Born Ugly

by Beth Goobie

  “That was close,” said Mr. Anderson, straightening. “Lucky you’re fast on your feet, Shirley.”

  “Yes, sir,” mumbled Shir, lowering her eyes. This was more difficult than she had thought it would be. Last night hadn’t been too bad—the store had been continually busy after she had returned from her round of deliveries, and her only direct interaction with her boss had been at quitting time when she had been paid. Besides, last night he hadn’t known about her accident with the Fox and Brier delivery box. Today he did. It was obvious; no one had to come out and say it in so many words—the evidence was written all over the way he had stiffened the moment he had laid eyes on her. Mr. Anderson knew about her and the box, that it had come open and that she had seen. And now he was going to fire her, banish her from the store for knowing something she wasn’t supposed to know.

  “I need to talk to you,” said Mr. Anderson, catching one last orange that was escaping down the side of the stack. “Come to the back room with me.”

  Dread oozed coldly up Shir’s spine. “Yes, sir,” she whispered. Ducking her head, she trailed along the produce aisle after her boss, even when he slowed his pace to match hers.

  “How are you, Ned?” Mr. Anderson nodded at a man with two young children. “Find everything you’re looking for?”

  “So far,” Ned smiled back. “If I need help, I’ll holler.”

  “You do that,” said Mr. Anderson, then continued down the aisle and pushed through the Employees Only door. On his heels, Shir made a beeline to the opposite side of the storage room, where she stood with her head lowered and her back to the outer door. A short silence followed. Motionless, Shir stared at her feet and counted heartbeats.

  “How are you today, Shirley?” Mr. Anderson asked finally.

  “Fine,” mumbled Shir.

  “Really?” asked Mr. Anderson. “You look a little … tired.”

  Panic leapt through Shir. Here it was, she thought frantically—a reason he could fix on to fire her. The problem was, she couldn’t lie about being tired. She looked like a dog’s breakfast.

  “I am a little, I guess,” she admitted reluctantly, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor. “But I can still do my job. I’m not sick or anything.”

  “Oh, sure,” Mr. Anderson said easily. “We all have our tired days. I’ll try not to run you off your feet. How’s that?”

  Startled, Shir shot her boss a glance and found him studying her intently. Dropping her gaze again, she mumbled, “That’s … fine, sir. I’m sorry I’m tired, sir.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Mr. Anderson. “That’s not why I asked you to come back here. What I need to talk to you about is the Fox and Brier delivery you made yesterday.”

  Shir’s stomach plummeted like a lead weight. Here it is, she thought. It’s coming.

  “Yes, sir?” she whispered.

  “The customer called me about it,” Mr. Anderson said slowly. “Said the bottom came open when he picked up the box. Nothing was damaged, he was able to catch it on time, but a corner of the box was torn. Did it fall off the seat while you were driving?”

  Shir took a shaky breath. “Not off the seat, sir,” she said, thinking rapidly. “But it did flip over when I moved another box. The bottom came open a bit, but I fixed it up right away. It wasn’t …”

  She faltered, her eyes darting across Mr. Anderson’s face. He was watching her so closely, he was practically breathing in every word. “Well,” she continued nervously, “it wasn’t a major flip, sir. Nothing fell out, or anything. I didn’t think anything was broken, so I didn’t look inside.”

  The relief that crossed Mr. Anderson’s face was unmistakable. “Ah,” he said, louder than necessary. “No need to worry then. Nothing was broken, nothing damaged. Like I said, the customer caught it on time. So you didn’t …” He hesitated, then added, “… open the box?”

  “No no no,” gushed Shir, desperate to reassure him. “I didn’t open it, sir, because it just tilted over a bit. Just a bit, sir. Y’see?”

  Mr. Anderson’s eyes shifted to the wall above her head. “Well,” he said quietly, “that’s good then. No problem, no problem at all.”

  “No, sir!” Shir said emphatically. “No problem at all!”

