Chapter 21 A Shadow on the Pavement
A Shadow on the Pavement
Sandy had never fought in a war, but when the images came to her, they seemed as real as they could get.
She’d been up all night, hearing explosions, smelling burning flesh, and seeing young men and women maimed in a far-off land, soldiers fighting for causes that even they couldn’t articulate.
When she closed her eyes, mortar fire shook her, bullets whizzed by, the screams of the injured echoed.
She reached for Nicolo and dragged him toward her, pulling him in and squeezing him. “You’re all I have,” she said to him. “My Nicolo.”
The images and sounds of war continued to play in her head as she showered and made breakfast. There was nothing more agonizing than the fear of losing a child when you couldn’t keep tabs on them, when they were out there fighting wars, surrounded by a thousand ways to die.
From the moment Jack had shipped out to Parris Island for recruit training, she’d been a nervous wreck.
But how could she have protested? The marines were his everything.
She drank her coffee by the window, looking out at a clear sky that didn’t deserve to be so blue. “What a life I’ve lived, Nicolo,” she said to her stray as he curled up at her feet. “So much pain.”
She thought back to how things had been when she’d first moved here, when she hadn’t known anyone. A fresh start after a life scarred by two wretched husbands. The promise of Jack one day joining her.
She sighed, remembering how it had always been Sandy and Jack against the world after his dad had been thrown in jail.
There was something to be said for being a single mom.
The bond was even stronger, because it’s two of you, not three.
They’d become fighters together, warriors trying to find a way through the world, Sandy parenting alone, Jack hitting puberty without a father to teach him how to shave.
When Jack discovered the ROTC, there was nothing she could do to dissuade him.
He’d found himself as a soldier. A soldier, a lover of his country, both a boy and a man who had always been so convinced of right and wrong, no gray area.
Looking back, she wished she would have fought even harder to keep him from enlisting.
She dialed his number.
“It’s Jack, leave me a message . . . unless you’re a telemarketer. Then you can go—beep.” He’d never changed his message. She must have listened to it a thousand times.
She sang “Happy Birthday” into the phone, then: “Here I am with Nicolo, thinking about you. I do it so much, especially on the big days like today. I was thinking about the bookstore, how it was your idea. Naming it too. That was such a fun visit. I remember feeling like I’d finally escaped all the hell back home, and it was all because of you supporting me.
Wouldn’t things be different if you’d stayed here, worked with me?
I might not even be running the thing into the ground.
For the record, though, I did successfully usher the store through the pandemic, so there’s that. ”
Sandy sat up. “The dream’s dying now, though, Jack.
And I don’t even know why. I’m not happy.
Well, of course, I’m not happy. All these people want something from me.
Can’t they see I want to live my life in peace?
I’ve been beat up enough. Lisbon’s still on my mind.
I have enough money to get settled over there.
I’m sure I can get out of the lease. I thought about going back home, too, but the US is falling apart.
So much division. Honestly, I feel more Italian now. ”
When she reached the max limit on his voicemail, which she’d become good at sensing, she said, “Anyway, I’ll call again later. Just know that you’re always my everything. I love you, Jackie.”
Sandy ended the call, then dropped her head and wept.
At work, Sandy avoided everyone, including Moira. It took everything to say good morning to customers. Moira was good at reading her and knew to stay out of Sandy’s way and do her job in silence.
When customers entered, Sandy would all but hide behind the counter.
Most of the time, she would call out for Moira and then head up the stairs to her office.
She was especially fearful of George opening the door.
She’d considered that she might owe him an apology, but there was no part of her that was ready to seek him out.
She’d not even thought about Harold in a couple of days when he walked in seeking advice. She eyed him up and down, his new clothes, perhaps a shred more confidence.
“I can’t help you today, honey. I’m overwhelmed.”
“Are we on for dancing tonight?”
She shook her head, avoiding eye contact. “No, I’ve had some things come up.” It was almost unwarranted how she’d come to care for this kid, but she had nothing to give right now.
“I get it, no big deal. Next time.”
Sandy’s self-hatred flared up as he’d exited the store. “What am I supposed to do?” she muttered to herself. “Save everybody?”
