A Hole In The Universe Part 8

"Hey!" she called before he could leave. "Do me a favor, will ya?"

"What?"

"Will you let me know when the b.i.t.c.h dies? Because of her I gotta go all the way down the Shop and Save every time I need friggin' milk or something."

"Well, just tell me, then. I can get it for you. I live right across the street."

"Yeah, I know." Her ropy mouth quivered with a faint smile. "You know JumJum?"

"No. I don't."

"He's there, too." She grinned. "At the Fort. You probably heard of him, though, huh?"

"Yes, I did hear that name," he said stiffly. "Just the other day, as a matter of fact." He looked at his watch. "You better get going or you're going to be late."

"What'd you hear about him?" She watched him closely.

"Well, what you just said. That he was there."

"He offed somebody, too." She looked around and leaned closer. "He blew this guy's brains out all over his girlfriend's brand-new Celica. But that's not why. He's there for something else. Dealing, but that's not the real reason."

"I better go."

"Yeah, well, see ya." She held out her hand and shook his, her grip hard as a man's.

"You better check your pockets, see what's missing," Serena called when he came inside.

"What do you mean?"

"You know who she is, don't you?"

"She's my neighbor. She lives across the street."

"The Fossums aren't neighbors!" Serena scoffed. "They don't move in or anything. They, like, infest the place and then you can't get rid of 'em."

Gordon had never worked so hard as in these last few days. According to the women, each new bout of sobriety forced Neil Dubbin to even higher, steeper peaks of ambition, so vast was his trail of broken promises. His pledge to turn the Market into a first-rate business had few believers in his family, but at least his creditors were extending him three more months of their patience. To Gordon had fallen the verminous task of tearing out the rotting cabinets to make way for new storage. Neil tried to help in between the violent headaches that drove him, nauseated and squinting, to his sour room, where darkness was his only antidote, other than alcohol. He had just reemerged and now sat on an overturned crate, shoulders hunched, wincing with every hammer strike. Again, Gordon offered to stop.

"No, keep going. Please. I need you to do this. It's too important," he insisted. Neil's surest skill was entrusting others with his well-being. He needed not just their help, but their loyalty and affection in a way that validated their self-importance. And maybe he genuinely did; Gordon couldn't be sure, not when his own natural distrust of people blotted out such nuances. He had known other men like Neil, irresistibly bitter men whose sins seem more affliction than failings. Even Neil's eager fascination with other people's pain made them think he truly cared about their troubles.

"You're pretty good at this," Neil said. "Is this the kind of thing they teach you there?"

"I used to help my father a lot," Gordon said quietly.

"Just the opposite of me and my dad. They never wanted me wasting my time around here. I think I was supposed to be a big-time accountant or lawyer or something, I forget. But thank G.o.d they never sold the farm!" he declared with a bitter sweep of his arm. "Where the h.e.l.l h.e.l.l would I be without it?" would I be without it?"

Gordon kept tapping the crowbar, to drive it deeper behind the cabinet frame.

"Just so you'll know," Neil continued. "I haven't said anything. I mean, about you, back then. I haven't told anyone."

Shoulder braced to the wall, Gordon wrenched the heavy bar back and forth. A persuader, his father used to call it. A persuader. They didn't know. Not yet. In a way it would be a relief to get it over with.

"I mean, what's the point? You know what I mean, they'll just get all worked up. The girls, I mean. They'll start thinking weird things, you know, like . . . like . . . maybe they can't be alone back here with you or something. But then how long can you keep a secret like that? It must've been h.e.l.l, huh, just a kid and being locked up all that time? I never could've done it. I would've checked out my first night there-broken gla.s.s, sheets, something. You ever try anything like that?"

The crowbar fell to the floor. Grunting, Gordon pulled as hard as he could.

"You must've thought of it, though, huh? You must've." Neil's harsh breathing scratched at the silence. "Hey, I saw you get picked up the other day. Pretty lady. You must be making up for a lot of lost time, huh? I mean, twenty-five years! Jesus Christ, what does a big, healthy guy like you do? You gotta have something more than a warm hand, right?"

The rank dust of food-fouled wood exploded into the air as the cabinet gave way.

"You probably did what you had to do, right? Well, anyway, I haven't said anything to anybody." Neil sighed. "I just wanted you to know that."

