Читать книгу A Year Less a Day - James Hawkins - Страница 7

Life, love, lies, and lotteries are adventures so perilous that it is surprising anyone would willingly participate in any of them, but when all four coalesce and start ticking down in conjunction, the chance of a simultaneous joyous outcome is hardly worth a wager. Yet, the day Ruth and Jordan Jackson set such an escapade in motion, neither thought it at all risky.

Life was given to the couple nearly forty years ago by their respective parents with almost no consideration of the consequences, but their love had been more measured, though it had certainly taken friends and family by surprise—especially Ruth’s. They may be of similar age, but that’s where the resemblance ends. Jordan is tall enough to look arresting in uniform, and handsome enough to be a politician or a pilot, whereas Ruth had suffered plainness at birth and has gone downhill ever since.

“Oh, what a ...” but lovely, beautiful and pretty had stuck in crib-side throats.

“... nice baby,” was as far as anyone had strayed from reality. “Lovely personality,” friends and family would say as she grew dumpily through puberty, and Ruth’s few friends who had shown up at their wedding had been more curious than congratulatory. However, life was not totally unfair to the dark-haired, plump young woman. Her premature pregnancy had been easily lost in the folds of flesh and the flow of her wedding gown, and Jordan continued loving her even after the stillbirth of their only child a few months later. Jordan’s mother, on the other hand, had never loved her, and was very quick to assert that the loss of the child was clearly ordained by God.

As the years passed, Ruth’s waistline inched apace; one inch per annum come feast and famine; binge and starve; high this, low that; quirky and quacky diets; blood, sweat, and tears—tears mainly. If only the tears had dissolved fat at the same rate as sweat does, Ruth would have found herself alongside Fergie in the tabloids, but, in the long run, the tears never helped.

The coffee house is her enemy. Lattés with whipped cream, double-chocolate explosions, and white-chocolate mousse bombs—death by chocolate. “Live by the sword ...” the maxim begins, and Ruth followed the maxim to the letter the day she and Jordan borrowed a fortune from his begrudging mother and opened the coffee house. “I’ll expect interest with no excuses,” Mrs. Jackson senior had said, and had turned up on the last day of each month to pursue the point. “This is just the interest, mind,” she’d say with her hand in the till.

The day the fateful clock starts ticking begins a nanosecond after midnight, but only comes to life for Ruth at dawn, when crepuscular rays warm the curtains, and she wrestles against bedclothes and gravity to give Jordan a shake.

“I’ll get the coffees going,” she says, and hears the key in the lock downstairs as the baker’s deliveryman lets himself in. “The baker’s here,” she carries on, as she struggles into a dressing gown. “Oh, come on, Jordan. Cindy’ll be pounding on the door any minute.”

“Damn woman,” mutters Jordan, and Ruth wants to believe he’s referring to Cindy, the part-time waitress.

“You haven’t forgotten that I have to go to get those test results today,” calls Jordan as Ruth’s heavy footsteps on the wooden stairs vibrate through the old building. “Damn woman,” he mutters again, and takes a chance on another thirty seconds before Ruth’s voice shatters his dream.

“Jordan—Get up, now! Cindy’s here.”

Cindy is forty, but is stuck, like her name, in permanent adolescence. In her own mind she is barely out of college, the consequence of an unnaturally prolonged spinsterhood, and she still sports the ponytail, the obnoxious attitude, and the geeky glasses to prove her point.

The nauseating smell of stale coffee hits Ruth as she opens the door to the café. Cindy slips in the front door under the baker’s nose and uses her wet coat to demonstrate her annoyance as she angrily fights it off.

“How come he gets a key an’ I don’t?” she moans. No, “Good morning, Ruth. How are you?” No pleas-antries; just bitching.

“Because you lost the first three we gave you,” snaps back Ruth. “Anyhow, you wouldn’t need one if that lazy ...”

Jordan’s footsteps on the stairs behind her cut her off. “I’ve gotta be at the hospital by ten,” he says, seeking recognition of his suffering, hoping for a touch of sympathy, perhaps.

“You’ll have to go by yourself,” says Ruth. “Cindy and Coral can’t manage lunch on their own. And knowing that place, you’ll be there all day.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles as he shuffles into the kitchen to fire up the stove for breakfast.

Cindy is still bitching about “the crappy evening girls” who didn’t wipe the tables properly—who never wipe the tables properly; her crappy landlord, crappy men, crappy life, crappy job ...

“If you don’t like it ...” starts Ruth, then lets it go as she switches on the percolators. With Jordan shuffling around like a constipated duck, she doesn’t need the hassle of trying to find a replacement for the woman. “I’ll get dressed,” she calls to Cindy as she heads back upstairs, then stops at the sound of tapping on the glass front door.

