A Plague Year (31 page)

She certainly looked relieved to see me. “Tom! Are you in this class?”

“Yes.”

“What class is it?”

I said, “English. Language arts.” Then I asked her the obvious question: “Aunt Robin, what are you doing here?”

Her hands shot upward, like she was signaling a touchdown. “Damned if I know! I got a call from some lady this morning at six a.m. Woke me up. And she asked me to come in here.”

“Some lady?”

“The principal lady.”

“Mrs. Cantwell?”

“Yeah. That’s her.” She explained, “I came in here a couple of days ago to apply for a job—secretary, cafeteria worker, anything, really. That’s how she got my number. She called me this morning and asked if I would come in as a parent volunteer.

“I asked her, ‘Do I get paid?’ She said, ‘No, I can’t pay you. But if a paying job opens up, I’ll remember that you did me this favor.’ So here I am.”

“Wow.”

“Arthur don’t even know I’m here. He’s sleeping in today.”

“Yeah. Good plan.”

She pointed to the sleeping kids in the back. “It’s just like babysitting. I don’t mind.”

I took a seat in front of her. A few seconds later, Lilly appeared at the door. She cupped her hands around her mouth and whispered loudly, “Tom! I called Mom. She’s on her way here.”

Lilly had not looked at the sub. But even if she had, I don’t think she would have recognized her. The context was just too wacky. I pointed to the desk and whispered back, “Look! It’s Aunt Robin! She’s the sub!”

Lilly’s head, followed by the rest of her body, bent backward in disbelief. She managed a friendly smile and a wave. Aunt Robin motioned for her to come in, which she did.

Aunt Robin followed our lead and continued the loud whispering. “Congratulations, Lilly! I hear you got engaged.”

Lilly instinctively held up her left ring finger. “Yes!”

“That’s great, honey! I hear he’s a nice guy, too.”

Lilly actually blushed. “Yeah.” She held the ring out for Aunt Robin to ooh and aah over.

“Beautiful. That’s real nice. I got married twice, but I never got a diamond ring.”

“No?”

“I got wedding rings, two of them, but I never got an engagement ring.”

Lilly told her sincerely, “I hope you will come to our wedding. We’ll send you an invitation.”

Aunt Robin seemed surprised, and touched. “Oh, thank you, honey. That’d be an honor. Did you set a date?”

“Not yet.”

“June, maybe? I was a June bride. The first time, anyway.”

“Is that when you married Uncle Robby?”

“Yeah.” She thought for a moment. Then she laughed, a little embarrassed, “I can’t remember the exact date now. June the third? The fourth? It was a Saturday, the Saturday after Robby graduated from here.”

Lilly observed, as if for the first time, “You were Robin and Robby! That’s so cute.”

“Yeah. That’s what everybody said.”

“Did you guys get married in a church?”

“Nah. The county courthouse. No muss, no fuss. Then we went back to Robby’s mom’s house. That’s where we were livin’ anyway.” She recalled, “Your mom and dad came over! Yeah. Your dad brought a case of Rolling Rock with a white bow around it. That became the big joke of the wedding—that my colors were green and white, like on the Rolling Rock beer bottle.”

Lilly laughed. Then she stole a look at her watch. “I’m sorry, Aunt Robin, but I’m pretty sure my mom’s parked outside.”

Aunt Robin pointed at the door. “You go! Both of you.”

As we started out, Lilly assured her, “I’ll be sending you that invitation.”

“All right. And I’ll start saving up beer bottles for you.”

We laughed. But I did whisper to Lilly, “Does she know you’re too young to drink?”

“She’s real nice. Don’t put her down.”

“I’m not.”

“And do not tell Mom that she was here.”

“Okay.”

So the ride home featured no talk about Aunt Robin, or her surprise career as a substitute teacher, or her beer-bottle wedding colors, or anything else, for that matter.

As it turned out, Mom was saving all of her talking for lunch. Over bowls of Campbell’s tomato soup (the same company that owns Pepperidge Farm, V8, and Swanson) and grilled cheese sandwiches, Mom opened with a blockbuster announcement: “I was talking to your father. I am going to start working at the Food Giant on Sunday, on the cash register.”

