A Hole in the Universe (39 page)

“Jesus Christ, I’m sicka hearing about that dog. Will you just throw down the boxes?”

Jada tossed them onto the bed, then climbed down.

“See! Look! I told you!” her mother crowed. In the toe of one shoe were a pair of onyx-and-gold cuff links and a man’s tarnished wristwatch.

“Can we go now?” From the doorway Jada kept glancing down the dim hallway to the stairs. “I think we should go. Please, Ma.”

Her mother was searching through the hallway closet. “Hey, look at this!” She held up a policeman’s uniform. She put the cap on Jada’s head, then burst out laughing. “Oh, Jesus!” She covered her mouth and staggered back. “You should see yourself. That’s the funniest thing I ever saw.” Jada tore off the cap and threw it down, which made her mother laugh more.

A shadow darkened the lower wall. Jada ran to the top of the stairs. Someone was on the porch. They’d just passed by the window.

“Who is it?” her mother hissed.

“I don’t know!”

The lock clicked.

“Ma!”

Her mother flattened herself in the alcove against the wall, hand at her mouth, frozen with fear. The door creaked open, then the slow drag of weary footsteps entering. They stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “Rosie? It’s me. I’m back. How come you’re still here? You must’ve started late,” the old lady muttered as she trudged up the stairs, breathless with her labored ascent. “Or was the place that—Oh! Oh no!” The old woman stood in the bedroom doorway, looking in at the disarray.

Jada watched in horror from the opposite wall. Thinking she’d been seen, her mother sprang toward the stairs, trying to get past the old woman, who grabbed her arm in a desperate effort to keep her balance.

“Leave me alone. Let go-a me!” her mother screamed, thrashing and shoving her way free.

There came a sickening crack as Mrs. Jukas fell, landing on her hip. The one grotesquely swollen leg dangled over the steps, stiffly askew as if no longer hers.

As Marvella charged past, the old woman reached out. Whether this angered her mother or frightened her even more, Jada couldn’t tell, but Marvella pushed Mrs. Jukas away with both hands. The old woman rolled, hitting each step right behind her mother as if in some last-ditch, desperate attempt to stop her. She seized Marvella’s leg. “No! No! No!” the old woman groaned with her mother’s kicks. Each blow jerked the old woman’s head back.

“Stop it! Stop it!” Jada screamed, suddenly down the stairs so fast that she would afterward think she had jumped. Her mother’s fear had flamed into such rabid anger that Jada was afraid to get too close. She covered her face; her muffled cries seemed to incite her mother even more. “She’s just an old lady! You’re gonna kill her!”

Mrs. Jukas’s eyes rolled to whites, then back again, each brief gaze locking fiercely on Jada, a beacon of loathing through the waves of oblivion. Outrage and indignation would sustain her. Even with so little left, she could still breathe, still see as long as she could hate.

The bell rang. The old faded eyes widened, fixed on the door. Her mouth opened, the long wordless, soundless scream like a swarm of angry bees in Jada’s brain. Her mother pointed down at the old woman. “Shut up! You just shut up!” she hissed.

Again the doorbell rang. Now the telephone was ringing. Again Marvella pointed. Someone was out there, listening, waiting. Next came three soft raps on the door, apologetic, hesitant, then heavy footsteps moving away. Gordon Loomis’s shadow fell across the curtained side lights.

“Ma! C’mon! We gotta go!”

Her mother looked at her uncomprehendingly. She followed Jada into the kitchen, to the back door, where Jada fumbled to open the three locks. “She’ll say it was us!” her mother gasped, then ran back into the little front hall. She stood over the old woman, grunting and jerking back and forth as if trying to propel herself into action.

“She’s dead, Ma. Look!”

The old woman’s eyes struggled to open, her body convulsing with the effort. Jada could look only at her mother, while below her, between them, the horrible effort went on. “I don’t know what to do. Tell me, tell me what to do,” her mother whimpered as Jada pulled her into the kitchen.

They ran through the old woman’s backyard along the route Jada knew well, keeping to the thin strip of weedy woods, not stopping until they had emerged three blocks away. She pulled the bags from her mother’s hands and her own and kicked them under a parked car. “It’s okay, Ma. It’s gonna be okay,” Jada kept telling her mother, who limped now, barely able to walk.

