk about Aunt Robin, or her surprise career as a substitute teacher, or her beer-bottle wedding colors, or anything else, for that matter.

  As it turned out, Mom was saving all of her talking for lunch. Over bowls of Campbell’s tomato soup (the same company that owns Pepperidge Farm, V8, and Swanson) and grilled cheese sandwiches, Mom opened with a blockbuster announcement: “I was talking to your father. I am going to start working at the Food Giant on Sunday, on the cash register.”

  Lilly practically spit out her grilled cheese. “Why? I thought you had to be here for us, like a traditional housewife, so you could keep the household together, or whatever.”

  “Well, you’re both older now. And you’re both working at the store now. The best thing I can do is help your father hold on to it.”

  I was alarmed. “Hold on to it? Is he going to lose the store?”

  “He could. The corporation could decide to close it. The corporation only cares about profits, Tom. Your father can’t show profits if people aren’t buying.”

  Lilly seemed stunned. “Close the Food Giant?”

  “Quite a thought, isn’t it? What would people do? Where would they go for food?”

  “Did Dad tell you this?” I asked.

  “Yes. He said that if he was paying all his employees, the store would already be in the red, and the corporation would close it.”

  Mom pointed to us in turn. “He has you, Tom, and you, Lilly, and now he’ll have me, all working for nothing. And John is working eighty hours a week, but he’s only getting paid for forty. That’s how your father is keeping the store open—with people working for nothing.”

  Lunch ended on that note, with fearful glances all around.

  John was outside chasing down shopping carts when Mom dropped us off. He blew a kiss at Lilly as she hurried inside to get out of the cold. He waved me over, saying, “Bobby went home for a few hours. He’s coming back later to clean the storeroom. You, Bobby, and your dad.”

  “Sounds like another late night.”

  “Yeah.” John scanned the parking lot nervously. He added, “Hey, you gotta keep a close eye on these carts, bro. People are stealing them. It’s unreal.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  When I saw Dad inside, he told me what I already knew. “We’ll be cleaning out the storeroom tonight. You, me, and Bobby.”

  “John told me.”

  He shook his head. “Reg has been putting off cleaning that place since before Thanksgiving. And he called in sick today, probably because he knows we’re doing it tonight. Still, it can’t wait any longer.”

  The storeroom had been in complete disarray for a month. The hole the robbers made in the roof hadn’t been properly repaired. The Food Giant Corpor
ation had to approve all payments, and Dad had used up his repair budget for the year. He could not even submit a request until 2002. In the meantime, Dad had climbed up on the roof with a piece of plywood, a few trash bags, and a roll of duct tape. So far, the repair job had held.

  After completing the closing checklist, Dad and I stacked up the day’s pallets and waited for Bobby. Dad seemed to be struggling with something. He finally said, “Mitchell came into the office today. To talk.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Dad’s face turned pale. “He told me that Del is gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you mean … dead?”

  Dad said softly, “No. She’s not dead.”

  “But she’s gone?”

  Dad nodded, and I knew what he meant. She was a zombie now. He added, “Mitchell won’t say anything else about her. He seems to be okay, though. He’s focusing on work.”

  “That’s good. We need him.”

  “We sure do. And I just talked to Walter. He’s coming back on Monday.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I’m putting him in the bakery, on the early shift. Gert can use the help. She’s having some trouble with her arthritis. She’s been calling in sick.” (I wondered if it was really arthritis. I’m suspicious of everybody nowadays.)

  Dad continued: “Walter knows he can’t go anywhere near customer service, or anywhere near the pseudoephedrine, and I think he’ll honor that.”

  He set the last pallet against the wall and looked at me. “This store is Walter’s life. It’s Mitchell’s life, too. And Gert’s. Where else are they going to go? We have to keep this store open.”

  Bobby appeared in the doorway. He was far enough away for Dad to whisper, “This store is Bobby’s life, too. He’s not”—Dad stopped and searched for the word—“inferior here. He’s as good as anybody else.”

  I agreed. “He’s better than some.” I amended that to, “He’s better than most.”

  Bobby walked over to us, shaking out his arms, getting ready for some hard labor. Dad gave us our assignments, and we set to work. With three people doing it, and with no interruptions, the cleanup went very smoothly. The storeroom was back in shape (except for the hole in the roof) in a little over an hour.