SOMETHING WAITS (2 page)

For a moment, the warm rush of store air from within was a relief as they reentered the stampede, but within the space of two minutes someone jabbed him hard in the ribs, a child stepped on his already screaming toes, and the all-too familiar din of scurrying humanity gave new life to his once-fading headache. He heaved resigned breath as they approached the cattle chute at the escalator. If you squint your eyes, he thought, it’s like that scene from the silent classic
Metropolis:
soulless workers trudging to mechanized doom.

His wife must have seen the look on his face. “There’s no need for you to fight this, honey,” she said with endearing sympathy. “Somewhere there’s a book department on this floor, why don’t you browse around there while I look upstairs for Kim’s present? It’ll give you a chance to put the packages down.”

He had to love her. “What if we get lost?”

“We won’t. You just stay with the books. I’ll finish up and come to you!”

And he had to admit it sounded good. Better than watching her search through feminine apparel or dishware or whatever she was after. Christ. He didn’t even like Kim’s husband. “All right. Make it quick as you can though, huh Lindy?”

She gave his arm a patient squeeze, proffered that smile that said I love you despite all this mess. Just before she got to the escalator, he saw her point across the store expansively, silently mouth:
Books—that way!
Then the crowd swallowed her like a living thing.

He strained above the sea of bobbing heads to see where she’d indicated, saw only more bobbing heads, shrugged and struck off in what he hoped was the general direction.

Somewhere above the shuffling turmoil overhead speakers broadcast an ancient rendition of
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
by an Irish tenor whose name he couldn’t recall, though he’d heard the song a thousand times over the years. Christmas classics. Right. The old speakers—or maybe the undulant crowd—made the song sound tinny. The way his brother used to tell him
he
sounded at choir practice. He chuckled under his breath. It was impossible to think of those days without a little rush of nostalgic warmth. And with it, an edge of guilt. Where along the way had he managed to lose his faith? The dealership? The mortgage? No…long before that. Maybe around the time he knew his wife knew they weren’t going to be rich after all…

His faith. His church. He could still see his father’s powerful frame from where he, as a child, had sat in the front row of pew, gazing with unending awe and fascination at the strong hands gripping the pulpit, listening with unswerving love and reverence to the voice that drove out all fear and worry. And later, that same commanding voice, reduced to a gargled whisper by the cancer eating his throat, instructing him from the strange-smelling death bed to take care of Mommy and little brother Jim. He’d prayed to God that night with all his might not to take his father away, not to leave him alone with those terrible responsibilities, the dark, featureless future. But God, it seemed, wasn’t home that night. In the pale stillness of early morning light his father had slipped away…and with him taken the church…

A line of squirming children and bored mothers blocked his path. His weary eyes followed them down the aisle to the bright, hand-painted sign hanging above:
Toyland—Visit Santa Here!
He shook his head and skirted the slow-trudging line and zombie faces, picturing in his mind this year’s version of Santa: another sad-eyed old man in a padded suit of crimson and white trim, dutifully hoisting each recalcitrant youngster to his lap for $3.50 an hour, hiding, no doubt, a fifth of bourbon somewhere in the cardboard workshop behind him.

Just after entering Sporting Goods his nose was assaulted by a sudden noxious odor. Good Christ, he thought, what in the
world
…?

He made a face, craned about for the source. Did some kid vomit? Crap his little skivvies? The whole department reeked. He pushed past a burly, blue-haired woman and hurried to get out of there, watching where he stepped as best he could.

He rounded a corner and found himself in Hardware. He hesitated, looked right and left. “Books, books,” he mumbled, “where the hell do they keep the damn books…” The packages were becoming lead in his arms. A growing numbness crept to his left shoulder. Heart attack. Nice.

Then he saw the sign:
Books—Stationery.

He grunted satisfaction and moved ahead, forging path like a wide receiver.

In twenty minutes he’d seen all the books he wanted to see.

He found himself leaning against a table heaped high with remainder volumes, packages at his feet, arms folded, back muscles resenting him, listening to—how many times was it now?—
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.
The Muzak loop must have been stuck. Or maybe the store was just too cheap this season to up the variety. Right now he’d settle for six straight renditions of
Jingle Bell Rock.
Maybe even a chorus or two of
Little Drummer Boy.
Yeah, he thought, shifting his weight to his other aching arch, and a partridge in a pear tree.

He consulted his watch. It had been an hour since he’d left his wife at the escalator. Where the hell was she?
Come on, Lindy, I’m slipping away here…

A woman shoved by and kicked the packages at his feet. Merry Christmas and fuck you very much.

He was hot under the heavy coat, had been hot for over half an hour now with no way to remove it. Should have left it in the damn car. Should have
stayed
in the damn car as Lindy had suggested. He knew she’d be late, they
both
had known she’d be late, she’d been trying to warn him. Shit.

He shifted his weight to the other leg, sighed. Wondered how many times he’s sighed that night. Why do people sigh, anyway? Just boredom or some necessary bodily function? Hadn’t he read somewhere it was caused by improper breathing or posture? That, by sighing, your body saturated the lungs with oxygen and thereby helped clear the brain. But was it voluntary or involuntary? Hadn’t he seen something on TV where--

--
oh who the hell cares! Think about something else. Like a nice cold beer. Or six
.

He glanced down at his watch again. It was exactly a minute and six seconds later than the last time he’d looked.

He closed his eyes there against the wooden counter. Please don’t start that damn song again. Please.

