A Hole In The Universe Part 3

"Yeah," the boy said, rolling his dark eyes. Yesterday Eddie had cut the boy's hours in half. With so many holdups in the neighborhood, they needed someone big up front. So Thurman was hauling garbage and rounding up shopping carts, a humiliating demotion in a job he hated. As long as he stayed in school and kept his job at the Market, his grandmother would let him live with her.

Gordon made his careful way through the messy back rooms. This morning he had dislodged a stack of fruit crates, sending oranges and grapefruit rolling in every direction. It was a shame. Old Mr. Dubbin had been so organized, he used to know where every bit of stock was in the store. Neil's door was ajar. "Mr. Dubbin? Excuse me. Mr. Dubbin?" he called softly, then leaned into the dark, airless room. Water was running. He tapped on the bathroom door. Neil Dubbin emerged, patting his newly shaven face with a dingy towel. He nodded sheepishly as Gordon relayed Eddie Chapman's message. He said he'd be right out. He was almost ready.

"Wait," he called before Gordon could leave. "What's your name again? I forgot."

"Gordon."

"Gordon? Gordon what?"

"Loomis."

"Loomis?" The hand with the towel dropped to his side. "How long you been working?"

"Since eight."

"I mean, here. What day? When'd you start?"

"Monday. I came in the afternoon."

"Who hired you?" He leaned closer. "Wasn't me, was it?"

"Yes. Well, in a sense. But actually I guess it was Eddie. I mean Mr. Chapman."

"Mr. Chapman!" Neil laughed. "No. You were right the first time. You mean Eddie." He laughed again. "So how's Denny doing? I haven't seen him in a while."

"He's fine. He's doing well, thank you." Gordon kept trying to swallow.

"So, what happened? How'd you . . ." He twirled his hand. "You know, end up here?"

"The sign. It said, HELP WANTED."

"No, I mean, how'd you get out?" He laughed. "You didn't escape, did you?" Dubbin's gleeful wonder escalated. "I mean, you're not on the f.u.c.king lam or anything, are you?"

"I was paroled," he said, the word a stone's weight upon his tongue.

Delores Dufault checked her watch again. Almost six, and Albert still hadn't let her know about tonight. She had called him this morning at the Dearborn store, but he couldn't really talk. He'd have to get back to her on the details. All day long she had a.s.sumed that meant yes, that he was coming to dinner, but now she wasn't so sure. She was tempted to call again, but that would irritate him, so she'd been trying to keep busy until she heard from him. Their night together had always been Friday or Monday, depending on Albert's schedule. Holidays belonged to his family, of course. Lately, though, she'd hardly seen him at all. The new store was taking up all his time. It was already doing three times the business the old one was, he had said almost accusingly. But what did he expect with all their old customers going to the Dearborn store? Albert said people didn't want to drive into the poor, grim city of Collerton, which was precisely why he had opened the new store in Dearborn's affluent little downtown. Rents might be sky-high in Dearborn, but that's where the customers were.

Kiki said the handwriting was on the wall; it was only a matter of time before Smick Stationery closed, like so many other Collerton stores. Delores hadn't called her since. If she wanted to be put down, all she had to do was call one of her sisters. She didn't need it from her best friend.

When Delores finished refilling the greeting-card display rack, she noticed that the manila envelopes on the rounder were getting low. She looked out back but couldn't find any. As he had everything else, Albert must have taken them to the new store and forgotten to tell her so she could order more. He couldn't seem to keep things straight lately. Orders were always being messed up, and last month he'd sent three checks to the wrong suppliers. The problem was his family. They wouldn't be happy until they'd drained every bit of energy and happiness out of the poor man. All he got at home were complaints and coldness. It killed her to see that perky little wife of his in her sleek workout clothes breeze in here with her painted smile, calling everyone honey and sugar in her fiercely guarded southern drawl, when Delores knew what a calculating, self-centered woman she really was. His son was a leech, and his daughter was a spoiled brat whose prep-school tuition and brand-new sports car left her poor father too broke even to buy himself a decent pair of shoes. Two Christmases ago, Delores had bought him the expensive English cordovans he had worn every day since. It was depressing to see the heels all worn down, his wrinkled pants, and the frayed collars. Didn't his wife care? Or as usual, was Delores the only one who did? She slammed the storeroom door and stood by the front window, looking out at the street.

