by Dyan Sheldon
He does. At least he’s pretty sure he does. It’s all on the seat beside him in his leather messenger bag – which is what high-achievers with presidential ambition use instead of a backpack. Usually it holds his laptop and school things, a bottle of spring water, several energy bars, a bag of trail mix, breath spray, tissues, a travel toothbrush and toothpaste, a roll of dental floss, several individually wrapped hand wipes and a spare pair of socks. Today the laptop has been left at home for security reasons (he’s sure someone at the centre will steal it) and been replaced by a bottle of antibacterial hand gel and disposable latex gloves (he’s sure the centre has enough germs to wipe out Los Angeles).
He sighs. Asher’s always been lucky, although he doesn’t think of it as luck, of course. He thinks he gets no more than he deserves. But he doesn’t deserve this. Of all the possible assignments the computer could have given him, why did it give him this one? Maybe Georgiana’s right. Maybe Dr Kilpatiky rigged the whole thing. Trying to teach them all a lesson. Bureaucrats have small and petty minds.
Asher’s watching a plastic bag wave in the branches of a solitary tree like a flag of truce and thinking of texting Will to meet him for lunch when the alarm on his phone goes off. Time to go in. He makes sure that he’s also set it for an hour and half from now (time to go out), and steps from the car and crosses the lot with the lightness of step of prisoners of war on a forced march.
The back door doesn’t open and no one answers Asher’s knock, so he walks around to the main entrance where a handmade sign (a badly handmade sign) says: Queen’s Park Community Centre. This door does open, but the handle comes off in his hand.
Asher steps inside. The place is a dump by anyone’s standards; even someone far less fastidious than Asher Grossman. Asher’s father has taught him that presentation is extremely important – you wear expensive suits, you drive an expensive car, you exude success – but no one has told that to the people who run the centre. Cheap white paint has been aimed at the walls, but it doesn’t cover the scars of age and of what was there before (the Church of Hope, a temporary licence office when the town hall was being renovated, a bargain store, a hardware store, a paint store, a five-and-ten, a supermarket in a time before supermarkets became the size of airplane hangars). The false ceiling is missing sections; the light fixtures are missing bulbs. The blinds in the front windows don’t fit and are broken. There’s a crack in the glass that has been patched with tape. The only decorative touches are cobwebs and dust. The seats in the front area are a mishmash of old school chairs, very old wooden folding chairs and an oversized old sofa. Someone is asleep on the sofa, covered with a crocheted quilt that looks like it was made in the nineteen sixties and not washed since. There’s a pillow under the sleeper’s head. The dented coffee urn is in a corner by the window. The linoleum looks older than Asher’s father. An attempt has been made to create separate rooms with makeshift partitions that double as bulletin boards. Asher can see a couple of people at the far end of the centre, but not one of them looks his way.
It has just occurred to him that, if they don’t care that he’s here, he might simply turn around and leave when he sees a very large woman bearing down on him, moving amazingly quickly for someone her size. She’s wearing baggy work pants, a handmade sweater with a standing hare on it, the hair slide of a popular cartoon character in her short, curly greying hair, and, although it hasn’t been raining, extremely orange wellies. Besides the barrette, there’s a leaf in her hair. The partitions tremble as she passes.
“I’m guessing you’re Asher Grossman.” She has a voice that could scare off coyotes. She takes the door handle from him as if it’s his ticket of admission, and with her free hand shakes his as if she’s trying to get something out of it. “I’m Mrs Dunbar.”
Mrs Dunbar is the wife of the minister of the local Methodist church, but that isn’t what she looks like to Asher. She looks as if she’s probably married to a mountain man – the kind who lives in a one-room cabin and picks his teeth with a knife.
“Mrs Dunbar.” Smiling politely, Asher glances behind her, hoping to see someone who looks like the person in charge. “Nice to meet you.”
“Not as nice as it is to meet you, believe me. It’s Hell here today and the Devil’s in a filthy mood.”
Asher continues to smile. “Well, here I am, but I’m not sure who I report to.”