For a moment he thought he could almost fall asleep on his feet that way. Horses did it, why not humans? His uncle Allen had a horse once. Kept it in his back pasture. He remembered riding it a few times when he was very young. His Uncle told him once the crazy nag was always jumping the fence, running down the middle of the road, him chasing and cursing it. Funny image. What was that horse’s name, anyway? Angie? Agnus? Mr. Ed? Something. What if he opened his eyes right now and the whole crowd just disappeared. Wouldn’t that be cool? Maybe if he wished hard enough…

The crowd was still there. All but his wife.

Why were women always late? It wasn’t just a double standard, you know, they really were always late. Always. Lousy drivers, too. It was true. Always tell when you get behind some broad. Specially in traffic. Like they waited until you were sure they were going to make that red light, then slammed on their brakes in front of you. Lousy drivers and always late, habitually, every girl he’d ever known, Lindy one of the worst. It was a thing between them. He detested waiting for people, prided himself on his punctuality. She didn’t know the meaning of the word. Women. Great legs, though, had to give his Lindy that. Boobs could have been bigger, sure, but so what, at least they were real. But those legs. Especially before the kids came, remember that? Not an ounce of fat on her. Buns like apples. Guys used to stare at her when they passed on the sidewalk. He didn’t care, didn’t blame them. Let ‘em stare. He got to go home with—

--oh, shit…here came the
song
again.

He started to look down at his watch again, caught himself, jammed his hand into his coat pocket instead. A watched pot never boiled. Who comes up with crap like that anyway? And who cared? Useless information; his brain was full of it. Some truth to it, though. Glancing at his watch would only make it seem longer. Jesus but his back was killing him!

What was she doing up there for chrissake!

Maybe she was almost through. Maybe she’d found a gift and was standing at the head of the long check-out line, handing her plastic to the girl, or lady or whoever. He pictured the girl handing her back her card, smiling a Merry Christmas, saw his wife move back through the crowd with her package to the escalator, step on it, ride it down…cross the aisle to the book department. She’d be here any minute, any second…the next person to come into view—

He turned expectantly, seeing her smile in his mind’s eye, her waving arm. He scanned the myriad faces of strangers anxiously, searching, searching. Any second now, any second! The very next face would be hers—

Nothing.

He ground his teeth. Now I’m getting mad, damn it! Now I’m really getting teed! There was no earthly excuse for this! It had been the better part of
two
hours now! She dawdling around up there picking out just the right color of this or that, him down here with spikes through his back, arches on fire! Well, just wait till he saw her! He’d give her a piece of his mind all right, yes even in the middle of a department store! Not that the oblivious ignoramuses around him would notice! But he’d let her have it good, goddamnit, she deserved it!
“And make it quick,”
he’d told her! Right! She knew how exhausted he already was, the trouble he had with his feet! He’d
offered
to come back here to the store with her! He’d—

--an attractive girl came out of the sea of bodies and stopped to look at a book near him. She was slim and stately, really quite beautiful. Her swelling breasts strained against a yellow sweater, yellow like the waterfall of curls that fell to her small shoulders. My God; she could be a model. Easily. Maybe
was
a model. There was a time when girls her age used to look at him, used to notice him all the time, give him the eye. And not so long ago, either. He’d been something of a looker himself in his day. Damn straight. The chicks had dug him, no question about it. Even that teacher in high school that--

The girl looked up and caught him staring. He looked away quickly, pretended to be interested in one of the sale books. In a moment she’d crossed over closer to him. Picked up a book of her own, paged it, put it back. Crossed over closer to him. Right next to him, actually.

What was this? Was she interested? In
me
? Guy my age? Is she making a play here?

From the corner of his eye he could see the globes of her breasts move when she sighed boredom, turned a page. She wasn’t wearing a bra! Was she--?

He shifted his position again, cleared his throat nervously. What now? She was obviously inviting conversation. He was supposed to say something now, break the ice. But what? He was out of practice. He found himself craning around with a sudden hooded look of fear; of
course
Kim would show up now!

But she didn’t. And the girl inched closer. He could smell the oil in her hair…

He pictured himself turning to her, smiling, asking innocently about the book she was reading. Nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong with conversing with someone while he was waiting around here, no law against that. Just a quick word to open the conversation. He glanced askance quickly and thought he caught her smiling. She
was
interested! Never mind why, this absolutely beautiful knock-out doll was without a doubt coming on to him! Next thing he knew he’d be buying that book for her, escorting her to the exit door. Then a quick hamburger somewhere, if she wanted it, back to her apartment, a drink or two, and wham--into the old sack. He saw them heaving feverishly across the bed, bodies locked, her long nails digging his back, round hips bucking up to him, lovely mouth opening as she cried out in writhing orga—

The girl was gone.

He blinked once. Craned around. She was gone.

Jerk. Standing here in the middle of a neighborhood department store the night before Christmas Eve fantasizing about ravaging some poor innocent girl young enough to be your…

He looked at his watch. It was over two hours now. This was beyond ridiculous!
Where was his wife!

A sudden chill found him. Wait a sec! What if she’d run into some kind of trouble? What if she
couldn’t
get to him? It had never occurred to him. He stood there trying to imagine what kind of trouble she might be in--couldn’t think of anything. Still, you never knew; this was an incredibly long time to wait. No check-out line was
that
long…

No. Something must have happened. This was serious. Two hours! Better go check on her, he thought, picking up the packages, better go see what’s wrong...

Then the thought: but what if she came down while he was going up? If he missed her now it would only delay things further.
“You just stay with the books,”
she’d said,
“I’ll come find you.”
Fine, but what if she
had
run into trouble, was in some kind of difficulty? He’d never forgive himself for just standing around doing nothing while she suffered.