Читать книгу The Show House - Dan Lopez - Страница 13

LAILA PUSHES THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR WITH THREE gallons of water in each hand, the static weight paining her joints. “Alex, you home?” she calls. “Come help me get this stuff in the house. I got called into work. Alex?”

The same silence from this morning permeates the house. There’s no sign that Alex has been back. Son of a bitch, she thinks. She’s going to have to call Esther.

She sets the gallons down on the kitchen floor and pushes them into the pantry with her feet, then heads back to the truck for the rest of the supplies. Three trips later the Morales household is prepared for whatever Mother Nature has in store for them tonight. Laila, however, feels depleted. All she wants is to collapse on the couch and take a quick nap, but with traffic bad returning from the gallery, now she’s running late. Sanjay expects her soon and she still needs to change and drive to Apopka. Drawing on her reserves, she wills herself upstairs to hunt for her work clothes, sequestered somewhere in the escalating entropy that is her bedroom. As she changes, she calls Esther.

Her stepmother greets her with a yawn. “Oh, Laila, I’m surprised to hear from you.”

“Were you sleeping?”

“Jorge”—the gardener—“came by earlier. He says he needs to rip out the tree your father planted. Que tiene un bicho o algo, I don’t know. Now the county is saying they all have to go.”

Her lab coat cuts through the pile of laundry like a vein of marble in a mountain. She pulls it out, dumping half the clothes onto the carpet in the process. With no time to iron, she’ll have to rely on the heat and humidity to relax the worst of the wrinkles.

“I’m sorry. That must’ve been difficult to hear. Did you take anything?”

“Lo que me mandó Dinenberg.”

“The Klonopin? Are you taking anything else with it?”

She tears apart her bed hunting for her name badge before finding it clipped to the medicine cabinet mirror. The engraved lettering is chipped from years of banging around in purses and pockets, the color faded. She affixes it to her lab coat.

“Ay, Laila, stop worrying about me. I just needed something to help me relax; it’s been a stressful day. You should be worrying about your brother.”

“That’s actually why I’m calling. Have you heard from him?”

“¡¿Que paso?!”

“Nothing. I just haven’t seen him all day. He went out this morning, said he had to meet somebody.”

“Where did you say he is?”

“I don’t know,” Laila says, struggling to keep her response measured. “I told you he said he was meeting up with somebody. He didn’t call you or anything?”

“Why would he call me?” Esther coughs, then clears her throat.

“I don’t know. Stranger things have happened.”

“Do you think he could be in trouble?”

There’s an edge to Esther’s voice. Mostly she’s fretting over her wayward son’s whereabouts, but buried alongside that panic Laila detects a subtle judgment. He’s your responsibility now, she’s saying. That subtly puts her in the uncomfortable position of having to defend her brother, who, frankly, she’s more than a little annoyed with at present. How does Alex always manage to do this to her? To them?

“I’m sure he’s fine—”

“¡Ay, pero el huracán!”

“Yeah, I know. So does he. Calm down—” Take another Klonopin is what she wants to say, but she restrains herself. “He’s probably just dicking around somewhere. He’ll be back. I only called because I got to go to work and don’t have time to put up the shutters.”

“Work today? With the storm?”

“I got called in. I’m covering for somebody.”

“But you have your own things to take care of, too; when are you supposed to have a day off if they keep calling you in like that? I always told your father that I didn’t like these hours for you—”

“It’s fine. Really. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried about you.”

“Gee, thanks.” She kicks off her boots and jams her feet into a worn pair of sneakers.

Esther clicks her tongue. “You know what I mean. You take care of yourself. Your brother, on the other hand, would lose his head if it wasn’t screwed on—”

“He’s your baby,” Laila says, mimicking the whiny inflection with which her stepmother has justified every deferral to Alex’s selfishness for the better part of two decades.

“Exactly.”

“He’s a seventeen-year-old pain in the ass is what he is.”

“He’s still my baby. And don’t talk about your brother that way.”

“Uh-huh. Well, your baby is over here eating all my food and not paying rent. The least he could do is help with the shutters. He knows I don’t like to climb ladders.”

“Ay, mi’ja, por favor. I’ll send you money for his food.”

