a little bit frightened. She wondered if Mindy was having some sort of nervous breakdown, if she'd gone crazy, and she quickly looked up and down the road, searching for signs of someone else, but there was no one here except Mindy and herself.
'Uh, I have to get going,' Shannon said. 'I'm late already, and my mom's waiting for me.'
Mindy stood, walked toward her. 'I know your dad doesn't like The Store.
That's why I thought I could talk to you.'
Shannon shifted her books from her left hand to her right. Mindy had been bad enough when she'd been a spoiled stuck-up bitch, but this new Mindy, this intense, emotionally disturbed Mindy who for some strange reason wanted to talk to her, even though they'd been bitter enemies since third grade, was even worse. She wanted to get out of here and away from her as quickly as she could, but she forced herself to remain pleasant and pretend that nothing out of the ordinary was going on. 'It's not that he doesn't like The Store. It's more that he doesn't like where they're building it and the way they're building it.'
Mindy glanced furtively around to make sure they weren't being spied upon.
'It's built with blood,' she said.
Shannon started backing away, keeping her eyes on the other girl. 'Look, I've really gotta go.'
'I'm serious. They put blood in the concrete. It was in the plans they gave my dad. Tell your dad. Maybe he can tell that guy from the newspaper and they can do something about it.'
'Okay,' Shannon said, humoring her. 'I'll tell him.'
'It's built with blood. That's why my dad was killed.'
Your dad was killed because he was driving drunk, Shannon thought, but she smiled and nodded and continued backing away, finally quickening her pace, breaking into a jog. She looked behind her as she ran, but the road was empty, the bench was empty, and Mindy was gone.
3
Bill finished the GIS documentation on the last Saturday of January. He uploaded the completed manual, sent it off to the company, and celebrated the way he did at the end of every project: he opened his middle desk drawer, took out a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, cranked up the radio, leaned back in his chair, and enjoyed.
He stared out the window as he ate. It had been raining for two days, the rain melting away the last of the snow, and it was still drizzling now, the trees outside little more than black silhouettes in the mist. He finished his Reese's, tossed the wrapper in the wastepaper basket. This was when he was really able to take advantage of the fact that he worked at home. Instead of sitting at his desk, finding papers to shuffle, pretending to look busy for the benefit of any supervisors who happened to pass by, he could watch TV, read a book, take a trip, do whatever he wanted until the next project came along. He was on salary, not an hourly wage, and as long as he did his work and met his deadlines, the company didn't care how he spent his extra hours.
In other words, his competence and efficiency were rewarded with spare time.
God bless technology.
He switched off his computer, stood, stretched, and walked out of his office and down the hall. The kitchen smelled of Campbell's tomato soup, and the insides of the windows were fogged with condensation. It seemed warm, cozy, and comfortable, and with the girls gone, it felt almost the way it had when they were newlyweds, when they were too poor to go anywhere or do anything and their chief form of entertainment had been sex.
Ginny was at the stove, stirring the soup, and he walked behind her, reached his hand between her legs, grabbed her. She yelled for him to knock it off and practically hit him with the spoon, a spattering of hot soup hitting his cheek. 'Jesus!' he said.
'That'll teach you not to sneak up on me like that.'
He wiped the soup off his cheek. 'What's the matter with you?'
'Nothing,' she said. 'I'm making lunch. I wasn't expecting to be molested.'
'Who did you think it was? I'm the only one in the house.'
'That's not the point.'
'I used to do that all the time. You used to like it.'
'Well, now I don't.' She did not look at him but kept her back to him as she continued stirring the soup. 'Wash up,' she said. 'It's time to eat.'
He sighed. 'Look, let's not fight. I'm sorry I --'
She turned around, surprised. 'Who's fighting?'
'I thought you were angry with me.'
'No.'
He grinned. 'Then how about bending over the table so I can do my manly duty?'
She laughed. 'How about washing your hands so we can eat lunch?'
'After lunch?'
She smiled. 'We'll see.'
They did make love after lunch, a quickie in the bedroom in case Samantha or Shannon came home early, and afterward he decided to get out of the house and take a walk. The rain had stopped sometime in the last hour, and he'd been cooped up inside for far too long and felt like getting outdoors. He asked Ginny to go with him, but she said she wasn't in the mood, and besides, she had some magazines to catch up on.
He walked into town alone, enjoying the smell of fresh rain on the roads and the sight of the clearing sky, the cracks of blue that were peeking out from between the parting grayness. He walked over to Street's store, said hello to his friend, shot the breeze a little, then stopped by Doane Kearns's music shop across the street, digging through the bins of used records against the far wall to see if he could find anything interesting, picking up a bootleg Jethro Tull and an old Steeleye Span album that he'd had in college but had lost somewhere along the way.
Before heading home, he walked into the cafй for a quick cup of coffee. As usual, Buck and Vernon were sitting at the counter, arguing. Today's bone of contention was country music.
'So sue me,' Vernon was saying. 'I like Garth Brooks.'
'Garth Brooks is a pussy! Waylon Jennings. Now there's a real singer.'
'Language!' Holly called from behind the counter.
'Sorry,' Buck said.
Vernon grinned. 'Is Waylon Jennings still alive?'
'You'll rot in hell for that one, son.'
Bill sat down at the opposite end of the counter, nodding to the two men, who nodded back.
Holly stopped by, asked if he wanted a menu, but Bill said that all he was after was coffee, and she turned around, poured him a cup, and set it down in front of him.
'Bill.'
He swiveled in his seat to see Williamson James, the owner of the cafй, walking out from the kitchen through the door next to the jukebox.
'How goes it?'
Bill shrugged. 'Can't complain.'
The cafй owner sat down on the stool next to him, motioned for Holly to pour him a cup of coffee as well. 'Catch that game on Thursday?'
Bill shook his head.
'That's right. You don't go in much for football, do you?'
'Football, basketball, baseball, soccer, hockey. Don't watch any of 'em.'
'You ever even play sports?'
'Nope.'
'What about in school?'
'Well, yeah. PE. I had to. No choice. But not on my own.'
'Why not?'
'Never liked 'em. Sports are for people who can't handle freedom.'
'What?'
'They're for people who need to be told what to do with their free time, who can't think of things to do by themselves, who need rules and guidelines to follow. Like people who spend their free time going to Vegas, gambling. Same thing. Rules. You're told what to do. Other people decide for you how your time is to be spent. I guess for some people it takes the pressure off. They don't have to think on their own; everything's been set up for