Lilly practically spit out her grilled cheese. “Why? I thought
you had to be here for us, like a traditional housewife, so you could keep the household together, or whatever.”

“Well, you’re both older now. And you’re both working at the store now. The best thing
I
can do is help your father hold on to it.”

I was alarmed. “Hold on to it? Is he going to lose the store?”

“He could. The corporation could decide to close it. The corporation only cares about profits, Tom. Your father can’t show profits if people aren’t buying.”

Lilly seemed stunned. “Close the Food Giant?”

“Quite a thought, isn’t it? What would people do? Where would they go for food?”

“Did Dad tell you this?” I asked.

“Yes. He said that if he was paying all his employees, the store would already be in the red, and the corporation would close it.”

Mom pointed to us in turn. “He has you, Tom, and you, Lilly, and now he’ll have me, all working for nothing. And John is working eighty hours a week, but he’s only getting paid for forty. That’s how your father is keeping the store open—with people working for nothing.”

Lunch ended on that note, with fearful glances all around.

John was outside chasing down shopping carts when Mom dropped us off. He blew a kiss at Lilly as she hurried inside to get out of the cold. He waved me over, saying, “Bobby went home for a few hours. He’s coming back later to clean the storeroom. You, Bobby, and your dad.”

“Sounds like another late night.”

“Yeah.” John scanned the parking lot nervously. He added,
“Hey, you gotta keep a close eye on these carts, bro. People are stealing them. It’s unreal.”

“Yeah. I know.”

When I saw Dad inside, he told me what I already knew. “We’ll be cleaning out the storeroom tonight. You, me, and Bobby.”

“John told me.”

He shook his head. “Reg has been putting off cleaning that place since before Thanksgiving. And he called in sick today, probably because he knows we’re doing it tonight. Still, it can’t wait any longer.”

The storeroom had been in complete disarray for a month. The hole the robbers made in the roof hadn’t been properly repaired. The Food Giant Corporation had to approve all payments, and Dad had used up his repair budget for the year. He could not even submit a request until 2002. In the meantime, Dad had climbed up on the roof with a piece of plywood, a few trash bags, and a roll of duct tape. So far, the repair job had held.

After completing the closing checklist, Dad and I stacked up the day’s pallets and waited for Bobby. Dad seemed to be struggling with something. He finally said, “Mitchell came into the office today. To talk.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Dad’s face turned pale. “He told me that Del is gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes.”

“Do you mean … dead?”

Dad said softly, “No. She’s not dead.”

“But she’s gone?”

Dad nodded, and I knew what he meant. She was a zombie
now. He added, “Mitchell won’t say anything else about her. He seems to be okay, though. He’s focusing on work.”

“That’s good. We need him.”

“We sure do. And I just talked to Walter. He’s coming back on Monday.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’m putting him in the bakery, on the early shift. Gert can use the help. She’s having some trouble with her arthritis. She’s been calling in sick.” (I wondered if it was really arthritis. I’m suspicious of everybody nowadays.)

Dad continued: “Walter knows he can’t go anywhere near customer service, or anywhere near the pseudoephedrine, and I think he’ll honor that.”

He set the last pallet against the wall and looked at me. “This store is Walter’s life. It’s Mitchell’s life, too. And Gert’s. Where else are they going to go? We have to keep this store open.”

Bobby appeared in the doorway. He was far enough away for Dad to whisper, “This store is Bobby’s life, too. He’s not”—Dad stopped and searched for the word—“inferior here. He’s as good as anybody else.”

I agreed. “He’s better than some.” I amended that to, “He’s better than most.”

Bobby walked over to us, shaking out his arms, getting ready for some hard labor. Dad gave us our assignments, and we set to work. With three people doing it, and with no interruptions, the cleanup went very smoothly. The storeroom was back in shape (except for the hole in the roof) in a little over an hour.

