I never looked right away.
Instead, I locked my bedroom door, crept downstairs with my blanket, and made coffee with shaking hands.
The next few days passed in a blur. Work, couch, library. Couch, library, work. I avoided my bedroom, but my housemate, Steve, was out of town, so there was no one to judge me for being unwilling to face four walls of hideous epithets in the light of day. And there were no more dreams, no more murmurs, no more whispers in the dark. Of course, the silence was worse. At least when the thing inside me talked, I knew where I stood.
Finally, on Monday, I found myself thinking more about those walls as I wiped down the plexiglass shield protecting the food we served at Kershman’s Deli from the gross people who ordered it.
I’d deal with the walls tonight, probably, after work. I was ready, I thought. I was chill, again, easy. I could handle it.
Working in the deli had certainly helped dull the edge, anyway.
For one thing, customers at Kershman’s Deli only had a limited number of items they could request: sandwiches, salads, or salads on sandwiches.
For another, they usually didn’t give you much attitude, because their eyes weren’t on you, they were on the various items you were putting on their sandwich. You didn’t touch their food ever, thanks to the plastic gloves, and you didn’t touchthemeither, thanks to the thick barrier between your hands and theirs.
Which was why I generally liked my job at Kershman’s Deli. At least until 1 p.m. rolled around every weekday, Monday through Friday, and Claire Bickwell from the pharmacy down the street showed up in line—this time behind some guy I’d never seen before.
I didn’t know Claire Bickwell, not really. She had bouncy blonde hair, a cupid’s bow pink smile, and she was small boned and slender. Delicate. She looked to be about thirty or so, but her energy skewed younger. She tried to chat whenever she came in, like everyone was her friend. And so, of course, I should be too.
I didn’t like her. If she wasn’t alone, she was almost always with the same guy, but that guy was an absolute jerk. He smelled like someone else almost from the beginning, I finally realized. Not like her.
There was no way I would have told her that, though. I mean, who said things like that? Who could scent betrayal the way some people picked out floral notes in wine?
Still, Claire had asked a question about her boyfriend, I thought. The last time she was here. A question that had unexpectedly come along with the order of an avocado turkey sandwich and green tea. A question I’d responded to, possibly quick and harsh, probably quick and harsh. But still true. I tried hard to be truthful. The truth was always simpler, cleaner. More powerful.
Now Claire was back and ordering something different. With a new guy who smelled like her.
“What would you like on your turkey avocado?” Polite and cheerful, I remained ever the helpful counter girl. Claire made meaningful eyes at me, then at the guy in front of her. She didn’t introduce us. I didn’t care.
After a second, she gave up. “Everything but peppers and onions, like always. No salt, but please add the vinaigrette. Andthank you,” she said, emphasizing the words as I busied myself with her preparations. I looked up again, then passed along the sandwich to the cashier.
“No problem.”
“No, I mean,thank you.” Again with the eyes. I looked at the guy who wasn’t her old boyfriend but could be her newboyfriend, then back at her. Had I told her something about the previous guy? Aired my olfactory suspicions out loud?
I grimaced. If I had, I wouldn’t necessarily remember. I said what I knew to be true when people asked me. It’d been a problem of mine since way back. That didn’t make me some kind of hero.
“Anything else?” I asked, not trying to soften the edge in my voice, and she blinked, a blush climbing up her cheeks. Claire was only a little older than me, but unlike me, she hadn’t been working her way through college one class at a time. She’d graduated on schedule and was a pharmacist, working shit hours at a fancy Oak Park pharmacy in pursuit of earning an eventual fortune by dispensing pills to supplicants at her plexiglass shield. She’d always seemed nice, and I’d never wanted to talk to her.
“Yes,” she said, surprising me. She had a card out—a business card, cheap white stock with blue and black printed letters. She flashed the back of it to show me the cell number she’d written there, then handed it over the counter.
“I can’t handle not speaking up when I see an issue, and I see one,” she said. “You’re too pale, Delia. It’s Delia, right? Too tired. I can help you get better sleep. Call me.”
I stared at her, and she stared back, with all the imperiousness of a woman who wore a white coat most of the day.
“No,” I said.
But this was Claire Bickwell, her shiny nameplate pin said so, and I could see her story in her eyes. Small upper-middle-class family, loving parents, teachers who were too easily impressed. Shitty taste in boyfriends, even the new one, who seemed vaguely uncomfortable as he glanced between us, a frown marring his too soft lips.
Oh, honey.I fought the snicker.If you think Claire makes you uncomfortable now…
“Yes,” Claire countered over my counter, and she flicked the card toward me, a neat little frisbee spin. I couldn’t help myself—I ducked. Not really even ducked, just got out of the way of the spinning little card, harmless and stupid, but still a threat, still a?—
I stopped. Claire’s eyes were wide now, and so was Skye’s, the teenage cashier beside me. “What?” I snapped. “I don’t want your card.”
“I can cash you out,” Skye squeaked.
“Thank you,” Claire Bickwell said with her lips pursed into their little bow, unruffled, unworried. She swung her perfect blonde hair and faced forward, the fluorescent lights catching the little gold cross on its delicate chain at her throat, and I turned to the next person. Nevertheless, I felt uneasy until she and her newest arm candy had paid for their subs and left the building.