It was Friday, and Gordon was on his way home from work, still hoping Jilly Cross might call. In his bag there was an angel food cake, a pint of strawberries, and a can of real whipped cream for dessert tonight. He was surprised to be looking forward to dinner at Delores's. He was tired of his own pathetic attempts at cooking. Nothing ever came out right. Last night's steak had been so dry and tough, he'd had to cut it into slivers to chew it.

The phone was ringing as he unlocked the door. "h.e.l.lo! h.e.l.lo!" he shouted into the dial tone. Reading from Jilly's business card, he dialed the first three numbers, then hung up. It didn't seem right, asking to see condos he would never buy. But if she called him-well, that was different.

He waited by the phone a moment more in case it rang again. When it didn't he went down the narrow wooden stairs into the cellar. He stripped off his soiled, sweaty clothes and put them into the washing machine so they'd be clean for tomorrow. It hadn't occurred to him he needed more clothes until June asked the other day if that blue sweatshirt and pants were all he had.

He was lathering his arms in the shower now and trying to remember the last time he had actually bought clothes in a store. Vague images rose through the steam: his elbows banging into tiny dressing-room walls as he hurried to undress before the curtain parted, then crouching from the gash of light as his mother handed in a shirt with sleeves inches short of his wrists and pants with cuffs she would tear out and then hem in her long, clumsy st.i.tches. The first woman in her family not to do piecework in the mills, she had been proud of her inept.i.tude with needle and thread.

He put on the chinos and yellow shirt Dennis had gotten for him to wear home from Fortley. As he sat on the edge of the bed, tying his shoes, he could see down into Mrs. Jukas's backyard. In the full swell of late-afternoon sun, the trees seemed even thicker with leaves than this morning and the gra.s.s darker in the deepening shadows. The only trees through Fortley's windows had all been distant, the land cut close, allowing no shrub or stump of growth for a man's concealment.

Neil Dubbin had asked, but the truth was Gordon had never considered suicide as a way out. The most vital elements had died inside, died before he got there. After a while he stopped noticing the horizon's lethal scroll of razor wire. The letters and visits he initially yearned for soon became cruel reminders of a lost world. His father's trembling head and stroke-frozen face seemed only further proof of his crime. In a way, he had been glad when his father finally died, glad for his father, relieved for himself and his mother, who seemed happier, less burdened. From then on, her letters brightened with details of Dennis's busy life or her trips with friends, and then her pride in Lisa, who was exactly the kind of girl a mother would want for her only son, one letter so guilelessly confided. But he knew what she meant. He understood. It was all part of the price.

The phone rang and he grabbed it on the first ring. A breeze lifted the curtain as the room filled with Jilly Cross's voice. She apologized for not calling sooner. The condo had gone under agreement, but another had come on the market this afternoon. It was perfect, just the right size, still in Collerton, which she knew he preferred, but in a much better neighborhood-and, she added, still in his price range. "I thought of you immediately!" she said, and he grinned. "Can you see it tonight? I've got to make a few more calls and then I could pick you up."

"Yes, of course." He had to check on something first and then he'd call her right back to tell her when.

He dialed Delores's number, then hung up quickly, confused when he got the recording. He was supposed to be there in twenty-five minutes, so why hadn't she answered? Maybe she was busy cooking. He called again, listened to the tape. "h.e.l.lo, Delores?" he said in a rush at the beep. "Delores, this is Gordon. Gordon Loomis. I can't . . . The thing is, I have to . . . that is, you see . . . well, let's see now, what should I do? Maybe you're at the store. Maybe you're not home yet. I'm going to call you there. That's what I'll do. I'm going to call you at the store."

Listening, Delores froze, hand inches over the phone. She'd heard that tension in so many men's voices. If she answered, he'd say he couldn't come. But at least he wasn't leaving the message on her machine the way others had done. The phone rang again. He sounded frantic. "h.e.l.lo, Delores? Delores, this is Gordon Loomis calling you back. I mean, I called before and you weren't there, so now I'm calling back. I just called the store, but you're not there. And now you're not home, either, so I don't know. I'm not sure, maybe I've got the wrong night. I thought you said this Friday. But maybe you meant-"

"Gordon!" she cried, as if in a breathless run for the phone. "I couldn't really hear who it was. I was busy cooking and then I realized it was you, and yes, you're right. I did say Friday. Tonight. In fact, everything's just about ready. . . ." The countertops were cluttered with cuc.u.mber peels, onion skins, and discarded lettuce leaves, bottles of spices and oils, the sink filled with bowls and pans. Her shoulder crimped to the phone, she turned on the hot water and began to scrub the encrusted fry pan.

