Neil Dubbin had hired one of his brother-in-law's carpenters to install the new vinyl shelving and display racks. After three outrageous painting estimates, he had a.s.signed the job to Gordon. The work had gone slowly at first, with Gordon not only performing his routine store duties, but trying, when he found time to paint, to make each brush stroke perfect. Now that his pace was faster, most of the storage areas were finished.

He was back on the ladder, touching up some ceiling molding, when Leo said he was needed up front. He had been called down twice in the last half hour, to help unload truck deliveries, now this time to fix June's register tape. Every few days the tape would snarl, jamming the register and locking the cash drawer shut. Neil was trying to remove the rolls from the cartridge, but he was so nervous that his hand shook. Gordon took his place and peered into the frozen cartridge, while behind him Neil launched into another litany of failure. He was still using thirty-year-old manual registers when every place else had been computerized. "I must be nuts. I've wasted how many years in this dump, and Jesus Christ, here I am, still trying to make a go of it. What I should do is just walk out that G.o.dd.a.m.n door and let my sister and her idiot husband run things if they want to keep this dump going so bad."

"Almost got it," Gordon grunted, wedging the tip of the slender screwdriver down alongside the tape spool. "Same thing," he muttered. "That one little wheel's slipped."

June sat on a crate, sipping blue Gatorade. She'd just had a weak spell. Six customers waited in line at the next register. Serena was ringing up orders and doing her own bagging.

"This is ridiculous!" said a disheveled woman in a stained white uniform. Her two small children wailed because she'd just smacked their hands for taking gum after she'd said no.

"Can't somebody do that register?" another woman asked, pointing.

"Where's the kid? Why isn't he bagging?" Neil asked, looking around for Thurman.

"He went out to round up carts," June said, wheezing, and smirked at him. "Ten minutes ago." He had gone out for a cigarette.

"Oh, Jesus." Neil started for the door. Out on the street, a slight, thin-haired man in a gray suit was shouting at Thurman, who was a head taller than he was. Just yesterday the boy had blown up at Leo and stormed out. When his grandmother got home from work, she'd marched him into the store and made him apologize to Leo and Neil.

"f.u.c.k you!" Thurman's voice exploded through the opening door. With Neil's arrival, the man gestured angrily at Thurman, who stood in the hot sun, glaring in his long-sleeved white shirt and baggy prison pants. Neil patted the man's shoulder and tried to bring him inside, but the man looked back and said something. The boy lunged and the man shoved him away, but the boy came at him again. Neil pushed between them. The man's round, fair face blotched with rage as he strained against Neil to get at Thurman.

"Gordon!" June implored, pulling her tank to the door, but he was numb, frozen.

"Oh, my G.o.d!" a woman in line cried out, saying she knew the boy's grandmother.

"He pushed them right into me," the man panted as he came through the door.

"They're hard to stop sometimes," Neil said, then, seeing the boy on his heels, ordered him to go home and cool off. With that, Thurman charged inside, shouting that the a.s.shole had driven into the carts on purpose, that's how his car got scratched.

"He wouldn't wait!" Thurman insisted.

"Yeah, right," the man said, straightening his tie. He stared at Gordon.

"Ask him what he called me!" Thurman said to Neil. "Go ahead, ask him!"

"Get the h.e.l.l outta here! I'm not going to say it again. You go home and cool off. Now!" Neil ordered.

"No!" Thurman bellowed. "I'm not leaving! I didn't do anything! He's the one, not me! Ask him what he said! Go ahead!"

"Look, that's it! I've had enough of your mouth, you hear me? What do you want? You want me to fire you? I don't think so. I don't think that's what you want." Neil had gotten Thurman to the door.

"You're Loomis, right?" The man's eyes raged with turbulence. His head trembled.

Gordon nodded.

"I want you to ask him! Go ahead! Ask him what he called me!" the boy demanded as the man advanced on Gordon.

"Here, look! Look at this." The man held out his open wallet with shaking hands. "See! See that beautiful face? That's all that's left because of you! A picture," he said, his low, anguished voice running into Neil's and Thurman's.

Gordon's head jerked away from her joyful smile. Twenty-five years ago, her pictures had made her seem so much older than he had been then. Now he realized how young she had been, how pretty.

"f.u.c.king spick, that's what he said! That's what he called me," Thurman said through the closing door.

"You son of a b.i.t.c.h," the man spat. "You don't even care, do you. At least c.o.x had the decency to blow his f.u.c.king brains out as soon as he he got out." got out."

Gordon stared down at his huge, sweaty feet in these absurd blue-and-white sneakers. At least in a cell the bars had been visible.

"But it's over for you, right? You did your time. You just come back, start over, what the h.e.l.l do you care! She wasn't anything to you, right?" He paused, mouth quivering. "But she was my sister. Janine! Oh G.o.d," he moaned, and covered his face, still holding the wallet. Business cards and photographs slid to the floor.

Neil picked them up. "Tom," he said, holding them out.