“We open at seven ...” screeches Cindy, then hardly drops a notch as she looks to Ruth. “It’s crappy Tom.”

“You’d better let him in,” says Ruth, “Or the poor old guy will crap on the doorstep.”

Tom rushes through like an express, scoops the daily paper, and hits the washroom at full speed. “Thanks, Cindy—I was bustin’,” he calls in his wake.

“Shut the crappy door this time,” shouts Cindy.“Nothing worse than some jerk fartin’ in the morning.”

“You haven’t been married, have you?” chuckles Ruth, halfway up the stairs, and starts Cindy off again. “Nah. Crappy men ...”

The open front door is a magnet. “You open?” calls Trina Button, strolling in with wide-eyed innocence.

“Looks like it,” laments Cindy, “but the coffee ain’t ready yet.”

“Herbal tea and horoscope is all I want,” replies Trina as she drapes her jacket on one chair, her purse on another and sits on a third. “Can’t do anything without my horoscope. Where’s the paper?”

“It was here... Tom,” Cindy calls, “you got the paper in there?”

“Yeah.”

She turns to Trina and shrugs. “I would buy your own if I were you—God knows what he does with it in there.”

“I’ll wait,” says Trina, “I’m not going back across that road again without checking my stars. It might say I’m gonna get hit by a bus.”

“Not today,” says a new arrival who’s swept silently in, as if on skates. “You’re safe today, Trina.”

“Tomorrow, Raven. What about tomorrow?” demands Trina of the newcomer, as if she was looking forward to the experience.

“Ah. You’d have to consult me professionally about that,” says Raven while fumbling in her purse for the key to her consulting room at the back of the café.

Raven is not the young woman’s real name, but is so apropos of her startling appearance that no one challenges it. When Ruth had placed an ad for the small room in the window six months earlier, there were only two inquirers: the impossibly tall, sleek-bodied, black-haired psychic channel, who appeared from nowhere one suitably sultry morning; and someone equally dark who was exceedingly circumspect about his intended use. Raven got the room partly because she had held Ruth’s nigrescent eyes in her gaze and announced, matter-offactly, that as she could see the future, she wouldn’t have bothered to apply unless the outcome was assured. It was a logic that Ruth had been unable to refute.

Raven, who may well have been hanged for her beliefs in less enlightened times, set up shop in the back of the café and lived on herbal tea and tofu while she read palms, auras, and fortunes for a pittance. However, her practice grew phenomenally when word leaked out that, for a more respectable fee, she would lay stark naked, inert, on a black velvet chaise-lounge, while spirits channelled through her. Why Serethusa, her spirit guide, would only speak to her when she was nude was a question no one had ever asked. It was the message, not the medium, that people came to hear; although quite a few—men and women alike—were happy to pay to see the medium.

“You’re early ...” starts Cindy, but Raven is impatient.

“Where’s Ruth?” she demands. “I’ve lost my damn key.”

“Don’t expect her to give you another ...” complains Cindy, but Ruth is back down, dressed, and cold-shoulders Cindy as she unlocks the office door for the incredibly slender woman.

“There you are. Take no notice... Man trouble.”

“No it ain’t. I ain’t got a crappy man.”

“That’s what I mean, Cindy,” says Ruth. “And I’m not surprised, the way you treat them.”

“Harrumph!” Cindy exclaims, as she marches back to the counter and finds Trina using the phone to wake her kids for school. “You might have asked,” Cindy moans. “Anyone would think you work here.”

In the harsh light of a fluorescent tube, Raven’s office is stark and cold, the chaise-lounge sleazy. The young woman hustles to light candles then, turning to Ruth, she stares as if she has sunk into a sudden trance.

“Do you ever buy lottery tickets, Ruth?”

“No. Just the government’s way of taxing the stupid and the poor,” she answers, then questions, “Why?”

“Buy one today Ruth ...”

“Ah. I don’t think ...”

“I know you’re not a believer. Just humour me. What have you got to lose?”

“But, I don’t ...”

“Today’s your day, Ruth. Everyone has a day.” Raven is earnest as she continues in a sing-song voice—like an ersatz preacher hosting an evangelical television show. “You mustn’t waste your chance. The rest of your life hinges on today, Ruth. I came in especially to tell you ... I received a message from my channel. ‘Tell Ruth it’s her day.’ Serethusa said, as clear as ...”

Cindy barrels in. “Quick. Trina’s had an accident and crappy Coral’s phoned in sick again. I’m pissed off working ...”

“What d’ye mean, accident?” starts Ruth, but Trina hobbles in with blood streaming down her leg and collapses on the chaise-lounge. “Fine bloody psychic you are,” she moans to Raven as she tries to stem the blood.

