Josh smiled and stood up from the stool, moving closer to me (well, the main cash register, but for a second I thought he was going to walk right up to me, and my body was on the verge of collapse). “I really love that,” he said with such sincerity I was shocked my body didn’t collapse.
Rachel walked up to us with her usual look of disgust. “Jeraline, you can finish shelving those books now. Josh will stay at the counter with me.”
Discreetly, I grabbed my sketchpad and headed toward the abandoned cart amongst the stacks. I didn’t look to see if Josh or Rachel had noticed. I hid the pad on the bottom shelf of the cart so I could put it away later. Mindlessly, I began shelving the books back in their rightful places. As I reached the Thriller section, the corner of a piece of paper poked out from under a shelf. Thinking it was garbage, I pulled it out from underneath and saw that it was a photograph. Rachel, at least ten, maybe fifteen years younger, was kissing the cheek of a fourteen-year-old boy. I didn’t know what shocked me more: the fact that Rachel seemed so happy and carefree or the fact that the boy looked almost exactly like Josh. The scribbling on the back read: “My beautiful boy Kent.”
Kent.
Whoa.
My suspicions had been correct. Rachel had a son. Doing the math from a guesstimation of Rachel’s age put Kent around the age of twenty-five? Maybe a little older, maybe a little younger. I wondered where he was. Why he didn’t visit. The fact that Rachel had been compelled to hire a look-alike and make him Employee of the Month was both sad and creepy. I wasn’t sure how to process it. One thing was for sure though: I didn’t want to be caught with this photo. So I did what any normal person would do and stuffed it back under the shelf without a single corner of it poking out.
Filing the picture away as another mystery that was Rachel, I spent the rest of the day shelving the books. Time passed as if I were in some kind of vortex, because it was closing time again.
Grabbing the garbage bag from the back, I opened the fridge, snatched Hank’s meal, and left toward the dumpster.
Hank’s eyes twinkled as I handed him the paper bag lunch while tossing the garbage inside the metal container. “Hey, Hank.”
“Hi, Jeraline. Thank you, and tell your grandmother the cookies were delicious.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. She put in a couple extra.”
Hank’s face lit up, and he tipped an imaginary hat in thanks. “You are too kind to an old man.”
“Hey, Hank?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think you’ll ever paint again?” I didn’t know why I asked, but I suddenly wanted to know.
His expression turned thoughtful. “I do. Someday.”
“I could bring you some supplies: paints, brushes, a canvas? I’d love to see your work.” After talking to Josh earlier about what we wanted to do with our lives, seeing Hank made me want to help more. He never saw his dream come true. I knew how much sewing and creating helped me. Maybe it would help him?
But Hank shook his head. “No, Jeraline. I’m not ready for that. I appreciate it though.”
“Are you sure?” I desperately wanted him to say yes.
“I’m sure. Besides, where would I put it when it’s done?” He cast his eyes down, looking away.
“It would be for me. I’d be giving you the supplies in exchange for a painting for my apartment. Please?” In that moment I’d never wanted anything more.
Hank tilted his head, pondering. “You don’t even know if you’d like it.”
“If you paint it, I’ll like it. Please, Hank? Don’t say no.” I held my breath as he stood there, thinking.
Finally, he nodded. “Okay. Of course. You’ve been feeding me for years. I would be honored to paint you something.”
Elation flooded through me, and my head was giddy. I hugged Hank tightly.
I nearly choked from the smell, but I couldn’t let him hear that. It was so strong that I was afraid my gagging would be involuntary, so I pulled back with a big smile. “Thank you, Hank.”
Hank looked positively shocked that I had embraced him. “It’s been a long time since anyone has hugged me.”
Oof.
My chest ached.
Hank was such a good human who deserved to be hugged daily, but because of something stupid like money, he was here, waiting for a stranger to bring him food.
But I wasn’t a stranger.
I was his friend.
“I better get back in. I’ll bring the supplies tomorrow. I’m really excited.” And I was. I couldn’t wait to see what Hank would create.
Hank’s head was a little higher, his body a little prouder, and in a confidence that said it all, he replied, “I’m excited too. Thank you, Jeraline.” And with that, Hank took out one of Grandma’s cookies from the bag and bit down with delight. “These are the best.” He walked away with a laugh.
I still smelled a bit of Hank’s stench on me, but I figured it would air out as I walked home. Steering clear of Josh or Rachel, I slipped into the back room and unlocked the padlock, taking out my backpack. Cautiously, I surveyed the area once more and then peered inside. The sweater had shifted a bit so the gun’s nose peeked out.
Edmond Dantès appeared next to the locker, staring down at the gun. “Honestly, what were you thinking?”
“I have no idea.” I really didn’t. I had a freaking gun in my backpack, at work. What had I been thinking?
“Your grandmother said she’d take you to get lessons. You don’t know how to use it. Why wouldn’t you wait to learn properly?” Edmond crossed his arms with a grunt.
“I said I don’t know!” I snapped. At the imaginary book character from The Count of Monte Cristo.
I was seriously
