by Kay Brandt
“Her name is Stephanie,” I informed the officer. “She needs to finish her shift.”
“Fine,” he replied. “Are you filing a report and pressing charges?”
Aunt Grace looked at me, putting the ball in my court. I took a deep breath, and felt my knees buckle. “No. I'll give her a second chance.”
The cop gave me a disapproving nod. “I'll take the cuffs off her then.”
Aunt Grace refused to make eye contact with me, shredding the forms.
“It's the right thing to do,” I told her. “I'm giving someone my age an opportunity, and giving you one as well. You don't have to approve. I'm going to train her, and things should work out.”
“Train her?” she laughed. “You're not even trained yourself! What do you know about inventory, purchasing merchandise or ringing up a sale?”
“Nothing,” I laughed back. “But judging from your sales records, you don't know anything either.”
The nail in the coffin was successfully hammered in, for better or for worse. “Good luck, Rolie. I love you and I always will, but you have no idea what you've just done.”
“Thank you for your support.” I bowed just to make her mad.
“Don't call me crying when things go sour because I won't answer!”
“I couldn't anyway! The phone doesn't work!”
Smacking my face for the second time in front of the cop, Aunt Grace blew me a sarcastic kiss as she left. I sent one back to her in the form of my middle finger.
****
Stephanie looked kind of cute all cuffed up to my father's old work chair. She pouted but it had no effect on me.
The cop gave me a document to sign before he released her. The sound of dying motors in the overhead ceiling fans added to the tension I felt, but it also made me feel right at home in the stockroom. Under drying puddles of vomit, I could still see the familial blood stains embedded in the cement.
“Let us know if she gives you anymore trouble,” said the cop, giving me a strange, piercing look as he walked out the back door.
“I will, for sure, for sure,” I replied like a teenage valley putz, wishing I had my boom box to add some other noise besides the fans to the stockroom.
Stephanie and I sized each other up.
“You lied,” Stephanie spoke first. “You didn't go to my high school.”
I tossed her wallet onto her lap. “Yeah, I did, graduated a year before you. Was this your big plan after graduation? Loot and steal?”
“Go to hell.” She riffled through the wallet, counting out a few crumpled dollars.
“I'm already in it,” I shared. “This is hell. I'm glad you'll be joining me.”
“What's wrong with you?” she asked. “You and that hag? You two are barfing me out, and totally not chill. I don't want to be stuck here with a bunch of loony psychos.”
“My aunt, she's definitely crazy.” Throwing Grace under the bus, I came clean with Stephanie. “Me, I'm fine.”
Silence crept between us. I cracked my knuckles, grossing her out completely.
A shoe box fell from one of the rolling racks, narrowly missing my head. The box splattered on the floor, landing a pair of toxic-smelling, all-man-made-material sneakers on the drying puke. “Ick,” was my managerial statement on the mess.
“Your product sucks.” Stephanie's scowl returned, plugging her nose. “Lame as sin.”
“But it's good enough to steal?”
“I don't like them at all.” Stephanie dug in her backpack for a box of cigarettes. “I sell them for five bucks to the poor families on my block.”
She tore open the fresh pack, removing one before I swiped the box. “No smoking in the front or back of the store, Robin Hood. Highly flammable surroundings.”
“Can I take a break? You don't want to know the bitch I can be when having a nic fit.” She stuck the cigarette in her mouth, expecting to smoke it, and I confiscated it, too. “Hey!” Stephanie sniffed hard on the tobacco residue left on her fingers, like snorting speed.
“No breaks. You just started.” Rule by rule, I readied myself to deliver them.
“The dude who went to the hospital, he told me the shoes made him sick. I think I feel ill, too.” Holding her stomach, she tried to convince me, but I'm not that gullible.
“Too bad,” I said, exercising my authority. “We have work to do.”
She bit and chewed on her black-painted nails. “Can I at least wash off? I'm covered in gunk.”
I handed her a box of tissues. “You're just going to get dirty again.”
