Wait.
He sucked his breath in and squinted. He heard bottles clinking faintly, and after a chilly moment or two, he saw something. He started to walk cautiously closer. He reached into his pocket and gripped the camera like a security blanket.
The end of the alley was blanketed in tall shadows now, and Gene couldn’t make out what was down there other than something bulky next to one of the commercial dumpsters.
He crept closer to whatever was down there. He was three houses away when suddenly one of the lids flew open on the furthest one. He saw a grubby hand reach for the edge of the container, then another. He slowed his approach way down and stayed close to the side of the alley. A homeless person hoisted himself up on the edge of the container, then swung his legs up and over the side. He dropped to the street and clutched his coat close to him.
Gene inhaled to say something but thought better of it. He took a few steps closer, then stopped and pulled the camera out of his pocket. He snapped a few photos of a dirty, bald homeless man pulling trash out of his coat pockets and putting it into a beat-up shopping cart. A sheet of newspaper flew up out of the cart and the man grabbed at it like it was a winning lottery ticket. He snapped one more photo as the man pushed his secured loot out of the alley and turned left, up the sidewalk.
He lowered the camera and waited a minute or so before advancing. When he felt the coast was clear, he walked briskly over to the last container. He picked up the corner of the lid and peeked inside. It was picked completely clean.
“Jesus,” he huffed.
CHAPTER 20: THE FAMILY CARPOOL
As expected, Father had finished whatever errand he had been running right around 4:00 P.M., which made him available to pick Gracie up from the rink. She glanced up at the wall clock at intervals, very ready for her shift to end.
As she put rental skates back on the marked shelves—mostly accurately, if only because she’d hear it from Warren if he found size 13 on the 8 shelf again—she caught a glimpse of Leslie carrying a cash drawer into the back office.
They were nearly polar opposites, she thought. Leslie was into this for the valuable experience and being passionate about cashiering. Gracie just wanted to get out of the house for a few hours to make a few bucks while she figured out what to do with the rest of her life. Leslie was freshly scrubbed, and her all-American ponytail would swish enthusiastically when she would ring up skate rentals or suggest up-sizing soft drinks for a dollar extra. Gracie grudgingly admitted inwardly that Leslie was destined to end up under Fortune’s wing and learn all about vertical horizons, or whatever bull she was selling this week. Les would eat it all up, learning at the feet of her mentor. Her painstakingly manicured and designer-heeled feet.
Gracie couldn’t have cared less, except for the prodding that took the form of needing the money and regular lectures from Warren about telling him next time when the popcorn is running out. She could have and arguably should have found a different line of work. She wasn’t a people person, not in the way that the service and entertainment industries require. The only thing the rink had that everywhere else didn’t wasn’t hers anymore: Aimee.
Fortunately for her, roller derby bouts only happened once or twice a month, max, but there were also practice sessions. She wanted money and therefore hours, just not too many, and that would mean sucking it up and being there when the Vixxxns plied their trade. She liked being around when Lacey was there. She’d get beat up by the other girls and skate over to Gracie to speak their secret language about how Gracie was going to make her feel better later, and how Lacey was going to show her where it hurt so she could kiss it. Now Aimee was going to have to find some other remedy to what ailed her. Gracie squeezed her eyes shut, trying to break herself of the habit of referring to her ex-girlfriend as “Lacey”.
Leslie tootled by, looking for Warren. Gracie checked her out. Guh. Way too uptight.
4:30 rolled around at long last. Gracie put her coat on and bee-lined it for the door. “Later,” she waved to Leslie.
Warren called after her. “Don’t forget, I need you here a half an hour early on Thursday to set up for—” Gracie didn’t break her stride, and she didn’t care to hear the rest of whatever he was saying, being off the clock. She put up with his Napoleonic complex enough as it was during business hours, she figured.
Father’s red station wagon was idling in the usual spot. Gracie pulled the passenger side door open. “I got the cash, let’s split,” she cried out dramatically. She was about to hop in when she was greeted with a most unwelcome sight: Agnes.