"My sister's gone," the man sobbed in his struggle with the inexplicable, this monstrous and simple fact. "And my parents, they died of broken hearts. But you, you're still here. Why? How can can you be? What kind of person are you? Look at you! You can't even look me in the eye, can you?" you be? What kind of person are you? Look at you! You can't even look me in the eye, can you?"

Gordon shook his head. No.

"Do something!" the man screamed, slapping the wallet at Gordon's chest in a frenzy of rage and impotence. "Say something! Don't just stand there, you f.u.c.king coward, you no-good b.a.s.t.a.r.d, you stupid son of a b.i.t.c.h!" He hit him in the neck, and Serena screamed.

Gordon stood there. He could not express it, could not say that the very fact of his emptiness meant something, that never for a moment had he denied or relinquished guilt, and so in that ineffable way did mourn and suffer her loss. Even his torturous memories were meaningless, as futile as this brother's outburst. What possible atonement was there for taking her life? What reparation might balance the loss? None, of course. Not even execution or suicide could plug the hole he had made in the universe. And in his own soul. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so very sorry."

"Sorry! Sorry! What's sorry? What's that? That's nothing! That's a word! A f.u.c.king, useless, empty word, that's all the f.u.c.k that is!" The man's voice broke with a rubbly gasp, the unseen wreckage of a cave collapsing in on itself.

The door above him opened. "Gordon? Gordon, are you down there? . . . Gordon?" Neil paused halfway down the creaking cellar steps. "What're you doing?"

"Looking for a ladder."

"It's already up here. You were on it."

"I thought there was another one. A higher one."

Neil almost seemed to be grinning. "No, you're hiding down here, that's what you're doing."

He felt sick to his stomach, so drained that his bones ached.

"I didn't know who he was at first," Neil said. "Even when he said the name, Tom Ferguson. I didn't make the connection. He said he just found out you were working here and something snapped inside. He was on his way to work and he just kept driving. From New Jersey. Six hours-he never stopped. All he knew was he had to see you. He said it all blew up, all those feelings, things he hadn't thought of in years."

Gordon remembered him sitting between his bewildered-looking father and devastated mother, the younger brother who often wept during the trial. He used to wonder why they subjected him to that, why he wasn't in school. Now he knew. So that he wouldn't forget. So that when they were gone, some part of them would still speak her name.

"I told him you're a good guy, and that's all I know."

Gordon nodded.

"What else could I say? You never talk about anything."

Gordon shrugged.

"You keep it all in, huh? Not like that Dominguez, always mouthing off at somebody. If it wasn't for his grandmother, I'd fire the sour little b.a.s.t.a.r.d." Neil picked up a sooty coal bucket by the handle and swung it back and forth. "You know, this may come as a surprise, but I envy you. No commitments, no anchors, nothing to hold you back like this s.h.i.thole here." He laughed, his gleaming eyes skittering over the dusty crates, teetering stacks of pallets, and cob-webbed signs and warped shelving. Propped against the wall was the original marquee. NASH STREET MARKET, proclaimed the red gla.s.s script, dull with grime and dead fuses. "Feels like a tomb down here, doesn't it? A f.u.c.king grave!" He let go of the bucket and drop-kicked it into the marquee.

Gordon jumped with the explosion of neon tubes.

"I should have sold it when I had the chance. But all I could think was, Yeah, and then what the h.e.l.l do I do? I figured it was too late to start over. I mean, I had a family to support. What was I gonna do, go sell cars someplace? It was like being frozen, like I was encased in this block of f.u.c.king ice I'm always trying to see out of, and then one day there you are, and it hits me. I don't have to do this anymore. I served my time. I can be free, too. Do you know what I mean?"

"I don't know. I'm not sure."

"But the thing is, it's gotta at least look like it's worth something if I'm ever gonna sell it."

"You're going to sell the Market?" A lump rose into Gordon's throat.

"Sure. If I can find someone stupid enough to buy it."

Lisa called a few days later. Jimmy's eleventh-birthday party was going to be two weeks from Sunday. Dennis could pick him up, or he could take the bus if he'd rather. "And if there's anyone you'd like to bring, Gordon, feel free. We'll probably be outside, so the more the merrier!"

"Oh, okay," he said, trying to hide his dread.

"Oh, and another thing, Gordon. I meant to call the other day and tell you, but guess who I ran into at the mall? Delores Dufault! It was just a quick visit, but I enjoyed seeing her so much. She's so nice!"

"Yes. Yes, she is."

"And I told her how much I miss her. I used to love our rides up to see you, she'd be so funny. Well, anyway, she said you'd been to her house for dinner a couple weeks ago."

"Yes. That's right. I did."

"Was it good? I'll bet she's a great cook."

"Yes, she is. It was good. It was very good." What he remembered was the sweetness of the strawberries and his excitement at the prospect of being with Jilly, who he thought about all the time, last night even dreamed about.

"So you had a good time?"

"Yes, very nice." He smiled, thinking of the dream. Jilly and his mother were playing cards on the deck of a dry-docked boat overlooking the ocean, where the waves had been too loud for him to hear their conversation.

