Sure, she’d kicked him out, which he’d accepted as something she needed to do. He even thought the break might be a good thing for both of them. But he’d also thought she’d calm down and let him come home. He thought they’d figure things out like they always had. But then that server had showed up at his work today. His place of employment! In front of God and everybody! Talk about adding insult to injury.
Tommy casts a glance at those papers, thinking that if he had laser eyes like the superheroes he watched as a kid, he’d incinerate them right there in the seat. It’d catch the seat on fire, but he wouldn’t care. Those papers would be gone, and there would still be hope for him and Nadine.
But he doesn’t have laser eyes, and Nadine is in there with customers, and—she had a point—it isn’t right to show up at her work. Not that she didn’t send someone to his work today, he thinks. Then he hears his dad in his head saying, “Two wrongs don’t make a right, son.”
At the thought of his dad, he leans over and hits the button to open the glove compartment. Inside he sees the handle of bourbon he’s been swigging from since he left work. The GM—not just his boss, but the damn GM of the whole dealership—had come and found him under a car to tell him, with this pitying look that made Tommy feel worse, not better, that he could go home for the day. Then the pompous ass had flashed a smile—like there was something to smile about—and added, “With pay.”
Well, whoop-de-do, Tommy had thought. But he’d left all the same.
Now Tommy takes a long pull from the handle of bourbon, enjoying the burn and the warmth that comes with it. He thinks of the first time he ever tasted bourbon. He’d been hunting with his dad. He’d been a kid—no older than fourteen or fifteen—but it had been cold and his dad had offered him a sip. “It’ll cure what ails ya,” he’d promised. Tommy wonders if he ever told his dad that he was right. It does cure what ails ya.
His thoughts are coming hard and fast: the old man, the GM, his father, all making him think about the man he’s failed to be. He stares at the post office as he takes another sip. He doesn’t think anyone has come or gone since he left, so it’s still the same ladies in line in there. How many of them were there? Two? Four? He doesn’t remember. He was too intent on getting Nadine to tear up those papers. If she will just tear up those papers it will mean... what? He doesn’t know. He just wanted to do something, to change something. That’s what a real man would do.
Tommy caps the bottle and goes to stick it back into the glove compartment but spies his gun sitting in there before he can. He stares at it for a moment before looking back at the post office. He just needs to make her understand. Not that he would ever use the gun, mind you. Just having it on him will up the ante. That’s all he intends. A serious device to show how serious he is. He reaches for the gun and angles his body so he can get it into his pocket. Then he picks up the envelope with one hand and rests the bourbon in his lap so he can use his free hand to open the door.
Chapter 6
Morrow can see that Nadine is rattled but pretending not to be as she beckons to Blythe, who moves into the spot formerly occupied by the man who stalked out of the post office. Morrow can’t help but notice that Nadine and Blythe are both younger than she is, as more and more people seem to be these days. When she was younger she didn’t use to notice people’s ages. But that was because she was young. At least, she thinks, she isn’t as old as Sylvie, who has returned to her place in line looking pleased with herself. Morrow, like the others, ignores the woman on the phone entirely.
Morrow watches as thirtysomething (she estimates) Blythe walks up to twentysomething (again, another estimation) Nadine and lays a box wrapped in kraft paper on the counter in front of her. Morrow can’t be sure, but she thinks she hears the distinct intake of breath that comes from someone stifling a sob. Morrow looks away from whatever is happening. She does not want to witness another person’s pain. She has enough of her own, thank you very much.
Morrow smooths her ponytail, gripping the length of it, then looks down into the darkness of her tote bag, which grew too heavy as she waited and is now sitting innocuously at her feet, the small, padded envelope down in there somewhere. Not bigenough to be a threat; at least no one would think so if they saw it. Morrow will not cry when she presents it to the clerk. She won’t even need to stifle a sob. She will just put down her envelope and smile like she is any other woman running any other errand.And that will be good, she thinks.That will be what’s best.
At the counter, Blythe is indeed stifling a sob. She is doing her very best not to break down and cry as she looks at the box, steeling herself against the threat of tears by thinking of terrible things that happen to other people—identity theft, extortion, abduction, assault. None of these things are happening to her, she tells herself. She is safe. She is fine. And though she might not be certain about what she’s about to do, she is making someone else happy, and that’s always a good thing. Right?
