Becoming Ellen Read online

  Ellen couldn’t help it. “I think we can assume the guy on two knows you’re blind,” she said. But Temerity didn’t answer. She sat down and was smoothing the sheets gently across her knees.

  Rupert unfastened the string, and carried the bell to Temerity. She rang the bell once more. It made a clear, calling sound. Mellifluous, Ellen thought. Then they closed the door and went down the stairs, leaving Temerity running her listening fingers over the music and humming the tune, a half smile of discovery on her face.

  When they passed the second-floor doorway, Ellen could see that it was cracked open, but she said nothing to Rupert until they reached the street. There, they stood uncertainly at the door for a moment, both of them shuffling their feet. Ellen wanted to say thank you, to find the words to express to Rupert how much it meant to her that he had witnessed her outburst of embarrassing emotion with nothing but subtle acceptance, but she had no words, no practice at that, no skill in communicating anything as volatile as emotions.

  So she said, “Come on, I want to show you something.”

  A fleeting, startled glance from Rupert sent a flush to both their faces. “Okay,” he said, and turned quickly toward the street beyond the alley.

  “No,” Ellen said, “this way.” Turning toward the dead end, she walked along the wall, staying close to it. When she came to the grating, she peeked carefully inside.

  The child was there, hunched over his makeshift table with his back to them. She heard his cough, and so did Rupert, who drew back in alarm.

  But Ellen shook her head and put a finger to her lips, gesturing that he should look. Rupert maneuvered his large body until he was up against the wall next to the grating and then leaned carefully down. He squinted as he looked into the dim space, and then, with a quick intake of breath, he straightened up and leaned against the bricks, his eyes wide open in surprise. He looked questioningly at Ellen.

  Ellen put a finger to her lips again, then held up the plastic bag and took a step toward the dumpster. Rupert watched her, confused. Shifting the plastic bag, Ellen reached out and grasped Rupert’s hand in hers. Cello playing had made his fingers calloused and stronger than the rest of his body would suggest. She towed him along to the dumpster, where she let go, releasing them both from the unfamiliar intimacy. Lifting the heavy rubber lid, she gently set the fresh muffins on top of a stack of cardboard.

  They started back up the alley, Ellen sinking her hands deep in her pockets to avoid the awkwardness of any further contact. Just before the grating, she stopped and said loudly, “Too bad we couldn’t eat all those muffins, I hate throwing them away while they’re still warm like that. Oh well. Thanks for helping me carry the trash down.”

  Rupert’s mouth opened, then shut. Ellen gestured that he should speak. He blinked in panic, then a slow smile overran his usual startled expression. “Oh, yeah,” he said with extra volume. “Too bad we’re both on a diet, those muffins were really good.” He winked and patted his large stomach. “Oh well, we have to get to work now. Can I walk you to the bus stop?”

  “That would be great,” Ellen projected. “We’d better hurry.”

  “Okay, let’s go!” Rupert said, and they both made a show of stomping past the grating and on down the alley.

  They rounded the corner and pulled up, waiting. After a moment, Ellen leaned around and looked back down the alley. As she had expected, the grating was angling out. She leaned back quickly and whispered, “Wait a second, and then look.”

  They changed places and Rupert did as he was told, working his back up against the brick at the very edge of the corner, and then easing just one eye around it. Ellen watched his face in profile as he observed the child. She could read it perfectly, so that she knew the moment the boy climbed out, she saw his pathos as he took in the boy’s thinness and the hollow cheeks. She could tell the exact second when the child found the muffins from Rupert’s triumphant smile.

  After a full minute, Rupert leaned back against the wall and looked at Ellen. It was the first time, she realized, that they had looked at each other without their gazes flickering constantly away.

  They didn’t speak for a moment, and then Rupert pushed himself away from the brick and said, “Shouldn’t we call someone?”

  Ellen shook her head so hard it made it spin a little.

  “No. He’s probably run away from something worse than this. I don’t know if you can understand that.”

