by Shawna Seed
Why was she so thirsty? Sharlah turned on the kitchen faucet, caught some water in her hand and drank it. Her arm hurt like hell.
“I’m sorry, Joan,” Sharlah mumbled. “I don’t think I can come in today.”
“You what?”
“I can’t come in today.” Sharlah knew she needed to say more. She should explain about the trip to the hospital, the Tylenol 3 – especially about the Tylenol 3. But she couldn’t seem to form the words.
“Sharlah, we are open 365 days a year. Our customers count on us. And I count on you.” Sharlah vaguely recalled hearing Joan give this speech before, to someone else. “You are scheduled to work, and I need you to be here. Are you going to be here?”
“I don’t think so.”
Joan let out a long, exasperated sigh. “Sharlah, if you don’t get here in the next 30 minutes, I’m going to have to let you go. Do you understand?”
“OK,” Sharlah said, and hung up.
When Sharlah woke up the second time, on the couch, her arm still hurt like fire. She was still thirsty. But her mind was clearer – clear enough to wonder why she was asleep on the couch and to realize the light in the living room was wrong.
Only when she walked into the kitchen for water and saw that the clock read 10:30 did she remember the conversation with Joan.
She reached hurriedly for the phone and then moaned as pain shot through her arm. She’d have to remember to use her right arm as little as possible.
The phone in Joan’s office rang 12 times, and when someone finally answered, it was one of the other waitresses, not Joan.
“Donna, it’s Sharlah. I need to talk to Joan.”
“You’re dead meat.” Donna relayed this news a bit cheerfully, Sharlah thought. “You know how she is about no-shows.”
“I can explain,” Sharlah said. “Would you please just get her?”
While she waited, Sharlah surveyed kitchen. She was going to have to call the landlord about the back door and window, and he was going to be mad. Sharlah didn’t think it was her fault that someone shot her, but he probably wasn’t going to see it that way.
Just thinking about saying those words aloud to Joan – I’m not at work because someone shot me – had a sobering effect on Sharlah.
“Sharlah, you still there?” It was Donna again.
“Yeah.”
“Joan says you have to come explain in person. She’ll be here until 3.”
Sharlah thanked Donna and hung up. It was less than what she’d hoped for, but at least Joan was willing to hear her out.
It scared Sharlah to think what would happen if Joan didn’t relent. No job, no Brian – she wouldn’t be able to pay the September rent. She’d be out on the street with nowhere to go and no one to help her.
She’d get cleaned up and dressed and show Joan her hospital paperwork. Joan was basically a nice person. She would give her the job back.
They’d told Sharlah at the hospital that she could shower but should try to keep her wound dry. That was easier said than done, especially when she washed her hair. Water mixed with shampoo got under the bandage, and it stung so much it made her gasp.
If Brian were home, he would have washed her hair for her. He did that sometimes, and Sharlah thought that was one of the best feelings in the world. Brian thought it was sexy, and that had led to more than one good-natured argument in their shower, which Sharlah thought was too cramped for what Brian had in mind.
Sometimes she gave in, and Brian would tease her later about her reluctance. “See, you didn’t fall and break your neck,” he’d say. “I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”
Ever since Brian’s arrest, thinking this way had left Sharlah overwhelmed with longing for him. The feeling that overwhelmed her this time, though, was anger – a big, raging thing directed not at the police or Brian’s family, but at Brian himself.
It was Brian who got her into this mess, who sat on the other side of the glass and stared sadly and refused to help himself or give Sharlah anything to hang onto at all.
The hell with this, Sharlah thought. Brian had asked her to come see him, and she would. But this time she was going to get some answers.
Sharlah finished rinsing her hair, turned off the water and yanked the shower curtain back so hard that it almost came off the rod.
She didn’t bother with the hairdryer. The way the rain was pounding on the roof, she could tell there wasn’t any point. She slid into her jeans and pulled a pink T-shirt over her head, the first one her hand had landed on when she opened the drawer.
Her hospital paperwork was sitting on the dresser along with the prescriptions they’d given her. She crumpled the one for Tylenol 3 and tossed it. No way she was taking that again. The other was for an antibiotic, and she put that one in her purse. She’d stop at the pharmacy to get it filled. God only knew how much it would cost.
She grabbed her car keys and stomped out to the living room.
She stopped when she saw the rug.
Vaguely, she remembered that something had nagged at her the night before, and now she knew what it was.
The armchair was moved about a foot from its usual spot, and the rug was off-kilter.
The money, Sharlah thought. What if somebody found the money?
She went to get her pocketknife.
Then she stopped. “This is crazy,” she said aloud. If the police had found the money, they would have questioned her about it. In fact, they’d probably still be questioning her about it. She took a couple steps toward the front door.
But now the idea was in her head, and she couldn’t quite shake it.
Pulling up the floorboard a second time was both easier and harder – easier, because Sharlah knew just where to apply the pressure, and harder, because her arm hurt with the slightest exertion.
She breathed a sigh of relief when she spotted the briefcase in the crawl space.
Sharlah started to put the floorboard back, but then she paused. Maybe it made sense to move the money to a spot where she could check on it quickly.
