by Drea Damara
On his next bite, he stopped chewing when he detected sourness. It spread across his tongue, filling his entire mouth with the taste of lemon, vinegar, and nail polish. He spewed chunks of sandwich out with force, causing slobber to drip from his chin in the process.
“What the hell was that?”
He looked between the slices of bread, but found only chicken, lettuce, and tomato, as he had ordered. His saliva was still filled with the awful sensation.
“Shit. That was nasty.”
He spat out a wad of tainted phlegm, which landed in front of the statue. Trying to wash away the taste with his soda, he jumped when he saw a pair of shiny black shoes appear. He looked up to see a pale man with greasy, slicked down raven hair. The guy’s part was fastidious, separated perfectly on one side. Everything he wore was a size too small—from his rust-colored polyester pants to the cream, short sleeve button-up shirt, and dorky olive-green sweater vest.
“Watch where you’re spittin’, kid,” the man said in a low, nasally tone.
“Sorry. There was something bad in that sandwich.” He dusted some crumbs off his lap and eyed the gaunt-faced man up and down. Who was he? The Blinney Lane police?
1974 called. They want their pants back. And who the hell wears a sweater vest in the middle of summer? Scratch that. Who the hell wears sweater vests?
The guy looked to be around his aunt’s age and had the same pale skin everyone did on Blinney Lane, except for the overcooked blacksmith. He had hair on his arms all the way down to his wrists; his hands were stuffed into his tight pants. If he’d had a quarter in his pocket, Ricky would have been able to identify it. With eyes so brown they could be black and a long-tipped nose, he had a possum look about him. He was scrawny, but the muscles in his arms pressed tight against his sleeves, and there was definition under the gaudy sweater indicating the nerd had some pecs.
Ricky raised an eyebrow when he noticed the guy was looking at him. The peculiar thing was that the guy’s nose was in the air like his neck was permanently fixed in one position.
Mister Rusty Pants reached into his back pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He tapped the end of the pack slowly, his eyes moving from the statue and then back to Ricky. He lit a cigarette and then put the pack back into his pocket.
How does he fit anything in there? And what the hell is he looking at anyways?
The guy took a long drag, his face emotionless. He brought one hand up and ran it across his slick hair. “You Rich’s boy?”
“Yeah.” Ricky looked at the shop behind the guy. The sign on it read Nurscher’s. He could see shoes and boots on display through the window. He crossed his arms over his chest, already having made up his mind about this putz. “You the shoe guy?”
The man nodded and took another drag, his eyes never leaving him. “Regis. Regis Nurscher. Everybody calls me Reggie,” he said, smoke seeping out of his mouth. Reggie held the hand he’d just run across his hair out to Ricky.
Gross! He shook Reggie’s hand, attempting to only use his fingertips.
Gesture completed, Reggie flicked an ash into the hand he had just used to shake his and asked, “How’s Sarah?”
“Uh, probably hating my annoying teenage guts right now.”
Reggie snickered. “Mine too. Don’t worry.” His slow calm voice was becoming discomforting. Reggie finally turned his neck and looked down the street.
“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?” He followed Reggie’s gaze and saw two attractive young women wearing big sunglasses and high heels approaching Reggie’s shop.
“Ladies!” Reggie called to them and held up his hand with the cigarette.
Ricky saw one of the women whisper to the other and then they giggled. Reggie watched them as they walked into his store, then he turned back to Ricky.
“Some women can’t handle a man about town,” he said with a creepy smile and flicked another ash into his palm. He nodded toward his shop. “Duty calls, son.”
Reggie walked back over to his store, dumping his ashes into a garbage can by the doorway. He eyed the women up and down from the back as they walked into his shop.
“Pfft, yeah. Good luck with that, buddy,” Ricky said under his breath.
All he’d wanted was a few minutes of peace and quiet and he’d had to run into that disco douchebag. Time to go back to the prison. He tossed his garbage into a trash can next to the bench and winced. Slapping his arm over his shoulder onto his back, he forced the elbow with his other arm to get more leverage.
