A Year Less a Day. James Hawkins
is brimming with mischievousness and hiding behind oversized shades as she sidles up to Ruth in the café’s kitchen a week later. “I’ve got you into the cancer support group. Tonight at seven,” she says, darkening her voice.
“Only you could make it sound like a fucking adventure,” snaps Ruth, though she’s not ungrateful. “You didn’t give them my name did you?” she asks quickly.
“Nope. Just said you were a friend.”
Ruth climbs down a notch. “Jordan will kill me if he finds out.”
“I dunno why.”
Ruth tries to fix Trina’s eyes through the dark glasses—desperate to convey the delicacy of her situation. “Jordan borrowed some money, and if the lender discovered he was ...” she pauses, but the word “dying” is too much for her.
Trina finishes the sentence, sneering, “I suppose the bastard would want it back.”
Ruth nods, though she has no intention of explaining that the bastard is Jordan’s mother.
“It’s not Tom, is it?” asks Trina as she takes off her glasses to stare quizzically at Ruth.
“Tom?” Ruth questions in surprise. “The Tom who comes in every morning? Why him?”
Trina freezes. “That’s three questions, Ruth.”
“So?”
“Golden rule, Ruth. If you ask someone a direct question and they come back with three or more in return, you’ve got your answer.”
“You could be wrong ...” starts Ruth, but Trina isn’t listening as she rants about Tom.
“The greasy little turd’s a shark. ‘Borrow as much as you like,’ he says, but he never tells you he charges, like, a gazillion percent interest a week.”
“How much?”
“A gazillion. Plus the arranging fee he tacks on the first week so you get hammered with the interest on that as well.”
Ruth pales. “I didn’t know ...”
“Oh yeah. He’s a skunk.”
“What happens if people can’t pay?”
“He doesn’t care. It’s not his own money—he hasn’t got any.” Trina drops her voice. “He’s just a front man.”
“For who?”
Trina shrugs. “I don’t know. But you can bet it’s not the sort of person you’d ever invite to a Tupperware party.”
Ruth had spent the rest of the day cowering in the kitchen, trying to keep her hands off the sharpest knives, and by the time she arrives at the group meeting she needs all the support she can get. Trina takes her, and Erica—the soft-haired, soft-bodied coordinator—welcomes them with a face-splitting smile as a group of wretched women shuffle morosely in.
“You wouldn’t believe how difficult it is to get men here,” says Erica. and Trina takes a quick look around at the slump-shouldered matrons and unthinkingly mutters, “I’m not surprised.”
There’s an edge to Erica’s tone as she looks at Trina and explains, “We don’t usually allow visitors, but if you’re quiet you can stay.”
The semicircle of dejected participants introduce themselves, reciting their husband’s afflictions mechanically, like addicts at Alcoholics Anonymous. “My name is Joy. My husband has stage-two, grade-four, prostate cancer,” says one woman, her face now permanently fixed in anguish. “He’s had a bilateral orchiectomy, but his legs are swelling and he’s down to a hundred and ten pounds. But I’m strong. I will survive.”
It’s Ruth’s turn, and Trina gives her a nudge. But Ruth’s stuck to the chair. Her mind is whirling. Jordan’s cancer is somewhere, but where precisely? He’s never told her. “Cancer,” is all he’s ever said and she’s never pushed for more ... never wanted more. His cancer is the other woman—the one tearing them both apart and taking him away, and it’s not something easily discussed over dinner—it’s more a topic for a surprise breakfast attack when the offender is too bleary to defend himself after a night’s partying. But Ruth and Jordan haven’t partied for a very long time.
Erica encourages her. “Just tell us where the cancer is, Ruth; how aggressive; how advanced; some symptoms—weight loss, hair loss, etcetera.”
“He’s usually tired,” says Ruth under pressure. “He just lies around.”
“Huh ... Men!” utters Trina and catches a warning look from Erica.
The disclosure that Jordan is going to Los Angeles for the experimental treatment brings a skeptical look from Erica and censure from Trina.
“You never told me that,” Trina complains, but Erica shushes her and turns to Ruth. “Maybe you should keep a journal. Something we can work through together. Questions, fears, the good things and the bad.”
“Something cheery to read later on,” mutters Trina, risking eviction.
“The main thing is to keep your spirits up.” Erica pauses with a grin that looks like a grimace. “And try to be positive, Ruth. Look on the bright side.”
“Yep. You’ll soon have your own bedroom back,” murmurs Trina sotto voce with her head in her purse.
The meeting slowly falls apart as weary participants head back to their nightmares, while Trina drags Ruth into a pub.
“Keeping up your spirits,” insists Trina ordering large gins, and she gives Ruth a playful shove as a man at the bar takes his time looking her over.
“Could be your lucky night,” whispers Trina irreverently and Ruth looks up, startled.
“Did you see that?” she says, as the man gives her an obvious wink.
“Well, you’re a good looking woman, Ruth.”
“Rubbish. It’s the dress.”
The dress wasn’t from Marcie’s collection. The continual strain and the demands of running the café single-handedly have reduced Ruth to a point where she can fit into some of Trina’s baggier outfits. Ruth may still fill the full woollen skirt and ballooning blouse with wholesome curves, but virtually all the curves are now in the right places.
As their drinks arrive, Ruth’s concern over money bubbles to the surface and she starts, “You know you said that Tom’s a shark ...”
“I knew it,” spits Trina. “He’s hooked you hasn’t he?”
“Just a bit,” Ruth admits ruefully.
“Pay him back, the moment you see him.” says Trina earnestly, “Before you get too deep.”
Ruth is already sinking, and Tom circles for a few days, trying to catch sight of her as he moves around the café flourishing his flashy magazines like a badge of honour. Ruth busies herself in the kitchen with the door closed and prays he won’t knock.
I thought you’d stopped hiding, mocks the voice inside, and she doesn’t disagree, but what to do? You could ask him how much you owe, but what then? Whatever his answer she has no means to pay—even the interest. A quick calculation brings her close to fifteen thousand dollars, though that doesn’t include the arranging fee or accumulated interest, and Jordan still needs more than they make each month.
The approach of Detective Sergeant Phillips’ robust figure has saved Ruth from Tom on several occasions.
“Hi, Mike. You’re getting to be quite a regular,” she tells him one day, and he smiles and gives her hand an affectionate squeeze. “It’s like ‘Cheers,’” he says. “Everybody knows my name.”
Ruth turns peach, drops her eyes, and slides back to the kitchen. Trina is shoulder-surfing