  “Okay,” Mr. Anderson nodded. “That’s okay then.” He sighed noticeably, then beamed at her. “The next time something like that happens,” he said, “make sure you let the customer know so he won’t get caught by surprise. And here,” he added, pulling something out of his shirt pocket. “I want you to carry this cell phone with you from now on when you’re in the van. If a box gets damaged again, or you get caught in traffic, call and let me know. The store number is on the back.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Shir, accepting the phone as if it was a grenade about to go off.

  “Have you ever used a cell?” asked Mr. Anderson.

  “Yes, sir,” said Shir. “I used to own one.” She had, in fact, purchased a cell soon after starting work, but not having anyone to call, had ended up trading it away for a few Pilsners.

  “Well,” said Mr. Anderson. “Fine! Now, how about I let you take off your jacket and get organized. I’ve got five deliveries for you today, but they can’t go out until after two. Until then, I’d like you to check the shelves and make a list of what needs restocking.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Shir, nodding so enthusiastically her neck cracked. “I’ll get right on it, sir.”

  “All right, then,” said Mr. Anderson, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “But Shirley, you don’t need to call me ‘sir’ every three words.”

  “Yes, sir,” Shir said quickly, then flushed and added, “I mean, yes, Mr. Anderson.”

  For a moment, her boss just looked at her, his eyes warm, the smile still on his lips. He liked her, it was obvious. For some inexplicable reason, this man really liked her.

  “You take your time taking off your jacket,” he said gently. “And when you’re ready, I’ll see you out on the floor.”

  “Yes s—” Shir started to say, but managed to catch herself. “I’ll be right out,” she added carefully, then stood motionless as the door swung shut behind her boss, watching it whisper back and forth until it settled silently closed.

  Ten

  It was the following afternoon and another warm day, so that birds were chirping everywhere and the slight breeze, when it came, was a breath of sun into the lungs. Face uplifted, her throat in a quiet hum, Shir balanced herself high on the Black’s pedals as she coasted down the hill behind the Anglican church. Myplace! she thought with satisfaction, heading across the parking lot toward the bridge. After four long days, she was finally here again, at the shy, quiet center around which the rest of her life revolved. The only drawback was that today she was beerless—when she had knocked on Gareth’s door ten minutes earlier, there had been no answer. All things considered, it was probably for the best; her stomach was still giving queasy lurches at the thought of popping another beer tab. Friday night had been a binge to remember, or rather, one to forget. From now on, five beers at one sitting was her limit.

  As Shir approached the base of the bridge, she saw the boy seated on the first eastern support arch, jacket unzipped and legs outstretched as he contemplated the scene. Getting off her bike, she stood motionless and observed him. Unlike Wednesday afternoon, today she wasn’t upset to see him; in fact, she had wondered on the way over if he would be here. Now, as she stood watching him, memories of their last conversation flashed through her mind, bringing with them the calm steadiness of the boy’s voice and the way he had given words to her so easily—as if it was simply part of who he was, a normal, natural thing to do.

  At that moment, perhaps feeling her eyes on him, he turned and glanced toward her. Instinctively, Shir’s gaze flicked away, and she stood staring so intensely across the river that her eyes hurt.

  “Hey,” called the boy, “you’re here! I thought you might show today.”

  Startled, Shir’s eyes flew back to hi
s. Grinning—the boy was actually grinning at her. “Yeah,” she called back, abruptly almost breathless. “I thought maybe you’d show, too.”

  Hands shaky, she locked the Black to the Church Patrons Only sign. Then, doing her best to look nonchalant, she walked over to the bridge. Pausing at the base, she hiked her gym-bag strap further up her shoulder. A quick glance showed the boy still peering around the third eastern pillar; hesitating, Shir sucked at her lower lip. She had never before climbed the arch with anyone watching, had never had to consider how she looked, scrambling up the steep concrete incline with her butt hiked into the air. It was that, however, or continue standing on the riverbank with last year’s dead grass. Screw it, she told herself grimly, ducked her head, and began to climb. Fortunately, a recent rain had washed away most of the grit, and scaling the incline was easy. In under a minute, she had reached the third pillar, and was stepping around it and onto the peak of the first western arch.

  “You’re good at that,” commented the boy as she settled into position. Brief relief sang through Shir and she shrugged, trying to fake casual. “Done it enough,” she said. “Over a hundred times, I bet.”