“Shit!” he cried, feeling a quick, sharp pain in one of his shoulder blades. Something must have stung him. He hightailed it back to the comfort of the AC at the bookshop, glancing around for wasps or bees. His shoulder throbbed like hell. Whatever had done it was going to leave a mark.
WHEN RICKY walked back into Allister’s Books he saw Shelby still nestled in her big green chair, nose in a book. He stopped at the counter and locked eyes with his aunt. Apparently, he had to be the one to break the ice.
“Your friend Reggie sends his regards.”
Sarah scoffed and then looked back down at the book catalog in front of her. At least she’d acknowledged him. He noticed the books he’d dumped on the floor earlier were gone, so he walked over to the last box by the counter and opened it.
“That guy looks like a pedophile—slash—gigolo.”
Shelby giggled, which made him smile. She must have been subjected to Slick Willy before, too.
Sarah didn’t look up from her catalog, but added, “Pedophile, no. Gigolo—he wishes.”
Perhaps he was forgiven for his outburst. He spent the next hour putting away the rest of the books from the box. When he finished he came over and leaned on the counter in front of his aunt.
“All right, what else do I have to do?”
Sarah tugged open a drawer and pulled out an old dirty cloth and a can of dust polish. She handed him the rag and set the can on the counter. “Here. Why don’t you dust the shelves?”
He spent the next two hours taking books down and dusting their shelves. He’d made it all the way across the top of the first shelf that ran along the wall opposite the cash register and halfway down the second before he heard his aunt’s voice again.
“Ricky, I have to go to a meeting across the street. Would you mind watching the register and starting some closing work? I’ll duck out of the meeting as soon as I can.”
“I can help him close up, Sarah,” Shelby said.
“You don’t mind?”
“No. I’ve done it before.”
He’d been forgotten. Fine. Leave her kiss ass in charge and not her own family. He turned back to his monotonous dusting. He heard a rattle from behind the counter and then saw Sarah’s head pop up, a thick journal in her hand.
“I’ll just be over at Franci’s if you two need anything.”
When she left, Ricky and Shelby locked eyes without a word and then looked away. He went back to dusting and heard soft steps walk to the upper level. He glanced over his shoulder but didn’t see her.
“Shelby?”
“Yeah?” she called from back where the old books were.
“I don’t think she wants anyone back there.”
Shelby re-emerged by the railing with a broom and dustpan. She gave him a weird look and skipped down the steps. “I was just getting the broom. She lets me go back here all the time.”
“Figures,” he said under his breath. He listened to the quiet of the shop, the sound of the spray from the dust polish can, and the swish of the broom where Shelby swept behind him. The swishing stopped next to him some minutes later, and he looked down from the ladder on which he stood.
“What did you do?” Shelby said, looking up at him.
“What do you mean?”
Had Aunt Sarah blabbed about the trouble he’d gotten into back home? Is that why Shelby had given him the cold shoulder since they met?
“To make her mad. She never gets mad.”
Ricky shrugged and wiped the
shelf. “I don’t know.”
“Well, why does she have you doing busywork?”
“Busywork?” He stopped dusting.
“Yeah. Busywork—like dusting the shelves she dusted a few days ago,” Shelby added smartly and gestured to him as she leaned on the broom.
He glared back at the shelf in front of him and now noticed just how little dust was on the portions he hadn’t cleaned yet. He muttered under his breath and shoved a stack of books back into the empty space on the shelf.
“I stole a car. Well, not really stole it. I borrowed it. From a friend.” He tossed the rag to the floor and descended the ladder. “This is my community service, I guess, while my dad’s out of town for work.”
“Oh.” Shelby looked dumbstruck for the first time. He watched her, waiting for judgment and then she added, “That sounds like a stupid thing to do.”
“Maybe. It seemed like fun at the time.”