Here she was again, getting all worked up over a situation that had gone on for years. Maybe Kiki was right. If Albert was really that unhappy, why didn't he just up and leave? But maybe that's it, But maybe that's it, Kiki had said in that last phone call. Kiki had said in that last phone call. Maybe he just likes using you for his dumping ground, then when he's got it all out of his system he can just head back home and start over. Maybe he just likes using you for his dumping ground, then when he's got it all out of his system he can just head back home and start over.

Dumping ground. Is that all she was, a dumping ground? What a disgusting thing to say, but of course, Kiki didn't know the real story. No one did. Albert was just too decent and loyal to ever hurt his family. Every Sunday without fail, he spent an hour at the nursing home with his father, who didn't even recognize him anymore. Once when he bent down to kiss the top of his father's head, the old man slapped his face. Delores had never told Albert that last winter when he and his wife went to Aruba, she had brought flowers and homemade fudge to his father and watched the Ma.s.s on television with him. When it came time for her to go, the old man cried. He held on to her hand and wouldn't let her leave.

Two women had just come into the store. They brought a box of colored paper to the register. They said they were starting a cleaning service and needed paper for their first mailing. Only one spoke English. She said her sister and her sister's two grandchildren had just moved in with her. The sister's husband had died last month, and the grandchildren's mother and father were drug addicts. Delores asked the women if they wanted some names for their mailing list. They were all women who worked and could probably use help with the cleaning. Four of the names were her own sisters. Hearing this in translation, the badly bleached widow took Delores's hand and squeezed it, the fierce grip belying her tiny frame. Before they left, Delores had written twenty names and addresses on a piece of store stationery. That's all it takes, That's all it takes, she thought, watching them go down the street, laughing, arm in arm. Now she felt good again. It never seemed to fail: whenever she got down in the dumps, along would come someone much worse off than she was. she thought, watching them go down the street, laughing, arm in arm. Now she felt good again. It never seemed to fail: whenever she got down in the dumps, along would come someone much worse off than she was.

She checked her watch: ten minutes to closing. Gordon was probably on his way to his brother's by now. She wished Dennis hadn't mentioned the cookout. Every time the phone had rung this past week, she had hoped it might be Gordon inviting her. G.o.d, he had looked so good the other night in regular clothes. But the minute she moved closer, she knew she'd made a terrible mistake. He had actually cringed as if away from some foul odor or contagion.

She picked up the phone. If he was gone, she'd leave a message. Saying what, though? She had to be careful. He was always so uptight around her. Dennis said he was like that with everyone, but the other night he'd looked almost panicky. The poor guy, he was obviously afraid to be alone with a woman. He probably thought one wrong move would scare her off. She'd just have to be patient. But persistent, she vowed on the first number. She'd say she was going to the mall tomorrow and would he please call her if he needed anything or felt like going. If he did answer, she'd offer him a ride. She could say she had to drop something off at Albert's house, which wasn't far from Dennis's.

"No!" She hung up the phone. She grabbed a rag and gla.s.s cleaner and scrubbed the front counter case. What Gordon Loomis needed most was a friend and not some lonely woman with too much time on her hands.

"Delores! Where's my jacket? d.a.m.n it! It's not here!" an irritated voice called.

"Oh, Albert!" She jumped up, smiling, then ran into the storeroom. "I didn't hear you come in. Oh, I'm so glad you're here. I've been waiting all day for you to call."

"I can't find my jacket." He was searching through the boxes in his office. "Where the h.e.l.l is it?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen it. Here," she said as he scaled a notepad across the room. "Let me look. If it's here, I'll find it."

"G.o.dd.a.m.n mess," he muttered as she went through the boxes.

"You just need to sort through it, that's all," she said, looking behind the desk.

"I don't have time!"

"Then I'll do it. I told you I would."

He stared at her, shaking his head incredulously. "Well, why haven't you, then?"

"Because you told me not to." She struggled to keep her voice steady. "That's all for the Dearborn store. You said you wanted to keep the two places separate."