“That would be me.” She finally lets him have his hand back.
“Right,” says Asher. “So … so are you in charge of the centre?”
Mrs Dunbar laughs, causing even more coyotes to scamper for the hills. “We don’t really have a ruling hierarchy here. We’re more like an anarchist cell.”
Asher nods. Of course you don’t. Of course you are. He should have guessed. This place looks like a ship whose captain abandoned it long ago.
“Since we’re all volunteers, we make major decisions as a group. Real democracy in action. Not this political hogwash the governments practise.” She laughs again, emptying every tree in the county of birds. “But I guess for most day-to-day things I’m kind of the person who makes things work.” She laughs again, waving the doorknob in the air. “Or tries to. Only today nothing wants to work. Today the basement’s flooded, which is where we have the computers and the pool table and our little library for the kids. Carlin usually takes care of stuff like that for us but, unfortunately, he’s not up to it this morning.”
“Carlin?”
Mrs Dunbar nods in the direction of the sofa. “That’s Carlin over there.”
“Oh,” says Asher. The passed-out drunk. He should have guessed that, too.
“I’ll have to get him up soon, but only to move him so the new mothers’ group has somewhere to sit, since downstairs is out. And on top of everything else, we’re two people short and it’s food bank this afternoon.” She claps her hands together, and a used tissue falls out of her sleeve. “Which is why I am so glad to see you! This economic crisis has really hit this town hard. And with all the budget cuts…”
Asher, aware of the economic crisis in the way that he’s aware that there are quite a few countries in Central Asia whose names end in “stan”, says, “Um.”
Mrs Dunbar shakes her head and the leaf falls to the floor. “Lord knows what’ll happen when the new round of cuts comes. These politicians are determined to make every stone in the state bleed.” Her smile is philosophical. “But that’s the way it goes, isn’t it? The more folks need, the less they’re given. It’s always the victim that gets the blame.”
Asher, more a believer in the saying that when the going gets tough the tough get going, again says, “Um.”
“But complaining doesn’t solve anything, does it?” She grabs his arm and starts back the way she came, pulling him along like a toy on wheels. “We just have to do what we can.” Mrs Dunbar comes to a sudden stop. “Here give me that.” She can’t mean his satchel, can she? He automatically takes a step back. “You can’t be walking around with that. We’ll put it somewhere safe.” But she isn’t just quick on her feet. Before he can stop her she’s yanked his bag from his grasp, opened the door to the nearest cubicle, and thrown it onto a chair. She shuts the door again, which must be what she means by safe. It would take a lame kitten to get in there. “Now, that’s better. Come on, I’ll show you what to do first.”
There are two people in the back room, a middle-aged couple who are filling shopping bags with cans and boxes of food with the earnestness of missionaries handing out missals.
Mrs Dunbar introduces them. The Henleys, Irene and Nate. They smile serenely. Jesus loves you.
“This is Asher! Asher Grossman.” Mrs Dunbar slaps a hand on his shoulder with such force that he flinches. “Didn’t I say God wouldn’t leave us in the lurch?” Not breaking the rhythm of their packing, the Henleys murmur their agreement. “He’ll be back to help you in a little while. Right now I need him in the basement.”
And she propels him to a door on one side of the room and down
a flight of wooden stairs, talking the whole time. He is vaguely aware that she’s back on the economy, but Asher isn’t really listening to her; he’s still hearing her tell the Henleys that he’ll be back to help them in a while.
“Mrs Dunbar, you do know that—” What Asher intended to say was, “You do know that I’m only here for an hour and a half”, but the sight of the basement distracts him from finishing the sentence. Christ. God may not have left her in the lurch, but maybe it would have been better if he’d ignored her completely. The basement looks like a rice paddy, but with furniture rising out of it instead of plants. There is no floor to be seen.
“What’d I tell you?” Mrs Dunbar splashes into the ankle-deep water. “There’s never an ark around when you really need one.”
