The Cure (6 page)

“Ayuh.”

She paused at the door, leaving it unopened. Looking across the car roof at the handsome man, Hope felt a familiar longing. “He’s back, you know.”

“Ayuh,” said Dylan, looking elsewhere. “I expect he is.”

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

T
O
R
ILEY
K
EEP’S VERY GREAT SURPRISE, HE AWOKE
.
He opened his eyes to a simple world composed only of two great blocks of color, a large green shape above him and a pale blue field beyond. After a minute of concentration he realized he was lying on his back, looking up at the side of a garbage bin against the open sky. He rolled his head into an errant ray of sunshine. Squinting, he rolled his head back again and sat up with a grunt. The empty bottle dropped off of his naked chest and shattered. Tiny flakes of frost crackled in the wrinkles of his skin, showering to the alley bricks as he scooted on his bottom toward the garbage container, the bits of ice and broken glass around him sparkling in the morning light. When his bare back touched the freezing metal bin Riley flinched and jerked away. Shivering, he leaned forward and drew his shirt and undershirt and coat over to his side. One by one he shook the frost from them and put them on, and then he leaned against the bin once more. He blew on his hands and tucked them underneath his armpits. Sitting there that way, he frowned. It was cold, wicked cold, even in the sunshine, so cold his body heat had not stopped frost from forming on his skin. Why was he not dead?

Slowly, the light shifted until it was full in his face. The slight warmth of it felt good, though his feeble eyes could not abide the brightness. He rose to his feet, grunting again at the effort and the spikes of pain in his joints. He shuffled down the alley to stand where it opened onto Main Street.

Unlike the evening before, he saw people here and there. Not just homeless people from away, but Dublin folks as well. Riley was surprised by this at first, but then he remembered it was Monday morning, a workday. A panel truck slowed and turned down the alley, then abruptly stopped, facing him. Riley looked up at the man behind the windshield, who gestured impatiently, indicating he wanted to drive on. Blowing into cupped hands, Riley got out of the workingman’s way and set out along the sidewalk. He was hungry and hoped it was not too late for breakfast at the shelter.

He passed Henry’s Drug Store half a block away without a second glance. Farther up the hill someone called behind him.

“Hey! Hang on!”

Barely noticing, Riley kept walking.

“Hey! Hold up a minute, will ya?”

The voice was closer to him now. Riley turned and to his surprise found a man was calling him. The slender fellow wore a plaid jacket and chinos and stood in front of Henry’s store, too far away for Riley’s weak eyes to make out any details. He said, “Weren’t you in my church yesterday?”

Riley had some dim recollection of this, and felt a sudden fear. “No,” he said.

The man walked toward him. “Sure, I saw you. You’re the one Bill kicked out during Communion.”

“No, not me.”

“Aw, come on. I saw you.”

Riley started walking away as fast as he could. The man caught up and fell in beside him. “What’s your hurry?”

“I don’t want any trouble.”

“Trouble? Naw, you got me all wrong. I was gonna offer you a job.”

Riley kept on walking.

“Don’t ya want a job?” The man made a show of looking Riley up and down. “You look like you could use the money.”

“Why?”

“Well, no offense, but I mean, just look at yourself.”

“No, I mean why do you want to give me a job?”

“Oh. Well, I need help, and you obviously need money, so. . . .”

Riley slowed, then stopped. “What kind of job?”

“Just this an’ that round the drug store there. Sweepin’ up. Straightenin’ the stock. That kinda thing.”

Riley squinted at the man to see a neat, short haircut touched with gray and the shadow of heavy whiskers dark on his clean-shaven chin and cheeks. “Do I know you?”

“Don’t think so.” The man reached out and laid a hand on Riley’s shoulder. “My name’s Henry Reardon. What’s yours?”

The light touch of the man’s hand and the fact that someone wanted to know his name affected Riley all out of proportion to the situation. To his complete amazement, he began to cry.

“Hey,” said the man, giving his shoulder a little pat. “Hey now.”

Riley kept his eyes down, wiping them with a filthy palm. “I’m sorry.”

“No need. No need. You’ve had a pretty rough time of it lately, I’m guessin’.”

Riley nodded, regaining some control. “Ayuh.”

“So . . . what
is
your name?”

“I, uh . . .” Riley’s natural suspicion kicked in. He knew this man from somewhere, and didn’t want to give him an advantage until he knew where from, exactly. Looking away he said, “Stanley Livingston.”

