Invisible Ellen (7 page)

At the end of the hallway, just inside the door, which opened into the freezer section in the back of the store, the thermostat for those offices was mounted on the wall. Ellen stopped in front of it and glanced back down the deserted hall.

Reaching out a tentative finger, she tested the electronic panel. It lit up when she touched the button. Ten seconds later, she was on the floor in frozen foods.

Irena, Rosa and Kiki were all busy scrubbing down the glass fronts of the wall of freezers. Ellen went back to work, but kept an eye on Irena's location. The droning floor buffer was still making its way through the aisles, Squirt at the wheel. After half an hour, Ellen went into the food section and located the fifty-gallon vats of cooking
oil stacked three high. These large, impossible-to-steal items were always placed in the cameras' dead zones. She could hear the off-key whine of Squirt and his machine coming down the next aisle. With a grunting effort, she tipped the uppermost two vats onto their sides and popped off the tops. With a thick
glug-glug
the sickly yellow liquid began to run over the floor, spreading into a large, slippery pool. She could hear the buffer begin to make the wide turn into her lane, so she hurried off in the opposite direction and made her way back to the freezer section. Pulling a cloth from her apron pocket, she began to polish the glass doors, keeping an eye on the exit to the offices.

The shouts started within seconds. Accusations were made, walkie-talkies crackled, and then—as she had known he must be for a loss of over fifty dollars—the Boss was summoned.

He flew out of the door from the back, shouting obscenities, dispensing blame and vowing that heads would roll. He spotted Irena and Rosa and shouted, “You two, come with me! Bring your mops, hurry up!”

Red in the face, he was in his shirtsleeves, tieless, and his collar was unbuttoned. There were telltale half circles of dampness under his armpits.

Before the access door completely closed behind the Boss, Ellen slipped through it and hustled back along the row of offices, her inner thighs hot with the friction of rapid chafing. The Boss had left his own door ajar in his haste to verbally abuse his staff, and his jacket was hung on the back of his chair along with his tie.

It was muggy in the tiny room, not surprising, as Ellen had set the thermostat to eighty-nine. Feeling a sweat break on her back, she searched the jacket pockets and quickly came up with the wad of cash she had seen the Boss scam a few hours before. She stuffed it
into her fanny pack, retraced her steps down the hallway, reset the thermostat to seventy-four and slipped back onto the floor. Squirt was emphatically denying the Boss's accusation of a collision with the vegetable oil, in profile to avoid the flying specks of spittle. Irena and Rosa mopped furiously. With a grunt of satisfaction, Ellen retrieved her cart and pushed it through the break room. She left it in there and took only what she needed to clean the staff restrooms.

She was scrubbing the stench of sticky urine off the base of a toilet in the men's stalls when she heard the door swing open. She stood stock-still. Heavy footsteps clumped in and then ceased. The Boss called out, “Anyone in here?” To which Ellen gave no reply. Then the Boss started swearing, a loud crash informed her that he had smashed his fist into the metal towel holder and it had most likely been permanently reshaped. A few more inventively profane expletives peppered the atmosphere, and then he left.

Unhurriedly, Ellen finished the stalls, rinsed the sinks and mopped the floor. She even polished the dented towel holder. Then she did the same in the ladies' restroom, though the towel holder was less concave there.

Shortly before the end of the shift, when she knew from experience it would still be empty, Ellen made her way to the locker room. Irena's locker was as she had left it. Opening it, Ellen took out her Tinkerbell pen and wrote a few words on the back of the lawyer's greedy letter, replaced it, and closed the locker, making sure that this time the catch was fast. Tired in a weird and completely unprecedented way, she went back to work.

When the shift ended at dawn, Irena Medvedkov dragged her exhausted body to her locker, knowing that her day would be almost as sleepless as her night after she retrieved the five-month-old boy from her resentful neighbor who kept him and gave him a bottle at
midnight for twenty dollars cash but refused to change a diaper. She dialed the combination, lifted the latch on her locker and sat looking at the unexpected additional contents without comprehension.