  But Rupert was already nodding. “Okay, I get it. But he can’t stay there forever.”

  “I know, I just need some time to figure things out. My guess is that if we call, say, the police, they’ll send him back to wherever he was.”

  “But I mean,” Rupert interjected, “if someone is mistreating him, he could call the police, or—”

  He stopped speaking because Ellen was shaking her head. She said softly, “It doesn’t always work that way. You can’t always expect someone to listen.”

  “But what about social workers or . . . I don’t know.”

  “Sometimes there isn’t anyone. Sometimes . . . Usually, telling makes it worse. And he could be hiding from anything. Beatings, or even . . .” Ellen dropped her eyes, remembering some of the worst kinds of abuse she’d seen. Only her disfigurement had saved her from that particular horror, she was sure.

  Thankfully Rupert seemed to understand without her having to put it into words. He puffed out his cheeks and blew the air out slowly.

  “Well, we have to get that boy some medicine.”

  Ellen nodded. “I know,” she said. “But he won’t want to be found out, so . . . how?”

  “What we need,” Rupert said, rubbing a chubby finger along his jaw, “is someone with access to a prescription pad.”

  Ellen could only think of Amanda, and she was pretty sure Amanda would have to report the boy to the authorities.

  And then she thought of someone else, someone in green surgical scrubs. Someone who didn’t care what other people thought.

  12

  Two of the other cleaners, Kiki and Rosa, who were known to Ellen as the Crows, were in full caw when Ellen found herself working the aisle parallel to them later that night. Though she usually tried to avoid listening to their stream of gossip, she perked up when she heard the topic of their conversation.

  “Did you see Thelma’s girlfriend here last night?” Kiki was asking excitedly. “She was crying about something.”

  Through the deep shelves, over rows of plastic one-gallon relish containers and fifty-pound sacks of sugar, Ellen watched Rosa’s face smile deviously.

  So did Kiki. “What?” she demanded. “Trouble in gay heaven?”

  Rosa planted her hands on her hips and frowned up at the much taller Kiki. It made her look even squatter than she was. “Now, be nice. I know it’s not . . . normal, but I like Thelma, and she’s always been nice to you, too.”

  Kiki had to concede that Thelma was a decent person, for a gay. “To each their own, I always say,” Kiki added, a bit late. “But what’s going on? Tell me.”

  “I happened to walk out to the parking lot with Thelma. You were already gone, remember?” Ellen grinned at that. She would have bet a month’s paycheck that Rosa had planned, timed, and executed that exit perfectly to coincide with Thelma’s. “Anyway,” Rosa was saying, “I told her I’d seen her girlfriend and she looked unhappy. I asked if everything was okay.”

  “And she told you?” Kiki looked like she’d tried to swallow something that didn’t quite go down.

  “She most certainly did. I think she needed to talk to somebody. Anyway, it turns out that they can’t have a baby.”

  “Well, of course not. That’s just not possible,” Kiki said with a snort.

  Rosa slapped a hand against her thigh and insisted, “Of course it is. Lots of people have babies in lots of ways these days. Especially women. You can buy sperm, you know!”


  Kiki looked affronted. She flicked a huge box of cornstarch with a rag. “Well, I know that. So what’s the problem?”

  Rosa, looking delightedly scandalized, glanced around and lowered her voice, but not enough that Ellen couldn’t hear her. “Thelma has some kind of blood condition, Rc- or Rh-something, and now they found out that Beth, that’s her friend’s name, can’t carry a baby either. And they’re upset about it.”

  “No.” Kiki clucked and shook her head. “Well, that’s just a shame. Two mamas and no womb at the inn.”

  The two women snickered at the pun. Then looked over their shoulders to make sure that Thelma, or anyone else, hadn’t heard the offensive slight.

  The two women moved on down the aisle, dusting, wiping, and gossiping as they went.

