A Year Less a Day (2 page)

“If you don't like it ...” starts Ruth, then lets it go as she switches on the percolators. With Jordan shuffling around like a constipated duck, she doesn't need the hassle of trying to find a replacement for the woman. “I'll get dressed,” she calls to Cindy as she heads back upstairs, then stops at the sound of tapping on the glass front door.

“We open at seven ...” screeches Cindy, then hardly drops a notch as she looks to Ruth. “It's crappy Tom.”

“You'd better let him in,” says Ruth, “Or the poor old guy will crap on the doorstep.”

Tom rushes through like an express, scoops the daily paper, and hits the washroom at full speed. “Thanks, Cindy—I was bustin',” he calls in his wake.

“Shut the crappy door this time,” shouts Cindy.“Nothing worse than some jerk fartin' in the morning.”

“You haven't been married, have you?” chuckles Ruth, halfway up the stairs, and starts Cindy off again. “Nah. Crappy men ...”

The open front door is a magnet. “You open?” calls Trina Button, strolling in with wide-eyed innocence.

“Looks like it,” laments Cindy, “but the coffee ain't ready yet.”

“Herbal tea and horoscope is all I want,” replies Trina as she drapes her jacket on one chair, her purse on another and sits on a third. “Can't do anything without my horoscope. Where's the paper?”

“It was here... Tom,” Cindy calls, “you got the paper in there?”

“Yeah.”

She turns to Trina and shrugs. “I would buy your own if I were you—God knows what he does with it in there.”

“I'll wait,” says Trina, “I'm not going back across that road again without checking my stars. It might say I'm gonna get hit by a bus.”

“Not today,” says a new arrival who's swept silently in, as if on skates. “You're safe today, Trina.”

“Tomorrow, Raven. What about tomorrow?” demands Trina of the newcomer, as if she was looking forward to the experience.

“Ah. You'd have to consult me professionally about that,” says Raven while fumbling in her purse for the key to her consulting room at the back of the café.

Raven is not the young woman's real name, but is so apropos of her startling appearance that no one challenges it. When Ruth had placed an ad for the small room in the window six months earlier, there were only two inquirers: the impossibly tall, sleek-bodied, black-haired psychic channel, who appeared from nowhere one suitably sultry morning; and someone equally dark who was exceedingly circumspect about his intended use. Raven got the room partly because she had held Ruth's nigrescent eyes in her gaze and announced, matter-offactly, that as she could see the future, she wouldn't have bothered to apply unless the outcome was assured. It was a logic that Ruth had been unable to refute.

Raven, who may well have been hanged for her beliefs in less enlightened times, set up shop in the back of the café and lived on herbal tea and tofu while she read palms, auras, and fortunes for a pittance. However, her practice grew phenomenally when word leaked out
that, for a more respectable fee, she would lay stark naked, inert, on a black velvet chaise-lounge, while spirits channelled through her. Why Serethusa, her spirit guide, would only speak to her when she was nude was a question no one had ever asked. It was the message, not the medium, that people came to hear; although quite a few—men and women alike—were happy to pay to see the medium.

“You're early ...” starts Cindy, but Raven is impatient.

“Where's Ruth?” she demands. “I've lost my damn key.”

“Don't expect her to give you another ...” complains Cindy, but Ruth is back down, dressed, and cold-shoulders Cindy as she unlocks the office door for the incredibly slender woman.

“There you are. Take no notice... Man trouble.”

“No it ain't. I ain't got a crappy man.”

“That's what I mean, Cindy,” says Ruth. “And I'm not surprised, the way you treat them.”

“Harrumph!” Cindy exclaims, as she marches back to the counter and finds Trina using the phone to wake her kids for school. “You might have asked,” Cindy moans. “Anyone would think you work here.”

In the harsh light of a fluorescent tube, Raven's office is stark and cold, the chaise-lounge sleazy. The young woman hustles to light candles then, turning to Ruth, she stares as if she has sunk into a sudden trance.

“Do you ever buy lottery tickets, Ruth?”

“No. Just the government's way of taxing the stupid and the poor,” she answers, then questions, “Why?”

“Buy one today Ruth ...”

