Элизабет Чандлер - The Back Door of Midnight

I exited the park, acting as if I hadn’t noticed him. As I walked up High Street, I glanced once over my shoulder, but I didn’t see him, not till I doubled back to check what was playing at the movie theater. He slowed to a stop and found something interesting in a store window.

I moved on. He moved on. I crossed the street. He crossed the street. Did he think I wouldn’t notice him, or did he hope I would? Maybe this was harassment; after all, he knew I could identify him as Zack’s friend. This was just a game.

Game or not, I was getting ticked. I longed to confront him, but city living had taught me that you don’t confront people you don’t know. I darted up a set of steps and into a shop. If he followed me into a place with a shopkeeper and some kind of security, then I’d take him on.

Looking down from the shop window, I saw him stop in the middle of the brick sidewalk. His long, thin mouth shaped itself into a smile, as if he were amused by the fact that his rabbit had found a hole. He glanced up. At first I thought he saw me, but he was looking higher, at the words painted on the window. It took me a moment to decode the backward letters: ALWAYS CHRISTMAS. It was easy, however, to read his response: the F word. I wondered why his amusement would change so quickly to anger. He moved on. I hoped he was giving up, not waiting out of sight.

“May I help you?”

I turned quickly, then stepped away from catastrophe: One swing of my backpack and I would have cleared a shelf of ceramic angels.

“Is there something I can help you with?” the woman asked, eyeing my backpack.

“This is a nice shop.” My response sounded lame.

“Thank you.”

I needed to buy some time, to encourage Zack’s friend to find another quarry.

“May I look around?”

“I’m not open for business on Mondays, but if you are careful, I see no harm.”

“I think I’ll put my backpack by the door.”

“Good idea.”

I had been in Christmas shops at Jersey and Maryland beaches, but boardwalk stores can be a little junky and usually smell like seawater and tar. In this shop aggressive air-conditioning made it as dry as winter; spicy smells gave it a holiday mood. The walls were painted in midnight blue, and carefully placed spotlights made snowflakes sparkle.

Figurines painted in old-fashioned clothes and antiquelooking angels perched and dangled everywhere. The shop created a once-upon-a-time Christmas — the kind everyone likes to “remember,” even though most of us haven’t experienced it. I looked at things I would never buy — not with those price tags — working my way around the store until I reached the cash register.

HELP WANTED, the sign said, and in small print, MINIMUM 3 YRS. RETAIL EXPERIENCE. I wondered if wrapping up bagels and sandwiches would be considered retail. It didn’t matter — I just wanted to use up time.

“I’d like to apply for the job.”

The woman looked up, surprised. “I require at least three years’ retail experience.”

“Are you the owner?”

The woman smiled a little. She had a sleek brown bob and light eyes accentuated by expert makeup. “I am.”

“I’d like to apply. Is there a form to fill out?”

She flipped open a book and pulled out an application form. I took my time filling it out, using Aunt Iris’s address and phone number, then handed it back.

She read the name and address and glanced up. “I should have known by the hair. You’re an O’Neill.”

“Yes.”

She held out her hand. “I’m Marcy Fleming.”

Fleming. “Zack’s mother?”

That’s why the stalker hadn’t liked my rabbit hole. He thought I was running straight to Zack’s mom — stepmom.

“Stepmother,” she corrected, then smiled. “I owe you for yesterday. Thank you for getting rid of our four-legged friends.”

I nodded.

“How is Iris doing?” she asked.

“I–I’m not sure. There are a lot of things I have to figure out. She’s not really — uh—”

“Normal? Then I guess she is doing the same as before.

It was very decent of you to come,” Mrs. Fleming added.

“There aren’t a lot of young people who would visit their batty aunt.”

“I didn’t come for that reason.” It seemed as if I had given this spiel a hundred times since arriving. “Uncle Will invited me. He said there were some family things to talk about, so I came expecting to see him.”

“You mean you didn’t know? Oh, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.

Someone should have informed you.”

“According to Aunt Iris, Uncle Will should have.”

She smiled a little. “How long will you be staying?”

“I don’t know yet. I have college orientation in August.”

“So you’re looking for a summer job.”

What could I say? No, I’m as paranoid as Aunt Iris and think people are following me. .

“Yes, but the truth is, I don’t have the experience you want.

I worked at Panera Bread for two years — you know, handling bagels, sandwiches, that kind of thing.”

“I see. And how many bagels a week would you say you dropped?”

“I had a counter in front of me. There was no place to drop them.”

She laughed a tinkly laugh that seemed too girlish to go with her businesslike appearance. “You’re hired.”

“Excuse me?”

“Honesty is important. And I need an employee who knows how to position herself so she doesn’t drop things. Of course,” she added, “Zack would advise you not to take this job.”

“Why?” I asked bluntly.

That tinkly laugh again. “I’m a tough stepmother and a tough employer. Sometimes we’re swamped, other times it’s slow. When it is, I’ll expect you to help with cleaning, inventory, whatever I need. There is no slacking off in my shop. And there is certainly no socializing, no little visits from friends.”

I thought fast. Aunt Iris’s problems weren’t going to be solved in a week, probably not in several weeks.

“What were you paid at Panera?”

I told her.

“I can match that. And on the bright side,” she went on, “I would understand if you have an emergency involving Iris and couldn’t come to work. I also know you will be leaving for school. You realize, of course, no one in town will hire you if they think you are leaving in August. But some help now will get me through the longest days of the tourist season.”

Working in a shop might keep me sane; it would definitely keep me in air-conditioning. It would give me extra money for college — and a new muffler. The only strange thing was Mrs. Fleming’s connection to Zack. But I liked her. She was no-nonsense and blunt, the kind of person I found easy to get along with.

“I’m thinking ten to five Wednesday through Saturday, twelve to five on Sunday.” She cocked her head.

“Interested?”

“Yes.”

“When can you start?”

“Wednesday.”

“Training tomorrow,” she said.

“Okay.”

She folded her arms and appeared pleased. “It will be worth your time, Anna. If you do the job well, I’ll teach you more than clerking a store. You’ll learn how to run your own business.”

“Awesome.”

“There’s a small lot in the back for parking. Don’t block me in. See you tomorrow.”

A few minutes later I was hurrying home to Aunt Iris’s.

Zack’s friend must have given up the game. Aunt Iris was out, so I got to enjoy the rest of my doughnuts on the kitchen stoop, gazing at the creek. At noon I roared off to the gas station to get a new muffler, then drove more quietly to Tilby’s Dream.

The old farm lay along Oyster Creek on the eastern bank, like the O’Neill house, but on the other side of Scarborough Road, past the bridge. “Can’t miss it,” the sheriff had told me. “Got a big old tulip poplar on the corner”—whatever a tulip poplar was. I drove slowly, looking at every large tree I passed — there were a lot — and finally turned onto the first paved road I saw.