A Year Less a Day. James Hawkins
on the final occasion.
“Would you like some breakfast, dear?” Ruth coos.
Jordan pushes aside the blanket and struggles out of the chair. “What’s the time? I should be cooking.”
“Don’t worry, we’ve coped,” Ruth says, and bursts into tears with the instant realization that she’s going to be coping for the rest of her life. That, short of a miracle, her life is heading for a wreck as fast as her husband’s, but unlike him, she’s the one who’s going to have to deal with the bloody aftermath. “We’d better tell your mother,” Ruth snivels as she reaches for the phone.
“She’ll say it’s God’s punishment because we don’t go to church anymore,” says Jordan.
“And that’s my fault?” shoots back Ruth, knowing well that her mother-in-law will blame her.
“He always used to go,” she’ll spit, “before he met you.”
“Maybe we should start going again,” says Jordan.
“Oh, that’s brilliant,” Ruth scoffs. “God gives you cancer, then you want to go to church and beg him to cure it.” Sanctimonious cow. Bet you’d be the first on your knees if you got it. “I’m sorry,” she pleads. “Don’t take any notice of me. Of course we’ll go to church if you want. We’ll do anything you want. Tell me what you want, Jordan. Anything. From now on, anything you want.”
“I don’t want my mother to know,” says Jordan coolly.
“Ruth!” Cindy yells up the stairs, “Are you doin’ the crappy breakfasts or not?”
“We’ll discuss it later,” Ruth calls to Jordan, and she uses her apron to dab her eyes as she heads down the stairs.
Trina is back and is frustrating the crossword gang. Matt, Dot, and Maureen have wrestled the relevant page of the Vancouver Sun from Tom, and they studiously worry at each clue in succession.
Trina is like a butterfly as she flits ahead and robs the others of the easiest clues. “Trina! That doesn’t fit,” yells Maureen as Trina races across the page with “TANJIT,” and collides with the “E” of “NUISANCE.”
“You always do that,” moans Matt, sotto voce. “You’ve ruined it now.”
“Oops. Sorry,” chuckles Trina insincerely. “It’s not my day. I nearly cooked the kids’ guinea pig.”
“What?”
“Well, there was a frost last night.”
“And?”
Robyn from the candle shop three doors away races in, close to tears, wanting to stick a hastily created poster in the window.
“Sure,” says Cindy. “What is it?”
“Lost dog,” says Robyn, showing Cindy a photocopied picture of a familiar Labrador. “I just let him out for a pee. He usually comes straight back.”
“Trina,” yells Cindy, “someone here to see you.”
“Give Jordan a call, Cindy,” demands Matt jovially. “We’re stuck on 5-across.”
“Only ’cos Trina made such a damn mess,” moans Dot. “What is a Tanjit anyway?”
“I dunno,” calls Trina as she glances at Robyn’s poster, “But it’s got six letters.” Then she turns to Robyn for support. “It’s only a crossword for chrissake ...”
“What about my dog?” snivels Robyn.
“He’s at the pound. I’ll take you. They know me there. I find two or three animals most weeks. You’re really lucky I caught him ... Did you know he’s fond of strawberry yogurt?”
“Yogurt?”
“Yeah, and sushi, though he spat up the wasabi on the dashboard.”
Robyn takes the lead, saying, “Quick. We’ll take my car,” as she hustles Trina out.
“Jordan’s sleeping-in this morning. Ruth’s doing the cooking,” Cindy calls to Matt once the commotion has died down. But Ruth isn’t cooking. She’s taken cover in the kitchen in the same way she’s been hiding most of her life—using feigned busyness as an avoidance mechanism. Ten minutes later, as she angrily swats at a lump of dough with a rolling pin, she wishes she could disappear altogether when Cindy pokes her head around the door.
“Ruth. The coffee guy’s here.”
Ruth’s empty stomach cramps and she stands quivering.
“What’s the matter with you today?” asks Cindy.
“The till was short a hundred bucks last night,” Ruth complains, though she knows that’s not the reason her knuckles are blanching as she grips the pin.
“Yeah, I know,” says Cindy. “I paid Raven. You promised her cash, remember?”
Ruth’s grip doesn’t relax. “Cindy. Do me a favour, would you? Tell the coffee guy I’m out ...”
Cindy shakes her head. “Won’t work, Ruth. He already told me, ‘No cash, no coffee.’ He says you haven’t paid in three weeks.”
“Shit.”
“I’d help, but ... How much d’ye need?”
“About five hundred.”
“What about crappy Tom?”
Tom is an unremarkable little man in his late fifties who would be slowing down if he had anything to slow down from. His morning rush to the washroom, and the subsequent evacuation, are generally the most energetic motions of his day. In fact, the only other time Cindy has seen him move was the time two doubtful characters in raincoats walked in without the slightest intention of buying coffee and Tom shot out the back like a scorched rabbit.
“Had an important call from my Zurich office,” he’d explained when Cindy cornered him the following morning.
Tom has two faces—both smiling: one that loans money to people without asking awkward questions, and the other that invests money for people who don’t ask awkward questions. He lives on the edge, between penury and fantasy, and sees no point in waiting until he has made a fortune before plucking its fruits. His latest “Mercedes” is a twelve-year-old Toyota with peeling paintwork that he hides in a corner of the municipal parking lot. His second car, a “Rolls Royce Corniche,” which “Only comes out on special occasions,” bears an uncanny resemblance to the banged-up VW Beetle on blocks at the back of his apartment. But his one-room basement apartment is only a front—somewhere in the back of his mind it’s an eight-bedroom mansion.
One thing is certain: Tom has an office. It’s Ruth and Jordan’s Corner Coffee Shoppe, where he hangs out every morning at the start of the week, then, at lunchtime on Thursdays, he’ll loudly proclaim, “I won’t be in the rest of the weekend,” as if the weekend is already dripping away. “I’m popping over to the island for a bit of a sail.”
No one scoffs. If anyone knows that Tom never goes further than his sister’s bungalow in North Vancouver they keep it to themselves. As for sailing, the only yachts he’s ever mastered are in the glossy boating magazines that he casually flips open when anyone impressionable is near. “I was thinking of this one,” he’ll say of a sleek fifty- footer. “What do you think?” he’ll ask with a sigh of boredom.
“I think you need some new shoes first,” would be an appropriate response, though no one ever says so.
Ruth’s request for a five hundred dollar loan brings only a moment’s thought, then Tom beams, “No problem at all, Ruth. Happy to help out.”
Ruth catches her breath as Tom pulls a monster roll of fifties from his pocket. “Walking-around money,” he says poker-faced as he tantalizingly peels off the first bill. Then he