A Hole in the Universe - Mary McGarry Morris [131]
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