“Where’s your mom?”
“What?”
“Your mom. You said your dad’s out of town. Why couldn’t your mom watch…supervise your community service?” Shelby kicked at her broom.
“I don’t know. She left a while ago.” He didn’t want to think about that woman who was supposed to be his mother. She was just one more person who didn’t want him around. He picked up the dusting supplies and carted them back to the counter.
“Oh. Was your dad pissed off?”
“Yeah. But he’s pretty much pissed off at me about something all the time.”
Shelby looked down and kicked the broom again. “Bummer.”
Ricky folded his arms and leaned against the bureau desk behind the counter. He let his sarcasm flow. “Yeah, bummer. What about you? What are your parents like?”
“Normal, I guess.”
“Normal?” He leaned forward to let her know he would give her an out before she insulted him.
“No, I didn’t mean yours weren’t normal. I just, well, I don’t know. They’re the only parents I have. They work a lot. My mom does women’s club things. They have these stupid barbecues with the neighbors sometimes and laugh about things that I don’t think are funny. I don’t know.”
Ricky felt his expression soften. Clearly, she didn’t connect with her parents very well either, especially if she spent the majority of her summer in a bookstore. “They don’t care that you come down here all the time?”
“I’m not here all the time,” she said and started sweeping again. After a few strokes she added softly, “No. They don’t care. I’d probably have to steal a car for them to care.”
Ricky rolled his eyes at what he thought was a dig at his confession and took a seat at the counter. She’d probably never been yelled at a day in her life. Spoiled brat. “Poor you,” he said, not sparing any sarcasm.
“You know what? You don’t know me! Don’t judge me. You’re the one who asked.”
“Easy, cheerleader.”
“Spare me, stupid jock!”
“You know what? Why don’t you just run on home? You don’t have to be here like some of us,” he said, sneering.
“Now who’s throwing themselves the pity party? Besides, I was here long before you ever showed up.” Shelby’s head irksomely bobbed back and forth with the words.
Ricky started the solitaire game on the computer to avoid eye contact with his new nemesis. “Whatever,” he muttered and stared at the screen until it was time to close.
ACROSS THE street, Sarah sat at a bistro table in Franci’s shop, waiting for Franci to lock the store so they could get the council meeting underway. Reggie Nurscher sat across from her. Mary was to her left, and Franci took the seat on her right. Walter Freedhof squeezed in between Reggie and Mary. As they got settled, Sarah slid a teacup out of the way for a place to open the journal she’d brought with her.
“Sorry we couldn’t have the meeting at my place. As you know, my nephew’s in town and the longer he knows nothing, the better,” she said to the group.
Walter tugged at his mustache. “I think that must have been him in my shop today. Came in around lunch. He looks just like Richard did when you guys were kids.”
“Yeah, that was him,” Reggie added and lit a cigarette.
Mary fanned the air in front of her face. “Oh, Regis! Do you have to smoke every second of the day?”
Reggie ignored Mary’s complaint and added, “Saw him over by my place, looking at the statue.”
“You did?” Sarah said with a start. “Well, keep him away from there if you can.”
Reggie held his palm to the air. “What am I supposed to do? He’s a kid.”
“Please, Reggie.”
His lips curved into a smile as she looked at him. “Sure thing, babe.”
Could he be more disgusting? She averted her eyes to her journal. They needed to get this meeting rolling before Ricky did something to her shop.
“All right. What new business other than the obvious?” she asked and jotted a note down in the book: Arrival of Richard Allister Jr. to Blinney Lane, intended stay—three months.
The others pulled out lists from their pockets. Sarah transcribed as each of them took turns reporting any “happenings” that had occurred on Blinney Lane during the past month. Some of the stories were from their own shops, some complaints from other Blinney Lane business owners who had reported to them.
Nurscher’s/dancing boots—4 occurrences.
Freedhof’s/bloating bread—2 occurrences.
