by Gayle Roper
Greg knew that not facing a cereal bowl was ridiculous, as foolish as trying to drink away the pain had been. Still, he came to Carrie’s every day and ate eggs.
He stepped away from his stool. “I gotta go. I have to evict a guy named Chaz Rudolph over at the Sand and Sea.”
“Sounds like a fun day,” Clooney said. “Want help?”
“Yeah.” Mr. Perkins sat up as straight as his arthritic back would allow and held out his hand in a gun. “Go ahead, punk. Make my day.”
Greg had to laugh, something he still didn’t do much. “Listen, Dirty Harry, I appreciate your offer. You too, Clooney, but I think the constable and I can manage on our own.”
“I know Chaz Rudolph.” Andi leaned on the counter beside Carrie. “I don’t like him.” She wrinkled her nose.
Greg didn’t like him either. “How do you know him?”
Something in his voice must have alerted Clooney, who went as still as a hunting dog on point.
Andi shrugged. “I met him in here.”
If Andi met Chaz here, that was okay. No danger. All kinds of people had to eat, even scum like Chaz. As Greg relaxed, so did Clooney. Were all adult males as twitchy about their young female relatives? Would he have been such a guard dog with Serena? With all he’d seen as a cop, probably worse. Oh yeah, much worse.
He walked to the cash register and paid Carrie for his eggs.
She handed him his change, her smile warm and encouraging. “Hope it goes okay. See you tomorrow?”
He nodded, still amazed and appalled at his little dissertation on Carrie’s strengths. He hadn’t thought he knew her at all except as a pleasant blond woman with pretty blue eyes who ran a nice café. Generic stuff. When had he discerned all those character traits and qualities, and why was he so sure he was right? Not that it mattered, of course.
He exited the café and walked into the sea-scented air. He loved living on a barrier island sandwiched between ocean and bay. The Atlantic always calmed him, always soothed him, even when it raged in a nor’easter or a hurricane, even back on his worst days, when he walked for miles along the tide line regardless of the weather. The sea was consistent, dependable in a world gone mad. The tides ebbed and flowed in an eternal pattern. The waves rose and broke, whether gentle in the summer sun or raging, spume flying, in a storm.
And on the other side of Seaside, the bay spread like a blue magic carpet on which he could float in his old, dinged Starcraft, suspended over a teeming, unseen world. He could lie back on the seats and watch the herons soar gracefully overhead, long spindly legs trailing, or wonder at the patience of the cormorants as they spread their wings to dry, or laugh at the gulls screaming at each other as they fought over a scrap of food.
There was no place he wanted to be except Seaside.
As he drove his pickup the two blocks to the rental units located in the block behind the boardwalk, he sighed at the thought of the cocky, scrawny, nasty kid he hoped had left of his own volition.
He hated evictions.
No, wait. What was he thinking? He hated everything about his property manager’s job. It was an honorable job, a worthy job. Many were challenged by it, enjoyed it. It just wasn’t for him. But what was?
He’d had his dream job, but his awful circumstances had killed it. He’d known from the first night in his ghost-filled house that he was no longer emotionally stable enough to be a cop.
“God, why?” he’d cried as he stood by Serena’s bed with its Pepto-Bismol pink quilt pulled up over lumpy sheets. “She was my little girl, my princess!”
In Greggie’s room he stared at the cardboard box full of Legos. He felt his heart catch. “We never built that fort, Greggie. I’m so sorry!”
He wasn’t able to go into the master bedroom. It smelled too much of Ginny.
Earlier that evening, when he’d sat slumped on the living room sofa, his father’s arm across his shoulders as tears ran down the older man’s face, Greg had closed his eyes in pain. And the flames came, crackling, swirling, devouring. He leaped to his feet with a cry and ran outside. He went to the beach for the first of many nights spent walking, walking, his father trailing a few feet behind.
He’d gotten through his family’s funerals, though if he heard one more person say how wonderful it was that Ginny, Serena, and Greggie were in heaven, he’d scream. “God, I don’t want them in heaven. I want them here!”
