A Year Less a Day. James Hawkins
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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.
chapter two
The old Chevrolet sinks under Ruth’s weight as she slumps into the passenger seat. They sit like accident victims waiting for the emergency services to show up, but no one calls 911. Theirs is an accident yet to occur, though the path is clearly set. The question, “How long?” remains unasked and unanswered, but holds them locked so powerfully on the road ahead that passing pedestrians stare worriedly.
Ruth breaks the silence eventually, conscious that the burgeoning feelings of loss and grief are trying to overwhelm her. “What did they say?”
“Six months, max,” Jordan replies succinctly, and Ruth crashes.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she blubbers through the sobs. Sorry I doubted you; sorry I nagged you; sorry it’s happening to you.
What about me? Someone inside her is asking as she tells Jordan, “There must be a mistake—they make mistakes, right? They’re always making mistakes.” She brightens momentarily. “Surely they can treat it—operate or something. They must be able to do something.”
What about me? is screaming to get out as she waits for Jordan to get his thoughts together. It’s all right for you, she tells herself as she watches him; waiting for his response. You’ll be dead. You won’t have to deal with everything. The bills—all the fucking bills. Not just the bills we can’t pay now—more bills—medical bills, the funeral.
This is crazy—your husband is dying and all you worry about is money.
Jordan opens up a little, as if he’s coming out of a coma. “Chemotherapy might help. They’re gonna try.”
Ruth isn’t listening; her mind is spinning out of control. Insurance—How many times have I told you we should take out life insurance?
How the hell can we pay for insurance when we can’t even pay the coffee supplier?
This is crazy—Stop worrying about yourself, bitch. Think of Jordan. What’s going through his mind? Look at him; hug him; kiss him. Tell him everything will be all right.
“I don’t know what to say,” she says, doing her best.
Brilliant! Is that it? Is that the