Shop Till You Drop (12 page)

And I could be a scrubwoman, Helen thought.

“I’ve always wanted to ask Peggy out,” Cal confided, as they climbed into his rattling Buick. “But she’s too expensive for me.”

“And I’m cheap?” Helen asked.

“No, no,” Cal said, soothingly, “you’re just ah-boot perfect.” This time, his “ah-boot” failed to charm Helen, and she kept a huffy silence on the ride to Catfish Dewey’s.

But she thawed when they got to the old restaurant. Catfish Dewey’s was as homey as a basement rathskeller. She felt instantly comfortable with its knotty pine paneling and red-checked tablecloths.

Cal wanted the all-you-can-eat catfish. Helen had no compunction about ordering stone crab claws, the most expensive item on the menu. They still cost less than dinner at Cap’s. It was the first time Helen had had stone crab, and she was fascinated. The claws really were hard as stones. Harder. They were like concrete.

“Stone crabs are pretty, don’t you think?” she asked Cal, as she dipped the sweet crabmeat in mustard sauce. “Most crabs look like boiled spiders, but stone crabs are pale yellow with flamingo pink splotches and black tips.”

“You look pretty cute with yellow on your lip,” Cal said, as he delicately removed a blob of mustard sauce with his napkin. Then he launched into a tale about the first time he ate a lobster that had Helen laughing again.

He was delightful, Helen thought, and her anger dissolved. So what if he complimented Peggy? She was getting touchy. That’s what happened when you lived alone too long. No, that’s what happened when you were rattled about Desiree. But her mind quickly skittered away from that. Catfish Dewey’s was overflowing with friends and families dredging fries in ketchup and dipping hush puppies in tartar sauce. There was no room here for carjackings and murders for hire.

Cal and Helen spent the next few hours chattering away, while their tired but efficient waitress hauled out basket after basket of cracked crab and fried catfish.

Finally, Helen had eaten herself into a stupor. She surveyed the mounds of empty crab claws and mustard sauce cups and said, “I think it’s time for the check.” Cal agreed and signaled the waitress.

The waitress produced that as quickly as the food. Cal grabbed for it and Helen let him. Then he patted his back pocket. Suddenly, he began slapping himself frantically. At first, Helen thought he’d been attacked by an invisible swarm of mosquitoes. Then she realized Cal was patting his empty pockets. Next, he turned his pants pockets inside out.

“I seem to have forgotten my wallet,” Cal said. “I’ll pay you back as soon as we get home, but would you mind picking up the check this time?”

Helen minded. A lot. But she had been warned by Margery not to dine with Cal, and she had not listened. On some level, she must have been expecting this, because she’d tucked seventy-five bucks into her purse. The bill came to forty- eight dollars and eight-six cents. The waitress returned with her change. Helen was seething, but she wasn’t sure if she was mad at herself or Cal.

She left a ten-dollar tip for the deserving waitress, and without a word to Cal, got up and headed toward the door. He could follow or not, she didn’t care. She felt strangely light after this decision. Then she realized it was because she’d left her purse back at the table. Helen turned around to retrieve it, just in time to see Cal filching the waitress’s ten spot.

“Put that money down!” Helen said. Heads turned, but she didn’t care who heard. “I can’t believe you’d sink to stealing a waitress’s tip.”

“I was taking it back for you,” Cal said. “If you tip too much, it spoils the help.” He was lying, and he knew she knew. The man actually cringed when she approached. Disgusting.

Helen yanked the ten-dollar bill out of his hand and marched over to the waitress, who was staring at them. “Here. This is yours,” she said. Helen thought about walking home but decided Cal could drive her. He owed her that much.

All the way home Cal railed about rich Americans who tossed around money in Florida, making life difficult for hardworking Canadians. The value of the Canadian dollar had sunk so low he couldn’t afford a decent life. As Cal ranted, he became the aggrieved party. The entire United States was personally depriving him.

