do this before . . . I can barely breathe.” And he can barely breathe. He starts gasping, gagging. He smacks Erin away and grabs the call button. “I’ll call, stop!”
Erin pulls back. “Fine! I’ll find someone who really likes me. Somewhere else. And it’ll definitely be easy. I’m not going to waste any more time with a baby like you.” She storms out. Dave thinks it’s so strange that the curtains have pretty much managed to keep people out. The whole afternoon was like a little play, with one person entering and then leaving, one after the other. But now the play is over and he is alone, without even a television to entertain him. He turns the call button over in his hand, but realizes he has no requests for the nurse. What’s he going to do, ask for a hug? He closes his eyes and cries, then sleeps.
Dave wakes up in another room. It must be at least two in the morning, or that’s his guess. Someone else, an old man, is in the room on the other side of the curtain. He’s on the second floor now, his bed by the window. The parking lot is nearly empty of cars, and there is plenty of light thanks to an emergency pavilion. A woman walks into view. She’s small. Could be anybody, but Dave thinks it’s Erin. Or his mother. They’re roughly the same size and shape. She stops right beyond the pool of light, almost purposefully to remain a silhouette, then raises one hand high. Then she snaps it down, as if pulling a great invisible switch.
CHAPTER 14
M y job has benefits. I don’t mean the pretty nice benefits of a state employee, but particular benefits. The state lottery is a part of the New Jersey State Department of the Treasury, and that’s what my work ID reads, what my business cards read, and what the voicemail on my work phone explains to callers. Theoretically, I could even get a license to carry a gun with relative ease, except for my high school escapade.
My job’s not a bad one. One would think that there wouldn’t be much call for lottery machine installations—doesn’t every ugly little bodega and liquor store have one already? Well, the stores close and then open again under new management some months later. New ones open up. Machines break or even get ripped off by the special sort of idiot who thinks having a machine means being able to make it cough up winning numbers in advance. So most days I work in the field, which I prefer to the warehouse or my cubicle. I love driving, even in New Jersey.
Most days I don’t run into anyone I know. There was that guy Charles from high school, once, and very occasionally someone recognizes me from the newspaper stories, but that’s only when I’m working in Jersey City. Today, I ran into someone else—Mr. McCann, my old Social Studies teacher. I was working in a new liquor store in Harrison. Harrison’s an odd little town carved out in a small jetty of land by Newark. I lived in North Jersey all my life, but never had occasion to visit there, knew nobody who worked or lived here, and only knew about it at all because it has a PATH station stop of its own. I’ve never even felt the need to get out and walk around to see what’s what. But there I was, driving the lottery van down 3rd Street, looking for the cleverly named 3rd Street Liquors, when McCann stormed across the street. I had to slam on my brakes. He whipped his head around to look at me. It was him. Older and grey, both his hair and his skin, I mean, and he was unshaven. His eyes were wild; he would have killed me if he could. But he couldn’t. His lips quivered for a moment, and then he ran to the sidewalk and into the store. Into 3rd Street Liquors, the very store I’d been looking for.
It’s easy to park when driving an official vehicle, so I parked right in front of the place. It was 10:15 a.m. I had no choice but to go about my business. McCann wasn’t going to come out if I was outside, and he probably didn’t know that I was heading into the liquor store myself. He
Erin pulls back. “Fine! I’ll find someone who really likes me. Somewhere else. And it’ll definitely be easy. I’m not going to waste any more time with a baby like you.” She storms out. Dave thinks it’s so strange that the curtains have pretty much managed to keep people out. The whole afternoon was like a little play, with one person entering and then leaving, one after the other. But now the play is over and he is alone, without even a television to entertain him. He turns the call button over in his hand, but realizes he has no requests for the nurse. What’s he going to do, ask for a hug? He closes his eyes and cries, then sleeps.
Dave wakes up in another room. It must be at least two in the morning, or that’s his guess. Someone else, an old man, is in the room on the other side of the curtain. He’s on the second floor now, his bed by the window. The parking lot is nearly empty of cars, and there is plenty of light thanks to an emergency pavilion. A woman walks into view. She’s small. Could be anybody, but Dave thinks it’s Erin. Or his mother. They’re roughly the same size and shape. She stops right beyond the pool of light, almost purposefully to remain a silhouette, then raises one hand high. Then she snaps it down, as if pulling a great invisible switch.
CHAPTER 14
M y job has benefits. I don’t mean the pretty nice benefits of a state employee, but particular benefits. The state lottery is a part of the New Jersey State Department of the Treasury, and that’s what my work ID reads, what my business cards read, and what the voicemail on my work phone explains to callers. Theoretically, I could even get a license to carry a gun with relative ease, except for my high school escapade.
My job’s not a bad one. One would think that there wouldn’t be much call for lottery machine installations—doesn’t every ugly little bodega and liquor store have one already? Well, the stores close and then open again under new management some months later. New ones open up. Machines break or even get ripped off by the special sort of idiot who thinks having a machine means being able to make it cough up winning numbers in advance. So most days I work in the field, which I prefer to the warehouse or my cubicle. I love driving, even in New Jersey.
Most days I don’t run into anyone I know. There was that guy Charles from high school, once, and very occasionally someone recognizes me from the newspaper stories, but that’s only when I’m working in Jersey City. Today, I ran into someone else—Mr. McCann, my old Social Studies teacher. I was working in a new liquor store in Harrison. Harrison’s an odd little town carved out in a small jetty of land by Newark. I lived in North Jersey all my life, but never had occasion to visit there, knew nobody who worked or lived here, and only knew about it at all because it has a PATH station stop of its own. I’ve never even felt the need to get out and walk around to see what’s what. But there I was, driving the lottery van down 3rd Street, looking for the cleverly named 3rd Street Liquors, when McCann stormed across the street. I had to slam on my brakes. He whipped his head around to look at me. It was him. Older and grey, both his hair and his skin, I mean, and he was unshaven. His eyes were wild; he would have killed me if he could. But he couldn’t. His lips quivered for a moment, and then he ran to the sidewalk and into the store. Into 3rd Street Liquors, the very store I’d been looking for.
It’s easy to park when driving an official vehicle, so I parked right in front of the place. It was 10:15 a.m. I had no choice but to go about my business. McCann wasn’t going to come out if I was outside, and he probably didn’t know that I was heading into the liquor store myself. He
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