Bobby announced, “My mom’s coming at eleven!” He asked me, “What time is it?”

“Ten after ten.”

“I gotta call her, then. She said to call if we were going to be early. Or late.”

Bobby and I walked up front and stood by the carts. He punched in his home number, then practically shouted into the phone, “Mom! We’re done early! Come get me.”

He listened for a moment, then replied, “I’m at the front window, with Tom. That’s where I’ll be. That’s where I am.” He turned the phone off.

I said, “She’s coming now?”

“Yeah. She’s coming.” Bobby looked outside and frowned. He pointed through the glass. “Hey! That wasn’t there before. I came in that way, and it wasn’t there.”

I looked out into the parking lot. A lone cart was sitting in a space about twenty yards from the entrance. Bobby said, “Somebody must’ve stole that. Then they felt bad and brought it back.”

Dad stuck his head out of the office. “What’s going on?”

“There’s a cart outside,” I explained.

He nodded. “You better get it, Tom. We’re losing too many.”

“Yeah. All right.”

He pointed to the entrance. “The keys are in the door. Be careful.” Then he waved at Bobby. “Come here, Bobby, I need you to sign your pay card.”

“Okay,” Bobby replied, and walked into the office while I headed toward the entrance. I turned the key in the inside lock, opened the door, and stepped outside.

But I guess I wasn’t being careful. Or careful enough.

My eyes, and my attention, were on the cart in the distance. I didn’t hear the low thrumming of the engine, or the running feet, until it was too late.

I turned toward the sounds.

A black tow truck with a silver hook was idling just past the propane tanks. Two men in black ski masks were running toward me. The one on the left had a hunting rifle. The one on the right reached me first and grabbed my arm.

Then I felt the cold steel of the rifle jab into my neck. I braced for the sound of a shot, and the end of my life, but that didn’t happen. Instead, they quick-marched me back into the store, turned me, and headed right toward the office.

Bobby was standing in front of the bakery counter. As soon as he saw us, he started yelling, “No! We’re closed! You can’t come in here!”

The rifle bore pulled out of my neck. The robber, still walking, aimed it at Bobby. Suddenly I heard a painful blast in my ear.

Bobby spun around 180 degrees and fell to the ground.

Dad came running out of the office, but he froze when he saw us. The rifleman aimed at him but did not shoot. Instead, he pushed me toward Dad, hard, causing us both to fall backward. Dad and I landed together on the floor. My head was on his chest. I could feel his heart pounding.

The rifleman stood over us, sweating and twitching, breathing like a crazed bear. He jammed the rifle into my neck again, under my ear, and held it there.

The other robber ran into the office. We could hear him pulling out drawers and ransacking the place. Looking for money? Drugs? Both? This went on for at least five minutes, five unbearably long minutes. I could hear Dad’s voice in my ear, whispering, “Shhh.”

My face was turned toward the back of the store. Just by focusing my eyes, I could see Bobby. He was lying on the floor, ten feet away. A round red spot was visible on the right side of his back. He had been shot at close range. Was he dead?

No! I could see his hand moving. It was punching buttons on his phone. I thought,
No, Bobby, please. Do not make a sound
.

The robber in the office continued to break things and crash around. The rifleman grunted at him impatiently, angrily, desperately. Finally, the robber emerged with a trash bag bulging with small boxes. I knew what they were by their size and shape—boxes of cold capsules.

The rifleman pulled the bore away from my neck. He pivoted and, without looking at us again, took off running for the door. The robber with the bag followed him.

I took a few seconds to get my breathing under control—in and out, in and out.

Dad eased me off of him slowly, whispering, “Stay here, Tom.” He army-crawled over to Bobby; then he called back to me, “He’s alive.”

I whispered back, “I know. I saw him dialing his phone.”

Suddenly a blinding flash of light filled the entranceway. I rose up as high as I dared and looked. I could see a police car. It was facing the store dead-on, just ten yards out, with its search beam aimed at the entrance. As my eyes adjusted, I could see two officers crouched behind the opened car doors. Each was aiming a pistol at a robber.