Helen didn’t answer. She kept remembering her landlady Margery’s words: “Talk is cheap, and so is Cal.” She had nothing else to say. Her anger at Cal burned away the last thoughts of Desiree.

Back at the Coronado apartments, they both got out and slammed their car doors simultaneously. Cal stomped off to his apartment. He slammed that door, too, so hard the jalousie glass rattled.

Helen didn’t want to go inside yet. She was too upset. She hoped the soft, humid night would comfort her. She wandered over by the pool and saw Peggy sitting in a lounge chair by the water. She was still wearing her glamorous black dress, but now she had Pete on her shoulder. Pete looked ruffled and grumpy, but Peggy seemed complete with her parrot.

“Bad date?” Peggy said, sympathetically.

“Unbelievable,” Helen said, and gave her the details.

“Oh, I believe it,” Peggy said. “I’ve dated every bum in Broward County.”

“But you went to the opera tonight with a wonderful man,” Helen said. As soon as she’d said it, she realized Peggy was alone in the dark, just like she was.

“A wonderful gay man,” Peggy said. “Troy’s partner is in Paris on business. He knows I like opera and can’t afford tickets. Troy was kind enough to ask me to go with him. In South Florida, all the good men are either married or gay.”

“Is it really that bleak?”

“Yes. Pete’s my main man now.” The parrot hopped triumphantly back and forth on her smooth shoulder. Peggy, pale and beautiful in the moonlight, looked like a princess held prisoner by a green goblin.

“Then there’s no hope?” Helen said, although she already knew the answer.

“Sure there is,” Peggy said. “I buy lottery tickets. My plan is to win big and buy me a good man.”

Peggy’s sad laughter followed Helen all the way to her apartment. As she passed her neighbor Phil’s door, she was surrounded by a thick sinsemilla smog. The invisible pothead was burning some fine weed tonight.

Lucky Phil, she thought. He could fire up his dreams whenever he wanted.

Margery never said “I told you so.” Helen’s landlady simply turned up at her door Sunday afternoon with a plate of fudge.

“Here,” she said. “Chocolate cures almost everything.”

“Even stupidity?” Helen said. She bit into a thick dark square. It was bitter chocolate. “Mmmm. My favorite.”

Margery’s violet shorts were the color of the evening sky. Her red toenail polish was a tropical sunset. Her kind, shrewd old eyes seemed to see straight into Helen.

“Welcome to South Florida, land of deadbeats, drunks, and druggies,” Margery said, helping herself to a piece of fudge. “Most of the single men down here are some other woman’s mistake. The trick is not to make them your mistake.”

“I should have listened to you,” Helen said. “I didn’t believe anyone could be so cheap. Cal stole the waitress’s tip. That’s disgusting.”

“Canadians are stingy tippers. You’ve heard the local joke: What’s the difference between a canoe and a Canadian?”

Helen shook her head.

“A canoe tips,” Margery said.

Helen tried to laugh but she couldn’t. Nothing seemed funny right now.

Margery turned serious. “You’re a nice person, Helen. I worry about you. This isn’t the Midwest. In South Florida, everyone is running from somebody or something: bad weather, bad debts, a bad life, a bad spouse. Or they’ve done something bad.

“Nobody has roots here. In the Midwest, if you don’t know a guy, you can make a few phone calls and find out about him. Down here, women hire private detectives to do background checks. Too often, they find out they are about to marry a deadbeat dad, a bisexual, or a man in trouble with the law. I know you’re running from something, too. I suspect some man hurt you. I don’t want you to get hurt again.”

“The Midwest doesn’t have a lock on morality,” Helen said, thinking of her ex.

“I know,” Margery said, reaching for more fudge. “But there you can find out about the bad operators a little sooner.”

I didn’t, Helen thought. She changed the subject abruptly. “What can you tell me about my next door neighbor, Phil the invisible pothead?”

“He’s not invisible,” Margery said. “I see him all the time.”

“I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him,” Helen said.