Propped up against the battered CD player was a brand-new disc of Mozart, and leaned against her purse was the lawyer's letter. Inexplicably folded inside was over five hundred dollars in cash. Scrawled on the back third of the letter facing front were the words “Sometimes you can rely on the kindness of strangers, but most of them are bastards. Welcome to America.”

T
he phone was ringing when Ellen reached her front door. Letting herself in, she stood gazing at it. It was still ringing, and she was mystified as to why that might be. Occasionally, she received sales calls from computers who didn't know her any better, but those usually came in the early evening. Ellen didn't have an answering machine, so she picked up the receiver and listened for the clicking static of a computer connecting to a prerecorded pitch. But all she heard was a muffled barking, and then, “Runt, hush! No bark, you shaggy mutt! Ellen? Ellen? I didn't hear a beep, was there a beep?”

“Temerity?” Ellen was dumbfounded. “How did you get this number?”

“It's on my phone, dummy. Welcome to the third millennium. Well, the third millennium if you count from when that guy got nailed to a board for suggesting that we should be nice to each other.”

“Oh.” Neither this highly technical information nor the historical reference computed to Ellen, but then an unfamiliar rush of pleasure at the unexpected call had left her slightly dizzy and she didn't care. “What's, uh . . . going on?”

“So, listen,” Temerity said as though Ellen hadn't spoken, “I
was thinking about that letter thing. Did you give it to the Cindy girl yet?”

“Um, no. I just got home from work.”

“Right. Okay, here's what I think: we should definitely check out the sister before we decide whether or not to put it on Cindy's plate. Right? I mean, that was Justice's whole argument—we don't know if Auntie Janelle would make life better or worse for your buddy.”

Ellen looked at the receiver and then held it back to her ear. Temerity had said “we” as though the pronoun were nothing unusual. And as for Cindy Carpenter being her buddy, or anyone . . . “Well,” she said, for lack of a coherent thought.

“No, really. Justice might be right, fate put that letter in your hands for a reason, which gives you a responsibility to see it through. I mean, you've got the sister's address . . . what if she's some drug addict or psychopath? We don't want to dump some needy psycho on the pregnant one. But if she's cool, maybe she could help out Cindy chick, even if Cindy chick still chooses to give baby chicklet away. Given your particular, shall we say,
transparent
talent, I'd say it's a no-brainer.”

Temerity's words were almost washed out by the resounding whoosh sweeping through Ellen's brain. It took her a moment to realize that the sound was caused by blood shooting through her body from her pounding heart. Fighting for time, she said, “Maybe, but what would we say?” On top of her initial panic, Ellen felt hysterical paralysis begin to set in at the idea of deliberately speaking to someone other than Temerity, who couldn't see her anyway.

“We won't say anything,” Temerity said. “We're spying on her.”

“Oh,” said Ellen. That sounded more reasonable. Nobody would have to see her. Then she had a thought. “But you can't see.”

“What?” Temerity shrieked. “Oh my God, I'm bl-i-i-ind!” She
drew out the word, giving it a strong, melodramatic vibrato. Ellen almost dropped the phone, and then Temerity said quite calmly, “Yeah, I know I can't see. You do the watching, you tell me what happens. I come along as a diversion, and for the sheer entertainment value for which I am well known. I can get close enough to listen. I mean, who the hell would suspect me of spying? It's really kind of great. We'll work it out. I'll find a way. That's a little something I've been doing since, well, since the day I was born, so I'm pretty decent at it.” There was a muffled bump and a garbled curse, as though Temerity had dropped the phone. A few seconds of scrambling and then Temerity said, “Ouch. Stupid blindness.”

“You're interested in other people's stories too, aren't you?” Ellen asked in all seriousness, hoping for confirmation that it wasn't only her.

“What else is there?” Temerity said with a rolling laugh. “I mean, when you get down to it, how we live our lives is really us writing our own stories about ourselves. Music is stories, lives are stories, hell, stories are stories. How soon can you get here? Or would you rather we started from your house?”