 

 

Gordon knelt, his cultivator glinting in the sunlight as it clawed out the new weeds. He froze. He couldn’t keep jumping up and running, but his cheek had been stung a few minutes ago. He closed his eyes as the buzzing started around his head again. Sweat trickled down his swollen cheek. He rubbed it with his dirty work glove, and the bee flew off.

Craning his neck, he saw the three bags of groceries still by Mrs. Jukas’s front door. The milk and orange juice couldn’t go much longer without being refrigerated. If she still wasn’t home by the time he finished weeding, then he’d bring the bags inside his house. It was a few minutes past three. He was sure she’d said she’d be back by one or two. His phone was ringing. He stuffed the gloves into his pockets and ran inside. Maybe Mrs. Jukas was calling to say she’d been held up at the doctor’s. By the time he got there, it stopped. He sat down and waited for it to ring again. Pieces of mulch were stuck to the tops of his shoes. He removed them, carefully placing each bit on a magazine. It must have been a wrong number. The quiet house felt too empty. His hand was sore. It first began to hurt carrying Mrs. Jukas’s groceries home. Part of the cut had reopened, and bits of dirt had gotten in. In the kitchen he held his hand under running water. Ronnie Feaster’s SUV was parked across the street. Up on the porch Polie was knocking on Jada’s door. Three adolescent girls in skimpy tops and shorts stood by the passenger window, talking to Feaster. Gordon leaned over the sink. Across the way, a taxi turned into the driveway, then went down the street. Mrs. Jukas must be home. The taxi must have just dropped her off. He hurried next door to return her change before she called looking for it.

“Yo! Hey! Hey, big man!” Feaster called, and the girls looked back.

Ignoring him, Gordon went up Mrs. Jukas’s walk. That was funny; the grocery bags were still there. He rang the bell, then opened the screen door just enough to knock on the inner door. Maybe she had gone upstairs to change before she brought the bags inside. Or maybe she hadn’t even seen them. He hated to keep ringing the bell, so he waited a few more minutes, then went around to knock on the back door. She still didn’t come; probably afraid to with Feaster out here. He returned to the front porch and pushed her money through the pitted brass mail slot in the door. Sixteen dollars and fifty-five cents. The minute the coins hit the floor inside he wished he’d waited. If any rolled under the furniture, she would think he had shortchanged her. He shook the grit out of his work gloves and put them on as he cut across her yard. He’d putter around out here for a while longer. Feaster had just left, so she’d probably come out now.

“Gordon!” Jilly Cross called from his porch.

“Hello,” he said, grinning. Seeing the folder under her arms, he assumed she wanted to tell him about some new properties. Maybe it was her way of putting things back to where they’d been. Her hair was different. Lighter, shorter, almost ragged looking. She was smiling, though her eyes were wary as she came toward him. She seemed younger, more delicate, than he remembered.

“I didn’t think you were home.”

“I was just at my neighbor’s, but she’s not home yet. I had to give her her money back. Her change from the groceries. But see, they’re still out there.” He pointed to the bags, then held up his hands. “I forgot I had these on,” he said with a weak laugh as he tugged off the soiled gloves. “I was doing some work out here. Yardwork.”

“I need to talk to you,” she said so grimly that he knew what it was about.

“Oh. Well, would you like to go in? I’ve got some Diet Pepsi.”

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Do you know? Or do you even care? Dennis and I were business associates, and then the next thing I know his wife’s on the phone screaming at me to stay away from her and her family. I told her what you did, that scene in the post office, how you were yelling at me in front of everyone and saying such horrible things. Oh, God,” she groaned, blotting her eyes with a balled tissue. “It’s all such a mess.”

“I didn’t yell at you.” His mind raced in an assemblage of facts. They had been outside, in front of the post office. He had never raised his voice. No one had been around.

“You might as well have. Attacking me in front of all those people.”

“I wasn’t attacking you. I wasn’t! I was just worried about my brother and his family, and maybe it wasn’t my place to, but it was bothering me, and then I saw you and I said what I said, because I thought it was wrong, I mean, you and my brother . . .” His words trailed off. Her face twisted up in anger.