“Well, he’s the last of the real hippies. He’s a little older than you. Has a long gray ponytail and interesting T-shirts. Always pays his rent on time. He’s a real Eric Clapton fan.”

“He is? I never hear any music,” Helen said.

“He uses headphones. Phil is very considerate. But he’s not a good man for you, dear. And while we’re on the subject of men, no one from St. Louis has been asking for you. I would call you at work if anyone came snooping around. I keep an eye on your place.”

Helen had confided to Margery only that she was afraid of her ex-husband, who might come looking for her. She didn’t say why. Helen did not mention the court.

“Thank you. And thanks for the chocolate,” Helen said. “It’s just what I needed. I’ll bring your plate back tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry about Cal,” Margery said. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you.”

Kindness and chocolate helped Helen get over her bad date. But there was no cure for her unquiet conscience. Desiree, the bride in the body bag, tormented her all night.

On Monday, she went back to where Desiree’s death had been plotted. What if Niki came in? What would Helen say to her? She dreaded her first day in charge, but Juliana’s ran smoothly. Only regulars stopped by, so Helen did not have to worry about barring anyone from walking though the green door.

On her lunch hour, she found a good job prospect. Helen talked with the manager and made an appointment for an interview with the store owner after work. She left Juliana’s that evening excited and hopeful.

She was interviewing for a sales associate’s job at a Las Olas shop two blocks west of Juliana’s. Helen liked everything about it. Pam Marshall, the owner, was a stylish woman in her early fifties, with laugh lines and eye crinkles. She was easy with her age and herself.

Pam’s store sold clothes Helen would wear, if she could afford them. Helen saw actual size twelves, even fourteens and sixteens. She liked that, too. She liked sitting in Pam’s comfortably cluttered office, drinking fresh coffee with her. She liked the pay best of all: seven fifty an hour. Already, Helen was calculating what she would do with the extra money.

“So when can you start?” Pam asked, taking another sip of her sugar-laced coffee.

Yes! Helen thought, I’ve got it. “I’d have to give my current employer two weeks’ notice.”

“Good,” Pam said. “I like employees who play fair.”

“And—” Helen hesitated, searching for the right words. “I have to be paid in cash only. I don’t want to be on the books.”

“What about your FICA and taxes?” Pam said.

“If I don’t exist, then you don’t have to worry about them,” Helen said.

Pam leaned forward and looked Helen in the eye. “I’m supposed to cheat the government so you can have a few extra bucks a week? I’m not a chiseler, Helen. I’m a business woman. And I’m surprised at you.”

Pam put her coffee cup down and stood up. The interview was over. Helen slunk away, scalded with shame. This is what she’d become, a petty cheat. Just like her ex.

She headed for her apartment at the Coronado like a wounded animal crawling to its cave. Once inside, she had to get out. The room seemed too small to contain her misery.

If she went out by the pool, she might run into Cal. So what? she decided. If she couldn’t face herself, she could at least face a tip-swiper. Cal was not going to keep her away from her favorite place. Helen put on some shorts, squared her shoulders, and marched out, taking her newspaper with her. She could always hide behind the job ads if things got sticky with Cal.

Margery had kept her word. Peggy and Pete were by the pool, but Cal did not come out that evening. He stayed in his apartment and cooked up bushels of broccoli and brussels sprouts. Cal not only came from the English-speaking part of Canada, but the English-cooking part. He loved overcooked vegetables.

“After all, they are cheap,” Peggy reminded Helen.

“And obnoxious,” Helen said.

The stink of boiled broccoli nearly overpowered Phil’s pot smoke. Maybe Cal would become as invisible as Phil. Helen suspected he was avoiding her deliberately. She thought Cal would hide inside and live on broccoli until he turned green to avoid paying for their Catfish Dewey’s dinner.

Helen picked up her paper and studied the want ads. Marine biologist. Meat cutter. Mechanic. More skills she didn’t have.

“So how is the job search going?” Peggy asked.