Mathers’s/choking lace—1 occurrence.
The smithy shop/a singing sword—3 occurrences.
Sarah continued to write until they’d gone around the circle and ended with Franci’s input.
“All right. What about your end, Sarah?” Mary queried before sipping her tea.
“A book snapped twice on someone when Ricky swore in the store or made a smart-ass comment,” she said, sounding guilty. He was her responsibility after all.
Mary creased her brow. “Didn’t you give him the toothpaste?”
“Yes, and he used it.”
“Well, make sure he keeps using it.”
She didn’t want to tell them what she had to report next, but they needed to know. “The books,” she started. All eyes waited for her to finish. Everyone had always been afraid of her weeping books. The thought of being pulled into an unknown world terrified them. “The books seemed to weep a little more this past week.”
“How much more?” Reggie asked quickly.
Walter’s fat hand pushed Reggie back in his chair. “Shush. Let her finish.”
Sarah saw Reggie’s hand shake as he took a drag from his cigarette. He muttered, “Damned curse. Stupid kid better not cause any problems.”
“Just…a little bit more,” she added. She didn’t have the courage to tell them it had mostly been The Lands of Farwin Wood.
“Keep an eye on them, Sarah. Everyone, keep an eye out,” Mary warned as she looked around the table. “We don’t know how this will play out yet.” Once Mary had their silent approval, she stood up to leave, signifying the end of the meeting. “Very well. Until next month.”
By the time Sarah reached the steps of her shop, she was exhausted. She’d spent the day worrying ever since she found Ricky missing this morning. And his mouth today. The more she tried, the mouthier he got. She was also still rattled by that silly dream she’d had last night about the summer she and Richard had spent in Farwin Wood. Now, the council meeting. No one had said it, probably to spare her the shame, but there had been more unusual activity than what they were used to. She wanted to let her head hit her pillow and fall into an oblivious sleep.
She opened the door to the shop and noticed that all the lights were already dimmed except for a glow coming from the computer where Ricky sat playing his card game. Shelby immediately walked past her and out the door.
“I’ve got to get home. Good night, Sarah.”
The girl didn’t even look at her as she hurried down the steps. Sarah called after her, “Than
k you!”
When Sarah turned around, the computer was shutting down but there was no Ricky. Her heart raced again until she saw that he was racing up the stairs to the apartment. What? Did she have the plague?
“Uh, good night!” she called after him.
“Night,” he yelled without turning back.
She locked the door and then let her head thump against it. Eyes closed, she let out a long breath and rubbed at the tension in her neck.
“Teenagers,” she whispered. “Just what I need—a curse and teenage hormones.”
ON SATURDAY morning, Sarah watched as Ricky stared out the window for a sight of Henry. Did he really want to get away from her that badly or did he just love football that much? She wished she knew him better, understood him better. They’d been so close when he was little. But when his mother left, that had changed. Poor Richard. How did he do it?
She jumped when Ricky yelled, “There he is!”
Her pulse quickened when Henry walked into the store. He was wearing bright green shimmery athletic pants, which made his thighs look even bigger. She’d never seen him out of uniform. It was strange to see him there for something other than work.
“I’ll have him back around one. That okay?”
“Yeah, sure. I guess I should give you my cell phone number, just in case something happens. And here’s the shop number too,” she said, scribbling on a notepad.
“See. You’re a natural,” Henry said, taking her note.
“Ha, no. I’m just terrified.”
“Like I said—a natural.” He threw her a wink and then they were gone.
Several hours later the boys returned, both with grass stains all over their shirts. Ricky’s had considerably more than Henry’s.
“Are you limping?” she asked her nephew, but then noticed a hobble in Henry’s step as well. “Are you limping?”
Ricky wiped some sweat from his forehead and winced. “My muscles are just sore. I haven’t worked out in a few weeks.”
“What’s your excuse?” she asked Henry.
“My old ankle injury’s acting up.”