“Nice to meet ya, Stanley. So, how’s about it? You wanna job?”

“Ayuh.”

“Good. Real good. So, hey . . . let’s get to work.”

Inside the little drug store Henry said, “No offense, but we gotta get you lookin’ a little more presentable, okay?” He gave Riley a small blue plastic basket and led him up and down the aisles, dropping items in. A toothbrush and toothpaste, comb, deodorant, and a pack of elastic ponytail holders. In the restroom, Riley stripped to the waist and washed his hands and face and armpits at the antique porcelain sink. Using tap water and his new comb he tidied up his long hair, pulling it back into a ponytail. He ignored his beard, which hung nearly to his chest and was beyond any form of grooming. Riley was careful not to look into the mirror. Dressed again, he emerged into the stockroom with his coat draped over his arm. Henry grinned when he saw him. “All right,” he said. “Now you look like an old hippie, which is good ‘cause so do half my customers.”

Riley allowed himself to smile, exposing the black empty spaces in his mouth. “What do you want me to do?”

Henry looked around the stockroom. “Well, let’s start by makin’ some sense a things back here. Needs a good sweepin’, then all that stock in the boxes back by the door needs to be carried up front, unpacked an’ merchandised.”

“Merchandised?”

“Fancy retail talk for ‘put it on the shelf.’ Just look for wherever we stocked it before an’ put it there, with the front label facin’ out.”

“Okay,” said Riley doubtfully.

“Hey, Stanley, don’t worry ‘bout it. You’ll be fine.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Henry cocked his head. “You really don’t remember me from yesterday?”

“I . . . I’m sorry.”

Henry laughed. “No problem. It’ll come to ya.”

Within the hour Riley had the stockroom floor swept and the restroom scrubbed clean. Without being asked he decided to tidy up the small break area, scrubbing the microwave inside and out and organizing the disposable knives and forks and paper plates. He noticed one of the break area chairs had a wobbly leg, so he found a screwdriver and fixed it. He got out a stepladder and changed a light bulb. When there was nothing left to do in the stockroom area he went out through the rear receiving door, hoping for some kind of work back in the alley. To his surprise, he was standing exactly where he had met the day. At his feet was the shattered Scotch bottle, and to his right the dark green garbage bin. He went back inside for the broom, returned and swept the shattered glass into a pile, then picked it up and threw it in the garbage bin. He looked around the alley for more work to do, and decided the whole thing needed sweeping. It was maybe an hour later when Henry came outside. “Hey, Stanley,” he said, dressed now in a pharmacist’s white lab coat. “What’s up?”

“Just cleaning here.” Riley swept the bricks furiously.

“The alley?”

“Ayuh.”

“Uh, think you’ve about got it whipped?”

Riley looked around. He had indeed swept the entire alley, from the intersection with Main Street all the way back to the drug store’s receiving door. “I guess.”

“Okay. Great. So, how’s about that stock?”

“Okay.”

“Good. Great. You need anything?”

“No.”

“All right, then.”

After Henry disappeared back into the store, Riley stooped to pick up a final little pile of dirt and trash. He pitched it into the garbage bin. Inside the stockroom he placed the broom where it belonged and turned to face the stack of boxes by the door. There was no way to avoid it any longer. The time had come to carry something up front. He lifted a box and walked to the swinging door that opened onto the sales floor. He paused, looking through the circular window in the door, out into the world beyond with its clean fluorescent lights and its ordered rows of goods for sale and customers with homes and money and cars and jobs and other people in their lives.

It was one thing to work alone back in the stockroom. He actually kind of enjoyed it. But out there with this box in his hands he couldn’t hide behind his homelessness. With work to do, he would no longer clearly be himself. They might mistake him for one of them. They might have expectations. That lady over there, and the other one across by the checkout counter, would be able to look right at him without turning away. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be seen. It didn’t feel right, because in fact he was not one of them. He might have clean hands and a job to do, but he was still a ghost.

As Riley stared into the outside world the front door of the drug store opened and a young woman came in from the street. He couldn’t focus on her clearly because of the distance, but she walked straight toward the back and turned at the rear aisle just beyond the door where he was standing, and he watched her profile through the glass as she passed, and felt his heart surge up into his throat. Then she was out of sight, back around to the right at the pharmaceutical counter, but he could hear her well, talking to Henry over there.