“That’s not the—” Laila cuts herself off. Now is not the time. Not when she’s already running late. “Look, if he calls you or anything just let him know that I’m working up in Apopka and that I need him to take care of the shutters. Okay? I texted him, but I don’t know, maybe his phone died or something. And tell him to call me back! Bye!”

“Wait!”

“What? I have to go.”

“Be safe. And call me when you’re home. I don’t like you going to work on a day like this.”

“Okay, I will. Go back to sleep, and try not to take anything else today.”

Traffic is surprisingly light on I-4, but she hits a snarl less than a mile away from the shopping plaza in Apopka. The store taunts her from just beyond a red stoplight. There’s nothing to do but wait it out, slowly creeping forward with each cycle of the traffic signal. She glances at her phone. Still no word from Alex. Coño, Alex, she thinks, you better not fuck this up. Though she’s not one to normally honk, she does so now. “Come on! Move it.”

Her phone chimes.

On your way? Sanjay is waiting.

In traffic a block away, she fires back, then tosses the phone onto the passenger seat.

An accident that isn’t even on her side of the street backs traffic up in either direction. As if people don’t have enough problems in their lives that they need to rubberneck on somebody else’s tragedy. When her turn at the light finally arrives, she guns it through the intersection, doing her part to break the cycle.

The store has been picked over. Bottled water and canned goods are conspicuously absent from shelves. (She was right to do her shopping when she did.) The seasonal aisle looks ragged with nobody having had time to tidy up in the onslaught of last-minute shoppers. Her domain—the pharmacy—fares only slightly better. Sanjay is short-staffed and prescriptions are piling up.

“One of the techs called in,” he says, dashing between shelves. The remaining tech, Cecily, does her best to ring up a long line of customers at the register. “It’s been like this all day,” he continues. “I haven’t even had time to fill prescriptions. Cecily hasn’t even taken her break. And then Rajani has to be on call and there’s nobody at home to watch the kids.”

She places her purse under the counter, cracks her neck, takes a deep breath, and smiles. “Okay, what do you need?”

She finds her rhythm in short order once Sanjay departs. The flow of new prescriptions abates long enough for her to knock out some of the most urgent scripts waiting in the queue. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t be the one counting out the pills. A tech would do that, leaving the pharmacist to verify the fill, but with one tech down and the other chained to the register, the duty devolves to her. She’s quick, but she’s also scrupulous, since the potential for mistakes is high when taking over in the middle of somebody else’s day. She refuses to rush even as returning patients stream in, anxious to pick up their pills before the storm arrives. Landfall is now expected for ten P.M.

“They’ll have to close the store early,” Cecily says.

Laila glances at the time on her phone. It’s going to be a tight turnaround and still no word from Alex. “I hope so. I still have to put up my shutters.”

They work steadily for the next couple of hours. The crush of patients wanes. A stack of unfilled scripts still needs filling, but the immediacy has passed. In all likelihood these patients won’t be back until after the storm. Laila gives Bill a call, and he confirms that corporate plans to close stores in the area early but has yet to decide on exactly when.

After hanging up she sends Cecily home.

“Really?”

“Yeah. You’re welcome to stay if you want to, but I think the crisis has passed. Bill says they’ll be closing soon. I can handle things in the meantime. If you have stuff to take care of still at home you should do that.”

“Yeah, all right.” Cecily rings up the lone patient in the waiting area, then shuts down her till and gathers her belongings. “You sure you gonna be all right, Laila?”

“Yeah, absolutely. Don’t worry about me. I’m just going to get through this pile, then lock up.”

“All right.” As she walks out she calls back: “Hey, say hi to your brother for me, okay?”

“Will do! Stay safe!”

Then Cecily is gone.

She checks her phone again. Still no word from Alex; nothing from Esther either. “Where the fuck are you?” she mutters to herself.

“Are you a pharmacist or a sailor?”

She looks up to find a large, bald man, midsixties, looming over the register. He wears an amused grin and she doesn’t like the way he’s looking at her at all. Instinctively, she surveys the immediate area. A shift leader straightens shelves nearby should she need assistance.

“I didn’t realize anybody was standing there,” she says, masking her surprise with a clipped tone that passes for harried friendliness.

“Busy day?”

“Something like that.”

“You’re not Sanjay.”

