Southland (37 page)
“I can’t promise anything,” Jackie said.
“I know. You’re a self-involved asshole.”
“But for some reason you like me anyway.”
“Yep. Always have. You’ve got a lot of potential. And you’ve improved so much these last few months.”
“It was Lanier, you know. And Curtis. And my grandfather, too. But mostly it was Lanier.”
“I know. And I thank him for it. Remind me to send him a card.”
“And I don’t know what’s up with Laura, either. I mean, I know it’s over, but I’m…tired. She really went through me. And there’s still some things we have to figure out.”
“There’s no hurry. Neither one of us is going anywhere.”
“Everything’s a mess—my relationship, my family, I don’t know how I feel about my job. You don’t mind all this in-between stuff?”
Rebecca smiled. “Honey, look at me. I
am
in-between stuff.”
And very gently, patiently, Rebecca kissed her again, and Jackie felt something loosen in her, something ancient and glacial start to creak and break free.
She
was the one, she thought, who’d had a lover all this time, and Rebecca the one who’d been alone. But it was Rebecca who seemed to know, now, where they were both going, and Jackie felt the relief, as Rebecca’s hand moved down her neck and over her shoulder and onto her breast, of being with someone who was capable of meeting her halfway. Jackie touched Rebecca’s face, her smooth, long back, and pulled her tighter, closer. And she knew, for the first time—and finally, with this person—that in surrendering herself, she would also, somehow, be given herself in return—stronger, newer, and complete.
T
HE YOUNG man was now an older man, and had hired young men himself. This morning, the fourth young man he’d hired, but the one he loved most, had come in early because of the burning in Watts to get his work done, and then to help lock the place up. The older man watched him as he bent over the desk, wrestling figures that weren’t adding up to the number he wanted. The boy grunted to himself and scratched his head. He was a handsome boy, and smart and responsible, and the man wished he could take credit for this. He couldn’t, though, and he knew it—this boy was his mother’s product, and his own.
“We should get a couple more deliveries of bread each month,” the boy said. “We always get real close to running out.”
“That’s a good idea. Anything else?”
“Yeah. I noticed the eggs been getting smaller lately. Maybe we should get them from another distributor.”
“Good. We can do that.”
“And the candy bars.” Here, the boy grinned sheepishly. “I always take one to Angela, you know, and she’s getting tired of what we got. I think we should try to order a couple more kinds.”
The man smiled. “Anything for Angela.”
The man left the office then, and went out into the store. They were both trying to act like everything was normal, despite the storm that was brewing outside. In a while, before the looting got worse, he’d send the boy home; he’d only come in himself to make sure everything was locked. The man walked up and down the three small aisles, straightening boxes of cereal, counting packages of flour. He loved this place—it was, more than any other place, his home. But he’d known for some time that he should leave. His daughters were sixteen and fourteen now, and working until eight o’clock six days a week he’d somehow missed most of their childhood. It wasn’t too late, though—with different work, with better hours, he still had a chance to get to know them before they left his house forever. He’d lined up another job, a nine-to-five, with a local distributor, who figured his years of experience in the grocery business would help them keep up with changing markets and trends.
The boy was eighteen now, and had just graduated from high school. He’d moved into his own apartment and was about to be married; he’d worked at the store all summer, and even though he was preparing to start classes at the junior college, he’d stay on full-time in the fall. The boy didn’t know the man was planning to leave, nor was he aware of what the man had in mind for him. The man knew his proposition was going to make the boy happy; just anticipating his reaction made him smile.
Although the man’s wife didn’t like the idea, it made perfect sense that the boy take over the store. He’d worked there nearly four years, all through high school, and he understood all aspects of the job, both personal and business. He went at everything— the orders, the books, the physical arrangements—as if it were the most fascinating project in the world, and he’d said many times that he wanted to run his own store someday. The way the man figured it, he would tell the boy what he’d planned, then spend a couple of months on formal training. Then, gradually, he’d make himself less and less present, until the boy was completely on his own. The man would still own the store, but the boy would manage it, on salary; after a few years, the man would turn it over to him. He had been thinking over this plan, pounding out the details in his head, almost all of his waking hours.
And then, the rest of it, which he’d tell him soon after. For two years, on and off, the man had been arguing with the boy’s mother over telling the boy the truth about his parentage. The boy had a right to know, he felt, and things would make sense that way—the business was being passed on from father to son. But the mother had argued that it wouldn’t be fair—to the boy or to her husband, who still didn’t know—and she’d refused flat out the man’s every appeal. But the man couldn’t hold it any longer. While he respected the woman’s wishes, he couldn’t help himself anymore, and now that the boy was finally out of his mother’s house, the man felt that the time was right. The man didn’t know how he’d tell him, and he didn’t know where or when, or what he’d say. But he almost shook with joy at the simple, solid prospect of finally being able to claim his son. He tried not to think about what would happen if the boy reacted badly—he’d been silent too long to worry about the consequences now. All the stories and lessons and history he’d passed on to the boy. All the things that belonged not only to him, but also to his child.
A few minutes later, as the two of them were checking all the windows, the man said, “Listen, son. When this is all over, there’s a couple of things I need to tell you.”
The boy looked at him quizzically—the man seemed so intent and serious—and just then, several people entered the store. It was the other boys—the two who still worked there and the older one who used to, and a couple of younger boys, the little brothers. One of the older boys, the Japanese one, waved his arms excitedly.
“Some stores are getting looted on Western,” he said. “You better hurry up and shut down.”
The man nodded. “Go home. Get home as fast as you can. And stay there with your families until everything’s quiet.”
They didn’t want to go, but he shooed them out, all of them, even the one he loved. Then he rushed around, checking all the windows again. He went out the front door, locked and bolted it behind him, and quickly walked the four blocks to his house.
The boys had taken off in the opposite direction, but now one of them, the one who’d been in the store that morning, stopped short in his tracks. “We can’t just leave it,” he said. “If no one’s there to defend it, it’s gonna get torn apart.”
“Well, that’s a chance we gotta take,” one of the other boys replied. “I mean, damn, you know? Better it than us.”
“Don’t be such a fuckin pussy,” said the Japanese boy. “He’s right. We should go back and stay there in case some fool tries to burn it down.”
“No one’s gonna do that. People love the store. They need it.”
“That don’t matter when folks are upset.”
“Well, I don’t care what
you
all do,” the first boy said. “I’m going back. I’ll see you assholes later.”
He took off down the sidewalk. The Japanese boy followed. The remaining boys all looked at each other, and then the oldest one said, “Aw, shit.” He walked down the sidewalk after the first boy, and the two younger ones ran to keep up. The other boy watched them go, and then went home.
The first boy, hearing all the footsteps behind him, smiled and kept on walking. They were going back to defend the store he loved. He hoped the man would be proud of him, even though he was disobeying orders; he was trying to take care of the only place where either of them felt at peace. And as he kept walking, and then jogging, down the sidewalk toward the store, he thought about the man, the strange intensity in his voice just before the other boys came in, and wondered what he’d been planning to tell him.
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