“No! That’s not why,” she said with a sharp poke at his arm. He stepped back. “And you know it as well as I do. It was this whole weird thing you had about you and me. As if I’d ever be interested in someone like you. That’s what bothered you. That’s when you turned on me! That’s when you started!” This vicious jab knocked the gloves from his hand. Her folder fell, scattering papers down the walk.

He backed onto the steps. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he mumbled as he got the door open and stepped inside. Stunned, he watched through the window as she drove off.

 

 

Delores had enjoyed her first few days at the store. Small and cozy, The Dearborn Lady was decorated in pale pinks and greens, the ceiling soft blue with fluffy white clouds. That it look more like a lady’s boudoir than a dress shop had been Jean Coppersmith’s intent when she’d started the business thirty-one years ago. She knew most customers by their first names and kept careful lists of their birthdays, well aware that hers might be the only cards some of her older ladies would receive. Every inch of wall space had been given over to racks. With so little floor space, Delores was constantly bumping into things. Coming out of the storage room now, she had just dislodged a rounder of silk blouses. She could feel Jean’s eyes on her as she piled the blouses onto the tapestry-covered armchair. Usually bright and perky, Jean had seemed sad all day. A few minutes ago Delores was sure she’d heard crying in the bathroom. She hung the blouses back up, then turned to see the tiny, silver-haired woman with one hand over her mouth. She asked her if she felt all right. Jean said it had been a difficult day, that was all. Well then, she should go home and take a nice hot bath, Delores suggested, putting her arm around her. She knew how to close up, and if she had any questions, she’d call her. Stiffening away, Jean thanked her and said she’d be fine.

“Well, you don’t look too fine.”

“No, but I will be.” Jean nodded and forced a smile as tears welled in her pale blue eyes. She said she’d been dreading this day for months and now had only a few more hours to go before it was over. A year ago today should have been her wedding day, but it hadn’t worked out that way.

“Oh, no,” Delores said, trying to hide her surprise. Jean was well into her sixties.

Jean explained that she had stayed single because of a lengthy relationship with someone who finally got a divorce, then died two days before they were to be married in Palm Beach. “We had everything ready. Tickets bought, bags packed, then suddenly it was almost as if he just disappeared into thin air. You know how I found out? I had to read it in the newspaper. His death notice. That’s how cruel his family was, how little regard they had for me. His son even asked me not to come to the wake and the funeral. ‘Out of respect to the family, ’ he said. What was I? I said. After almost twenty years, what was I?” Jean said. She stood by the door, staring out at the huge cast-iron urn spilling over with ivy and pink and white petunias. This morning she had showed Delores how to pinch them back for more blooms.

“That’s so sad,” Delores said.

“You know what he said? The son, when I asked him that? He said, ‘I’ll tell you what you were. You were a fool. That’s all you ever were.’”

“That’s terrible!” Delores cried with true indignation. “I mean, you loved him and he obviously loved you.”

“Now that I look back, I see that we were always very good friends. If we’d been two men or two women, it would have been so much easier. Really what we did was use each other. Because of me he could stay miserably married all that time, and because of him I didn’t have any risks. I didn’t have to have any other relationships. I could put all my time and energy into the business. Well!” Jean said, perky smile returning. She began to sort out the credit card receipts. “There you have it, my dirty little secret. Sooner or later, one of my ladies would have told you. They find it quite tragic. Especially the young ones. I can tell by the way they look at me. As if I have nothing. Nothing at all. When the truth is, I have everything I’ve ever wanted. The problem is, for a long time I wanted what I thought I was supposed to want.”

The goose bumps were still on Delores’s arms as she stood out on the sidewalk, fighting the urge to beat on the locked door and beg to be told more. More what? About her own life and what she should do about Albert, who was back—two nights in a row now at five forty-five for a drink and a snack, something light before he went home for dinner.

When she got home Albert was already there, laying out his martini ingredients. He was searching through the freezer while news blared from the TV. Frozen peas and frosted blocks of chicken and hamburger patties were stacked on the counter.

“Where’s the Grey Goose? I’ve looked all through here.”

“I don’t know.”

“How could you not know?” he asked with frantic churlishness. “There was at least half a bottle left.”