“I don’t recall hearing you call shotgun,” Gracie sniffed, “like, ever.”
Agnes smiled and got out of the car. She got in the back seat behind her sister and gently closed the door. Gracie sat down and pulled the door closed with an emphatic slam. Father pulled out of his spot and drove smoothly out of the parking lot.
Gracie decided the view out of her window was the most interesting thing in the world. She wasn’t in the mood for Agnes. Not now. Had she not tagged along for some reason she and Father would have made some sort of inane small talk at 3-minute intervals until reaching the driveway.
“How was work?” He’d inquire.
“Another day, another fifty cents,” she’d reply.
Instead, trees, mailboxes, strip malls, driveways, stop lights, street signs and the occasional bird captivated her attention. She wasn’t paying close attention to the details, and it was about eight minutes later that she realized there was more to the break in the routine than merely Agnes: they were going the wrong way.
Gracie shot an annoyed glance at her father but didn’t say anything. She sure wasn’t going to ask Agnes what was going on. She stared intently at a “we buy any house 4 cash” sign at an intersection while Father waited for the green light.
Different scenery passed by as Father traveled his strange route, and eventually, when Gracie deigned to face forward she saw their destination coming up on the left: the Salem County Public Library.
“Oh, I left my card at home,” she quipped, through a monotone.
Father pulled up to the front entrance and waited for Agnes to exit the car. “See you in a couple hours,” he said.
Agnes waved her acknowledgment and gently closed the door. Gracie watched Agnes make her way into the library and then visibly relaxed. A moment later, Father was returning his suburban taxi to the garage.
“How was work?”
“Another day, another dollar.”
Father cocked an eyebrow and feigned surprise. “A raise? My baby is moving up in the world.”
Gracie smiled. “Nope, but you can bet they’ll never let me count the registers again.”
The red station wagon disappeared into the sunset. Agnes stood in front of the library, watching the car vanish over a hill. After another minute or two, she walked toward the road, aiming for the bus shelter with a metal bench wide enough for two adults.
She closed her eyes and let her features soften. Her hair blew gently in a chill breeze. Very shortly, her nose would start to run and turn red, along with her ears. That is, they used to do that. Now she maintained her pale pallor, with strands of light brown hair getting caught against her lips and being pulled aside at intervals.
The bus arrived two minutes early. She opened her eyes and waited for the doors to open. A couple of Van Buren students got off through the back door. Agnes entered through the front. She reached into her knit bag and produced three crumpled dollar bills. The bus driver sat and waited for her to slide the bills into the fare collector. He frowned when the second bill was rejected.
“Come on, we’re making good time here.”
Agnes smiled apologetically and got the bills to slide into the collector. She took a seat away from the window.
CHAPTER 21: CREATED WRITING
Night enveloped Marc’s corner of the world. As he awoke to the candle still burning brightly and the sensation of his legal pad sliding onto the floor, he sense
d night may have come along at least two hours ago. Not that the candle was any indication. There was a tiny pool of wax at the base of the flame, but otherwise the candle showed no signs of extended use.
“Whuhtimeizzit?” He squinted at the cable box clock. 7:30. He assumed that was “PM”.
He groaned as he slid off the sofa onto his hands and knees, accompanied by the sound of his pen dropping onto the floor. One knee landed on the legal pad. He worked his way into a full stand and ran his hand through his mop of hair. He couldn’t have been out that long, yet he felt like death warmed over. The sight of himself in the bathroom mirror reinforced this diagnosis.
He sat on the toilet and hunched over, staring at the bath mat. Gyuh, his mouth tasted nasty. He pulled off a handful of toilet paper and ran it over his front teeth. He tossed the wad in when he flushed, then washed his hands in the bathroom sink. He wet his fingers afterward and pressed them against his eyelids. He felt himself returning to the living.