Or maybe she should leave it exactly where it was. The police hadn’t found it the first time, which meant the crawl space was a good hiding place.
But they’d already searched the house once, and what were the chances they’d do it again? If she moved it, she wouldn’t have to pry the floor up every time she got paranoid.
Even as she argued both sides in her head, Sharlah knew her desire to move the money had nothing to do with the cops’ chances of finding it or not finding it.
She wanted to move the money so she could get to it more easily in case she wanted to use it. It really was that simple. She needed a new clutch; now she had doctor bills; the rent was due in two weeks.
Brian could turn to his parents if things got bad. They might impose conditions, but they would never let him go without food or end up on the street. Sharlah, on the other hand, didn’t have anyone, nobody but Brian, and right now he wasn’t helping her any.
Sharlah liked to think of herself as an honest person. She’d never stolen anything in her life, not even when she was really desperate. If anybody had asked her to deal drugs, she would have said no, no matter how much money they offered her.
But this wasn’t stealing. The money was Brian’s. The drugs had already been dealt.
Sharlah unfolded her pocketknife and pried up the second floorboard.
Figuring out a new hiding place for the money wasn’t easy.
Sharlah thought about wrapping it in aluminum foil and putting it in the freezer. But the freezer held nothing but ice trays, and big square packages would stick out.
The broom closet was her next idea. But there really wasn’t any way to conceal the metal briefcase there, so that idea was out.
She moved to the bathroom, and that’s when she had an idea that struck her as brilliant.
In the cabinet under the bathroom sink, Sharlah kept several unopened boxes of tampons – she’d found a great sale earlier in the summer
. Brian had been with her at the store, and he was horrified when she put all those boxes in their cart. He wouldn’t even wait in the checkout line with her – he just handed her his wallet and went over to leaf through a car magazine until she was done.
Sharlah was pretty sure there was no way a cop would rifle through a tampon box, not when guys were so squeamish about that stuff.
She got a plastic bag from the kitchen and dumped all the tampons into it. Then she transferred the money from the briefcase to the tampon boxes, folded the tops closed and put them back under the cabinet, next to the plastic bag.
That left the envelope with the passports, and the gun.
Sharlah carried the briefcase to the bedroom and put it on the bed, thinking.
She knew she could tuck something flat up under the bottom of the dresser, because she’d found a Playboy there once when she moved the furniture to sweep.
Sharlah stared at the gun for a long time. She wished she could just get rid of it, but she had no idea how to do that.
Nothing came to her, and the morning was ticking away – visitation at the jail started in 20 minutes. She finally wrapped the gun in one of Brian’s old T-shirts and stuffed it in her underwear drawer.
She took the briefcase to the alley and buried it under a big bag of trash in the next-door neighbor’s bin.
The rain picked up as Sharlah drove from the house to the jail. Her clutch felt mushier than it had the day before, and she wondered if the weather could be making it worse. Maybe she’d ask Brian. Maybe that was a question he’d actually answer.
Sharlah wanted to be fair to Brian. She wanted to hear his side of things. But it was getting harder and harder for her to push away her doubts.
She’d thought they had a plan. She would get her GED, then take a typing course. She’d get an office job that paid better than waiting tables. She knew Brian was on board with that – he’d even told her she was smart enough for college.
The second part of the plan, in her mind, was finding a better job for Brian. He’d always shut her down when she’d tried to talk about it, but Sharlah thought that was just because flunking out of college had hurt his confidence. She assumed he needed more time before he was ready to challenge himself again.
The thing that bothered Sharlah most about being poor was the feeling that she didn’t have control over things. That was her goal – more control. She didn’t care about having more stuff, and she’d always thought Brian felt the same way.
Stacks of money hidden under the house, though, made her wonder whether she’d been wrong. Mitch Lowry liked to talk about how he’d built his business up from nothing, but Brian didn’t remember any of that. For most of his life, they’d had a pool in the back yard and new cars and nice vacations.
Kevin and Lynn had honeymooned in Hawaii, and Brian and Sharlah couldn’t even scrape together the money for a weekend in Austin. Had that started to grate? Had Brian come up with his own plan for his future?
Sharlah tried to shake off those thoughts and concentrate on her driving, because the weather was getting worse by the minute.
At one intersection, she plowed through water a foot deep, which spooked her a little. She knew it could just be a plugged storm drain, but the specter of a hurricane was starting to scare her.
The waiting area at the jail was deserted. Apparently the weather was keeping visitors away. Sharlah sat in a plastic chair, took her book out of her purse and tried to concentrate on Sophie’s Choice while they processed her and fetched Brian.
After 20 minutes or so, they let her into the visiting room.
Brian smiled when he came through the door, but it didn’t melt her heart. Not this time.
“I wasn’t expecting you so early,” he said when he picked up the phone. “I thought you had to work this morning.”
“I didn’t go in,” Sharlah said.
Brian could tell something was wrong. “Is everything OK? You never skip work.”
“I never got shot before.”
“What?” Brian sat up straighter and leaned toward the glass divider.
“Why would someone shoot me, Brian?”
“Seriously? Are you OK? What happened?”