“But what happened?” He doesn’t remember rain last night. Unless the centre has its own microclimate, which wouldn’t surprise him.
Mrs Dunbar picks up a sodden book. “I guess we have a leak.”
Or an underground river that’s rising. Asher might be looking down at Niagara Falls, he’s gripping the banister so tightly.
She beckons him forward. “Come on. First thing you have to do is unplug the computers and get anything that’s not going to benefit from a bath out of the water.”
He hears the pronoun “you”, but he can’t believe it. She expects him to bail out the basement? Him? Does he look like a handyman? Does she have no idea how much his trainers cost? Or his jeans?
“Asher, come on. I have a million things to do before people start arriving.”
Apparently she either doesn’t know or doesn’t care. Asher looks down at his trainers, so well taken care of that this might be the first time he’s ever worn them. “But I don’t have boots.”
“Just take off your shoes and socks,” she instructs him. “Leave them on the stairs.”
Asher looks down at the water. Things are sitting in it. Books. Papers. Toys. Filthy fourth-hand furniture. Bugs and clumps of dust float on the top. And some kind of scum. She can’t seriously want him to put his feet in that. God knows where it comes from. Probably the sewer. If he steps in that he’ll be lucky if he doesn’t come down with cholera. The first case on the East Coast in a hundred years.
“Snap! Snap!” Mrs Dunbar splashes forward. “You don’t make butter by staring at the cream.”
Asher could say that he’s never had any desire to make butter, but Asher has been raised to respect authority, and right now the person in authority is the large woman in the handknitted sweater and neon wellies, so instead he reacts like a dog whose master has shouted “Come!” He takes off his socks and shoes, rolls up his pants and forces himself to step off the stairs. Which is when he remembers the spare socks and disposable gloves in his bag. But it’s too late now.
The computers in his father’s firm are all the same make and all state-of-the-art. These computers are all different makes and every one so old the only state any of them are in is pathetic.
“Where did they come from?” Asher wonders out loud. “I’ve never seen anything like them before.”
“I know.” Mrs Dunbar’s smile is full of pride. “Two of them were donated, and the rest came from the street.” It’s like being proud of living on Welfare. “It’s truly amazing what people throw out,” says Mrs Dunbar. “But you know what they say.” Asher has no idea. “The Lord provides.”
“I wish the Lord would provide me with insulated gloves,” mumbles Asher.
Mrs Dunbar laughs as if he’s made a joke. “Don’t worry, no one’s been electrocuted yet,” she assures him. “You just get everything unplugged and out of the way.” She points to a door under the stairs. “The garbage bags are in there for things that can’t be salvaged. I’ll turn on the pump and then I have to get back upstairs pronto. The mothers and babies will be arriving soon.”
“Pump?” echoes Asher. “You have a pump? You mean this has happened before?”
She beams. “It happens all the time.”
By clamping his mouth shut, Asher manages not to squawk with outrage. If God’s going to help anyone, it better be him. He watches Mrs Dunbar mount the stairs, wondering if she’ll come back. She doesn’t. He’s only just arrived but already he isn’t surprised. Over his head the floor shakes, dislodging cobwebs and dust, while Asher does as much as he can. He can’t shift the old pool table, not by himself, but he moves chairs and bookcases and tables, and makes sure the computers and other electrics are unplugged and out of danger. Then he picks up his shoes and socks and pads back upstairs.
The Henleys are still on their own, smiling and packing; Mrs Dunbar is at the front of the centre with the new mothers.
Asher tries to sneak to the cubicle to get his things without Mrs Dunbar seeing him, but even though she’s facing the window she turns like an antelope that smells a lion. “Asher!” she shouts. “Come and meet everyone! Don’t be shy! I’ve been telling them all about you.”
Asher drops his hand from the doorknob and, smiling like a dead man, walks to the room at the front of the building. God knows what she’s done with the body, but there’s no sign of Carlin now. At least a dozen women sit in a cramped circle in the waiting area with cups of tea and coffee and a plate of cookie crumbs. For some reason it didn’t occur to Asher that the new mothers would have new babies with them, but they do, most of them making some kind of noise. They also have older children. The older children are running around as if ghosts are chasing them. One of the new mothers, apparently unconcerned about hygiene, seems to be nursing. Asher blushes and looks away.