"Well, you could organize it, couldn't you? At least do something. Put it all in one place, but don't let this happen!" He sounded so frantic that it was hard to be mad at him.

"Albert!" She touched his cheek, aroused as always by the late day stubble. For such a slight, fair-skinned man, he had a heavy beard. "What's wrong? Listen to you. You're a wreck."

He sighed and hung his head.

"Al! Honey, what is it? Come on, tell me." She put her arms around him, pleased when he didn't resist. "Come on, tell Doe-doe what's wrong. You're tired, aren't you. Well, you just follow me in your car and I'll have you fed and happy in no time," she whispered, kissing his ear and sighing when he shivered against her.

"I can't." He pulled away. "Cheryl's invited some people out to dinner." He hurried into the front of the store. He opened the copy-room door, still looking for the jacket.

"You're going out? Why didn't you tell me? You said you'd call. I haven't seen you in so long. I've just missed you so much."

"I'm sorry, Delores. It just feels like everything's coming down on me all at once, that's all. I mean, here it is my one night to relax, but what does Cheryl care? I mean, after all, who am I?"

"Oh, Al." She hugged him again.

He pulled away, almost pushing her back. "Not out here! What are you thinking? What if someone should come in?" He spoke out of the side of his mouth, his back rigid to the plate gla.s.s as if to a watching throng.

"It's after six. I'll lock the door."

"And then what?" he said with such indignant, widening eyes that she thought he was joking.

"Well, I don't know," she said, watching him. The first move had always been his to make. She had blundered horribly. "I . . . I just thought."

"You just thought what? That all of a sudden I'm going to throw propriety and good judgment right out the window? Right out there on the street for all the world to see?"

Humiliated by his disdain, she closed her eyes.

"Come on, Delores. Get a grip. Please! Will you, please?"

She shook her head, held up her hand. She was fine. It was all right. Really.

"Look," he said, hurrying to lock the door and turn out the lights. "It's like I just said. I can only do so much. You know what my parameters are." He went into his office, and she knew she had won. She followed quietly and unrolled the foam mat on the floor behind his desk, then took off her panty hose. He drew the bolt across the door and turned off the lights, talking while he undressed. "Instead of things getting easier, I have more pressure in my life right now than I've ever had. Ever! And I don't see any end in sight. Not with the way things are going now, anyway," he grunted as he lay down.

"I've missed you," she whispered, climbing onto him.

"I know you have." He sighed with an impatient squirm, his signal for her to begin.

"I just get so lonesome lately." She sat perfectly still.

"I know. I know you do. And I try. I do try. You know I do," he pleaded with an anxious groan. With its urgency came displacement, a strange distance, as if this ache had little to do with her head.

"We never spend any time together." The power was hers. She smiled through the darkness.

"But we are now . . . so let's not waste a minute of it," he gasped as she began.

"Talk to me, Albert. Please." She leaned forward.

"Don't, don't stop."

"Then talk to me. You know I like you to talk to me."

"Yes. Yes, I know. And that feels good," he whimpered, then moaned as she moved again. "That feels so good. You don't know how good it feels. n.o.body makes me feel like this."

It was a technique from one of the manuals Albert had given her. She had a box full of them in a closet at home. She used to be proud of her ability to please him so completely, but lately her skills only left her feeling sad and empty. "Talk to me."

"Oh . . ."

"Talk to me. Talk to me, Albert."

"Yes. I will. I want to. I am. . . ."

"I said talk to me." Her eyes were wide open. His choked, guttural cries rose up from the dark. The words, and feel, and smell of him didn't matter. It was a voice she wanted, thick and deep with need, helpless with desire. Gordon. Gordon. Gordon. Gordon, Gordon. Gordon. Gordon. Gordon, beat the pulse in her brain. beat the pulse in her brain.

CHAPTER 4.

Gordon paused in his doorway before the ten-minute walk to the bus stop. He carried a small round watermelon in a plastic bag and a string-tied bakery box. What a luxury, what a privilege, to stand here staring through the thin gla.s.s of this door, his to open any time he wanted. The warmth of the late-afternoon sun made him smile as he watched a shabby old man hobble across the street. A small, matted dog limped after him.