The possibility of Temerity coming to her house felt like a staple gun to her chest. To distract Temerity from that mortifying suggestion, Ellen asked, “What does Justice think about this idea?”

“Justice, smustice. We're going solo on this one. Well, duo, anyway. You up for it?”

Ellen thought about it. Spying might be okay; it was kind of what she did anyway, though with the variation that they would go looking for someone instead of just observing what came up. She wouldn't have to relate to anyone except for Temerity, and, so far anyway, that had been not so bad. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to respond.
“Uh . . . okay. But I need to sleep first. How about if I come over at about three and we'll head out.”

“Brilliant!” Temerity enthused. “Tell you what, I'll meet you at the bus stop. We'll go check her out at work. Hope she's there today. If not, maybe we'll just buy a couple of sofas. Until three!”

She hung up, and Ellen was left with the perplexed thought,
How would we get even
one
sofa home?
The very idea of it wore her out. Ellen decided that this outing would definitely require snacks.

Before she made breakfast, Ellen went to the back window to check on her pets. To her amazement, T-bone was seated on his back stoop. She wasn't sure she'd ever seen him up this early, but the more likely explanation was that he hadn't gone to bed yet. He had a cigarette in one hand and a large paper cup of coffee from the 7-Eleven in the other. He was beckoning to the small, suspicious dog belonging to the woman who lived below Ellen. The old dog would take a few wooden steps toward him, stop and bark a few yaps, then move a few steps closer, bark, repeat. Eventually, the ratty little thing came within arm's reach and T-bone propped the cigarette between his thin lips and stretched out a hand to scratch him behind the ears. The dog leaned into his hand with obvious pleasure, his stumpy tail wagging fast enough to propel him through shallow water. Ellen could hear T-bone talking to the ancient, bony little creature. Cooing with surprising affection in his smoke-roughened voice, he crooned, “Good little doggy. You're a handsome little guy. Good boy.” Then the dog's mistress called him back, and reluctantly the tiny mutt turned for home. Left alone, T-bone too retreated inside.

Heidi—
no, Cindy,
Ellen corrected herself—was sitting in her kitchen, flipping through a magazine. She closed it and dropped it
listlessly on the tiny table, then stared out at the dead gravel, one hand propping her head up, her face drawn and absent.

Pulling the binoculars from their hook, Ellen focused in on the periodical. Above a picture of a grinning, blue-eyed infant was printed the title of the magazine,
American Baby.
Ellen wrote down her observations, made herself a breakfast of three grape jelly sandwiches, and went to bed thinking that if Cindy were going to get through this adoption without it resulting in her suicide, she should switch to one of those, in Ellen's opinion, ridiculous girly magazines that flaunted Barbie-doll bodies and the application of makeup. Something like
Cosmopolitan
. Ellen fell asleep and dreamed of a fluffy baby chick with braids wearing little wooden shoes.

When she woke up, she went first to the kitchen window. Cindy was gone, but T-bone was back on his stoop, smoking a large joint this time, the herbal tang of the weed rising up through the courtyard. Ellen liked the earthy aroma of marijuana. Its exotic spice faded with a delicious whisper, unlike cigarette smoke, which left a rancid, stale stench on everything it touched and reminded Ellen of her unsavory past, houses and apartments saturated with tobacco stench and the inescapable, unceasing din of brain-dead television. Though it was chilly, the sun was shining and T-bone had his sleeves rolled up. Ellen could see the tattoos on his forearms, colorful, complicated images that she had studied through the binoculars many times. A snake encircled one arm, the fangs from its hissing open mouth reaching across the top of his hand, and the other was a hodgepodge of women with cartoon bodies, skulls, and motorcycles.