He couldn't come. There was an appointment, a very important appointment he had forgotten until just a few minutes ago. "I'm sorry-"

"No!" she cried. It was all the unanswered letters, the long, hopeful drives to Fortley, her prideless efforts to keep the conversation going, telling him things he so obviously had little interest in, her sisters, nieces, nephews, neighbors, the store, her boss, and the illicit sensation of speaking Albert's name to another man, this man she had grown to care deeply about. But then, as with Albert, the secret had taken on its own life, its significance swelling with an imagined complicity that required no acknowledgment on his part. It suddenly seemed so twisted. Yes, it was. It was. She knew it was, but she could not, would not, continue to be unloved, and so his cold disinterest and her desire had to exist on parallel tracks, unexamined. And now with their collision she wasn't sure who she was berating, the fantasy lover or the socially blunted ex-convict. "You can't just be calling me up twenty minutes before you're supposed to be here! I've been expecting you! I've got everything cooked." Her voice faltered as she looked around. "I mean, what am I supposed to do with all this-"

"I'm sorry. I should have thought. I'll be right there. I'll still be on time. I just have to make a phone call and then I'll leave . . . I'll be right there!"

Bag clutched to his side, Gordon hurried down his front walk.

"Hey, how's it going?" Jada's mother, Marvella, called in a lazy voice from her top step as he crossed the street. She waved.

"h.e.l.lo." He gave a stiff nod and walked quickly by. Serena knew Marvella's brother, Bob, the only near-normal one in the family-well, the only one that worked, she'd said. He had his own business-his own truck, anyway-cleaning out septic tanks.

"Come on over sometime. Sixty-four Clover, come over, come over, first floor, door on the right, where there's always a party going on, going on, going on, always a party . . ."

Her bawdy voice pursued him to the corner.

He had to hurry. He wasn't enjoying this walk at all. His feet hurt. Winded, he took the steps two at a time to Delores's second-floor apartment.

"I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry," they both said with the opening door.

"I shouldn't have spoken to you like that," she said.

"I shouldn't have called at the last minute like that." He was trying to catch his breath.

Their uneasiness continued through the brief c.o.c.ktail time. She had a mug chilling in the refrigerator, but all he wanted was a c.o.ke. The can was fine, he said before she could pour it into the frosted mug. "No sense dirtying a gla.s.s."

"That's no problem," she said, pouring it anyway. She spilled her Manhattan onto the sofa, then drank the next one much too quickly. They sat at the round table dragged in earlier from the kitchen. She had covered it with an embroidered linen tablecloth and positioned it in front of the living-room window. She struck a match, and her hand trembled as she lit the tall green candles. The two salad plates were the only ones left of her mother's pattern, Desert Rose. Someday she would complete the set, she was telling him, but he looked at her blankly. Yes, she thought, when she did her registry. She poured them both Cabernet, Albert's favorite with any kind of roasted meat. She felt better now. He looked at his watch again. Such a big man, he must be hungry. Such a big man, he must be hungry. The ruby liquid glistened through the facets as she raised her gla.s.s in a well-practiced toast. "To your return home, Gordon." She paused, but he didn't take up his gla.s.s. "May your days be filled with good food, good times, and good friends. And may your heart know only love." He began to eat, so she made a little swoop of the gla.s.s and then took a sip. The ruby liquid glistened through the facets as she raised her gla.s.s in a well-practiced toast. "To your return home, Gordon." She paused, but he didn't take up his gla.s.s. "May your days be filled with good food, good times, and good friends. And may your heart know only love." He began to eat, so she made a little swoop of the gla.s.s and then took a sip.

"Thank you. Thank you very much." He was halfway through his salad. "That was delicious," he said when he was done. He glanced around the table. She thought he was embarra.s.sed to have finished so quickly while she was still eating. She offered him more; there was a whole other bowl in the refrigerator. "Oh, no. No, thank you." He told her how Fortley's salads had been a slimy mush of limp lettuce and crushed tomato chunks. "What's that cheese called?" He pointed to her fork.