  “How long have you been coming here?” asked the boy.

  “Years,” said Shir. “Since junior high. Grade seven.”

  “Lucky you,” the boy said thoughtfully. “You’ve had it inside you for eons, then.”

  Curious, Shir shot him a glance. Across from her, the boy was sitting calmly, his gaze wandering the opposite bank. In spite of the warmth, he was wearing his black knitted cap.

  “What d’you mean?” she asked.

  “It’s a theory of mine,” he said, continuing to study the scene before him. “Places where you spend a lot of time grow inside you. Can you feel it?”

  Shir thought about it, considering the locations she frequented most, and gradually she sensed what the boy meant. There, in the middle of her chest, sat a tight, dull lump that felt like home. Directly below it, in her gut, was Collier High, spinning like a black vortex. Then, abruptly, she felt Bill’s Grocer, a clear sunlit space inside her forehead, murmuring with voices, and smelling of bananas and oranges. Last of all, she discovered a high, hushed arc of peace hidden behind everything else—Myplace.

  “Yeah,” she said wonderingly. “I’ve never thought about it before, but they do. Different places even live in different parts of you.”

  The boy nodded enthusiastically. “You do feel it!” he exclaimed, turning a wide grin on her. “I’ve told other people the same thing, and they don’t get it at all. A place is just outside to them—somewhere they go to and come back from, and then it’s completely gone for them.”

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a package of Hostess Twinkies and opened one end. “No Moosehead today?” he asked, grinning slyly, and pulled out a cupcake.

  “Nope, no Moosehead,” replied Shir, flushing at the memory. “My main supplier wasn’t in.”

  “Who’s that?” asked the boy, nibbling a neat circle around the cupcake’s upper rim.

  “Some derelict welfare case who knows how to make a buck,” Shir said bitterly. “One and a half years until I’m eighteen, and then I don’t have to kiss ass with that loser anymore.”

  The boy nodded sympathetically. “Yeah,” he said, “it’s two years for me. Then it’ll be ‘Bye bye Twinkies,’ that’s for sure. Are you hungry?”

  Instantly, Shir was on her guard. It had been over a year since anyone other than a family member or Mrs. Duran had offered her something to eat; the last time, she had bitten into the proffered Oreo cookie to find a dead worm curled into the center of the icing. “Depends,” she said cautiously.

  “Depends on a Twinkie?” asked the boy, holding up the package with the remaining cupcake. “Can you catch?”

  Without waiting for a response, he lobbed the Twinkie, and Shir found herself lurching awkwardly forward to catch the gently arcing package. Disbelieving, her heart in a massive thud, she sat cradling the chocolate Twinkie. “Thanks,” she managed finally, and eased it out of its package.

  “No prob,” said the boy. Tonguing the icing deftly off the top of his cupcake, he sucked it whole into his mouth. “By the way,” he added casually as Shir took her first guarded bite. “My name’s Finlay Cowan.”

  “Shirley Rutz,” Shir replied automatically through a mouthful of intense sweetness. “Actually,” she added after a thinking pause, “Shir Rutz. I like it better short.”

  “Okay,” Finlay said agreeably. “Shir Rutz. As in sure. Like certain. Is that why? Are you certain about everything?”

  The absurdity of the comment hit Shir splat in the face. “Hardly!” she muttered. Ducking her head, she took another cautious nibble of cupcake.

  “Good,” Finlay said easily. “I’m not crazy about people who are too sure about things. First person on my list of people who are too sure of themselves is God.”

  “God?” said Shir, glancing at him in surprise. “Isn’t God supposed to be sure about things? Like, that’s his job, isn’t it?”

  Finlay shrugged. “Is that what God is?” he asked. “A job? Or an attitude?”

  Again Shir thought about it. God—an attitude? she wondered, staring out at the river. “My mom watches TV church a lot,” she said slowly. “But if she’s supposed to get some kind of attitude from it, it doesn’t last long.”

  Finlay snorted. “I’m not religious,” he said. “I don’t believe in God. That doesn’t mean I don’t think there is one, but if there is, I don’t think he would want me to waste my time believing in him.”