The neighborhood was run-down, but its vitality was everywhere. Day or night there would be women on their front steps, children playing on the sidewalks, music blasting from idling cars driven by handsome young men who never seemed to leave them. Life might be a struggle here, but its energy charged the air, blind and unstoppable, as relentless a force as the thrust of new green shoots from the brittle rose canes; the clump of errant daffodils that had pushed up through the scrubby gra.s.s; the vines of bittersweet strangling Mrs. Jukas's shrubs. Even her gnarled, dying dogwood tree was half-alive with pink flowers on one side. He opened his door just as the old woman opened hers. Seeing him, she ducked back inside. She probably thought he was watching her house. It would give her little comfort to know this was the way prisoners awaited release from their cells for meals, work, visitors: they stood like this, staring, waiting.

As he came down the walk, a girl ran around the corner. It was the girl who lived across the street. She dove through Mrs. Jukas's bushes and disappeared behind her house. He hesitated, then just kept going. He knew the drill well. Nothing to see, nothing to know, Nothing to see, nothing to know, old Jackie McBride would whisper. old Jackie McBride would whisper. You don't want to be here forever, do you?You've still got a chance, a life out there. You don't want to be here forever, do you?You've still got a chance, a life out there.

He started down the street for what would be his first trip of any distance alone into the world. Behind him, a car slowed and then drove alongside. He could only see the pa.s.senger, a young man with a curly black beard and small round sungla.s.ses.

"Hey, buddy!" He stuck his head out the open window. Cupped in his palm was a badge. "A girl just run by here?"

"No, sir." The automatic response, respectful-and blind.

"What do you mean? She just came around the corner!" He lifted the sungla.s.ses to squint up at Gordon.

"I don't know, sir. I just came out." His heart raced. Imagine! How many times had he heard of this? How many times? Guys like him doing it right, all by the book-only to be trapped in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Out from where?"

"My house. That's where I live. Seventy-five Clover."

"Yeah, all right," the cop said, and the unmarked cruiser pulled into the street.

Gordon was the only pa.s.senger on the bus. His stomach felt a little queasy, so he got off at the first stop in Dearborn. He still had a mile-and-a-half walk to Dennis's. Apparently, not many people in Dearborn rode the bus. They all had cars, two or three or even four, he thought, counting the garage doors now on an enormous yellow house high on the knoll above the street.

He remembered that his brother's house was gray. He had wanted to go straight home that first day out of Fortley. Dennis had insisted they stop in Dearborn. He couldn't wait for Gordon to meet the children. And to see his s.p.a.cious, sunny house. "Mom got such a kick out of this," Dennis had said with a click of the remote control that triggered a whoosh whoosh of flames through the birch logs in the fireplace. Gas, Dennis explained to his startled brother. "See this? She loved this." With the touch of another b.u.t.ton, skylights slid open like enormous eyes onto the starry night. Dennis had been a wonderful son. Gordon used to enjoy reading his mother's letters filled with the details of his brother's accomplishments and acquisitions. He couldn't bear to read the ones written when she was depressed and struggling to understand how such a horrible thing could have happened. What had she done wrong? she would ask. How had she failed him? What could she have done differently? She'd tried her best, loved her two boys, raised them both the same, hadn't he known that? of flames through the birch logs in the fireplace. Gas, Dennis explained to his startled brother. "See this? She loved this." With the touch of another b.u.t.ton, skylights slid open like enormous eyes onto the starry night. Dennis had been a wonderful son. Gordon used to enjoy reading his mother's letters filled with the details of his brother's accomplishments and acquisitions. He couldn't bear to read the ones written when she was depressed and struggling to understand how such a horrible thing could have happened. What had she done wrong? she would ask. How had she failed him? What could she have done differently? She'd tried her best, loved her two boys, raised them both the same, hadn't he known that?

The watermelon bag thumped against his thigh. Just when he was sure he was lost, he came upon the black-and-gold DEARBORN COUNTRY CLUB sign and remembered that Dennis's house overlooked the sixteenth hole. Dearborn was cooler than Collerton, he noted, entering the deepening shade of linden and maple trees. He kept looking behind him. The stillness seemed unnatural. There weren't any sidewalks, but then there weren't any people or even cars going by.