"Goat cheese," she said, keenly aware that his lips parted as she raised the fork to her mouth. She took his plate into the kitchen. When she returned, he grinned to see the cheese-covered salad she placed in front of him.

Everything was delicious. It was, he said again as he ate the last baked potato. It was the best meal he'd ever had. "Leave room for dessert," she warned. She hadn't even mentioned her chocolate cake, so touched was she by his thoughtfulness in bringing dessert.

"I hope you like strawberries," he said with such hopeful concern that a trickle of warmth seeped from her chest up into her cheeks.

"I do."

"They're right in season now."

"Yes, this is the best time."

"I can't wait to try them." He glanced at his watch again.

She thought he was concerned about walking home in the dark. She had already said she'd give him a ride.

"That was something I really missed," he was saying. "Fresh strawberries. So many other things I forgot about . . . well, not really forgot. Just never gave much thought to. It all just kind of faded. The possibility-I guess that's what I mean." He shrugged uneasily.

It was the most he'd ever shared of his feelings. Tensed on the edge of her chair, she stared at his face, the strong chin, the smooth cheeks and wide brow, boyish in spite of all he'd been through: depravities she could only imagine, loneliness more terrifying to her than death. Twenty-five years, Twenty-five years, she thought, heavy eyed with this blinding ache in her belly, she thought, heavy eyed with this blinding ache in her belly, twenty-five years and he's never been held or touched by a woman. twenty-five years and he's never been held or touched by a woman. There was an odd agelessness about him. He was both young and old, but with no experience, no connection in between. Her head trembled with the struggle to keep her fists clenched on the table. There was an odd agelessness about him. He was both young and old, but with no experience, no connection in between. Her head trembled with the struggle to keep her fists clenched on the table. Let me help, let me touch you and hold you, give me your pain and I will show you how good life can be, how beautiful. Let me help, let me touch you and hold you, give me your pain and I will show you how good life can be, how beautiful. There wasn't a morning she didn't wake up knowing that this was the day she had been waiting for. Love, with its mysteries and excesses, children, food, laughter, it was all such a wonder. Even grief had its own allure. At wakes and funerals she could give the best and most of herself, consoling, weeping, embracing even mere acquaintances in their time of need. She had never been afraid to feel any of it. Being unable to love, that would be the worst torment of all. There wasn't a morning she didn't wake up knowing that this was the day she had been waiting for. Love, with its mysteries and excesses, children, food, laughter, it was all such a wonder. Even grief had its own allure. At wakes and funerals she could give the best and most of herself, consoling, weeping, embracing even mere acquaintances in their time of need. She had never been afraid to feel any of it. Being unable to love, that would be the worst torment of all.

"Some things never go away, do they?" She wasn't sure what she meant. She had to be careful. She had drunk almost the entire bottle of wine herself. This time she had vowed there wouldn't be even the suggestion of intimacy, no touching or sitting too close. First there had to be an emotional connection. "It must have been so hard. I mean, I can't imagine it, being so young and then suddenly it's all gone, everything you've ever known or wanted. Your future, I mean, what does that do to a kid?" His implacable stare seemed too high a wall to surmount. She waved her hand weakly. "How do you live without . . ." What was the word he'd used? "Without possibility? How do you do that?" she asked, voice and heart quavering with the message in his cold, unblinking eyes that she had gone too far again, not with the bulk of her flesh this time, but with her own pain-when it was his pain she was feeling, his wounds she would help heal.

"That's just the way it was, that's all." He looked at his watch.

"But you had to be so strong. I mean, when you knew-"

"I had to be realistic."

"But Jerry c.o.x lied. You know he did. He went back there after. He went back by himself." She felt herself stumbling toward him now but couldn't stop because she had read all his testimony on microfiche and needed to help, needed him to know that if no one else on the face of the earth believed him, she did. He may have left the woman unconscious under the pillow, but he had left her alive, not strangled to death the way they said.

"I'm not going to talk about that." His face blurred over the long blue flame. "If you don't mind," he added quietly.

"I'm sorry." She stood up. "I'll get your dessert. It'll only take a minute." She patted his shoulder and he looked at her with an expression of such anguish, such loss, that from now on, whatever this poor man wanted, she would do it. Anything. Anything at all, her eyes told him.

