Man ain’t that old but he’s always acted sixty-five, born taking names. Too proud of being in charge. Even of a mall like ours, with just three the fountains working and no Restoration Hardware.
First we thought he’d be good for the place. Didn’t he bring in bigger palm trees? Didn’t he release dozens of my shop’s largest goldfish into reflecting pools? (Till the tossed pennies or the chlorine got them, one.) Was then Vanderlip caught a retired couple pocketing three-for-a-buck canned tuna at Dollar General. He marches them, sobbing, into the back room he’s labeled “De-Programming.”
Thirty minutes later, old guy comes out of there … on a stretcher. Heart attack. Thin line between “background check” and “torture.” Us merchants, we’d first nicknamed Vanderlip “the Enforcer.” By now? he’s “Terminator.”
But yes, a new girl was seen on the mall. “Terminator” Vanderlip spotted her first. Oh, she tried blending in with other pretties that age. She would settle, keeping her back to our usual standout blondes monopolizing the popular benches fountain-side. Young gals are always dabbing glitter makeup onto each other, then taking cell-phone snaps of their new navel rings, sending these to lucky farm-boys out in the county. But this recent gal wore just an old sailor’s peacoat sizes too big. Had limp brown hair all down in her face. Plastic barrettes pushed bangs into being the little awning letting her hide in plain sight.
Prettier girls, bare-midriffs, migrate like birds around our Grand Concourse. All at once they’ll rush like mad to avoid or attract some clump of boys just arrived.
I saw this darker new child follow that crowd, but only at a distance, just so’s she’d fade in a little better. They ignored her. She acted like she didn’t notice being snubbed. But at that age that’s all you notice.
Me, I noticed. While settling Siamese kittens into our cedared bay-windows, I wondered why this one gal, of all fifteen hundred mall-visitors per-day, should catch my interest. Or my pity, maybe?
I guess she was not what you’d call real attractive, only tiny, you know. Small in a way that frog-gigs the hearts of big ole fellows like me. She kept to herself. She fell somewhere betwixt twelve and seventeen; she fell between looking not too interested and completely … lost.
Why her? Well, you know how in your smartphone’s photo files, among all the snaps you took of your smiling friends and new real-leather furniture, there’ll be some mess-up shots?
Maybe sky, some jet-trail and two flying birds, or even your own knee shown against the red steering wheel? What’s odd, you flip right past the good pictures and stare longest at the ones gone somewhat wrong. It’s those ones make you think, “Hell, I could be a pho-tog-rapher!”
She was like that. Off to one side, a throwaway, kind of nifty but nearbout by acci-dent.
Right off I seen she was clever. Never settling real long in one place. Avoiding Vanderlip’s catching steady sight of her.
Carrying a different store’s bag each day. Always chatting into her cell-phone, body turned in odd directions, hunting privacy. But Terminator was right there behind the new palm tree, talking into his wristwatch. With his nose for sin, Vanderlip guessed her story before I did.
Man walks in short steps so he always seems real busy, busy. Never without the tie; its knot big as a thermos. And since 9/11 and these mall shootings every week, two lapel pins right and left, the American flag opposite one white enameled cross. Wears them like personal ID.
Just after each Thanksgiving, Vanderlip has signs hung across our mall’s four sides, “Jesus IS the Reason for the Season” and—under that—in small print, “and happy hanuka.” Spelled “Hanukkah” wrong; some say on purpose. His own church-choir has been singing carols here every Tuesday-Thursday since Halloween.
My new favorite, she now fetched up only on the rainy coldest days. Seemed she was saving back our shelter for when she’d need it most. Never really stepped into my shop. But, like everybody, she would gather before our snow-sprayed windows full of wriggling pups all wearing red bows. I’d see her sort of grinning then. I willed her to visit Vernon’s menagerie. I thought, “Out yonder, hungry, stands somebody’s daughter.” I imagined her as being mine, then shuddered. I felt more scared for her after that.
So, was three weeks before last Christmas, I seen something I wasn’t supposed to. That sweet sad mouse-girl steps into the ladies’, leaves her cell phone on one fountain-side bench. Well, I figure here’s Vernon’s chance to be a hero, see? So I rush out to save the cell she’s been chatting into constant for these three weeks, especially when Terminator’s staring.