“Why did you do this?” she asked with resentment. “Why not let me be arrested? I was cool with it, you know. It's not like it's the first time.”
“Opportunity,” I explained. “I wanted to give you one. Unless jail is your career goal?”
“I'm only eighteen,” Stephanie replied. “All kids my age fuck up. What's your problem?”
Kicking the shoes out of the vomit, I told her, “My problem is what I got when my parents died. A store no one wants, including me.”
Stephanie rolled her wrists, bruised from the cuffs. “When did they die?”
“When I was nine. Almost ten, a few weeks before my birthday. Right here in the store.”
“Here?” She shivered. “Great. So there are ghosts?”
“You believe in that? I don't.” I totally lied, entertaining the mind game, savoring each word.
Stephanie shrugged, desperate for a cigarette. “I've seen some shit,” she shared, then asked, “Did they go crazy, or something? Was it like what happened to that sick dude? If so, I'll call the cop back myself and beg him to arrest me.”
“It was much worse,” I said, “a murder-suicide.”
“That's a pisser,” responded Stephanie, swallowing a chest full of fear. “Can I have my smokes?”
I throw them to her. She inhaled the box like a bouquet of flowers.
“It was a big time pisser.” Amused by our conversation, I suddenly felt I could talk all night.
“Who killed who?”
“The truth isn't clear, or the motivation, but I guess my mom was the killer of my father and herself.” I paused, feeling a stab of pain in my gut, so sharp it made me clutch my belly. “The hurt's still fresh, as if their deaths happened yesterday.”
Stephanie's apathetic questions lightened the mood. “Were they like, satanic worshipers?”
Ignoring her sarcasm, I said what I knew she wanted to hear. “Yes.”
“What sect?”
“Sect?” I repeated.
“Yeah,” she said with scrutiny. “I guess you're not one yourself or else you'd know the answer.
Realizing Stephanie might be more than I bargained for, I veered back to the truth. “My aunt got stuck raising me and we both got stuck with the store.” Searching for cleaning supplies, I found a mop and bucket in the corner. “Here, take it.”
Covered in mildew and mold, she waved her hands at the bucket. “I'm not the maid. In fact, what is my official job title?”
“Maid is good. I think that title fits perfectly.” I was half-serious, toying with the idea of demoting her. “And if you didn't know your job title, then how would you know you're not the cleanup crew?”
“Whatever, dude,” she said with a sigh. “I can't pretend to be stoked about this deal you concocted. Just tell me.”
“You're not the maid, but you will have a janitorial obligation to the store, for sure.”
“Might as well tell me everything that's expected of me.” Stephanie reluctantly took the mop, frowning at the putrid mess. “I would hate to be fired.”
I give her a small, forced chuckle. “Yes, I know the feeling.”
Mortified over the grunt work, she asked, “You want me to clean the whole thing by myself?”
“Pretty much.” I headed to the bathroom to fill the bucket with water, keeping my focus straight ahead, not wanting to look down the rows. The rusted cabinet was still there. I fought the temptation to yank on the drawers
to check if they were locked. “I'll get you set up.”
“Asshole,” Stephanie grumbled. “How much does this job pay? You got anything to drink in here?”
“Consider this an internship, credit for good behavior,” I suggested. “You can drink out of the sink faucet.” She didn't laugh, but I did.
Instead, Stephanie spit chewed nail particles at me and then coughed like a ninety-year-old man.
“Please don't do that to your boss or the customers,” I told her. “It's hard enough to make a buck around here.” She doesn't laugh at that either.
I slipped my hand across the dark bathroom wall, searching for the switch, like I did as a frightened kid, too afraid to go inside until the light was on.
The bathroom was surprisingly clean, even though the toilet and sink hadn't been swapped out in over thirty years. I filled the bucket, rinsing out the dust and mildew and then splashed handfuls of water on my face.
My reflection wasn't half-bad, besides the pasty skin and botched neck tattoo. I'd had a panic attack over the sound of the needle too close to my ear and left the parlor with the tattoo only half finished, and never went back.