  Ellen found a container of relish leaking from a thin crack. She placed it carefully in the bin for damaged or tampered-with items, wiped up the sticky syrup that had oozed onto the shelf, and finished straightening out her section as she thought this through. So Beth was a doctor, maybe that could be useful, though Ellen didn’t see how. The simple expedient of asking her for help did not even come to Ellen’s mind. She had spent four years here out of sight and out of mind of her coworkers and she had no intention of drawing attention to herself.

  Speaking of which: Ellen had been pleased to see that she had the dock restrooms on her work sheet for tonight. Normally, that would have been bad news, as the dockworkers were habitually disgusting in their bathroom habits, and of all the employees in the vast store, those callous-mouthed men were the most likely to make her work life unbearable if she drew attention. But tonight, it was fortuitous.

  As she reached the end of the row of baking staples, with which Ellen felt a new affinity now that she had actually baked something, she swept a tiny dune of flour from one of the low shelves with a small whisk broom and deposited the white dust into her trash bag, then set out for the docks.

  Careful to time it so that no one else was going in or out, she pushed the cart through the big loading doors that connected the docks to the store floor. Ellen headed to the restrooms on one side of the holding area. There were two—women’s and men’s—but the women’s room was seldom used. Not that there weren’t women who worked on the dock, there were, but not many, and most of them preferred to take the short walk to the ladies’ locker room.

  She started with the women’s room, giving it a quick once-over. It was dusty, and the seldom-used toilets had rust stains that required some harsh-smelling product, which Ellen swirled with a rough brush and then left to soak. She wiped out the sinks and sprayed down all the handles, including the doorknob, with antibacterial cleanser to neutralize the legions of germs. As she was running her mop over the tile floor, she heard the distinct sound of a toilet flushing in the bathroom next door, and then the door opening and closing. She looked up. On what was the shared wall between the two, there was a metal vent, through which it was easy to hear what went on next door. Ellen shuddered. No wonder so few women used this restroom.

  She packed up her cart, checked to make sure the area outside was clear, and scuttled back out onto the dock’s holding area. She waited for a full five minutes for anyone to come out of the men’s room, and when they didn’t, she took her little sawhorse sign that read BATHROOM CLOSED, CLEANING IN PROGRESS, and set it in front of the door. She knocked, then backed rapidly away, ducking behind her cart.

  No one called out or came out. Still, Ellen gave it another full minute. One of the drivers came to the door, saw the sign, and made a detour into the store.

  Finally, Ellen went in, her reluctant movements the result of both her fear of surprising someone and the harsh stinging smell of urine that assaulted her nostrils as she proceeded in.

  She regarded the small bathroom. There were two stalls, three urinals, and two sinks. All of them looked streaked with filth. Cautiously, Ellen took a short tour, checking the stalls and even the paper-towel holder, but she could not readily see anywhere a small cache of illegal contraband could be hidden. Cleaning this room took a good bit more commitment. Pulling the bottle of her most toxic green liquid from the cart, Ellen began by spraying a thick coating around the base of all the toilets and the urinals. Men, she thought, don’t seem to have much aim. This wasn’t something Ellen knew much about, or wanted to know any more about, but she had to wonder if it could really be that hard to hit the target. Next she went to work with the mop, giving the offensive areas a once-over from the handle’s distance before donning her thickest rubber gloves and filling a bucket with steaming water from one of the sinks. Adding a generous dollop of pine-scented soap, she proceeded to scrub down the entire area with a huge sponge, changing the water several times. Then she mopped again, sprayed the mirrors and wiped them clean, letting her eyes glaze so as not to see the lewd comments scratched into them, and then stood back to check her work.

  The room still had a very strong smell, but now it was mostly the harsh bite of bleach and pine, a definite improvement. As she surveyed it, she heard a sudden hiss up and to her left. Ellen dropped into a crouch and spun to look up. On the wall, near the corner, was an automatic scent dispenser. The artificial cherry scent didn’t go far to cover the other odors, but it did its little bit.

  Ellen watched it as she emptied the trash and replaced the plastic bag. In about a minute, a little red light blinked and another small spray released its odorous facade into the bathroom.

