“I’ll run you home; then I have to get to work,” I say.
“You didn’t take the day off?”
“Nah. I have to drive Chris to PT later. And Finn needs me.”
“To keep up with his two customers?”
I shrug. Cole’s been working at Finn’s Grocery for a couple of years now, but I just started in the spring. It’s the first real job I’ve had, and I’m trying to take it seriously. He’s right, though. Ever since they put in the Stop & Shop, fewer and fewer people go to the old store.
I pull out of the parking lot. The radio is on and the windows are down. It’s like coming back to the real world. Cole is sitting next to me, examining his waterlogged sneakers.
“Hey,” I say. “Listen.”
“What?”
“We’ll take care of this thing with Eddie. It’s going to work out.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll think of something.”
“Sure. Thanks.”
I will. I’m not going off to school and leaving him behind in the miserable state he’s been in.
We don’t talk anymore, the whole way back into town.
* * *
I drop Cole off, drive downtown, and let myself in the back door of the grocery store ten minutes early. I put my apron on and punch my card in the clock bolted to the wall. It sits in a slot above Cole’s. His has a lot more time on it.
Mr. Finn comes into the storeroom a few minutes later, while I’m opening crates of produce. He congratulates me on graduating, slapping me on the back and winking when he asks if I had a good time. I don’t think there was any Project Graduation in his day, and he probably thinks that last night was a lot wilder than it was. I smile and shrug, and he lets me get back to work.
Lifting the crates makes my elbow hurt, but I ignore it. It would drive my dad nuts, stressing it like this. He’s invested thousands of hours and thousands of dollars, tens of thousands of dollars, in my arm. I’ve done everything, camps and clinics, one-on-one coaching with former big-league players. I’m Dad’s biggest trophy. I told him I don’t have to lift anything heavy here at the store, and he believed me because he’s never had a job like this. A non-bullshit job, one where you have to work with your hands. Dad pushes paper around and worries about other people’s money for a living.
Eight o’clock comes, and I hear the bells by the front door as the first customers of the day come in and Mr. Finn calls out a hello. A moment later there’s a loud crash and a shout. I hustle up to the front, and there’s Paul Gerber and his mother standing in the middle of an avalanche of soup cans that had been stacked in a giant pyramid. Paul’s fists are balled up and his face is flushed. His mom stands in front of him with her eyes closed. She’s breathing slowly. It looks like she’s counting to ten in her head. Mr. Finn has come over from the checkout area, and he looks unhappy.
“Now, Paul,” he says, “let’s—”
“No!”
Mrs. Gerber takes one more deep breath, and although she looks as if she would really rather not, she opens her eyes. Before she can say anything, I have an idea.
“Hey, Paulie,” I say, “I need you to help me with something.” Paul looks at me, but he doesn’t say anything. I pause, and then I reach out and put a hand on his shoulder. I take him a quarter of the way down an aisle, and we stop in front of a shelf full of more cans. Beans, all sorts of beans, all different brands. It seems stupid for a store this size to carry so many different kinds of beans. How much cash has Finn sunk into canned goods? What could the demand for beans be in a town like East Ridge?
“Help me with this, Paul,” I say, taking cans down off the shelf, stacking them on the floor, and opening up a space until there is a long gap. Mr. Finn and Mrs. Gerber watch from the end of the aisle. “Okay,” I finally say, “let’s put them away right.” I start to restack the cans, ignoring the actual type of bean and just focusing on the label color. All the red ones to the far left, then blue. Paul watches for a moment, then understands and joins in, sorting the cans by color and placing them on the shelf. He quickly finishes reshelving the cans I had placed on the floor and then continues along, pulling cans off and rearranging them, sorting and shifting, completely focused. I go back to the front of the store and begin to rebuild the soup pyramid.
“Thank you, Matt,” Mrs. Gerber says. “You’ve always been wonderful with him.”