Jumping out of the bathroom before slipping my arm back around the wall to turn off the light, I called out, “Stephanie?”
Then I saw the mop was against the wall. Stephanie was nowhere to be seen.
****
“Hey!” I yelled, catching Stephanie slamming her fists against the front door. It was locked, but how that happened, I didn't know. “Where are you going?”
She kicked the door without care. “It's locked! Why won't it open? You can't hold me hostage!”
“Stop! You break it, you pay for it, and it's another violation on your record!” Pushing her aside, I tested the door myself. Despite the sun-warped, splintered wood, the door was sealed shut. Inspecting the knob like an unknown artifact from a distant land, I said, “I don't know what to tell you.”
“Come on, dude,” Stephanie said with urgency. “It's a freaking piece of crap, like everything else in here. If this is a joke, I'm going to kill you!”
“That's nice.” I smiled weakly, unimpressed with her. “I appreciate the threat. Believe me, the last thing I want to be is a bullet point on your resume of crime.” Rattling and twisting the knob, it wouldn't budge.
“Where's the key?” Her cold facade is washed away by escalating panic.
“Like I'm going to tell you? I caught you breaking our deal! You were going to bail on me!”
Stephanie burst out in pathetic tears. “Look, I'm shitting bricks, okay? I have a sick grandma that needs me. I have to go. I'll be back tomorrow, I promise.”
I didn't believe a word. “You finish cleaning, and I'll figure out what's wrong with this door.”
She looked at me with hate as she sulked to the stockroom, and I was cool with it. I didn't like her much, either.
My rebellion against becoming a shoemaker like my ancestors made me into a wimpy burnout with tools. Pretending to tinker with the knob, a bad, bad feeling filled my gut.
Aunt Grace had flippantly told me after not coming home for several nights in a row that she'd been locked in the store. Of course, at the time I interpreted what she said as her lame excuse for going on a speed binge. I suddenly rethought my judgment.
****
Stephanie's scrawny arms swung the dry mop in circles, ignoring the mess on the floor. “Did you fix it?”
“No. The old door finally died.” The dread I'd been fighting intensified as I went to the back door and yanked on the handle, finding it locked, too.
“What's wrong?” She slipped on the wet cement, rushing over to me. “Don't tell me you can't open this one.”
“We might have to stay here tonight.” I pushed the door repeatedly, tempted to kick the shit out of it.
“Why?” She asked, “What's happening?”
“Nothing,” I insisted. “We're locked in. It happens with old buildings. Wood swells, locks stick. Might be the alarm system freaking out. I'll call the repair guy in the morning.” My lying spree was solid and believable.
“In the morning?” She cried, “It's after eight o'clock at night! I have to go home, shower, eat dinner, and make sure my grandma's okay! I'm not spending the night with you!”
“I don't think we have a choice.” I explained, “If you try to break through the glass window, I'll have to send you to jail for sure, and charge you for the damages.”
“You did this on purpose, so you could do something screwed up to me! You're a lunatic, aren't you? A total psycho!” Stephanie sent the mop crashing to the floor, breaking the wooden stick with a loud THWACK!
Slamming my foot against the door, I responded to her false accusations. “Yeah, that's me. A psycho.” Searing pain bombarded my leg and I limped towards her, cursing under my breath. Just so you know, I've never done anything weird, or violent, or criminal, or even trendy! Okay?” I don't know why the fucking doors won't open!”
“Radical, dude,” she said, “what a boss.” Picking the broken mop out of the puke puddle and threatening me with it, Stephanie continued, “Was that part of your plan, too? To break your foot? If so, you need to call that ambulance back. You should do it now, just to be safe. Maybe they can give me a ride home!”
“The phone is dead, remember?”
She waved the broken stick, emphasizing her teen angst. “We can't even call 911? This is beyond bogus.”
