A Hole in the Universe - Mary McGarry Morris [16]
“Wait,” he called before Gordon could leave. “What’s your name again? I forgot.”
“Gordon.”
“Gordon? Gordon what?”
“Loomis.”
“Loomis?” The hand with the towel dropped to his side. “How long you been working?”
“Since eight.”
“I mean, here. What day? When’d you start?”
“Monday. I came in the afternoon.”
“Who hired you?” He leaned closer. “Wasn’t me, was it?”
“Yes. Well, in a sense. But actually I guess it was Eddie. I mean Mr. Chapman.”
“Mr. Chapman!” Neil laughed. “No. You were right the first time. You mean Eddie.” He laughed again. “So how’s Denny doing? I haven’t seen him in a while.”
“He’s fine. He’s doing well, thank you.” Gordon kept trying to swallow.
“So, what happened? How’d you . . .” He twirled his hand. “You know, end up here?”
“The sign. It said, HELP WANTED.”
“No, I mean, how’d you get out?” He laughed. “You didn’t escape, did you?” Dubbin’s gleeful wonder escalated. “I mean, you’re not on the fucking lam or anything, are you?”
“I was paroled,” he said, the word a stone’s weight upon his tongue.
Delores Dufault checked her watch again. Almost six, and Albert still hadn’t let her know about tonight. She had called him this morning at the Dearborn store, but he couldn’t really talk. He’d have to get back to her on the details. All day long she had assumed that meant yes, that he was coming to dinner, but now she wasn’t so sure. She was tempted to call again, but that would irritate him, so she’d been trying to keep busy until she heard from him. Their night together had always been Friday or Monday, depending on Albert’s schedule. Holidays belonged to his family, of course. Lately, though, she’d hardly seen him at all. The new store was taking up all his time. It was already doing three times the business the old one was, he had said almost accusingly. But what did he expect with all their old customers going to the Dearborn store? Albert said people didn’t want to drive into the poor, grim city of Collerton, which was precisely why he had opened the new store in Dearborn’s affluent little downtown. Rents might be sky-high in Dearborn, but that’s where the customers were.
Kiki said the handwriting was on the wall; it was only a matter of time before Smick Stationery closed, like so many other Collerton stores. Delores hadn’t called her since. If she wanted to be put down, all she had to do was call one of her sisters. She didn’t need it from her best friend.
When Delores finished refilling the greeting-card display rack, she noticed that the manila envelopes on the rounder were getting low. She looked out back but couldn’t find any. As he had everything else, Albert must have taken them to the new store and forgotten to tell her so she could order more. He couldn’t seem to keep things straight lately. Orders were always being messed up, and last month he’d sent three checks to the wrong suppliers. The problem was his family. They wouldn’t be happy until they’d drained every bit of energy and happiness out of the poor man. All he got at home were complaints and coldness. It killed her to see that perky little wife of his in her sleek workout clothes breeze in here with her painted smile, calling everyone honey and sugar in her fiercely guarded southern drawl, when Delores knew what a calculating, self-centered woman she really was. His son was a leech, and his daughter was a spoiled brat whose prep-school tuition and brand-new sports car left her poor father too broke even to buy himself a decent pair of shoes. Two Christmases ago, Delores had bought him the expensive English cordovans he had worn every day since. It was depressing to see the heels all worn down, his wrinkled pants, and the frayed collars. Didn’t his wife care? Or as usual, was Delores the only one who did? She slammed the storeroom door and stood by the front window, looking out at the street.
Here she was again, getting all worked up over a situation that had gone on for years.