  “Hmm,” hummed Ellen. She took the bucket from her cart, turned it upside down, and stood on it. It was precarious, and she expected at any second for it to collapse like an accordion, but it held. Reaching up with a rubber-gloved hand, Ellen tested the cover. It was solid and did not come off easily, but when it did, she saw only a collapsing bag of red liquid inside. The plastic holder was small, about the size of two boxes of kitchen matches stacked together. Not big enough to hold anything but the deodorizer. Ellen was about to give up and climb down when she noticed that a ceiling tile above the sprayer was slightly askew.

  It was out of her reach, so she stepped off the bucket with relief and a sigh of gratitude that it had let her live, and collected a broom. Using the handle, she pushed up on the tile. It moved, shifted, and Ellen could make out a large brown bundle resting just to one side.

  I’ll have to come back with a stepladder, she thought. Then wondered how, if she couldn’t reach it, that Eric could. He was considerably taller than she was, but not tall enough to reach the ceiling. She looked around again, and then she spotted it.

  The trash can was only about three feet high, but it was the steel bucket variety. It would easily hold the weight of a full-grown man, and, she hoped, hers. Ellen went to it and checked the rim. It was dented in several places, as though someone had turned it over and stood on it. She didn’t relish the thought of balancing on that, but try as she might, she couldn’t get the tile back in place using just the broom handle, so she dragged the trash can over, turned it upside down, and studied it.

  It was twice as high as her squared plastic bucket and the base was narrower. Feeling like a performing poodle in a circus, Ellen put one foot on the top, which wasn’t easy, because it was as high as her thigh and she had to maneuver her knee around her stomach. Then she put one hand against the wall and the other on the top of the trash can to counterbalance the weight on her foot and, with a heave, pulled herself up, wobbled dangerously, lurched, corrected, and steadied herself into a teetering but upright position. Leaning on the wall for precious balance, she reached one hand up and pulled out the parcel. It was a large manila envelope, and though she couldn’t open it without risking cracking her skull, the contents certainly felt like the packages of drugs. She replaced the package and slid the tile back into its prefab framework.

  Then she looked down.

  Ellen did not like being up in the air. Ground was where she felt best, and this was definitely more like hovering. Elle
n wasn’t built for hovering, she was built for planting herself in one place and staying there, where gravity was her friend.

  Through the vent came the sound of the sink running in the women’s room. Someone was in there.

  Help, Ellen thought. But of course she didn’t say it, and didn’t really mean it. Carefully, she shifted her weight to one foot in preparation for stepping down, but the trash can shifted and wobbled ominously. She reset the raised foot quickly, distributing her weight evenly again.

  Great, I could be here all night. The floor seemed a long way down, but Ellen could see no option except to jump with both feet.

  The very thought sent a presentiment of pain to Ellen’s warning center. On a good day, her knees ached from carrying her extra poundage and the continuous bending her job required; she wasn’t sure they could take the impact of a three-foot drop. Probably, she thought, they’ll explode.

  Or maybe, Ellen thought desperately, I can lean against the wall and sort of . . . slide down.

  First she had to face the other way. She did this in half-inch increments, the metal trash can lurching slightly with each baby step, but eventually Ellen was able to rotate her back to the wall.

  Thankfully, she made it all the way around without tragedy. Very carefully, she put both of her hands behind her and leaned her weight experimentally against them. So far so good.

  She started to bend her knees, the plan being to get her weight against the wall, then slide down until she was in a sitting position. With some jockeying, she could get onto her butt and swing her legs onto the floor.

  But . . . The best-laid plans often go awry, Ellen had heard Justice say, and though she hadn’t known why, she found out now. She was starting the downward slide when the trash can lost its traction, slid across the still-wet floor, and Ellen’s legs went with it, shooting straight out in front of her as gravity took hold.

  The first thing that hit the linoleum was her bottom, it was well padded, and though it hurt, the friction against the wall had fortunately slowed her just enough to keep from doing any serious damage.