I wonder whether this is true. I don’t remember spending much time with Paul at all; I think Cole was the one who usually tried to include him. I smile at Mrs. Gerber anyway and tell her that I’ll keep an eye on Paul while she shops, and she thanks me again and hurries off with her list. I stack soup and watch as the aisle in front of me gets color-coded.
“He’s going to rearrange the whole place,” Mr. Finn says quietly.
“I’ll fix it when they’re gone.”
Mr. Finn goes off to see about his paperwork, and I slowly stack the spilled cans, higher and higher, rebuilding a pyramid that should somehow get customers to spend hot summer evenings eating chicken noodle soup. I watch Paul, fascinated, staring at his face as he studies the shelves. He’s moved on to cans of tomato sauce. I feel sort of proud for having settled him down, but also guilty for having given him such a random thing to do. It seems to be making him happy, though, or at least keeping him quiet.
I finish stacking, and Mrs. Gerber finishes shopping. Mr. Finn checks her out, and she thanks me one more time. I nod and tell her that I’ll come by over the summer to check in on Paul, even though I haven’t thought of that until the very moment when I say it. She seems so happy, though, that I’m not sorry I did.
I go back to unboxing the fruit.
Half an hour later, I’m feeling the lack of sleep and the burn-off of the adrenaline from the swim. Fluorescent lights shining on aisles of cracked white linoleum, the smell of cardboard and plastic and lettuce. I don’t know how Mr. Finn has taken decades of this. I don’t know if I’ll make it through the summer. I’d tell him I have to go home and get some sleep if I weren’t supposed to get Chris for PT at lunchtime. Our moms set it up so that we’d have it at the same time.
“Excuse me?”
I turn. The woman has come up behind me while I was spacing out, and I have the sense that she’s already tried to get my attention.
“Sorry, what? I mean, can I help you?”
“I asked if you have strawberries today.”
“Strawberries . . .” I scan the produce, stare into the empty box at my feet, and then look back at her. I’m dazed, like I’ve just woken up on my feet. “I don’t see them.”
“I don’t see them either. That’s why I’m asking.”
“Right.” She has black hair, tied straight back in a ponytail with a white ribbon. One small strand’s come free, and the tips of a few hairs cling to the corner of her mouth. “Do you want a cantaloupe?” I ask.
She blinks. “A cantaloupe?”
I nod.
“No, not really.”
“They’re good for you.”
She steps away, watching me carefully. “I’m good, thanks. I’ll just look around a little.” She moves off into the produce section, two rows away from me, running her hands over some watermelon. I break down an empty box, stomping it onto a pile of stained cardboard, trying not to stare at her.
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Sarah Jessup, a really long time, and I doubt that she remembers me. The last time we were together, I was an obnoxious kid playing a prank on my friend’s babysitter at a sleepover, and she was a high school senior just trying to make a few bucks by watching us for the night. When Luther’s parents got home, they woke us both up and made us come outside and put air back in her bike tires.
She was Officer Jessup’s daughter; he was famous for being the cop carrying Cole in the photo, which made her a little bit famous too. And then later on, when he died of an aneurysm in his cop car while sitting in a speed trap, it reminded everybody of who he had been and of who she was.
“Hey.�
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I look up. She’s standing by the bananas, holding up a box of strawberries, eyebrows raised.
“Well, will you look at that?” I say.
She shakes her head. “Half of these are past; they should be taken off the shelf.”
“Sorry. I’m new here.”
She nods, doesn’t look up.
“I’m Matt. Matt Simpson.”
“I know. I’m Sarah.”
“Yeah, I know too.” I grin. She doesn’t look up from the fruit. She’s dressed for work, like at an office.
“You might want to study up on produce, Matt.”
“I’m open to all comments and suggestions.”
She doesn’t soften one bit. “Thanks for your help.” She starts to turn away, consulting a list in her hand like I’ve disappeared into thin air.