But hers? it’s just a toy. For kids. From Dollar General. Black block of wood, cheap decal sticky on its front.
So lightweight I all but dropped it. I set it down real quick and run off, huffing. I figure: let her keep her secrets till she can’t.
(Thanks for the fresh eggnog, Kirsten. Each glass a meal in itself, huh? —Look, do I got foam on my chin? Thanks.)
Girl ate alone in our International Food Court. I saw how sly she worked that place. She’d make a off-to-one-side meal out of dispenser ketchup, leftover croutons, hot water. She’d garnish this with lemon wedges then a li’l Parmesan from Mamma Mia’s. Out of a bin, dainty, she’d lift one large soda cup, wash it good at our water fountain then drink Classic Coke all day. One time I saw her stash her cup up high on a ledge so’s Vanderlip’s over-busy cleanup-crew wouldn’t snag it. Girl’s jacket hikes up and underneath, I see: she’s like ten months pregnant. White belly squared-off to where it seems she’s swallowed a twelve-pound dice.
What next? The shopper I really like best now, the one I find I’m waiting to see daily? Pregnant, ’bout fourteen. Just Vernon’s luck.
Me, see, I basically, even romance-wise, I run Animal Rescue. Even while retailing brand-new creatures, I am really running a orphanage. It’s the same, even on blind dates, which my dates mostly are. I guess gals don’t like it when you act real kind to them.
I try holding back and sounding semi-mean. But look at me. I am, on sight, a softie. And they guess. Reckon we’ve all got faults.
I think I do pretty good for a GED-type person. Got me the vintage Camaro, ’67 SS-3838, stroke four-speed, cherry-red. My condo’s half paid-off, real-leather sectionals “Merlot-Maroon.” Plus, before they closed, I had seen everything at Blockbuster twice, and not just Tarantino, neither. I don’t know why gals all feel there’s too much of me to be much of a catch.
But, Christmas-week coming in hard, we got us a bad ice storm. Like tonight’s. Driving slow to work, I think, “Good. She’ll be in easy sight today.” Does show up, round noon. I notice orange mud is caked knee-high on her jeans. I guess she’s not used to being this dirty. You can tell from how she moves … her boots are soaked.
My runaway is still too used to regular home bubble-baths, see. Nobody can live anymore at ease in ditches and out in the woods. Even Pioneers, you wonder how they managed. And her “with child”! to use Bible talk. Coat-collar up, she looks all shivery, talking her grown-up secrets into a dollar toy.
So, well, I, I carry out our blondest possible cocker puppy, big plaid taffeta bow round its neck, naturally. Hold it down to where she slumps beside the Ann Taylor bag fooling absolutely nobody. Meanwhile Vanderlip stands describing her into a walkie-talkie lots more real than her phone.
I go, “Hi. I’m Vernon? in charge of that there pet-store? Would you mind picking up a little change for sitting out here holding, like, the cutest dog in the whole mall? Because I been looking somebody to demonstrate this animal for potential buyers. When folks stop and pat young Butterbean here—(meet “Butterbean”)—you just refer said customers to my shop yonder. —Pretty easy money. And I think that you are just the charming gal, the very mall-regular, to put this over.”
She finally whispers but right toward our pup’s brown eyes, “This one’s such a young one, ain’t it?” Gal holds that lickin’ pup so close its nose is hid under her hairdo. But from certain shoulder motions, I can tell she’s c
rying.
Then I say, “Look. I am going to laugh ’cause Security is, like, so on to you. I’m about to pretend you’re funny and we’re friends already.” I do that then, you know, I chuckle. People expect that from guys my jolly Santa size. But under my breath-like, I start telling her:
I know her cell-phone is a block of pine wood, know she’s crying ’cause this here’s a baby dog and she is toting another baby all over creation and my mall. I add as how I’d like to help if I can. Especially seeing how it’s the holidays and all. I say if she does carry Butterbean clear from Penney’s down to our Dillard’s even a couple-three times, expect to meet me at Chun-King Express around two for her free demonstrator’s lunch, okay? I warn her, I go, “Don’t you cry, now. You get me started, there’s no stopping it. Some say I’m a fool for Christmas. Some say just a fool. —But don’t be feeling mopey and too bad, child. ’Cause Vernon, he knows your story now.”
