A Hole in the Universe - Mary McGarry Morris [4]
“For twenty-five years?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“But what did you do? I mean, how’d you keep busy? You must’ve done some kind of work.” She closed the folder.
“Yes. Of course.” He’d worked everywhere, in the library, laundry, kitchen, dining room, infirmary. But mostly in the sign shop. “I was a good worker. I always worked really hard. I like working. I always did.”
“Hmm.” She looked at her watch. “Well! I guess that about covers it. Unless there’s something you’d like to add.”
“Just these, I guess.” He handed her the file. “They’re letters. They’re all from people I know. Well, people who know me. And who think I’m a good . . . worker.” He’d almost said “person.”
She thanked him, put the file into hers. “So what we’ll do is go over everything and if something comes up, some position that’s compatible with your particular experience, Mr. Loomis, then we’ll certainly be in touch,” she recited with a dismissive smile as she and Mr. Brown got up. Gordon rose in a panic. He couldn’t very well go back to the car after such a short interview. The new suit. Dennis’s canceled patients. “Excuse me! Could I just tell you about the sign shop?”
“The sign shop?” She glanced at Mr. Brown.
The prison shop made street signs for cities and towns all over the state. He had been in charge of the enameling process, getting the heat to the right temperature, then baking the signs. Well, in a manner of speaking, baking them, he added in a thin voice. “I did it for almost ten years.”
“Really? Well, that’s a long time.” She was at the door again. “Well, in any event, Mr. Loomis, thank you. Thank you for coming.”
“But I don’t even want Human Resources!” he blurted before she could leave. “I’m much better with my hands. I mean, I’m quite conversant with the . . . the thing you make, the flashlight.” He had taken it apart and then assembled it countless times last night. “In fact, I . . . I . . .” Breathless, he couldn’t think. “I mean, actually making the flashlight, that’s what I’d rather do. But of course I’ll do a good job wherever I am. I just need a start. Someone to take a chance on me.” He felt sick, weak for sounding so frantic. She stepped back, as if from cornered vermin. “I’m sorry!” he said quickly. “I’m nervous. I shouldn’t be here. I’m not ready.”
“You can always come back another time, Mr. Loomis.”
“But that doesn’t mean you’ll hire me though, does it?” he asked quietly.
“I didn’t say that!” Another step back.
“No, I know! What I meant was, it’s my brother. He thinks this is all set, so if I say you said I could come back, then that’s what he’ll ask me. The same thing. But if I tell him, ‘No, they don’t want me’—that, he’ll understand.”
“It’s not like this is anything personal, Loomis.” And in Brown’s growl Gordon felt the steel cold at his face, the warning in the guards’ hard eyes.
“No,” Miss Jamison added. “It’s just a matter of no positions being available right now.”
“Of course. Yes. I understand,” Gordon said. He stepped into the hallway, then turned suddenly and stuck out his hand. She cringed, gasping. They regarded each other with mutual horror. “I was just going to say thank you. I forgot to say that.” He felt like the same sideshow freak he’d been at the trial—the last time he’d had to convince someone he was a normal human being.
All the way back, Dennis tried to contain his anger. He reminded himself of what Lisa kept saying: that Gordon shouldn’t be rushed; he would have to be coaxed from his numbness, eased into everyday life. But she hadn’t known Gordon as a kid. He’d always been like this: thickly, maddeningly stubborn, to the point of oafishness, always being picked on, never fighting back or protesting, never telling anyone or even taking a different route to school to avoid their taunts, instead just plodding along as if it weren’t really happening, as if he didn’t care. But from the next room his younger brother would hear him cry out in the middle of the night,