He managed to hold on through the big trial at which he testified and put Marco Polo away for many years. Then he turned in his badge. He refused to risk the lives of others because his heart, his very ability to think, to reason, had imploded.
The loneliness and the lack of purpose drove him to drink, literally.
“I used to be a cop, a husband, a father, a Christian,” he told his father. “What am I when I’ve lost all those markers except ‘Christian’? And when God lets you lose all that defines you, what does it mean to be a Christian?”
His father didn’t give trite answers. “All I can say, Greg, is that when you’re at your most alone, you aren’t.”
Greg had fallen into managing property through a contact at church, and while it wasn’t what he’d ever pictured himself doing, at least he was good at it. And it wasn’t emotionally demanding—which was a good thing. His emotions had died that long-ago morning.
Most of the time all he had to do to keep his job—and life—simple was make sure everyone’s complaints were acknowledged and all the repairs made promptly. Anyone who stayed in one of the apartment or condo complexes he was responsible for soon learned that he took good care of both the renters and the buildings. Doing so meant no confrontations, no messy emotions. Good ol’ detached Greg would take care of everything.
“Hey, my faucet’s dripping. It drives me nuts.”
“Greg, my toilet won’t stop running.”
“I want to paint my place, Mr. Barnes, and I want you to pay for the paint.”
“I can’t get the air conditioner to come on.” Or the furnace to work or the sink to unclog or …
Most of the complaints were handled with ease. Most of the people were pleasant enough, especially since he never had to see most of them face to face. They worked during the day, and he was in and out of their units without having to talk with them. Just the way he liked it.
Ginny’d die laughing if she could see him these days.
“Greg, it’s my turn,” she used to butt in when he was going on and on about something. “Take a breath and let me give my opinion.”
Now he hardly said anything unless there was no choice. It was like the little black cloud that hovered over him day and night sucked up all his words and transformed them into an invisible dark energy that vibrated about him all the time, buffeting him, draining him.
Except when he went to Carrie’s. For some reason, when he walked into that place, the black cloud stayed outside. No dark energy pulsed inside those walls, and he felt comfortable there. Weird. But nice.
He pulled into the parking lot for the Sand and Sea Apartments and parked in a far slot next to the constable’s car.
The law required that an officer of the court be the one to enter the unit to see if it had been vacated. The landlord might have to pay to file all the proper papers with the court, might have to wait the appropriate amount of time before eviction occurred, might have to change the locks or pay to have them changed, and might have to store at his own expense any furniture left behind pending a sheriff’s sale, but in this instance Greg couldn’t enter the unit on his own.
He stared at the eight-unit building, unwilling to get out of the car and see if Chaz Rudolph was still in residence. There were four units on each of the two floors, and Chaz’s unit was the one on the first floor to the left of the back entrance.
“You can’t make me leave!” he’d railed just two days ago in a nearly incoherent, highly profane phone message about persecution and unfair treatment. “I lost my job!”
No surprise. With the summer kids g
one, his drug business had dried up. So sad. In the old days, Greg would have taken great pleasure in busting him. But the guy was crafty and clever. Sly. He always managed to deal without being caught. Of course, it was just a matter of time before he became overconfident and careless. With guys like Chaz, it always happened sooner or later.
But it hadn’t happened yet, and today Greg had to evict him. Then Chaz would leave Seaside and set up shop somewhere else, polluting another town with his presence and his drugs until another landlord evicted him for nonpayment if the cops didn’t get him first.
Greg slid from his truck and walked to the back entrance of the complex, where Constable Blake Winters waited. Blake was a retired cop, a large man who had eaten more than his share of doughnuts and pasta through the years. He wore a badge on the pocket of his plaid shirt, but he wasn’t armed. Of course, he could have been carrying concealed.
Greg and Blake entered the building, turned down the hall, and knocked on Chaz’s door.
No answer. Relief washed over Greg. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. Maybe Chaz had gotten smart and left all on his own. Greg pulled out his master key and handed it to Blake, who opened the door.