After popping a pizza for one in the microwave, he peered into his fridge for beverage options, which were pale ale or Blast soda. It was a work night, technically, and each choice posed their own risks. He figured excessive and sugar and caffeine was the better option. He sat at his small dining table and munched on the microwave pizza, sipping his aggressive cola at intervals. The candle burned steadily in its designated place in the living room.
He dumped his plate in the kitchen sink and ran some water over it. May as well clean up, he thought. He went to the sofa and folded up his throw blanket and draped it over one of the armrests. Girls liked those homey accents, he reminded himself. Best to keep a few in play for whenever he was back on the dating scene.
He tried to puff out the candle flame, and it maintained its pattern of fluttering violently and returning to a steady sway. “Worth a shot,” he said with a shrug.
He scooped up the legal pad, which laid face-down on the floor, with his pen nearby. He tossed both onto the sofa and retrieved his drink from the dining nook. He pulled the coffee table closer to the sofa and set the soda can onto the table. He plopped down on the sofa and the soda can caught his eye. He leaned forward and pulled a coaster from the stack and used the edge of his hand to wipe away the wet ring left by the soda can before placing the can onto the coaster.
“Classy,” he quipped to the room.
Marc took a moment to recall what he was doing before conking out. There was the eternal flame, and then he was trying to sort things out. There was going to be a logical explanation for everything. The candle was already marked as solved: Gracie snuck a trick candle into his duffel when he was visiting. He just had to find the winning strategy for snuffing the candle for the next time he wanted to entertain himself with someone else being made a fool, puzzling over the endless candlelight.
The blanket was obvious as well: that was dream logic. Agnes was never there. It was a lucid dream, and since his brain needed to push her out through the nearest exit before he woke up, it decided to make her disappear in dramatic fashion. Check, and check.
He eyed the legal pad. He thought he should be writing this down. He reached for the pad and flipped it over. Somebody had been writing quite a bit on it already. He yanked his hand away like it was an open flame.
He grabbed the pen and used it as a scientific implement. He lifted the top page and to his horror saw more scrawled words on the next page, And the next. And the next. He tossed the pen away and retreated from the sofa.
CHAPTER 22: ALCHEMY
Agnes’s stop had arrived. The bus screeched as it came to a halt beside a curb, the air brakes let out a sharp hiss, and the driver grudgingly activated the door switch. His dismissal was a blend of politeness and annoyance, as widening the gap between the scheduled route and the actual time he was making was more important to him than people missing the bus by three minutes.
She stepped off the bus and walked purposefully along a row of shops. Antiques, resale, vintage, vintage resale… she ignored the scenery and stuck to her own internal timeline. After a couple of blocks, she reached her neon-accented destination. She tugged at a glass door and entered a corner unit marked descriptively as WE BUY GOLD.
A middle-aged Hispanic couple was just leaving, flipping through a small wad of 5-dollar bills, and muttering “esta bien”. The clerk behind a bulletproof glass window set an envelope aside containing a 14-karat gold necklace that was intended to be a family heirloom. Now it paid for groceries. The clerk looked up and saw Agnes in the lobby. “Next, miss,” he said.
Agnes stepped to the window and gave a slight smile.
“Whatcha got for me?” The clerk waited, feigning disinterest.
She reached into her coat pocket and produced a small yellow rectangle, about 2 ½ inches long, and about a half-inch thick. It would have gleamed under any light, but it was particularly radiant under fluorescent. The clerk’s eyes widened for a split second, then returned to their well-practiced heavy-lidded appearance.
“That’s an interesting little nugget. Where did you get it?”
Agnes smiled and shrugged.
“I see. The less I know, the better, am I right? Okay, mystery lady, mum’s the word. I’ll be right with you.” The clerk scooped the object up under the pass-through at the bottom of the window. He set it on the scale, and watched the numbers settle. 1.4568 ounces. He ran his usual tests, then flipped through a well-worn reference book on the counter. A $2100 value, give or take. She didn’t need to know that. And if she did know it, she wasn’t getting it. “I can give you fifty dollars for it.”