“Do you always come in now? Like, around now? I can set some strawberries aside for you.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’ll be here. This time, I mean. I just graduated. From high school, I just graduated from high school.”
“Congratulations.”
I don’t want her to go, but for once in my life, I can’t think of anything to say.
“Are you going to need help with your bags?”
“I think I can handle them. I work just up the street.”
“Oh. Okay. Where?”
“Where?”
She thinks I’m a stalker, but my mouth is still going. “Yeah, where do you work?”
She finally blows the strand of hair out of her face and looks unsure. “You ask a lot of questions, Matt.”
“Sorry. It gets boring, unpacking boxes all day.”
“Try working in insurance.” She turns and walks away.
“Hey,” I call after her, “I’ll talk to Mr. Finn. About the produce. We want to keep your business.”
“Sure,” she says without looking back. “Let him know.” She reaches the end of the aisle. “You can also let him know that his stock boy isn’t as cute as he thinks he is.” She disappears around the endcap, leaving me alone with my pile of empty fruit boxes.
* * *
Lunchtime finally comes. Mr. Finn has given me extra time for PT, and I drive out to get Chris Thayer.
The Thayers’ house is a little bit of a dump. They had to do all kinds of things to it so that his wheelchair could get in, move doorways and stuff, and it wound up looking stuck together and lopsided. There’s a long metal ramp leading up to the front door. I park my truck by the curb and get out. Chris is waiting in the driveway, next to the special van. I already know how to use it; his mom came over last weekend and showed me all the features.
At school, Chris always wore khakis with a perfect crease down the front and button-down shirts, but today he’s in sweats for PT. His blond hair is still perfectly parted and his rimless glasses are spotless. He looks up at me from his chair as I approach.
“What’s up, Chris?” I ask. “How’re you doing today? Did your mom leave the keys in the van, or are they in the house?” I always have to fight the impulse to make my voice go higher when I’m talking to him, the way people do when they’re talking to little kids.
“On the driver’s seat,” he says in his wobbly, raspy voice.
“Cool. Sorry I’m late.”
It takes me a couple of minutes to get him secured in the back of the van, but he’s patient. Chris is nice to everybody, always smiling, always polite. He was the stats manager for the baseball team, so he came to all our games, which is where I really got to know him.
I get into the driver’s seat, pull out of the driveway, and creep down the street at about ten miles an hour.
“This thing can go faster,” he says.
“Sorry, just getting used to it.” I speed up a little. Driving him is going to take some getting used to. I hit the button for the radio, but nothing happens.
“It’s broken,” he says. “Gotta get it fixed.”
“Sure.” I wonder whether they don’t have the money. Chris’s dad works at my dad’s company, but I think he’s way, way down from him.
“What do you think of the Mets?” Chris asks.
I could probably list their starting lineups for the last ten seasons from memory, but I can’t think of anything going on this year. It’s a total blank, and it hits me just how distracted I’ve been. Whatever’s been happening these last few months, my head’s always been someplace else.
“Not sure about the bullpen,” I say. Always a safe bet.
“You’re telling me.” Chris launches into an analysis of middle relief, and I try to follow along, but it’s happening again. It’s like a magnet is pulling my thoughts away from what’s actually going on around me. I’m focused, just not on what Chris is saying. I had an idea this morning, as soon as Cole told me that his refrigerator isn’t as full as I thought it was.
“Hey, Chris,” I interrupt, “can I ask you something?”
“What’s up?”
I’m not quite sure how to start.
“You get prescribed a lot of meds, right?” I ask.
“Oh, man, you have no idea.”
“Like, what? Pain meds?”
“Sure, all kinds of stuff.”
“You ever have any extra?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “What do you mean, ‘extra’?”
This is insane. Chris’s parents will be on the phone to my parents by dinner, and I’ll spend the rest of the summer in mandatory rehab.