“I was standing in the kitchen and someone shot me through the window.” Sharlah pulled up the sleeve of her T-shirt to show him the bandage. “Why would someone shoot me, Brian?”
Brian stared at her arm. “Is it bad? Did you call the police?”
“It grazed me,” Sharlah said. “The hospital cleaned it up, gave me antibiotics and sent me home. You haven’t answered me. Why would someone shoot me, Brian?”
“I don’t know,” he said softly. “God, Shar, you must have been so scared.”
“Does somebody think I know something?”
Brian glanced toward the reminder on the wall that all visits would be taped.
“I don’t care if they’re taping us.” Sharlah pointed to her arm. “Why did this happen?”
Brian was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, he was clearly choosing his words carefully. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“Could someone think I have something of theirs?”
Brian’s eyes widened in alarm. “No,” he said. “There’s nothing like that.” He glanced again at the warning sign on the wall.
Furious, Sharlah sank back in her chair. “I don’t know why I’m even wasting time asking you, because you ‘don’t want to talk about it,’ ” she said, making air quotes.
She stared hard at Brian through the glass. He wouldn’t look her in the eye.
“Maybe you should ask about how work’s going, or my clutch, or the squeaky board in the living room, since those are the only things you ever want to talk about.”
Brian’s head dropped to his chest. “I’m sorry, Shar,” he said. “I don’t blame you for being mad. If you walked out right now and never came back, I wouldn’t blame you.”
Sharlah didn’t answer. The clock on the wall ticked away their precious visiting time. She’d never felt so far away from Brian.
After a minute had gone by in silence, Brian put the phone receiver on his shoulder. He bowed his head and put one hand over his eyes. His shoulders began to shake, and Sharlah watched, chastened, as tears dripped off his chin and wet the front of his shirt.
Sharlah tapped on the glass that separated them. Brian wiped away the tears with the back of his hand and put the receiver back to his ear.
“I’m sorry I got mad. It’s OK, Brian. It’s going to be OK.”
She wasn’t sure she believed that, but it seemed important to say it.
“I’m helpless in here, Shar. I can’t protect you.” Brian gulped hard for air. “I’m useless. I know it.”
“Brian, stop. You’re not useless.”
She’d come in angry, but now Sharlah was desperate to lift Brian’s spirits. It tore at her heart when Brian got down on himself, and she’d do anything to make him feel better. He’d messed up, but he was a good person. She knew that.
Suddenly, an idea came to her, a way to help them both. “You don’t have to fix everything for me. Like my clutch, I just have to go to a mechanic. And you were totally right about the squeaky floorboard.”
Brian eyed her warily. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I checked it out. It would be a lot of trouble to fix.”
Brian nodded once. “When I get out on bail, I’ll deal with it.”
Did that mean he’d understood? Sharlah hoped so.
“So I guess in the meantime, I can just leave it be,” she said.
Their eyes met, and then Brian’s glance slid down to her arm.
“Are you sure you’re OK? Does it hurt? What did the cops say?”
She shrugged. “They seem clueless, like they expect me to tell them who did it. They told me to call 911 if I see anything suspicious, although I think they’re watching me or watching the house. I keep running into this one cop, and…”
The look of panic on Brian’s face made Sharlah’s
heart lurch.
She glanced left, then right. No guards were visible. She mouthed a question to Brian. “Is that bad?”
Brian nodded.
She mouthed another question. “Can I trust them?”
Then, aloud: “Have you ever been in a hurricane?”
“No,” Brian said.
A guard strode into view, and Sharlah wanted to stamp her foot in frustration. She’d thought it was crazy when Robin at the diner said the police were in on everything – the drugs, Missy’s death. Robin thought everything was a conspiracy. But now it seemed that Brian was telling her she should be afraid of the police.
With the guard watching, Sharlah had to keep up the pretense of talking about Hurricane Aileen. “Everybody at the diner has been talking about whether it’s better to leave or stick it out.”
“I think it’s a good idea to leave,” Brian said, carefully enunciating every word.
Was he talking about the hurricane for real now? Sharlah couldn’t tell. “Really? People say if it does hit, and you’re not home, your house will get looted.”
“You can take the stuff that’s valuable, put it in the car and go,” Brian said.
“But people say you won’t be able to get back for days, and then I won’t be able to see you. I don’t even know where I’d go.”
The buzzer sounded, indicating one minute left of visiting time. “I don’t want to get stuck somewhere and not be able to see you, Brian. I don’t want to go.”
Brian put his palm against the glass dividing them. Sharlah did the same and tried to persuade herself she could feel the heat of Brian’s hand through the glass.
“Don’t worry about me,” Brian said. “Keep yourself safe until this blows over. I’ll see you when I see you.”
The phone went dead, and Brian mouthed one final message to Sharlah.
“I love you. Go.”
The door opened behind him, and Sharlah watched as the jail swallowed him up.
The rain had intensified while she was inside, and water stood four inches deep in the parking lot. Sharlah paused under the building’s overhang to roll up her jeans and then splashed to her car.
She switched on the radio and drove toward the diner to see Joan, her wipers on high.
