A Hole in the Universe - Mary McGarry Morris [101]
The front door was locked. Delores had already left. She must not have needed him. She had already left. He felt agitated, yet strangely, euphorically, relieved. He had finally done something, the words having come so swiftly and from so deep within that only energy surged through him, a sense of expansiveness, as if there were nothing he could not do right now. He knocked again, then through the door glass saw Delores hurry from the back room.
“I didn’t think you were coming!” she said, letting him in. She wore black pants and a black sweatshirt. Her hair was pulled back from her face. Without makeup she looked younger, the way he remembered her in high school, freshly pleasant. “I was just starting to bring some things out to the car. The rest Albert can deal with.” She gestured at the stacked boxes. “Most of it’s all packed and marked.” She sighed. “I don’t know what else to do. I’m not calling him anymore, I know that. I keep leaving messages, but I guess this is the way he wants it.” Covering her mouth, she seemed to take a deep breath. “Eleven years. It’s hard to believe. Excuse me, Gordon, I’ll be right back.” She hurried into the office.
He waited a minute, then stepped into the storeroom. The bathroom door was closed. Water was running. She came out carrying a small round mirror framed in seashells. Her red eyes glistened. “I made this.” She tried to smile.
“You did?”
She nodded. “I found all these shells. Me and my sister and her husband, we used to rent this cottage two weeks in July, and every morning early I’d go for these long walks with my nieces and we’d pick up shells, then on rainy days we’d make things.”
“It’s very nice.”
“Here, then. You take it.” She held it out.
“Oh no, I—”
“Please. Just take it. Please?” She looked ready to burst into tears if he didn’t. He thanked her.
After they had put her possessions into the car, a rug and a small table and a few boxes, she locked the store, then jumped behind the wheel and backed quickly down the alley. “Boy, it’s a good thing you’re here,” she said at the red light. “Because if you weren’t, I’d pull right in there”—she pointed to the drugstore—“and buy a pack of cigarettes. That’s what always happens, every time I quit the sky starts to fall, and next thing I know I’m lighting up.”
“It’s better than having to drink, though, right?”
She looked over and laughed. “I don’t know. One kinda goes with the other when you’re feeling like that.”
He was surprised when she turned onto Clover Street. “Don’t you want me to help you carry all this up to your apartment?”
She shook her head. “That’s okay.”
“I don’t mind. In fact, that’s what I thought we were going to do.” He patted the musty rolled rug jutting out over the seat between them. “I mean, you can’t carry this up all by yourself.”
“I don’t even want it. I don’t want any of it. I just don’t want to give him the satisfaction of throwing it all out.” She pulled up in front of his house. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m not my usual sparkling self tonight.” Her forced smile dissolved in weariness.
“That’s okay. I understand. When you feel like this you just want to be alone, that’s all.”
“No. I hate being alone. I hate that more than anything. Sometimes I get scared and I think, What if I fall down and break my leg or pass out or something? No one would know. Or care, probably. Except the paperboy or the mailman.” She tried to laugh, then quickly covered her face, struggling not to cry.
He didn’t know where to look or what to say. Once again it was the wantonness of her emotions that most frightened him, her easy intimacy a contagion requiring constant vigilance. His mind raced to change the subject. Anything. “Oh. Yes, the mailman. That reminds me,” he said stiffly as she wheezed and snuffled into her hands. “I was coming out of the post office and I saw that woman, the one with Dennis. It was awkward. I mean, it was the first time since that night at the Inn. And all of a sudden it just kind of came out of me. I certainly didn