  An image flashed through Shir’s mind of her mother seated on the couch and watching a TV preacher, her face slack and empty like a small child watching Saturday-morning cartoons. “What are you supposed to do with God,” she asked carefully, “if you don’t believe in him?”

  Finlay stared thoughtfully across the river. “That’s a good question,” he said. “It makes me think.” Silently he sat, apparently deep in meditation, and Shir sat just as silently, cupcake in hand and watching him. Whether or not her question was really all that good, Finlay was certainly working his way through it. His first few seconds of pondering stretched into several minutes and then several more, and still he sat, letting his thoughts play out inside his head.

  “I think God is like what he made,” he said finally. “Not what we made—not cities and concrete and ideas about God—what he made … like this river, and those trees, and the birds. That bird there,” he added, pointing to the quick darting path of a swallow low across the water. “It doesn’t believe in God, it just is. And that tree, it doesn’t believe in God, either. It just grows and is beautiful, especially in the fall. Trees are just about my favorite things. Of everything, I like to look at trees the most.”

  “Uh huh,” murmured Shir, her eyes tracing the delicate greenery on a nearby poplar.

  “So that’s what I think,” announced Finlay with obvious satisfaction. “God doesn’t want us to do anything with him. He doesn’t really care if we believe in him or not. We’re just supposed to be … y’know … alive and full of life—like the birds and the trees. And this river, I guess.”

  Warm gentleness filled Shir at the thought, and she sat, watching another swallow zigzag across the water. Suddenly, without warning, the memory of her botched delivery to the Fox and Brier surfaced inside her head, shoving aside the peaceful scene before her. “Okay,” she said, swallowing hard. “Maybe God doesn’t care if we believe in him, but what about right and wrong? D’you think God wants us to believe in that?”

  “Right and wrong?” asked Finlay with a frown. “Maybe. But don’t you think right and wrong is something we made up?”

  Slightly stunned, Shir sat silently for a moment. “What d’you mean?” she asked finally. “How can you make up right and wrong?”

  “I think we’ve made up almost everything,” announced Finlay, popping the last of his cupcake into his mouth. “Most of what people run around doing is just made-up
stuff—stuff other people tell them it’s important to do. But that kind of stuff isn’t important really, except inside their heads. It’s not real stuff, like this river and those trees. Rivers and trees are real because they just are. No one has to tell them how to be. And they don’t have to think about right and wrong, either. I mean, trees never think about what’s right, but do they ever do anything wrong?”

  Confused, Shir sat staring at a tree opposite. In all her born days, she had never heard anyone talk like this. Still, she thought musingly, it was kind of interesting. And what Finlay had said was probably correct—trees never did anything wrong.

  “But trees don’t think,” she said cautiously. “And they can’t move. So how can they do anything wrong?”

  “Okay,” Finlay said amiably. “Birds move. Do they ever do anything wrong?”

  “They do if you’re a worm,” said Shir.

  For a second, Finlay seemed to freeze. Then his head tilted back against his pillar, and he closed his eyes and sighed. “Yeah,” he agreed disappointedly. “I’m talking a lot of crap, aren’t I? It’s nice crap, but it’s still just crap.”

  Surprised, Shir sat, waiting for him to lash out at her for disagreeing, or at least put her in her place with a quick taunt or jeer. But instead, Finlay simply sat with his eyes closed, listening to the breeze at play along the riverbank. Thoughtfully, she nibbled deeper into her Twinkie. No worm yet, she mused, probing it with her tongue. Once again, the memory of the Fox and Brier delivery box flashed, unwelcome, through her mind.

  “You haven’t really answered my question,” she said tentatively. “About right and wrong—d’you think God cares about it?”

  For a long moment, Finlay continued to sit, eyes closed and head tilted back against the pillar. “Right and wrong?” he said finally. “No, I don’t think God cares much about that. But that’s just because there isn’t any right and wrong in what he made. Right and wrong only exists in what people make—the made-up stuff, y’know? But I guess God probably wants us to care about right and wrong, because right and wrong are ours. We made it, so we should care about it. Yeah,” he said decisively, “we should care about it.”