“You’re observant.” She lets a trace of an accent color her words. Patients tolerate a higher level of acerbity if you sound foreign, she’s learned. It allows them to feel superior even while she refuses to act deferential. “Sanjay left early. I’m Laila.” She flashes a smile and goes back to logging scripts in the system.

“Ah, mucho gusto!” the man says. “¿De donde eres?”

Great, a gringo who can string together basic phrases.

“Puerto Rico,” she says. Though she’s never been to the island, it’s what he expects, and giving him that is easier than explaining the diversity of the Latin American experience.

“Beautiful island. My son loves it. Do you have any kids?”

“I work too much. No time for kids.”

He grins. “You’re still young. You have time. Don’t wait too long, though.”

She glances up from the monitor. “How can I help you?”

He rocks back and forth. “Yo me llamo Thaddeus Bloom,” he says. “I’m picking up some pills... uh... pastelitos.”

He just said he was picking up some pastries. A smile stretches across her face, and she chooses to not correct him. “¡Ah, muy bien!”

“Gracias. My wife, Cheryl,” he continues, “normally gets them for me, but she’s busy at the house today. She’s getting everything ready for the storm, the huracán.”

Laila resists the urge to roll her eyes. “That’s good. Smart lady.” She types furiously, partly out of experience and partly in the spirit of theatricality. Something else she’s learned: purpose and concentration intimidate customers. If you look busy they tend to assume you are busy and leave you alone. “Last name Bloom, right?”

“Like a rose. I’m sure a pretty girl like you has plenty of roses. ¡Belleza!” He bobs his eyebrows. Laila fakes a short laugh in the name of customer service, sexual harassment’s complicit corporate partner.

“It doesn’t look like it’s been filled. I can fill it for you now, if you don’t mind waiting.”

She points to the waiting area, but Thaddeus lingers. “Take all the time you need. I’m not in a rush.” He whistles a little tune to himself.

Glancing out the drive-through window, she spots a feeder band working its way across the sky from the east. The bulk of the hurricane is still well offshore, but the first tendrils of the mighty system are already reaching across land. Her mind flashes back to the shots of Cocoa Beach on the news this morning. They’re finally getting some exciting footage, no doubt. It won’t be long now till Bill gives the go-ahead to shut down and still no word from Alex.

She grabs her phone and fires off a quick message:

Hey papo just checking in haven’t heard from you in a minute. lemme know ur alright, k? should be home soon and we can put up the shutters. hit me back

Alex’s mercurial nature requires a gentle touch, especially lately, but she’s running out of time and patience.

Glancing back at Thaddeus, she adds: u wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had!!! :/

Then it’s back to work.

The prescription—Fendiline, a common arrhythmia medication—takes no time to fill. In a moment, she counts the pills, prints the label, verifies the count, and steps up to the register. “I can ring you up,” she says, motioning him over.

“Wow, that was quick. Such service! I should come here more often.”

Her fingers fly over the register keys. “I’ll let Sanjay know.”

He hands her his credit card and she swipes it for him, then taps the keypad. “Just follow the instructions here.”

He labors over each prompt while the feeder band gets closer. If he’s not out the door before the rain starts she’ll be stuck with him. He’ll want to practice his horrendous Spanish on her while she has work to finish.

“It’s asking me for cash back,” he says. “But I gave you a credit card.”

“Hit the red cancel button on the bottom right and swipe the card again.”

The feeder band is maybe half a mile away. There’s still time, but they have to move a lot quicker than this.

“Let’s see here.” He takes greater care this time, pausing to put on his reading glasses before peering at the keypad. His lips pucker and he emits a thin, tuneless whistle. “Credit card. Yes, that’s what I want. Okay... Is this total right?”

Laila smiles at him with her eyes and bobs her head up and down quickly. Just hit yes, she thinks. Just hit yes.

“Yes.”

As soon as he does the register springs into action, the till and the receipt printer clang like a slot machine that hit the jackpot. She slams the drawer and tears the receipt off, practically throwing it at him. “Have a great day!” Then she’s back to the computer to finish inputting the scripts. At least this way Sanjay will have a clean start when he returns.

Bill texts her: Shut down and get home! Corporate gave the green light.

And just in time. Outside, the sky is black. The first volley of heavy rain pelts the corrugated roof of the drive-through like little explosions.

You don’t have to tell me twice!