Matt Cowper - The Clerk

“What do you say to that, Thomas?” Frank asked. “Has Vernon talked to you about all this?”

“I think Rock’s exaggerating, as usual,” Thomas said, though he was pleased by Rock’s remarks. “This guy lays it on so thick, you’d need a chainsaw to cut through it.”

“Haw!” Rock laughed “Ain’t it the truth!”

“But if that store were to… fall into your lap, would you take it?” Frank asked.

“Hmm. Probably.” Thomas rubbed his chin and looked thoughtfully around the restaurant. “Depends on how things look at the time. I’m not planning on that possibility, though. Vernon’s probably got ten more good years left in him, and anything can happen in that time period. He’ll probably just sell the store to whoever makes him the best offer, anyway.”

This was a realistic answer, but Frank Copeland felt like someone had run him through with a broadsword. He ground his teeth and joined his son-in-law in concentrating intensely on the shrimp cocktail.

“Ten years?” Rock said. “Vernon’s what? Sixty-seven? Sixty-eight?”

“Sixty-eight,” Thomas replied.

“I’d say he’s got fifteen good years in ’im,” Rock said, “but that pot belly of his is getting out of hand. Maybe you can get on him, Thomas, get him to exercise more instead of sitting in his office looking at those nudie mags I know he has.”

Thomas laughed. “I’ve tried, Rock, but he’s stubborn as a mule.”

The waitress appeared, her arms laden with steaming dishes. Rock moved out of her way, though he sniffed and scrutinized each dish she was carrying. After the food was set in place and the family mercifully said they didn’t need anything else, she left, though not without glancing approvingly at Rock Lewis’s disheveled presence. She didn’t know his relationship to these four people, but maybe he’d learn ’em a thing or two.

Rock, however, felt it was time to leave. Thomas and Jean were alright, but the other two were stuck-up peckerheads. However, he did look at the food laid out on the table longingly as he inched away. Beanie Weenies and toast every night got old after a while. That was why he stopped by Finn Finnegan’s every so often: one of the cooks was an old school buddy, and slipped him some grub when he was able.

“Well, nice talking to ya’ll,” Rock said, nodding and tipping an imaginary hat. “Good seein’ yuhs. And nice meeting you, Mr. In-Law. Thomas, I’ll be in sometoime to give your ears a workout.”

“Sounds good, Rock,” Thomas said, returning the nod. “Take care of yourself.”

“Always do, always do,” Rock said, laughing as he walked away. The table was strangely silent as he left. Thomas was irritated; he knew certain people at the table thought Rock was a contagion that had come dangerously close to infecting them, and that they needed to refrain from doing or saying anything that might make him walk back over.

“Nice guy,” Dan said caustically as he stabbed at his salad.

“Yes, he’s a character,” Jean said. “You know, he used to work for Frank.”

“Really?” Dan said, very much interested in how his father-in-law had gotten along with that salty gnome.

Frank stared down at his plate, wishing he could throw it across the room without feeling like a buffoon and earning the opprobrium of the people dining and working at Finn Finnegan’s. Rock Lewis had been right in front of him. It was the confrontation he’d dreamed about for years, and instead of telling the man just where he could get off, he’d let him babble on and be buddy-buddy with his son. And his son — Thomas was going to get Oxendine’s Grocery, and hated Copeland Furniture and likely would’ve burnt it to the ground if he’d ever gotten it. And Emily hated Copeland Furniture too, and she was hiding out somewhere, probably having passionate sex with this fellow of hers right at this very moment.

“He was a terrible employee,” Frank finally said, “and that’s all I’ll say about the subject.”

The rest of the meal’s conversation flowed around him, like river water sliding by a large mossy rock.

Stepping into Oxendine’s Grocery was like returning to a secure military base after weeks in the trenches. Thomas sighed as he shut the back door behind him and put his wet jacket on the eternal coat rack. It was raining out, and thunder rumbled across Bogue Banks like giant waves crashing through the clouds.

It had been a long night. After dinner at Finn Finnegan’s, Thomas, who wanted nothing more than to go home to his silent apartment and get away from this aggravating family, was shanghaied into driving over to the Hampton Inn at Pine Knoll Shores, where Dan was staying, so that everyone could “continue visiting” — which really meant “irritate Thomas.”

He’d told and retold what happened during his bitter talk with Emily, and given all the information he knew about Brett Hickman, but Dan kept asking him the same questions over and over. Thomas didn’t know which was more annoying or disconcerting: the questions themselves, or the fact that Dan seemed to be going through the motions.

Thomas’s parents were just as irritating, but in their own unique ways. His mother, flush with excitement because they’d returned to Morehead City (and also influenced by the two glasses of wine she’d had at dinner) had gotten sidetracked from the main mission, which was to rescue Emily. She wanted to tell old stories, and she was baffled if her family didn’t remember every detail of every one: “You don’t remember when we took the ferry over to Ocracoke for a day-trip? Are you sure? It was spring, 1980, or maybe ’79. So clear and gorgeous! We walked on the beach for hours, and Thomas found a whole scotch bonnet! Don’t you remember that, Thomas? You were so excited! You don’t remember? But just think about it, you were a wee little fellow, not even in school, and you literally jumped for joy when you found that shell! You still don’t remember? Well, I just don’t know what’s happened to your minds!”

Frank Copeland kept saying they “ought to do something.” What they ought to do largely involved “sleuthing,” but Dan wouldn’t hear of it: “Let’s keep this in the family, Frank. I have a plan, don’t worry.” He wouldn’t elaborate on this plan, which made Frank Copeland very suspicious. Either Dan didn’t have a plan, and he was just trying to quiet his father-in-law, or he did have a plan, but didn’t believe Frank was trustworthy or competent enough to be involved in it. Either option galled Frank Copeland. He was beginning to believe that his staredown with Dan, when he’d won the right to accompany him here, was just a minor victory that Dan had allowed him.

Thomas had finally been allowed to leave at midnight, and as he drove home he cursed his meekness. He had to work at eight o’clock, and that didn’t leave enough sleep time for his liking. He thought back bitterly to his New Year’s Eve marathon, when all he’d wanted to do was fall asleep, not stay awake all night dealing with family drama. No one seemed to care about his schedule; he was supposed to be on beck and call at all hours, like some servant.

Suddenly, Thomas realized that Vernon wasn’t in the back room. He’d been so self-absorbed that he hadn’t noticed it at first. For years, Vernon had met him as he came into work. He’d be meandering around the back room as Thomas walked in, sipping coffee, rubbing his potbelly, and looking over his stock. Only sickness or some rare pressing need elsewhere in the store prevented him from being there to greet his longtime employee.

Thomas knocked on Vernon’s office door, but there was no answer and the door was locked. He pushed through the plastic double-doors and headed up front. Maybe one of the cashiers knew where he was. If not, he’d swing around to the meat department and see if Eldridge had heard anything.