She couldn’t even save herself.
Sandy was lost in thought when she realized Moira was waving a hand at her.
“What are you doing? Jesus. Get your hand out of my face.”
Moira stepped back. “Sorry, I was trying to get your attention.”
“You have it.”
“I was thinking that maybe we could expand the romance section? I’ve had several customers come in lately and comment on its . . . limited offering.”
Sandy’s jaw tightened. “That’s the point. It’s supposed to be small.”
“I know, but . . .”
“You know what, Moira, I was thinking we do the opposite.” Sandy looked toward the minuscule romance section. “Do me a favor and collect every romance book and move them to the discount table.”
“Wait, what? I wasn’t trying to cause a—”
“I’ve wanted to do this for a while now.”
“That’ll frustrate people.”
“Perfect. My job on earth is to frustrate people. In a world where joy is dead, I’m able to dig up the last surviving bits of it by frustrating people. Come on, let’s go.”
With Moira watching, Sandy started tossing romance books into a box. She was well aware of how absurd she looked, how absurd the whole thing was, but she had exactly zero fucks to give about it.
“Let’s go, Moira. We don’t have all day. I want every last vestige of romance out of here. And I know you agree with me deep down. You won’t tell me about what happened in your past, but I know love has something to do with it. I know, because a victim recognizes a victim.”
Moira’s eyes widened.
“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.
” Sandy took one of the books and threw it toward the discount table.
It crashed into a shelf. “Do you know how good that felt? Try it.” Sandy handed her a Nora Roberts.
“Take all that hate you have toward love and give it a toss.” In an eerily Vader-esque voice, she whispered, “Join the dark side, Moira.”
Moira slung the book with all the power of a mouse.
Sandy slapped another one in her hand, an Emily Henry this time. “Where is your passion? Tell me you don’t make love like that.”
Moira tepidly took the book and tried again.
“Nope, not good enough.”
She gave her another and another, and by the time she saw George coming through the door, both ladies were laughing madly beside the entirely empty romance section.
“Look who it is,” Moira said, but Sandy had already crouched behind the empty shelf. She held a finger up to her mouth, then shimmied to the next shelf, staying low.
Moira looked at her in shock, completely frozen.
“Stop looking at me.”
“What?”
“I said stop looking at me!” It was her best attempt at a quiet scream.
The mouse finally figured out what was going on and raced under the arch toward the entrance. “Hi, Mr. Briggs. How are you today?”
Sandy peered around the side of the shelves and mapped out her getaway. She had to get past five shelves, then sneak under the arch, and move right to get to the steps to her office.
“I was looking for Sandy,” he said.
Sandy got on all fours, removed her heels, and crawled to the next shelf, then the next.
“She’s not . . . I don’t believe she’s here.”
Sandy reached the arch. George stood fifteen feet away and was inching closer. Moira was still trying to put together words. “I think she went out . . .”
“Oh, I thought I saw her in the back there. Must be a customer.”
“Yeah, we’re busy today.”
There wasn’t a customer in sight. Sandy had to make a run for it.
“Can I interest you in a book? Maybe a cookbook?”
When Sandy heard that, she knew Moira had finally gotten in on the game, because the cookbook section was in the opposite direction. Once George pivoted, she made a mad dash, racing around the arch as quietly as she could, then moving past the cash register and the tower of postcards and—
Her foot caught the postcard stand, and she crashed hard onto the floor.
When Sandy had slapped George, she had not only crushed his confidence, but she’d reminded him of the heartache he’d felt when Bianca’s mom told him she was leaving.
Their marriage had been suffering for a couple of years, and they both were afraid of what would happen when Bianca left them with an empty nest, but it had hurt nonetheless, because it was the end of the three of them.
After the divorce, George had done everything to keep it together through her teenage years.
It was awful sharing his daughter with her mom, having to do those awkward trade-offs, especially when he started noticing another car in the driveway of the home where they’d raised his girl.
He remembered feeling so unbearably sick inside.
If work hadn’t kept him so busy, he would never have survived.
He felt sick inside again now, and yes, it was silly; he knew that. Their one lunch might not even be considered a date. So why in the world did he feel like he’d been dumped or served papers?