Well, at the Food Court, over fried dumplings and Butterbean, I ask what I usually ask my dates: who her kid’s real father is. Holding the pup between us, this girl speaks extra-soft. I tilt nearer to hear her go, “He’s Warren. Just started his third tour o’ Afghanistan. He’s in Bravo Company. They got him carrying his rifle through a city made out of clay like flower pots and Warren he’s clearing it one apartment at a time. Says he never knows what he’ll find from door to door. There’s days he says he cannot catch his breath. First tour, him and his buddy had to make theirselves extra armor out of parts of things like old ’frigerators.
“But Warren swears every door he opens is one less any other American boy or girl will have to. He’s lost his two best friends there. Soon as he makes a friend, says they get killed.
“Warren swears he won’t be shot, says third tour’s the charm. Says a person just knows these things. Three’s always been my lucky number! ‘Warren’ doesn’t sound like a name that’s too exciting, but he is. Before tour three, I wondered what I could do to help him back here. Didn’t want the boy to just get blown up like them others. I hated he would have nothing left to show for even being on earth. Figured he deserves at least a Junior.
“Oh, Warren can play three instruments, and talk about can sing! When he gets through this tour, he is going to Nashville to produce CDs that are half-rap, half-country. It’s new. He’ll be the biggest thing in music since the King, m’ Warren. Having his son was all my idea. He don’t even know about my projeck. See, I stuck one of my barrette-wires through all our protections. My Dad, he preaches part-time? and he told me if I ever got in the family way not to even bother coming home. So, I left before I showed any. Warren, he give me fifteen hundred dollars.
“Still got most of it. —This Chinese egg roll, I would say, is excellent.”
I see Vanderlip about to head our way. He will ask her if she’s had a complete browse-and-buy mall holiday experience, and what have been her purchases these last few weeks? Receipts, please.
So, just to talk, I start quizzing her about where she lives. Then she gets all stiff, speaks real cold into her fortune cookie, “North of here. With my aunt, why?” I thought, “Yeah, north of our parking lot, in woods with more ants than one, probably.” So when Mr. Mall Manager does bob up, I explain she has this dog out on approval. A trusted regular.
“Merry Christmas,” she smiles up to Vanderlip and he just looks her over.
With eight days till Yuletide proper, she finally steps to the back of my shop, bringing Butterbean in from their latest demonstration tour.
Before I even see the girl, there comes this hush. Now, my animals don’t usually react to a customer one-way-the-other. Maybe her being so pregnant struck them? Or her quiet habit of taking not one thing for granted. Even two full-grown jumpy Maine coon cats shift forward in their cages.
My all-time smartest African gray parrot says in a Vernon-like voice that cracks up our beauticians next door, “Eww, who did that to your hair?” Well, hearing, she laughs like a kid then. Under bangs, I see her teeth. She shows part of one great eye, brown.
Soon I had her helping my trusted assistant-manager LaTonya do preliminary grooming. I leave the big Labs and shepherds for our sturdy after-high-school boys. One thing is, I have a amazing staff. (Listen, you cannot sell a hundred and nine holiday pups plus fifty-two kittens without having you some able helpers, are you kidding?)
I liked seeing our new girl use the blow-dryer on a apricot toy poodle. She looked totally into it, finally training for something, you know.
During one of her many bathroom trips, LaTonya and I found the wallet in her peacoat, us scouting for some family phone number. But she’d smartly marked the contact-info off of everything—that determined to do all this alone. I noticed she was down to ninety-nine dollars, mostly ones and fives. Like me, LaTonya had already offered her a place to stay but our little girl she was too proud. Kept talking about her being a guest of that fancy aunt of hers. Well, to judge from muddy boots, that aunt must’ve lived in a cave.