"I have to leave in a half hour. I'm being picked up."

"What do you mean?" She turned dizzily. "Who? Who's picking you up?"

"A real estate agent. Jilly Cross. That was the appointment. Remember? When I called-so I changed it. I changed the time." Clearly nervous, he checked his watch again. "You don't have to slice them, you know. I mean, they're just as good whole." He swallowed hard. "And maybe even better that way."

"You have an appointment with a real estate agent?" He hadn't said date, but then, under the circ.u.mstances, would he?

"To see some condos. She had new ones she wants to show me."

"Condos? You're going to sell the house?"

"No! No, I like it there. It's Dennis. It's like a favor for him. I mean, he wants me to move, but I'm not. The favor, I guess, is to give Jilly Cross some business." He smiled.

"Well, if you're not going to buy anything, it sounds more to me like you're just, you know, wasting her time. Stringing her along." Wasting his own time, Wasting his own time, she thought, irritated by Dennis's influence. He hadn't even wanted his brother back here. she thought, irritated by Dennis's influence. He hadn't even wanted his brother back here.

"I know, but I told her." Gordon followed her into the kitchen with his soiled plate. He dropped his knife and fork into the sink with an unnerving clatter. "She knows I don't want to move." He put a strawberry into his mouth. "I don't know, maybe she thinks she's going to change my mind or something." He grinned and a thin red trickle ran down his chin. He wiped it away with his cuff.

In her rush she cut herself, so now she was trying to slice the strawberries with a paper napkin wrapped around her thumb. Bits of tissue kept sticking to the fruit. She tore it off, only vaguely concerned that her blood might be mixing with these raggedly sliced berries. She carried his bowl to the table. A dull ache had started at the base of her skull. Her period. What a waste that was. The monthly reminder of emptiness. The soon-to-be-ebbing tide of . . . of possibility, The monthly reminder of emptiness. The soon-to-be-ebbing tide of . . . of possibility, she thought, standing over him now with the chilled can, shaking and shaking and shaking it, then giving a long, vicious spurt of curled cream onto the strawberries she thought, standing over him now with the chilled can, shaking and shaking and shaking it, then giving a long, vicious spurt of curled cream onto the strawberries he shouldn't have brought here without asking he shouldn't have brought here without asking, she thought as flecks of cream sputtered onto the tablecloth, angering her even more. Now, everything is ruined, and he doesn't even know. Now, everything is ruined, and he doesn't even know.

"Thank you," he said, chewing. "Oh, this is so good."

Suddenly, she was glad he was leaving. She would have the rest of the night to herself, to do whatever she wanted. She wasn't a young woman anymore. This constant solicitude was draining, bewildering to never have it returned. She sat down, but he didn't look up. She sucked at the tip of her finger and watched him tilt the bowl for the last spoonful of juice. It's more than reserve. Or caution, even. No. He's missing something. Something inside. Or maybe it's me. Maybe there's nothing in me for a man to love or hold on to. It's more than reserve. Or caution, even. No. He's missing something. Something inside. Or maybe it's me. Maybe there's nothing in me for a man to love or hold on to.

"As it turned out, there's only one we can see," Jilly Cross said stiffly as they drove down the street. Her voice sounded different tonight, strained.

He was afraid he was annoying her with his struggle to get his seat belt buckled. Eight o'clock was too late for the people on State Line Road, which left only the Meadowville condo, she said, but that was vacant, so it would be better to go when he could see it by daylight.

"That's all right. I can see it tonight," he said quickly. He didn't want to be taken home. He pressed the seat belt against his hip so it looked buckled. It was these small inept.i.tudes that made him feel most out of step with everyone else.

"There's another one that just came in, but the woman has cats so she has to be there when it's shown. Or something like that, I don't know." She seemed distracted.

"Why, do they bite or something?"

"No, they're house cats. She's afraid someone'll leave a door open and they'll get out."

"How can they be house cats if they live in a condo? They must be condo cats," he said with a broad grin. He wanted to make her laugh. He almost felt giddy as they drove toward the fast-rising moon, tangerine in the blue-black sky. The evening air was sweet.

"That's right." Her nose and cheeks were red, as if she'd gotten sunburned. Her lips were a soft coral, the same shade of the scarf knotted around her neck.