“Just, you know, some extra pills,” I say. “The doc prescribed me stuff for my elbow, but I hardly use it. I’ve got a bottle that’s mostly full in my bathroom.”
“Yeah,” he says cautiously. “Sure. Lots, actually. It builds up.”
I’m holding the steering wheel hard with both hands. I look in the mirror. Chris is looking back at me.
“Think you might be interested in getting rid of some of it?” I ask.
There’s a pause, and then he nods. “I might be.”
I slowly let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding and relax my grip on the wheel. “Nice. Here’s the thing, though, Chris. I can’t really get at any money right now. It’s a long story, but . . . I mean, you trust me, right? We’re buds. I could get you cash this fall, winter latest.” At some point my parents have to get tired of watching my account. I could take money out in lots of small withdrawals, maybe.
“I was thinking of a trade,” Chris says.
“Oh, okay.” I look in the mirror again and am startled to see that his face has turned bright red. “What do you want to trade?”
When he answers, his voice is even smaller than usual. “Stories.”
“Stories?”
“Yeah.”
“About what?”
“Can I tell you later?” he asks after another moment.
“Uh—sure.” I have no idea what kind of a story I could tell him. I’m not any sort of a storyteller.
The PT clinic is coming up on our right, and I slow down way too early and creep into the lot. I jump out, open Chris’s door, and get him out of the van.
“I’ll wait here,” I say when he’s finally on the sidewalk.
“What about your session?”
I stretch my arm. The elbow pulls and aches, the pain shooting down toward my hand. “I feel good today. I think my mom canceled.”
I watch as he drives his chair along the sidewalk toward the automatic door, and then I get back into the driver’s seat. It’s hot, I’m tired, and the air isn’t moving. I want to roll the window down, but somehow turning the van back on seems like too much work. I rest my head on the window glass and close my eyes. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know, Chris is calling my name from the curb and the clock on the dashboard shows that forty-five minutes have gone by. I struggle upright, wipe the sweat off my face, and open the door to get him in.
I don’t know what I was dreaming about, but all I can think of is Sarah Jessup, and of taking that white
ribbon out of her black hair.
Three
— Cole —
Grief is natural. That’s what a counselor once told me. She said that it’s the body’s response to loss, just like a fever is the body’s response to an infection. The pain is what healing feels like; suppress it, and your soul can’t do its work. You can’t ignore it. You can’t hunker down and wait for it to pass. You can’t drug it out of existence. You can’t talk yourself out of it. You have to go through it, let it cleanse you of all the anger and fear that went with what happened to you, before you can move on.
Utter bullshit.
Grief is natural. You know what else is natural? Smallpox. Would you find that cleansing?
I’m back from Project Graduation, but Mom’s the one who looks like she’s been up all night. We’re sitting at the dining room table, trying to have breakfast, but she can barely keep her eyes open. Her hair is pinned back but it’s a mess, and it looks like she still has her makeup on from the ceremony yesterday. I made us toast and eggs, but she’s hardly eating.
“You feeling all right, Ma?”
“I’m good, honey. Just not really hungry. I’ll get a little nap and then I’ll be fine.”
Her little naps have been known to last for fourteen hours, but I nod and don’t say anything.
“It was a lovely ceremony,” she says. “They did a wonderful job.”
“Yeah.”
“And you had a good time last night?”
“Yeah.” I feel her eyes studying me. In her pop-psych world of natural grief and making yourself do just one little thing every day, a day like yesterday is probably supposed to be some sort of a trigger for me. Maybe it awakens some old memories or trauma. I shrug. “It was fun. I played tennis.”
“With who?”
“Matt.” Who else?
“It’s nice that he’s working at Finn’s this summer.”
“I won’t see him there much. Mr. Finn doesn’t need two people at once. It’s actually going to cut into my hours.”
“Well, still. You’ll get to see him sometimes. You’ll pick up more hours when he leaves in the fall.”
Every Moment After Page 4