They all wait politely while Blythe gets herself together. Soon Blythe is able to force a smile for Nadine, who was clearly just threatened by some man. It could be some sort of domestic abuse–type situation, Blythe thinks. That’s another thing that is not happening to her right now. This, she tells herself, is nothing at all. It might even be the right thing to do in the end.
She thinks of her mother this morning, sitting at Blythe’s kitchen table, coffee cup in hand as she pronounced, as only her mother could, “You’ll never know if you don’t try. I’d hate to see you realize later in life that you didn’t do what you could back when you had the chance.” Her mother had sighed, then added, “I should know.”
Blythe thinks her mother meant for her to inquire about this added comment. But she had not. She’d left for the post office instead. With any luck, her mother will be on the road back to Raleigh by the time Blythe gets home. Her mother has a big meeting this afternoon, so there’s a good chance she will. Her mother always has a big meeting looming.
She pushes the box forward. “I would like to mail this,” she manages to say, though the quiver in her voice remains. She brushes her fingertips across the box, a kind of caress.
“Okay,” Nadine says, glancing at the address Blythe has carefully written on the box with a Sharpie, the black letters bold and blocky. Blythe looks at the address as well, reading the name written above it with something like surprise. She thinks about the note she tucked inside, thanks to her mother’s prodding. Is it too much? Her eyes run along the line of tape she’d sealed the box with. Even if it is too much, it’s too late now.
She listens to the clacking of keys as Nadine enters the information. Nadine points at a screen and directs Blythe to approve what she has entered. Even as she presses the button to designate her approval, Blythe considers yanking the box back and running out of here.If you go through with this, she thinks,it could start something. It could end something.Which does she want? She doesn’t know for sure.
“Is there anything in here that is liquid, fragile, perishable, or potentially hazardous?” Nadine asks, her voice taking on that detached tone that says she has done this a hundred times before.
Fragile?Blythe thinks.Yes. Potentially hazardous? Yes.What will happen if she answers yes? Will the clerk tell her she can’t mail the package after all? That would make things much simpler, the decision made for her.
“No,” Blythe says.
“Okay,” Nadine says as she types something else into her computer. Blythe reads her name tag. She looks like a Nadine, Blythe decides.
Nadine directs Blythe to punch a button that says that what she is mailing is safe to send through the United States Postal Service. Blythe presses the green button. Green means go. She is going ahead with this, for better or for worse. She twirls herengagement ring around her finger as she watches Nadine sweep the box off the counter and it drops out of sight. Blythe wants to tell her to be careful with it. But she has already said there is nothing fragile inside. She has pressed the green button.
For a crazy moment Blythe thinks about diving across the counter and retrieving the box. But before she can act on her impulse, she hears a rush of air entering the room as the door to the post office opens. Blythe sees Nadine’s eyes cloud with concern and turns to see what it is Nadine has seen. At the same time she hears Sylvie behind her take in a breath.
Together Blythe, Nadine, Sylvie, and Morrow watch as Tommy comes back into the post office. This time he is carrying a fifth of bourbon, which he dramatically pauses to swill in the doorway as they all stare, frozen. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows the liquid he’s poured down his throat. The woman on the phone says, “I gotta go,” and hangs up.
Blythe and the other women in line glance nervously at one another as Nadine says, “Tommy,” in a strangled kind of way. It is the fear, Blythe thinks, that is choking her.
Tommy lowers the bottle of liquor and moves toward them with menace on his face. He is lanky and tall, able to cross the room in just a few strides. “Tommy.” Nadine says his name again, and now they all know it, though they don’t all know one another’s yet. They will in due time, except for the woman who was on the phone.
“You’re going to make me lose my job.” Nadine smiles like she is making a joke, but Sylvie sees her lips give her away, a quiver that betrays her bravado. Tommy sees it too. He smirks as he lays the same envelope from before back on the counter, then sets the bottle of liquor right beside it, half gone.
Sylvie wonders if he’s drunk it all today or only just started drinking. She thinks about how he swayed on his feet when hestepped away from the counter earlier and guesses it’s probably, unfortunately, the former. Impaired men are even harder to reason with than sober ones.