Was three days before Christmas we had downpours, sleet, high winds, and she goes missing. Naturally I’m worried sick. Already I am picturing this pale gal, dead in a ditch beside her new baby. Used to, I’d go crazy waiting for my mom and grandma to get home from the box factory. Now I had LaTonya checking three times daily all women’s rooms mall-wide.
So that night right after work, I aim my Camaro out toward our lot’s far north corner. Leave my brights on, whip out my cell phone’s flashlight app, go squishing through puddles.
I aim toward huge walk-in concrete pipes, all lined up to be part of that new Target going in next door. They been dropped in among our last few sassafras and sweet-gum trees, all that’s left of old American woods herebouts.
The sky, from low clouds and strip-mall signs, shows oxblood-red this time the night. My breath clouds. Musak carols drift clear out here, words and everything.
How still we see thee lie, above thy dark and dreamless streets, the silent stars go by …
But, funny, my mall, from this back-dumpster angle, tonight looks almost ugly. That’s from my missing her, from my worry, I reckon.
Then, before one big pipe, I see flooring made of scrap plywood, laid just so. Bricks circle a cold campfire. Inside that four-foot pipe, my flashlight finds garbage bags stuffed with leaves for bedding. Two empty cans of Old Milwaukee. And, hooked to one wall, a little round hand-mirror.
Hanging on to it, I see an old Smurf doll with all of one girl’s pink barrettes clipped into that toy’s orange hair. Well, that tore me up.
I don’t know.
People are so brave, you know?
I hear another body’s shoes slushing the dark nearby, and Vernon jumps like from a horror movie but calling to her, crying almost, “That you, babe? Say you’re safe.” And here stands Vanderlip.
Strange to find him in his suit, snooping out this far. Sunset flashes his lapel pins red, with all the rest of him left dark. He’s like, “So, Vernon, come out here after work, do ye? Get a little steam off? Girl that low, living back out here like some rat in a hole, and you standing in front of her pipe. That’s it, idn’t it?”
Old as I am, being forty, you forget you can still feel shocked. But I have been living so far past such filthy thoughts as his, first I-I-I didn’t even understand him. Defending her, I knew I was going to say what I’d never dared speak before to any hall-monitor like him.
“Might could surprise you, Mr. Vanderlip, with your praying into our loudspeaker every morning for sales, with your church-choir handing out Sin leaflets noon and night, but there’s still some good folks left on earth. You feel s’fine about yourself you expect everything but good from others. There’s way more sin in your mind than you’ll find out here at the edge, where most people just try and live. She’s one the good ones, sir. She’s your daughter Tammy’s age and no worse.
“You invent an enemy a day. That’s your caffeine that wakes you up. The others ain’t enemies at first. But they start being, once you treat them like ’at.
Her boyfriend’s off serving in Afghanistan, sir. I ain’t ever been out here before tonight. It’s that she’s missing. How’d you even know about her camp?”
“Security reconnaissance. She’s been building off-site fires, code violation. Why? What’d you do with her body, Vernon? You’re just the type. I know you’ve been slipping her the odd tenner. I have my sources. Funny, when I started here as manager? you struck me as a real retail-leader, Vern. You knew how to mix up the big and little breeds of pups, Great Danes beside Chihuahuas all wearing Easter Bunny ears in one Old English window. And you got points with me for that. Did. You could always stop thirty customers dead in their tracks out front of your shop. Sure, you need to drop about a hundred and fifty pounds. But, once that’s done, you might could find a future even higher up in management. Instead? you’ve got half the high school working for you where one qualified adult’d do. You overpay them out of your own pocket. And now you put that little skank on payroll right at Christmas?
“God knows what other bag boys she’s been kneeling in a pipe and doin’ back here for pocket-change. Wise up, Vernon. She’s carrying somebody’s else’s load.”
I felt tempted to tell him about his daughter Tammy’s reputation. I was about to sound off about what lessons Baby Jesus’s stable taught, but I just let it go. There is too much to explain to any man this sure he’s the Baptist angel-grade of “good.”
So finally, after her going missing three full days, come Christmas Eve closing time, I see the Terminator’s Security boys surround a small person at our Grand Concourse fountain.
The Uncollected Stories of Allan Gurganus Page 11