“I was just saying that I don’t know what we would have done without you today.” Mrs Dunbar holds one arm out towards him. “Ladies, this is Asher. Our godsend.”
There is a general murmur of hellos.
One of the new mothers says, “You look like you’ve been fording a river.”
The one with the baby clamped to her breast says, “He looks more like he fell in it.”
The room bubbles with laughter.
Until one minute ago, Asher hasn’t blushed since he answered a question in second grade and got it wrong; and now here he is turning red for the second time. His pants are still rolled up and his shoes and socks are still in his hands. If his father saw him, he’d disown him.
When the laughter stops, Mrs Dunbar explains, “The cellar’s flooded again.”
This surprises no one.
This is Asher’s chance to make his escape. “I think it’s all under control now.” He starts to edge away. “So I’m going to go—”
A small child runs into his legs, its sticky hands on his skin. He jumps back into the partition next to him.
Mrs Dunbar doesn’t seem to notice either that he’s trying to leave or that he nearly knocked over the wall. “Oh, that is wonderful!” she enthuses. “Now you can give the Henleys a hand. The poor things are beside themselves. No one else has shown up and the food bank opens in half an hour.”
“Oh, I—” begins Asher.
But suddenly there’s a woman in front of him, thrusting something into his arms.
“Just hold him for a minute,” she says. “I have to get Angie before she does something.”
Asher looks down. A small face with very dark eyes is looking back at him. It isn’t true that all babies are cute.
“Oh, no, I—” begins Asher.
In his shirt pocket, the alarm on his phone goes off: time’s up. Which is when, without so much as a cough or sound, the baby throws up all over him. He can practically feel the germs seeping into his skin. Where the cholera bacteria are waiting to greet them.
Dr Kilpatiky’s plan has already worked. Asher has learned an important lesson: things can always be worse than you thought they’d be.
Chapter Nine
Another Week, Another Wednesday Afternoon
Every Wednesday at lunch Asher asks Marigold how her community service placement is going. Asher, of course, is hoping that hers is going as badly as his, but Marigold always s
ays it’s really good. “It’s not easy,” she’ll admit. “Sadie has some problems. But I like the challenge.” She gives the impression that she looks forward to their sessions. That, slowly but surely, she and Sadie Hawkle are bonding as seamlessly as atoms. Except for the part about it not being easy, none of this is especially true. Sadie has so many problems that, were they steps, you could build a stairway to the stars. Marigold has accepted the fact that Sadie is a challenge, but that isn’t the same thing as liking it. She looks forward to Wednesday afternoons almost as much as she would major dental surgery. Oh God, she thinks when she wakes on Wednesday morning. Not already… They aren’t bonding either surely or even slowly, they’re just stuck with each other.
As an example of why Marigold would prefer a root canal to teaching Sadie Hawkle to read, on this particular afternoon they sit side by side in the centre of the room, an island of stillness and quiet in the middle of a sea of busyness and talk. Marigold is reciting a few lines of original verse in her head: We sat there in silence, we sat there we two, I looked at the time, Sadie looked at her shoe… Which do a fairly good job of summing up her Wednesdays in Half Hollow. Next to her, Sadie, shoulders hunched and mouth so tightly closed she may never be able to open it again, stares angrily into space. It’s like sitting next to a clenched fist.
Marigold isn’t sure how she came up with this little poem – she’s never written so much as a limerick before. It simply popped into her brain not long after she sat down next to Sadie. As she always does, Marigold smiled brightly and warmly, and greeted Sadie with a cheerful, “Hey there, Sadie. How are you this week?” Sadie’s reply (as always) was to bang her heels against the legs of her chair and glower. Summer sun meets with dark winter night on a deserted mountain road in a hailstorm.