“Hi ya, Bree,” said the pharmacist. “How ya doin’?”

“Got that prescription ready?”

“Ayuh. Just a minute.”

A pause, and Riley figured Henry had gone somewhere to find the order. With the box forgotten in his hands, Riley craned to see her through the window, actually pressing his nose up against it, but she was just beyond his field of vision. Then she wandered over to a display at the end of one of the rows. He could see her, and the blood roared in his ears. He couldn’t make out details, but he could see she was beautiful. He stared, and the young woman became a little girl. He thought of dense green canopies and the calls of parrots and the smell of wood fires on the river. He thought of laughter and naked children chasing each other all around his legs and Waytee’s wrinkled smile. He forgot himself and dropped the box he was holding. She turned at the sound of it and he ducked below the glass. Picking up the box, he stood slowly, steeling himself against the possibility that she might still be looking, but willing to risk that in order to see more of her. She had moved back out of sight.

He heard Henry ask, “Don’t ya have school today?”

“I got a pass.”

“Okay,” said Henry. “That’s thirty-nine fifty.”

If the girl replied, Riley could not hear her.

Henry spoke again. “Uh, Bree? Does your mom know ‘bout this?”

“The doctor said you can’t tell her.”

“I’m not gonna tell her. I’m just kinda worried.”

“You better not.”

“Okay, but are you real sure you wanna do this?”

“Yeah.”

“Because you’re kinda young for this.”

“All my friends are on the pill.”

“Naw, not really. I’m the fella they buy it from, remember? I’d know.”

“Well, you just better not tell anyone.”

Riley held the box in both his hands and watched through the small round window as she threaded her way back through the store. He thought of going out to talk to her. He truly did consider it for half an instant, because Henry was correct: she was too young. He had the best of intentions, but his body would not move. Paralyzed by the enormity of his offense, all Riley Keep could do was think that someone ought to stop her; someone ought to tell her she should slow it down a little, try to wait until the time was right; someone ought to say she could not possibly be ready; she would only ruin it for when she was, and please, please, please won’t you stay a little girl a little longer?

But there was no one who could speak that way to her, not a pharmacist, not a middle-aged stock boy—certainly not Riley—so he stood and watched her go while thinking of those things, and of how beautiful she was, how much time he had let pass, how desperately he longed to have that time again, how impossible that was, how hopeless, how vast and unforgivable the nature of his crime.

His thoughts reached back into a tranquil village he had gained for God and lost to the devil, and that image glowed with stained-glass radiance on bridal lace and merged into a single drop of water trickling down a christened daughter’s forehead. He thought of Bree and of Hope, not in two dimensions tucked back in the corners of his mind but real and out there just beyond his reach. Then all in an instant he remembered Henry, not only as a pharmacist, but also as the pastor of the church right down the street, the man who had married Hope and him, and christened Bree to God; and Riley realized his dear friend Brice had once worked in this very stockroom for Henry’s father, long before his old friend had grown up to be a plumber and a drunk; and here he was himself, Riley Keep, once a minister, a missionary, a teacher of young people at Bowditch College, doing the same job Brice had done after school when they had been as young as Bree.

Long after the girl had left the building Riley Keep stared at the fuzzy shapes beyond the stockroom window. Then he remembered where he was and what he should be doing. He took a deep breath and pushed the swinging door and passed into a world where some might think they saw him clearly even though he was nothing but a ghost.

With the hesitation of a blind man in an unfamiliar room he went stoop-shouldered down the aisle until he found the proper spot. He knelt to get the box unpacked and merchandised like Henry the pharmacist and part-time pastor told him he should do, but he was not really there, not really doing what it seemed. His glimpse of Bree had unleashed a relentless avalanche, tumbling memories of appalling failures rolling over him all that morning and afternoon, right up until five o’clock had come and gone, crushing Riley down into himself so deeply that he could not notice what had happened, not until that night when he lay down on a musty mattress in the homeless shelter after a meager supper of chicken soup and freeze-dried mashed potatoes and it suddenly occurred to him he did not have the empty caved-in feeling anymore, not even just a little. In fact, although the landslide of Riley Keep’s pathetic history still threatened to bury him, he had not even thought about a drink all day. The enormity of that was unbelievable, so at first he told himself there must be some mistake, but he thought about it long into the night and no matter how he turned it in his mind, in the end it really did seem he was completely, inexplicably, and astonishingly cured.