“Ah. I don't think ...”

“I know you're not a believer. Just humour me. What have you got to lose?”

“But, I don't ...”

“Today's your day, Ruth. Everyone has a day.” Raven is earnest as she continues in a sing-song voice—like an ersatz preacher hosting an evangelical television show. “You mustn't waste your chance. The rest of your life hinges on today, Ruth. I came in especially to tell you ... I received a message from my channel. ‘Tell Ruth it's her day.' Serethusa said, as clear as ...”

Cindy barrels in. “Quick. Trina's had an accident and crappy Coral's phoned in sick again. I'm pissed off working ...”

“What d'ye mean, accident?” starts Ruth, but Trina hobbles in with blood streaming down her leg and collapses on the chaise-lounge. “Fine bloody psychic you are,” she moans to Raven as she tries to stem the blood.

“Was it a bus?”

“No. A kid on a blasted bike. I was just going to the 7-Eleven for a paper. . .”

“See, I was right. Told ya you wouldn't get hit by a bus.”

“It's gonna be one of those days again,” muses Ruth as she grabs a handful of tissues and dabs at the blood.

“It will be if you don't get someone to help at lunch,” gripes Cindy as she storms off.

“Remember what I said,” whispers Raven in Ruth's ear. “Today.”

“Yeah, OK. But first I gotta get someone to do lunches. Jordan's going to the hospital ...”

“He'll be fine,” cuts in Raven with a degree of knowingness rare even for her.

“Good. Perhaps you could tell him that. Then he wouldn't need to go.”

“Don't listen to her,” says Trina. “She said I wasn't gonna have an accident.”

“‘Bus,' I said. And I was right ... It wasn't.”

Ruth thinks her day has bottomed out an hour later when she calls in the coffee order and finds herself talking to a credit manager. “There has to be a mistake,” she says, though she knows there is no error; knows that the baker had delivered without quibble—if his cheque hadn't bounced, whose had?

“Where the hell is Jordan when I need him?” mutters Ruth, then sinks with a pang of guilt. Hospital—suspicious streaks of blood in the toilet bowl; more to worry about than an unpaid bill for both of them.

“I need help out here,” calls Cindy, sticking her head into the tiny office. “I haven't had a crappy break yet, and customers are walkin' out.”

“All right.”

“No, it's not all right, Ruth. Mouthy Dave just threw a crappy fit cuz I put sugar in his espresso ...”

“All right—I'll be there,” Ruth yells, then promises that the coffee deliveryman will get cash.

“No cash, no coffee,” says the credit manager, and Ruth knows she's over a barrel.

Raven is locking her office and leaving. It's barely eight-thirty. “Don't forget, Ruth,” she calls over the counter as Ruth is already fogged up with information—was it three cappuccinos, two with sugar one with caramel and a vanilla latté with skim ... or was it ... “Forget what?” she queries testily.

“Your day,” repeats Raven resolutely. “Today is your day. Serethusa said so.”

“I'm quitting right now,” bleats Cindy, tossing a pile of dirty cups in the sink—hoping one or two might break. “I've had enough of this crappy place. Dave just grabbed my fuckin' ass again.”

“Yeah right,” says Ruth to both of them, and puts double caramel in the latte as her head spins.

“I will quit, Ruth,” Cindy carries on, but she snatches the coffees off the counter and heads to a table with a scowl that dares anyone to touch her or complain.

Ruth looks up from the espresso machine with an idea. “What are you doing today, Raven?”

Raven hesitates then grabs an apron off a hook on the side of the fridge. “Oh, all right—just this once. And only because Serethusa says it's your day.”

Ruth smiles. “You must have known I was going to ask. Wouldn't want Serethusa to be wrong, would we?”

“Serethusa is never wrong.”

“I really hope you're right, Raven,” says Ruth, her mind chiefly on her husband.

Cindy is back with another order and a snarl for Raven. “Roped you in now, has she? I hope you know what you're doing.” She drops her voice, though not far enough, “Make sure she pays you cash.”

“I'll pay,” insists Ruth, though she's wondering if the cash register will take the increasing load.