“No, thank you.” Agnes motioned for the object to be returned.
The clerk balked. “No? Get real, miss. I can’t sell this. Jewelry, I can sell. Rings, especially. But this? Nobody buys gold just to buy gold. Go to Montana for that. I’m helping you out. Nobody else is giving fifty, guaranteed. So, we got a deal now or what?”
“No, thank you.” Agnes held out her hand.
“Well, don’t you drive the hard bargain!” The clerk gave a wide grin, then shook his head in defeat. “Okay, Miss Hard Bargain, I’m gonna go out on a limb for you. The owners...” He leaned in conspiratorially and lowered his voice momentarily. “The owners don’t like it when I do this. Bad for business, they say. But I care about my clientele, am I right? Yes, I do. So, here’s what I can do, just between us.” He paused for dramatic effect and signaled for Agnes to agree to hear the new terms.
She gave a curt nod.
That was good enough for the clerk. “Fantastic!” He clapped his hands. “Little lady, here’s what I can do, one night only: I can make a special purchase for—aw, too bad we don’t have something for you to sit on, because you’ll wish we did—eighty dollars. Eight, zero. Come on, now how’s that for negotiating, huh? What do ya say?” The clerk waited expectantly for approval.
Agnes smiled, and said simply, “One hundred.”
The clerk deflated into his stool. He looked like a broken man, a man who laid it all down to win and not only did the horse come in last, it died just after the starting gate. “Seriously, a hundred?” His eyes bulged a bit and his jaw slackened.
Agnes nodded.
The clerk stared down at the floor and heaved a huge sigh. After a moment, he scooped up the object and dropped it back into the pass-through tray. “Pleasure doing business with you. Say hello to the big spenders in Montana.”
She retrieved the item and slipped it back into her pocket. She turned around and headed for the door. Just as she reached for the handle, the clerk called to her through the glass.
“Okay, okay. A hundred. You win.”
She smiled and returned to the counter.
A few minutes later, Agnes left the store with a handful of $20 bills that she folded neatly and slipped into her knit bag. She took a left turn and continued walking away from the bus stop. After three more blocks, she made it to a small family-owned office supply store that was about to close. She smiled at the elderly woman behind the counter, and r
eplied “No, thank you” to her inquiry as to what she needed help finding. She’d been here before, and the stock never moved. The store was nothing if not consistent.
She pulled a 2-pack of white erasers from its designated hook, in a small area dedicated to pens and pencils. They were about 2 ½ inches long, and about a half inch thick, same as always. The register beeped as the woman behind the counter punched in the cost stamped on a manually-applied price sticker, then pressed another button.
“That’ll be $4.58. Out of twenty.”
Bills and coins were scooped out of the register drawer. “And forty-two,” said the woman, dropping the coins into Agnes’s palm first, followed by the bills, “and five… and ten makes twenty. Do you need a bag?”
Agnes shook her head.
“Thank you for shopping at Jones. Bundle up, kid, it’s got to be freezing out there!”
Agnes smiled and put the eraser package along with the change into her knit bag. She glanced at the clock on the wall over the exit. She resolved to be at the bus stop five minutes early. Ten to be safe.
CHAPTER 23: THE EDUCATION OF MARC MORRIS
“Game over. I quit.”
Marc inserted the stopper into one of his kitchen sink basins and ran cold water until it was at least 7 inches full. Without another word, he marched over to the coffee table and swiped the candle from its coaster. He purposefully took the candle to the sink and plunged it into the water until it touched the bottom of the basin. The flame was doused with a succinct hiss and a wisp of grey smoke rose from the water line.
He felt as though he had just drowned somebody. He wasn’t a violent person, as such, outside of the usual bursts of testosterone that men are prone to, usually involving fast cars or contact sports. He loosened his grip and the candle rolled slowly along the bottom of the sink. He dried his arms and hands with a dish towel, then tossed the towel back onto the counter top.
The Spaces Between Us Page 9
