A Hole in the Universe - Mary McGarry Morris [138]
“It’s so beautiful here,” she said when he finally hung up. Everything was purple—curtains, furniture, the carpet. Even the walls. The television set was as big as a movie screen. When she’d come before, her mother had made her stay in the hallway. So far she had counted six long-haired white cats. Another had just crawled out from under the ruffled sofa skirt to slither its purring body between her legs. She picked up a purple glass clown from one of the tables. “Are these real diamonds?” she asked of the glittering eyes and buttons.
“Put it down! Put it down! Put it down!” Bruce cried, wide-eyed and pointing until she did. “You got something?” He held out his hand. She gave him the statue, and he peered at the base. “Hummel. Five bucks.”
“Five bucks! The last guy said . . . twenty-five.” Damn, for hesitating. Now the creep was laughing.
“You better go back fast before he changes his mind,” he said, handing it back.
“It’s too far. My ride, she’s gone now. C’mon, twenty.” She held it out, but he shook his head. “It’s a nice statue, it’s worth it.”
“Not to me it ain’t.”
“What, then?”
“Like I said, five.”
Her hand closed over the bulge in her pocket. Maybe for two he’d give her fifteen. “All right, fifteen,” she pressed, wanting to keep the one she liked.
“No. Get outta here.” He waved her off with both hands. “I don’t like doing business with kids, especially freaked-out crackheads.”
“I’m not a crackhead!”
“Yeah, right. I seen you here before with your friend there, that what’s-her-name Marbella rag.” He opened the door.
“Marvella. Yeah, well, she’s my mother.”
“Same difference.” He shoved her into the hall and slammed the door.
“Fuck you, you fucking fag!”
Jada sat at the last empty table. She told the Cambodian guy behind the counter that she’d order as soon as her friend came. She kept looking out at the street for that figment of her hunger. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was going to do, but if she didn’t eat something soon, she was going to be sick. Dizzied by the smell and sight of so much food—pizzas, subs, spaghetti and meatballs—she held on to the table to keep from toppling off the chair. Two men came in. She swallowed hard against her churning stomach. The older one had a limp. The younger man’s belly squashed over the counter as he placed his order.
“Hey!” the Cambodian called as Jada stared at the stained paper menu. “Hey, you! Girl! They need the table.”
“Okay. I’ll wait over here, then.” She stood by the counter, leaning against the wall to steady her wobbly legs.
“Steak and cheese,” the older man said.
“Make that two,” his companion said, then they sat at the table.
A few minutes later their subs appeared in the pickup window behind the counter. Jada couldn’t take her eyes off them. The Cambodian was writing down a phone order. The two men were talking. She edged closer along the counter. “You sick of waiting for your friend?” the Cambodian asked as he hung up the phone. She nodded.
“So, you gonna order?”
“Yeah, but I don’t know.” She peered up at the wall menu. “I’m still not sure. But the subs, they’re ready.” She pointed behind him, and he turned.
“Seventeen,” he called, placing them on the counter.
One in each fiercely tight hand, Jada was halfway out the door, running, before he managed to shout, Stop! Stop, as if she would, or could, as if anything mattered beyond the promise of this warm cheesy grease between her fingers.
Thurman was on her front step when she came down the street eating the second sub. Dyed orange hair stuck up from his head like waxed carrot tips. She wolfed down the rest before he could ask for some. She sat beside him and felt sick to her stomach, but not weak