As she watched, two young men, who, if they weren't gang members, desperately wanted to be, came down the side alley and entered the tiny courtyard. T-bone stood up and a brief, wary greeting took place. T-bone received a small brown paper bag and took it inside.
While he was gone, the two young punks stood shifting and glancing sharply around, the classic demeanor assumed by the guilty trying to pretend they were neither nervous nor up to something they shouldn't be. They both had heads shaved to no more than shadow hairlines and multiple piercings that looked painful to Ellen through the binoculars' lenses. The taller of the Hispanic pair had a rod through his eyebrow, and even from this distance Ellen could see the raw red of the insertion point, as though it were done at home and had become infected. The second one, a little younger with paler skin and almost Asian features, had a pattern of scarring that circled his wrist: triangles burned into his skin. Obviously it had been done on purpose, a more brutal version of marking one's body than tattooing or piercing. Ellen wondered what would induce someone to willingly suffer that kind of pain. She'd given serious consideration as to why people did these things to themselves and had come to no conclusion. In a minute, T-bone returned with a larger brown paper sack and gave it to the two young men, who hurried away. A pretty run-of-the-mill transaction for the small-time dealer, who sometimes repeated this exchange or some version of it a dozen times in an evening. Ellen would have liked to stay and watch the parade, but she saw from a glance at the little clock that she needed to get going. Her nervousness about meeting Temerity again made her eat more enthusiastically than usual, and as she chewed, she watched her bed in the corner. She could get back in it, take a sandwich even, and pretend the blind girl had never happened. Comfort and sanctuary beckoned, but she felt oddly restless, too distracted to ignore Temerity's summons. So she dressed and hurried to the bus stop.

She prepared to get off at Temerity's stop by standing and moving to the double exit doors. But when the doors opened, she found herself blocked by the girl in person. Temerity felt for the opening,
stepped up onto the platform, and called out in an exaggerated whisper, “Ellen, you here?”

Ellen glanced nervously around. Absolutely no one on the almost empty bus was paying Temerity any attention. “I'm standing right in front of you,” Ellen whispered.

“Cool,” Temerity whispered back.

Relieved to see that she had left her lighthouse of a hat at home, Ellen sat in one of the open rows, trying to scoot as far over to the window as possible to make room for Temerity, but her size made it impossible to avoid contact as the girl slid in next to her. Shivering lightly from the unfamiliar human touch, Ellen tried to condense herself into a smaller shape. It didn't work. It never did.

“Hey,” Temerity whispered. “Anyone paying attention to us?”

“No,” Ellen told her after a look around.

“Good, I didn't want anyone to think I was talking to thin air. On the other hand, who could blame me?” Temerity laughed. “And how would I know if somebody was looking at me like I was crazy?” She cackled with laughter at that.

Ellen considered this. It was true, Temerity couldn't see condemning or pitying looks, so she had no need to respond to them. Once again a light dusting of jealous snow settled on Ellen's stomach, but Temerity's elbow struck her in the ribs and the sprinkling of resentful green flakes didn't stick. “Okay,” Temerity said conspiratorially, “so I checked the bus route. We'll have to switch to the twenty-three, and then the crosstown local. But if you want to take a cab, we could do that.”

As much as she dreaded the likelihood of a long walk from the bus stop to, and then through, the mall, and the resulting strain on her laboring heart, not to mention the inevitable chafing of her thighs and her basic distaste for entering a public building, Ellen
was far more fearful of personal contact with cabdrivers. “No, it's okay.”

Temerity smiled. “I wonder what she'll be like.”

Automatically, Ellen shrugged, and this time, since their shoulders were lightly touching, it wasn't wasted on the blind girl.

“I know, right?” Temerity said. “We have no idea, that's why we're doing this. So, any news about Cindy?” Her voice was eager and interested, but it lacked the predatory lust of the Crows' intrusive meddling. Instead, there was real concern in it.

“Just that she was looking at a baby magazine this morning.”

Temerity whistled a long, descending note. “So . . . she isn't quite as copacetic with this adoption as she might pretend.”

Ellen wondered whether to ask what “copacetic” meant—she didn't remember coming across it in any of her reading but deduced that it must mean some form of “okay.” “No. She cries all the time, and I mean
all
the time. And the other day, after the Newlands left, she made this sound.” Ellen thought about how to describe the audible pain: “Like wind through dead tree branches. Really”—she searched for that word she'd read somewhere that seemed right and found it—“desolate.”