Mercy Street(84)

Distractedly he apologized to a customer, who’d asked for a half pound of smoked turkey, thick-sliced. Anthony had given him thin.

Out the corner of his eye he watched the fish guy wrap up her order, an even pound of cod. How many people was she cooking for? Two pounds was a family-sized order, but a pound could go either way.

He put aside the pile of smoked turkey and tried again. With luck he could palm it off on another customer—smoked turkey was on special this week, and popular. If not, the mistake would come out of his paycheck.

A pound of cod could be dinner for two. Then again, she was a good-sized woman. She looked like she could easily demolish a pound of cod.

No wedding ring, he noted as she reached for the package of fish.

A year ago he’d have let the moment pass, and kicked himself later. A year ago he would have choked. But the new and improved Anthony Blanchard did not shrink from opportunity.

“Maureen!” he called, louder than necessary. Heads turned in his direction. He was aware of music playing, a jazzy version of “Do You Know the Way to San Jose?”

She turned, looking slightly startled.

“Maureen, hi,” he said, his face flushed with heat. “It’s been a long time.”

“Oh, hi”—she glanced quickly at his name tag—“Anthony. Do I know you?”

It was a question you didn’t want to hear from anybody, never mind the woman who’d initiated you into manhood. But Anthony was not deterred.

“Anthony Blanchard,” he said. “I live on Lisbon Ave.”

“Oh, Anthony,” she said. Was he imagining it, or did her cheeks flush? “How are you?”

“Good,” he said. “I’m good.”

Maureen frowned as though trying to place him.

“Didn’t you have an accident? Working on the Dig. Or maybe I’m thinking of someone else. Some guy got hit in the head.”

“That was me.” It wasn’t exactly a claim to fame, it was not a thing you wanted to be known for, but it was better than nothing. “I work here now. In the deli.”

“I see that,” Maureen said.

Anthony pressed on. “It must have been your brother who told you. About my accident.”

“You know Pat?”

He’d forgotten there was another brother.

“No, Tim. Me and him are best friends.” Anthony remembered to breathe. “You still live in New Hampshire?”

“I’m staying at my mom’s for now.”

And this time he wasn’t imagining it; this time she blushed for real. Miraculously, he thought of something to say.

“Hey, did Tim get a new phone? I texted him a couple times, but I never heard back.”

Maureen moved in closer. She was now maybe three paces away—close enough that he could smell her hairspray, the minty gum she chewed.

“Timmy’s in jail,” she said in a low voice.

“Jail,” he repeated stupidly. Bad news for Tim, no question, but Anthony found it comforting. At least his buddy wasn’t ignoring him. There was a reason he hadn’t answered those texts.

“I guess it had to happen sooner or later,” Maureen said. “With what he was into.”

“Where is he?” said Anthony. “Can I go see him?”

“Not unless you want to drive to Georgia. That’s where they busted him. They say he was running drugs. They say.” Maureen shrugged elaborately. “I haven’t talked to him. This is all secondhand from my uncle. Anyway, I should get going.” She studied the package of cod in her hand, as if she wasn’t sure how it had gotten there. “It was nice seeing you, Anthony.”

“Wait.” After all these years, he wasn’t about to let her go. “Can you tell him Anthony asked about him? You know, if you talk to him.”

“I probably won’t. But yeah, sure.”

“And keep me posted, okay? Like I said, he’s my best friend. I can give you my number.”

“That’s all right,” she said quickly. “I can just stop by the store. You’re here every day?”

“Tuesday through Saturday,” Anthony said. “Till two p.m.”

“Okay, then. I’ll see you around.”

It wasn’t exactly a date. But he would see her again, and next time she’d remember him. Gratitude filled him. He was sad for Tim, but mainly he was grateful. Tim, his best friend, had given them something to talk about.

ONCE AGAIN, VICTOR PRINE WAS ON THE ROAD.

On Saturday afternoons, his stepbrother drove him to Luther’s house—thanks to its sturdy wooden ramp, the one place in Saxon County he could navigate on his own. In Luther’s driveway he hoisted himself out of the passenger seat, waited patiently as Randy took the walker from the trunk. He clomped up the wooden ramp, knocked and waited. After some while, Luther rolled to the door.

They sat in the kitchen listening to the ball game on the radio, each nursing a single beer. On Saturday afternoons only, Victor allowed himself this small pleasure. He never drank more than one, for the simple fact that beer made him piss like a racehorse. In old age, at long last, he had learned to drink moderately. He could imagine no stronger deterrent than the fear of wetting his pants.

On Saturday afternoons he drank and listened to Luther. For the moment anyway, the Ebola virus had been contained. Luther, naturally, had theories. He talked about the mutability of the virus, the shadowy malfeasance of international corporations, the inscrutable motives of the Deep State. Victor did not agree or disagree. He was happy to defer to Luther, who had made a lifelong study of these matters.