Ruth is right about the hospital. Jordan phones at four to say he's still awaiting test results. “Good luck,” she says, but she is still flagging with the aftermath of lunch and her tone has an acerbic edge. The evening staff are in; two teenaged schoolgirls: Angela—who'll threaten death to anyone who calls her Angie—and Margaret, who has an opposing view and is universally called Marg. They are bubbly and enthusiastic—while Ruth is around -—but will quickly droop until their boyfriends arrive at closing. At ten-to-eleven they'll fly around complaining about how busy they've been, and how they have to get up for school. Then
they'll rush off, half done, to hit the bars and dance clubs 'til three a.m.

The phone rings as five o'clock approaches. Ruth grabs it, hoping it's Jordan; wanting to say, “Sorry—but I'm worried about you, that's all.”

It's Raven with a final reminder. “Oh for Christ's sake—all right,” mutters Ruth, then struggles out of her apron, grabs a dollar from the register, and heads for the convenience store across the road.

Jordan is parking the car as Ruth comes out of the store a few minutes later. He sits staring out of the wind-shield as if he's lost, and Ruth crosses back over the now-quiet road and approaches, wary of scaring him.

“Are you all right?” she asks, bending into the driver's window.

Jordan's hands are frozen to the wheel and his knuckles look close to bursting. “Cancer,” he mouths, dropping a grenade with the pin pulled.

The old Chevrolet sinks under Ruth's weight as she slumps into the passenger seat. They sit like accident victims waiting for the emergency services to show up, but no one calls 911. Theirs is an accident yet to occur, though the path is clearly set. The question, “How long?” remains unasked and unanswered, but holds them locked so powerfully on the road ahead that passing pedestrians stare worriedly.

Ruth breaks the silence eventually, conscious that the burgeoning feelings of loss and grief are trying to overwhelm her. “What did they say?”

“Six months, max,” Jordan replies succinctly, and Ruth crashes.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she blubbers through the sobs. Sorry
I doubted you; sorry I nagged you; sorry it's happening to you.

What about me?
Someone inside her is asking as she tells Jordan, “There must be a mistake—they make
mistakes, right? They're always making mistakes.” She brightens momentarily. “Surely they can treat it—operate or something. They must be able to do something.”

What about me?
is screaming to get out as she waits for Jordan to get his thoughts together.
It's all right for you
, she tells herself as she watches him; waiting for his response.
You'll be dead. You won't have to deal with everything. The bills—all the fucking bills. Not just the bills we can't pay now—more bills—medical bills, the funeral.

This is crazy—your husband is dying and all you worry about is money.

Jordan opens up a little, as if he's coming out of a coma. “Chemotherapy might help. They're gonna try.”

Ruth isn't listening; her mind is spinning out of control.
Insurance—How many times have I told you we should take out life insurance?

How the hell can we pay for insurance when we can't even pay the coffee supplier?

This is crazy—Stop worrying about yourself, bitch. Think of Jordan. What's going through his mind? Look at him; hug him; kiss him. Tell him everything will be all right.

“I don't know what to say,” she says, doing her best.

Brilliant! Is that it? Is that the best you can do?
But something holds her back;
This isn't happening,
insists the voice with a note of anger.
He can't die—he's not even forty. What about the holidays we never had? And kids; as soon as we have enough money—you promised. “Don't worry,” you said. “As soon as we can afford it we'll have more.” And if I can't? “We'll adopt, foster—whatever it takes,” you said.

“Jordan, there has to be something they can do,” she says, finally bringing herself to lay a hand over his in an attempt to thaw him out.

“Chemotherapy and radiotherapy, they said. They gave me some booklets.”

“So—they can cure it?”

Jordan shakes his head almost imperceptibly, but doesn't take his eyes off the road in front of him.

“I want to talk to them,” insists Ruth. “They'll listen to me. They've got to do something. This isn't fair.”

“They'll do their best.”

“Raven,” muses Ruth angrily. “Blasted witch. What does she know?”

Jordan looks at her, confused. “What?”

“Raven said you'd be OK.”

Jordan snorts his derision, then says, “Dave—you know, the beer breath, triple-espresso, telephone engineer?”