A Hole in the Universe - Mary McGarry Morris [70]
June and Serena were concerned about Neil. After two days of almost giddy happiness, he was curled up on his cot now in a migrainous fog, clutching a bottle of Fiorinal. The Realtor’s very first client had wanted to buy the Market. He was an intense young black man in a pale-blue suit that glowed under the fluorescent lights. He drove a silver Mercedes and owned two other grocery stores, in Haverhill and Lowell. His goal was a chain of stores catering to the ethnic makeup of their particular locales. He had returned last night with his accountant to look at the books. This morning the Realtor called to say the accountant had declared the books rigged and the store a financial sinkhole. The only way to make a go of the business would be to double its size, and no bank was going to make that kind of investment in this part of the city.
“That guy, the accountant, he’s from Dearborn. I mean, what the hell does he know about a place like this?” Serena said.
“All he needs to know.” June sighed as she popped open a Diet Coke. “Where the hell’s Thurman? Three times now I told him to bring the carts in.”
“Yeah, there’s only one left.”
“I’ll go get them,” Gordon called as he brushed glue on the back of the last tile. “I’m almost done.”
“No. You’ve got enough to do,” Serena said.
“Yeah, that’s Thurman’s job,” June said.
“I know, but I feel a little funny,” he said as he stood up. He needed some fresh air.
“Then go home! To get some rest, I mean,” June added uneasily.
“I know. I can barely keep my eyes open.” Serena yawned.
“It’s the rain,” June said.
It was the glue, but he was afraid to persist for fear they would think he was in some fume-crazed, murderous state.
“It’s like night out there, it’s so dark,” Serena said.
Suddenly, an ungodly wail filled the store. “What is that?” Gordon yelled, lurching toward the women. They shrank back, white-faced and gasping, while Thurman continued to push his broom toward them, singing to music only he could hear. Hand at her chest, June took off down the aisle. With a frantic tap on the boy’s shoulder, she ordered him outside to bring in the shopping carts.
“There’s nobody here,” he protested, lifting an earpiece.
“But there will be,” she said.
“So then I’ll get’em.”
“No, now!”
“It’s, like, pouring out there!”
“Go get the goddamn carts or I get Neil, whichever,” she wheezed.
“Yeah, right.” Thurman laughed, then replaced his earpiece and headed back up the aisle, singing in a high-pitched, scratchy voice.
“I’ll go. I don’t mind. I like the rain,” Gordon said, fumbling the torn store poncho over his head. The women’s eyes met: He likes the rain—of course, deviant that he is.
Hurrying into the downpour, he was immediately calmed by the steady rain-beat on the visor. He took long, deep breaths, trying to clear his head and lungs as he struggled to push the carts through the rutted lot. He lined them up outside the front door, then headed down the street looking for more, sloshing through puddles. The few cars that drove by had their lights on. Their wheels sprayed up waves of water, drenching him. He took his time coming back with the rest of the carts. He was so wet now that it didn’t matter. He held his head back and let the rain sting his face. He pushed these carts into the others, then reached for the door. He froze. The eerie tableau through the blurred glass couldn’t be real. The rain streaming down the cloudy panes gave the fluorescent lights inside a pulsating, garish yellow glow. The man in the black ski mask and hooded sweatshirt pointed a gun at Serena as she hurried out of the office with two cash boxes in her arms. Huddled by her register, June held her tubes to her nose and stared out at Gordon. Thurman’s head bobbed along the back aisle in rhythmic oblivion. It was after three, so Leo had already gone home. With empty