"But you haven't called her or anything since then, right?"

"Well, I've been busy. I . . ."

"I know, that's what I told her. I said how busy you've been and how maybe she should just give you a ring. But then I felt bad. She said she'd stopped calling because she didn't want to bother you anymore."

"Oh. Well, I don't know. I have been putting in a lot of time at the Market."

"Why don't you give her a call? Just say how busy you've been. Ask her what's going on, and . . . well, you'll know what to say." She paused. "You shouldn't be alone so much, Gordon. You need someone to share things with."

It was early morning. The cloudless sky was a brilliant blue, and the sun already felt hot. Gordon knelt in the damp gra.s.s, measuring out a quarter cup of fertilizer from the hardware store. The label said to pour it in a circle around the base of each bush. That done, he tilted the old watering can and thoroughly soaked the harsh-smelling granules into the humusy black soil. Every day the bushes were greener and fuller. He could almost feel their grat.i.tude after so many years of neglect. Sometimes when he was done he would glance back, half expecting an anxious voice begging him to stay. He gathered up his tools and started toward the house.

"Hey! What're you doing?" Jada Fossum called from across the street.

"Good morning," he answered, then continued inside as if he couldn't hear her still calling to him. Last week, she had asked him to bring her home some milk, bread, and peanut b.u.t.ter. He had almost said no because she had never paid him for the other groceries. But he did, and then when he brought them to her, she said she'd have to pay him later, her mother wasn't there and she didn't have any money. Two days later she came into the store and bought ten dollars' worth of food, for which she had only three dollars and fifty cents. The rest must have fallen out of her pocket, she said. Serena asked her which things she wanted to put back. Gordon kept sweeping. He didn't know what to say when she tapped him on the shoulder and asked to borrow the six fifty difference. She'd pay him back that night, swear to G.o.d.

"No, you can't do that!" Serena told her. "You can't come in here and be hitting people up for money!"

"I'm not hitting people up!" Jada spat back. "I know him. He's my friend. He can help me if he wants." Edging closer, she peered up at him. "I really need this stuff. I'll pay you back, I swear," she said in a low, hungry voice. "Thank you! Thank you so much!" she squealed when he gave the money to Serena.

He gazed out the window as he washed his hands in the kitchen sink. Bright yellow dandelions covered Mrs. Jukas's yard. Yesterday she had been out in her bathrobe, stuffing blown papers and twigs into a trash bag. When he'd gotten home from work last night, a woman in a pink uniform and dreadlocks had been shaking rag rugs over the back railing. Mistaking her for a nurse, he had asked if Mrs. Jukas was sick.

"If she is, she didn't tell me," the woman said, then told him she was the cleaning lady. She came once a month.

He sprayed gla.s.s cleaner into the sink, then dried it with a square of paper toweling he kept there for just that purpose. Every week he'd start a new square. Thriftiness gave him some small sense of control in his life. The hardest part of freedom was his accessibility. Like Tom Ferguson and Jada Fossum and Delores, anyone could get to him at any time. Instead of being pleased, he was irritated by invitations. He didn't want to go to Jimmy's birthday party. He dreaded meeting Lisa's parents and seeing the horror in their eyes. At least Jilly Cross had been honest about her reaction. So far no one at work had said anything, but he could feel them watching him. Serena and June had become nervously solicitous, as if they needed to stay in his good graces now more than ever. Neil hadn't said another word about the incident with Ferguson. He had given Gordon two hundred and fifty dollars yesterday to thank him for all his hard work and for never saying no to him. Not once, no matter what he ever asked him to do, he had said.

Gordon made up his mind. As soon as he finished breakfast, he would call Jilly. His toast had just popped up when the doorbell rang.

"Hey!" Jada grinned up at him through the screen. "I was calling you. Didn't you hear me?"

"What is it?" he said, unable to hide his irritation.

"Here!" She held up a fistful of bills with a furtive glance back at her house.

He opened the door and took the money. She dropped a handful of change onto the bills. "I was in kind of a hurry, so if it's not right, let me know and I'll bring over the rest."

"Thank you," he said after a quick count. Eighty-nine cents short, but he'd let it go.

"You didn't think I was going to pay you back, huh."

"Well, yes. Of course I did."

"Good, cuz I'm very honest, you know."

"Yes, well, anyway, thank you for bringing this over." He started to close the door.

"Umm, that smells good." She sniffed against the screen. "What kind of coffee's that?"

"Just regular, that's all."

"High test, that's what I drink. That decaf stuff, it's like, ugh. I mean, why bother?"

"Well, anyway-"

"Could I have a cup? We don't have any. We ran out."

Saying he'd be right back, he went inside and quickly poured her a cup. He glanced at the clock. Jilly would be leaving for work soon. When he came back with the coffee, Jada was in the living room. She asked if he had any milk. She could drink it black, but if he had milk, she'd like it a lot more, she said, following him into the kitchen. He had a really nice house, she said, looking around.

This was a mistake. She was taking over, but he couldn't very well ask her to leave. He handed her the milk carton.