“Was it a bus?”

“No. A kid on a blasted bike. I was just going to the 7-Eleven for a paper. . .”

“See, I was right. Told ya you wouldn’t get hit by a bus.”

“It’s gonna be one of those days again,” muses Ruth as she grabs a handful of tissues and dabs at the blood.

“It will be if you don’t get someone to help at lunch,” gripes Cindy as she storms off.

“Remember what I said,” whispers Raven in Ruth’s ear. “Today.”

“Yeah, OK. But first I gotta get someone to do lunches. Jordan’s going to the hospital ...”

“He’ll be fine,” cuts in Raven with a degree of knowingness rare even for her.

“Good. Perhaps you could tell him that. Then he wouldn’t need to go.”

“Don’t listen to her,” says Trina. “She said I wasn’t gonna have an accident.”

“‘Bus,’ I said. And I was right ... It wasn’t.”

Ruth thinks her day has bottomed out an hour later when she calls in the coffee order and finds herself talking to a credit manager. “There has to be a mistake,” she says, though she knows there is no error; knows that the baker had delivered without quibble—if his cheque hadn’t bounced, whose had?

“Where the hell is Jordan when I need him?” mutters Ruth, then sinks with a pang of guilt. Hospital—suspicious streaks of blood in the toilet bowl; more to worry about than an unpaid bill for both of them.

“I need help out here,” calls Cindy, sticking her head into the tiny office. “I haven’t had a crappy break yet, and customers are walkin’ out.”

“All right.”

“No, it’s not all right, Ruth. Mouthy Dave just threw a crappy fit cuz I put sugar in his espresso ...”

“All right—I’ll be there,” Ruth yells, then promises that the coffee deliveryman will get cash.

“No cash, no coffee,” says the credit manager, and Ruth knows she’s over a barrel.

Raven is locking her office and leaving. It’s barely eight-thirty. “Don’t forget, Ruth,” she calls over the counter as Ruth is already fogged up with information—was it three cappuccinos, two with sugar one with caramel and a vanilla latté with skim ... or was it ... “Forget what?” she queries testily.

“Your day,” repeats Raven resolutely. “Today is your day. Serethusa said so.”

“I’m quitting right now,” bleats Cindy, tossing a pile of dirty cups in the sink—hoping one or two might break. “I’ve had enough of this crappy place. Dave just grabbed my fuckin’ ass again.”

“Yeah right,” says Ruth to both of them, and puts double caramel in the latte as her head spins.

“I will quit, Ruth,” Cindy carries on, but she snatches the coffees off the counter and heads to a table with a scowl that dares anyone to touch her or complain.

Ruth looks up from the espresso machine with an idea. “What are you doing today, Raven?”

Raven hesitates then grabs an apron off a hook on the side of the fridge. “Oh, all right—just this once. And only because Serethusa says it’s your day.”

Ruth smiles. “You must have known I was going to ask. Wouldn’t want Serethusa to be wrong, would we?”

“Serethusa is never wrong.”

“I really hope you’re right, Raven,” says Ruth, her mind chiefly on her husband.

Cindy is back with another order and a snarl for Raven. “Roped you in now, has she? I hope you know what you’re doing.” She drops her voice, though not far enough, “Make sure she pays you cash.”

“I’ll pay,” insists Ruth, though she’s wondering if the cash register will take the increasing load.

Ruth is right about the hospital. Jordan phones at four to say he’s still awaiting test results. “Good luck,” she says, but she is still flagging with the aftermath of lunch and her tone has an acerbic edge. The evening staff are in; two teenaged schoolgirls: Angela—who’ll threaten death to anyone who calls her Angie—and Margaret, who has an opposing view and is universally called Marg. They are bubbly and enthusiastic—while Ruth is around -—but will quickly droop until their boyfriends arrive at closing. At ten-to-eleven they’ll fly around complaining about how busy they’ve been, and how they have to get up for school. Then they’ll rush off, half done, to hit the bars and dance clubs ’til three a.m.

The phone rings as five o’clock approaches. Ruth grabs it, hoping it’s Jordan; wanting to say, “Sorry—but I’m worried about you, that’s all.”

It’s Raven with a final reminder. “Oh for Christ’s sake—all right,” mutters Ruth, then struggles out of her apron, grabs a dollar from the register, and heads for the convenience store across the road.

Jordan is parking the car as Ruth comes out of the store a few minutes later. He sits staring out of the wind-shield as if he’s lost, and Ruth crosses back over the now-quiet road and approaches, wary of scaring him.

“Are you all right?” she asks, bending into the driver’s window.

Jordan’s hands are frozen to the wheel and his knuckles look close to bursting. “Cancer,” he mouths, dropping a grenade with the pin pulled.