Both men froze.
Chaz stood in the middle of the living room, in his hands an upraised wooden chair like the ones Greg’s parents used to have in their dining room. He was a skinny kid of about twenty who was using too much of his own product. It showed in his pasty complexion and twitchy body. His dirty dark hair fell over his glazed eyes.
Greg sighed as he eyed the chair. He should have known. At least it wasn’t a handgun of some kind, a very good thing since he didn’t wear his Kevlar these days.
Blake took a step into the room, looking authoritative even without a uniform. “Put it down, Rudolph. You know you can’t go around bashing people.”
Chaz glared, unimpressed. “I’m not leaving here. You can’t make me.”
“Yes, I can. You know I can.”
“Not without a fight.” Chaz licked his lips.
In anticipation or fear? Greg hoped fear. Hopped-up eagerness for a fight was the last thing he wanted to deal with. He stood in the doorway, ready to come to Blake’s aid if necessary.
In the years he’d been a property manager, Greg learned that people responded to an eviction notice in one of two ways. They nodded, heads bowed, knowing they hadn’t paid their rent, couldn’t pay their rent, deserved to be cast out for not keeping their part of the bargain set forth in the lease. These people left with slumped shoulders and fear in their eyes. Greg always felt like the lowest of heels with them, like it was somehow his fault they couldn’t pay. He worried about where they would go, how they would live.
Then there were the others. They were confrontational, belligerent. They felt they were being treated unfairly and made things as difficult as they could. Some chose to be destructive in their misguided effort to pay you back for getting upset that they hadn’t paid their rent for the past three or four or six months.
Chaz obviously embraced the latter school of thought, and the poor apartment had taken the brunt of his rage. Greg saw holes in the wallboard, and he noted the baseball bat lying on the floor under one. There were dark spots ground into the beige rug, and he was willing to bet they were body waste. Through the opening to the kitchen, he could see the hot-water faucet wrenched from its moorings and the resulting fountain, most of which seemed to be falling into the sink. Still an impressive amount of water rolled across the counter and spilled down the front of the cabinets in a miniature Niagara. The oven door hung drunkenly, one side ripped free.
“Did you clog the toilet too, Chaz?” Greg asked. “Socks? Washcloths? Pampers?”
Chaz glared, chair still raised. “Where’d I get Pampers?”
Not a denial. Greg sighed, thankful he had a reliable plumber on speed dial.
Blake pulled out his cell and hit 911. “We need help with an eviction, and we want to press charges against one Chaz Rudolph, present address Sand and Sea, apartment A, Seaside, for willful destruction of private property and making threats of bodily harm against an officer of the court.”
Blake listened a minute, then hung up. “You’ve got less than five minutes before the police get here.” He stood back from the door. “Out.”
Chaz looked shocked. “You can’t have me arrested! I didn’t do nothing!”
Greg looked from one blatant act of destruction to another. “Four minutes.”
Chaz lowered the chair, then raised it again. He brought it down with a great crash against the coffee table. A chair leg splintered. The coffee table collapsed. Chaz, triumphant, looked at Greg and Blake.
“Three minutes,” Blake said.
“And that isn’t my furniture,” Greg said. “You rented it.”
With a snarl fit for a threatened tiger, Chaz lunged for the door and lurched down the hall. “I’ll get you for this!”
“Yeah, yeah.” Greg followed to be certain the idiot drove off the lot, Blake right behind him. “Call me to set a date to clean the place out, Rudolph.”
Chaz climbed into a bright yellow Hummer without responding.
Greg shook his head. The summer must have been quite profitable. Too bad Chaz wasn’t smart enough to turn in the Hummer and get a Kia. Then he might be able to pay his rent.
Chaz hit the gas, and the Hummer roared backward. Blake nodded with satisfaction and turned back to the building. “Time to change the locks.”
Greg checked his watch, thankful there was no car in the slots behind Chaz. “Locksmith’s due any minute. I’ll turn off the water and call the plumber as soon as Rudolph’s gone.”