“Chill, bitch!” I lost my temper, sick of her mouth, needing the silence I'd grown accustomed to. “Stop yelling at me! This is my first day back!” I left the stockroom in search of emergency supplies and she followed. “I don't want to be here all night either, but if I know my aunt, we might be okay.”
The sales floor was chilly, and smelled of plastic and mildew. I gagged a bit, opening the cash register, locating a rusted key. “This might be something.”
“Might?” she echoed. “Might be what?”
“Might be a score.” Unlocking the cabinet under the register, five bottles of red wine and a box of water crackers were suddenly available to us. “Would you like one?” I extended a bottle of red to Stephanie.
Apprehensive, she mentally questions my motives before asking, “You allow drinking while on the clock?”
“The clock reads eight-thirty, which means the store is officially closed.” Opening the drawers, I sort through pens, sticky notes, old receipts, prescription drugs, dried bottles of white-out, condoms and a corkscrew.
“Maybe we should make it look like the store is still open, in case someone can unlock the doors from the outside.”
She had a good idea, but I was contemplating the condoms. Handing the corkscrew to Stephanie, I said, “Don't even think about stabbing me with this.”
“The thoughts were involuntary, sorry.” She opened the wine like an expert. “Do you have cups or am I drinking it straight out of the bottle?”
Finding a pack of straws, I took out two and give her one. “Cheers.” She doesn't argue or make a snide remark. Instead, she popped the straw in her wine bottle and sipped. “Ew. Vinegar.”
Confiscating the bottle, I sipped from the dark swill with my own straw. “Ick.”
“Try the others,” Stephanie suggested.
The bottles clanked as I took out two more. “Here, check these out.” Holding each bottle to the light as if I could tell good from bad, I confessed, “I haven't had alcohol since I was fourteen. I was dared by my one and only junior high school friend. We got wasted and I barfed for two days.”
“I haven't had any since this morning,” she reciprocated the admittance.
Sampling the bouquet of two more opened bottles, we chanced it, each taking ownership of one. Together, we chugged, then shared a belch.
“You're a pig,” she told me.
I replied, “And I'm going to be a drunk pig very soon.”
She gave me a high-five, so hard it stung my palm. The first good sign in a long, long time.
CHA
PTER SIX
“Rolie?” Aunt Grace called out, “Are you here?”
Opening my eyes, the whiteness of the wall my face was smashed against blinded me. Accidentally hitting the other body sprawled at my side, I realized it was Stephanie. We were on the floor, squashed between the wall and the register cabinet.
I responded weakly, “I'm here, behind the register.”
Sitting up, Aunt Grace's disturbed face peered down at me from over the counter. “Oh my god. You see? I told you this was bad!”
Standing, I gave Stephanie a friendly kick to the hip, making sure she's still alive. “We fell asleep.”
Aunt Grace saw the empty bottle still clutched in my hand. “Had a good time, did you?”
I whispered my reply, not wanting Stephanie to overhear us. “For the first time in ever, yes. Considering we couldn't get out, I'd say we did okay.” Peering at Aunt Grace, I admitted, “The store locked us in. We survived, obviously. What are you doing here?”
“I was worried sick over you.” Aunt Grace studied my eyes, reading the subtext, and swallowed her coffee breath back. “You said 'locked in'? As in, for real? Not because you were hoping to score with this chick?”
Stilling my wobbles, I grabbed the register and leaned on it. “As in, for real.”
She shivered, feeling the icy draft that seemed to come from nowhere in particular. “It happened to you, too, then?”
“Yes. Why didn't you tell me it might happen?” I asked. “I could have been prepared!”
“I had hoped it was just me losing my mind, hallucinating on the pain meds,” she admitted, suddenly flushed, woozy. “I didn't want you to worry. If I'd thought it'd happen to you, I would've said something, Rolie.” The saint had arrived, as sincere as a knife in the back. “My intention wasn't to set you up, if that's what your little mind is thinking.”
“Explain what 'it' is,” I demanded. “How many times did 'it' lock you in? I only remember the one time... that lasted for three days.”