He was halfway up Dennis's long front walk when the sprinkler system sputtered on, hissing out long watery arcs that swayed back and forth over him. He stepped back and waited for the spray to pa.s.s, then ran in a crouch, only to be drenched in the next wave. Head down, he clutched the cake box to his chest and darted off to one side to catch the lull. He started to run, then everything stopped with an eerie silence. The round black sprinkler heads retracted, disappearing like periscopes into the thick wet gra.s.s. Pollen-swirled water ran down the walk into the road.

"Gordon!" Lisa called from the French doors above. "Oh, you're all wet!" She was laughing. Water dripped down his face and arms. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Come on," she coaxed, gesturing him closer. "It's all right. I turned it off." She started to laugh again, then apologized as she led him into the big square kitchen. "But you just looked so . . . so helpless out there. Oh, Gordon." She threw her arms around him. "I'm sorry. I'm just so happy and nervous, and I don't know what else, but it's just so wonderful to . . . to have you here!"

"It's wonderful to be here." He moved back stiffly.

She wanted him to change into something of Dennis's. He patted himself off with a dish towel and insisted he was fine. Dennis wasn't home yet, she said. Gordon felt panicky. He had never talked to her alone before. Pale ale, Harrington's newest, she said, taking a beer from the refrigerator. Her family owned the Harrington Brewery in Collerton. Before becoming Dennis's father-in-law, Mr. Harrington had been his patient, then his golf partner. The friendship had cooled, however, with Dennis's growing attention to Lisa, ten years younger and just out of college. Socializing with the brother of a notorious killer had been a bit of a hoot for the boozy, handsome Harringtons, but mixing bloodlines was the last thing they had ever imagined for their only child.

"How is it?" she asked with his first sip.

"Good," he lied.

"It's even lighter than the one last time," she said.

He sat on a stool at the long green-granite counter separating the kitchen from what Dennis had called the great room. At Fortley they called the day lounge the big room, though he had never known why, since it could hold only ten or fifteen men at a time. He had to be careful; the half bottle of beer he'd had his first night here had gone right to his head. He didn't even really like the taste. Lisa was making room in the refrigerator for the watermelon. He wished she'd open the cake box. He had remembered her saying once that chocolate cake with raspberry filling was her favorite dessert. Dennis found it strange that he could recall such random facts. It came from having so little contact with people, so naturally he would remember exactly who had said what to him.

Lisa sat next to him and guillotined the wire cutter down through the block of cheese on the marble tray. She was tall, olive-skinned, with thick chestnut hair that shone in the light. Her long legs looped around the stool. She was attractive in a rangy, boyish way, certainly not the prettiest of the girlfriends his brother had brought to Fortley. Gordon had hated those visits. Self-conscious with women, especially women he didn't even know, he could never think of anything to say. Not only did Dennis do most of the talking, but he would be so unusually loquacious, so focused on Gordon's reticence, that he found it necessary to explain in painful detail exactly what his brother was thinking, feeling, or trying so dismally to express. Lisa had been the only one to cut Dennis short. Leaning toward the small microphone in the gla.s.s, she had said in a robotic monotone, "Earth to Gordon. Earth to Gordon. Your brother thinks you've disappeared. Please inform him you are sitting right here in front of him."

As she pa.s.sed him a slice of cheese, her hair fell across her face. He was glad she was growing it long again. Around her neck was a diamond-studded cross on a thin gold chain. Lisa taught a religious-education cla.s.s one night a week and sang in St. Margaret's choir every Sunday. Gordon had felt guilty when Dennis said he'd never been to hear her sing.

Until his arrest, they had always gone to church as a family. When he first got to Fortley, the familiar ritual of Ma.s.s seemed his last link to a life he could no longer have. But it was also there in the blue block walls of the austere little chapel that his anguish and remorse were the worst. He would bury his face in his hands to m.u.f.fle the sobs. Evil had invaded his aimless, blundering life, and he didn't know how he could live with the consequences of what he had done. He stopped going to church. Back home, so had his family.