He watched as Chaz paused to shift gears. The Hummer leaped forward, but it didn’t turn to drive from the lot.
It drove straight at Greg.
6
I leaned on the counter at the cash register after Clooney and Mr. Perkins left. The café hadn’t been totally empty since midspring, and the quiet was nice—provided it didn’t presage a bad fall and winter. There was a fine line between a more relaxed pace and a dismal pace.
“Hey, Carrie,” Lindsay called. “I’m taking ten to run up to the apartment. Everything’s good to go for lunch. Ricky’s got the tomato basil and the vegetable beef soups simmering. The quiche is ready for the oven and will go in as soon as the black forest cake and apple caramel pies are done.”
I glanced at the glass case where a fresh fruit flan was already on display, its circles of strawberries, blueberries, kiwis, and bananas shining under their clear glaze.
“Chicken salad’s ready to go, and the pork barbecue is simmering.” She pulled her apron off and laid it on the counter. “I’ll be back before you even know I’m gone.”
I glanced at the clock. Not quite eleven. All of a sudden taking ten sounded wonderful. Only I wanted thirty. I wanted to walk to the boardwalk, sit on a bench, and let the ocean purl and purr while I threw my head back and listened to its murmur. I should be cleaning the bathroom at the back of the café, but the mess there wasn’t going anywhere. The tangy scent of salt water won over the acrid odor of bleach hands-down.
“Go on up, Linds. Only take thirty.”
“Really?”
“Yep. I’m putting the ‘Back at 11:30’ sign on the door.”
“Yes!”
Her feet pounded up the steps to our apartment. She’d collapse on the sofa with our Maine coon cat, Oreo, lying on her like a great black hairy afghan. Lindsay would murmur how wonderful Oreo was, and she’d purr, her golden eyes closing in delight, her white ruff and whiskers the sole breaks in her midnight pelt.
“Why’d she go up there?” Ricky looked at me with sad eyes. “We could have talked, her and me.”
I couldn’t very well tell him that she needed a break from his adoring gaze, and the one place she knew he wouldn’t try to follow was the apartment. He was allergic to cats.
“Andi, feel free to put your feet up or go for a walk,” I said. “Whatever. Just be back
by eleven thirty, okay?”
“I’m going to sit down and do a Sudoku.” She grabbed her book and walked to a back booth. She turned to me just before sliding into her seat. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”
Bill. “Then everything will be fine.” I sure hoped that was so, but the bruise coloring her wrist gave me pause.
“Yeah, everything will be fine.” She sounded as if she was trying to convince herself.
I walked to her and wrapped my arms around her in a gentle hug. She didn’t hug me back, but I didn’t let it bother me. I remembered the long-ago days when I was just Andi’s age and the former owner of Carrie’s had hugged me. I hadn’t responded either—I hadn’t known how—but I’d loved those hugs.
If I could be there for Andi as Mary Prudence had been there for me, even if just a little, I’d feel I was doing something to give back all that had been given to me.
“Carrie likes unraveling things. Fixing things. Being the one in charge. Proving she’s able.”
Greg was right. I was the one who always took charge, but then someone had to seize control of the runaway train that had been my early life. I just hoped there was a bit more to me than being a control freak. Like love. Or humor.
I hung the eleven-thirty sign on the door and started for the boardwalk two blocks away. I paused at the first cross street and looked back over my shoulder. Carrie’s Café. The sign had a Caribbean blue background with navy letters outlined in sea green.
Oh, Lord, I still can’t believe it!
I thought of that long-ago morning when we ran away, Lindsay and I. Mom had swayed in the doorway of the bedroom we girls shared. Sunlight shone through the old sheet I’d tacked to our window for a curtain, making her skin look pastier than usual. Her hair was wild, her eyes bleary. She looked ready to collapse. If the alcohol didn’t get her, malnutrition would.
“Carrie!” She tried to look angry, but her facial muscles weren’t cooperating. “Bobby says you came after him with a knife!”
