As she ended the call, she got up slowly and went into the kitchen. Everything was tidy as always, not even dishes drying in the rack—because she had to put them away before she left the kitchen or she couldn’t sit still at her desk.
She’d had some kind of destination. But abruptly, she found herself walking around on her linoleum, making a tight little circle, eyes lighting on the hand towels that were neatly hanging off the handle of the oven, and the napkins on the table in their rack, and the two place mats she had out even though she always ate alone. If she opened any of the cupboards? Soup cans and boxes of low-fat crackers and jars of pickles were lined up by type. Same in her refrigerator, the skim milk never mixing with the yogurt or the butter or the veggies.
The first line against chaos. And to think she’d always assumed the anal retentiveness would help, a kind of talisman against the whirlpool of life, a way of taming the hard edges of fate.
Wasn’t doing anything for her at the moment. Not about her heading to see G.B. at noontime to tell him she was kind of in a relationship with someone else. Not with the desperate anticipation she had for nightfall.
Certainly not at all with what she was about to do.
“Shit.”
Bracing herself, she went over to the door that led down into the cellar. It took her a moment before she could turn the knob and pull the panels open and reach forward to flick the light switch. As the fixture came on, the rough wooden steps were illuminated, as was the dark gray concrete floor below. The scent that rose to her nose was both earthy from the fifties-era concrete walls, and sweet from her fabric softener sheets.
Long trip down. A kind of forever to reach the bottom.
She didn’t head over to her washing machine and ironing board. She went in the opposite direction, to the sealed plastic tubs that held her Christmas decorations and lights, and her Halloween things, and that sleeping bag she’d only used once or twice.
It was past all that that she kept her artwork on shelves, her tubes of drawings and flat boxes of paintings and so much more ordered chronologically by medium.
The things she had taken out of Sissy’s locker at school were right where she’d put them. Cait had had to move some of her own pastels onto the floor to make room, something she had never felt comfortable doing before—especially not in the spring, when the rains came and leaks happened.
But as important as her things were, Sissy’s were so much more so.
The hands that had made them were gone forever.
It took Cait a couple of trips to carry the folios and the box up to her kitchen table. And after a moment, she thought better about the placement and moved them away from the window. Maybe she should have left them downstairs? It wasn’t like she was going to forget to bring them to the funeral at St. Patrick’s.
Staring at it all, she stepped back in time, reversing the mental DVD of her life until she was once again twelve and living under the same roof with her parents. After her brother had died, she had been the one to pack up his things: Her mother and father had disappeared within days of the burial, going off on the first of all those mission trips, her grandmother moving in to take care of her.
She’d like her grandmother just fine, but it had felt like both she and Charlie had been deserted. And that sense had intensified when her parents had called a week later and said that they were bringing home a preacher who needed a place to stay for a month. In that small house, where else were they going to put the guy but Charlie’s room?
It had seemed an insult to let some stranger sleep in her brother’s bed or use his bureau and his closet, all while his clothes and car magazines and CDs were all over the place.
Using her own allowance money, she’d bought U-Haul boxes, and put everything in the attic … and when she had moved out east, she had taken it with her.
For all their pontificating, her parents had never really talked to her about the loss. Plenty of generic praying advice, yes, and she had to admit, the cynic in her aside, she had done some of that on her own. Still did. But she could have used some more conventional support in the form of talking, hugs, understanding, compassion.
Then again, her brother had always been her family.
It was weird, weird, weird to be thinking of all of this right now. But another funeral of another young life lost too early was likely to bring up things that were unresolved—
The knocking on her door was probably the FedEx man delivering the supply of pencils she’d ordered last week.
Wiping her cheeks on a just-in-case, she took out her scrunchie and re-pulled her hair back as she went for the door.
Not FedEx, although the box had been left on her front stoop.
Teresa was dressed in a pale blue business suit that did absolutely nothing for her coloring, and she was pissed, hands on her hips, glare on her face. “You never call, you never write. You suck. Now let me in—I have forty-five minutes before I have to be back to the office, and you’re going to tell me everything.”
Her oldest and dearest pushed past her, marching into the kitchen and sitting down next to all the artwork.
“So.” Teresa crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her high-heeled shoe. “What’s happening—”
Cait burst into tears.
“Oh, shit.” Teresa jumped up and went in for the hug. “I’m such an ass. Are you okay? What’s wrong? If he hurt you, I’ll screw his reputation twelve ways to Sunday on the Internet. And key his car. And do some other stuff that you won’t want to know about beforehand, but will certainly read of in the CCJ.”
Cait held on tight. It was a while before she could say anything intelligent—but that was the thing with true friends.
They didn’t necessarily need to hear the details of where you were … to be there for you.
Another one?
As Duke walked into the Shed and heard his name get called out, he eyed the guy standing by the muni truck he himself had been assigned to for the shift. Man, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had two subs in three days working with him. Maybe they’d fired the first? Turned out that one had had a bad limp, and though the city of Caldwell didn’t discriminate, it was hard to be a laborer if you couldn’t even stand up for any period of time.
“So are you Duke Phillips?” the man asked.
“Yeah. You with me for the day?” he muttered as he walked over with the keys.
“Yup.”
“Well, I drive.” Duke unlocked the doors and got in. “And set the route.”
“No problem.”
“We’re going to be ripping out a hedgerow,” Duke said, as they shut their doors and he started the engine. “After that, we’ve got inventory to do.”
“What’s that?”
Duke drove them out of the garage and into the sunlight. He’d come in at eleven, and was grateful for the extra hour of work. With any luck, he’d be back to full-time in another week or ten days.
“We drive through parks and cemeteries and make up a work list for the spring cleanup. If the projects are approved, we get more hours.”
“Can I smoke in here?”
“Doesn’t bother me.” At least he wouldn’t get a contact high, like he did at home with Rolly’s pot. “Crack a window, though, so I don’t have to hear about it.”
As Duke’s phone went off, he took the thing out. Checked the screen. Closed his eyes for a split second and then bumped the call.
It was Nicole. Wanting to talk about the kid, no doubt.
Man, the last thing he wanted to hear was that there was more trouble at school. That Nicole was taking a second go at having Duke talk to him. That that quicksand of madness was trying to suck him in again.