A Hole in the Universe - Mary McGarry Morris [99]
“Wait! Wait a minute.” She ran after him, but he only walked faster. “Don’t be mad,” she pleaded, running to catch up, then hurried alongside.
Gordon looked around in embarrassment.
“Please, please don’t be mad . . . I told you . . . I told you what happened . . . I was scared. . . .” She grabbed his arm. “That’s all. I wasn’t tryna come on to you or anything.”
Mouth agape, he stood there.
“I wasn’t!”
“I have to go to work.”
“Fuck you,” she whispered as he rushed off. He’d had that same look as Uncle Bob, as if she hadn’t fooled him at all and he knew what a hopeless piece of shit she was.
Ray waited, with his shirt wrapped around his hand. Thurman sliced the back-door screen with his knife. He unlocked the storm, then tapped the glass with the knife butt just enough to crack it. Ray punched in the glass the rest of the way, then reached inside and turned the latch. “When’s he get home?” Ray asked as they ran into the kitchen and began looking for money, drugs, or booze. Thurman wasn’t sure. He hadn’t worked at the Market since the asshole got him fired.
Jada hadn’t even tried to stop them. She was too high. Plus, it was Gordon’s fault. The least he could have done was listen to her. She liked walking around up here like the lady of the house. Everything was so neat, his closets and drawers, the rows of stacked change on his dresser. She studied the picture on the nightstand, instantly disliking the two kids with their fake smiles and stupid pose, the girl sitting close in front of the boy.
Downstairs, cupboards and doors opened and then banged shut. The television came on. Colt and Ray kept calling out to Thurman. The sweet smell of weed drifted up the stairs. Thurman had bought some on the way here with the rest of her money. She sat on the bed and opened the nightstand drawer. Not much in here. A real estate-agency business card with a woman’s picture: Jilly Cross, it said. A Bible. A Holy Roller, maybe that’s why he was so spooked about the other night. It didn’t look like it had ever been read, though. A couple of paperback books that also seemed new. A list of telephone numbers. In the back of the drawer were two folded magazine pages. She opened them and giggled. They were pictures of naked women, the creases worn in places to little holes. She felt a pang of jealousy. They were both blondes. At least Miss July had thick lips and long skinny legs like she did. Forget Miss May, though, with those supersize white boobs that weren’t even all hers—she could tell. She stood sideways in front of the mirror with her hand on her butt like Miss May. She pulled her shirt tight behind her back. It was never going to happen. Not unless she got some of that silicone stuff someday. From downstairs came a crash, quickly followed by another. Then another. She dropped the pictures and ran down to the kitchen. Ray and Colt were emptying cupboards onto the floor.
“Stop it! Stop it!” she screamed from the doorway. “What’re you doing?”
Ray paused to chug down the rest of the beer he’d found, then opened the narrow closet by the open cellar door and threw out mops, brooms, ironing board, more cans and boxes. Colt walked around the countertop to get to his beer. He finished it with a loud, convulsive belch then smashed the bottle in the sink. Thurman came up the cellar stairs. “Jesus Christ . . .” He laughed as he kicked his way through the shattered and tumbled debris.
“Make them stop!” she screamed, but Thurman brushed past her into the living room.
“That’s all the fuck there is?” He pointed to the VCR on the floor by the front door. “How ’bout up here?” he said, taking the stairs two at a time.
Ray and Colt charged out of the kitchen after him.
Footsteps overhead. Swearing. Something fell with a heavy thud. They howled with laughter. She felt sick to her stomach.
“Look at her fuckin’ tits,” Ray shrieked.
“Cops! Cops!” She ran up the stairs. “They’re coming!” she yelled from the doorway.