Lisa had a knife out.
Put that back, I said.
She curled a smile at me, coy.
NOW, I said, my voice harsh, and she hung it back on the wall.
Ms. Gray is mean, I heard her whisper to Ann. Ann giggled.
Still no Mr. Jones.
I went over to the place where my ax had been and just stood near it, still loving the space it had held, visiting its absence here in the hardware store. Ann and Lisa were back to the pirate game and Lisa was telling Ann she was going to staple her to a shower curtain.
Mr. Jones? I called out, again. Mr. Jones, said Lisa.
I have your 42, said Ann.
I have your 42, echoed Lisa.
There is nothing on earth more annoying than a kid doing echoes.
Stop the echo, I said. I heard a tiny, barely audible Stop the Echo from Lisa. I glared at her and walked to the back door, looked around, but still saw no one.
Well, I guess he’s not here, I said.
I found the girls at the rack of hammers.
Get away from those, I said. You know, you really shouldn’t come into hardware stores, I said.
Ann is a human nail, said Lisa. She needs to be hammered. You brought us here Ms. Gray, she said. Hey, Ann, bend your head.
Lisa lifted a huge hammer off the wall. Ann, not thinking, bent her head. I pulled Lisa aside. What is going on? I hissed.
She wouldn’t look at me. I don’t know, she said. I’m in a bad mood, she said.
I took the hammer out of her hands and stuck it in a pile of pliers.
Is your mom okay? I asked.
She hardened visibly. Get away from me, she said.
I found Ann standing solo by the drills. I’m going to keep the 42, she said. He’s not here. Finders keepers.
Ann, I said, he’ll be here any minute. I don’t know why he isn’t here. Maybe he’s getting a cup of coffee or something. Are your parents healthy? I asked.
Lisa went and stood by the door.
I’m going to count to five hundred by twos, she called out. Great idea, I said, relieved.
And then, unless we are leaving, I’m going to go get hit by a car, Lisa continued. Here I go: two, four, six … Ann’s fingers were gliding up to a drill.
My parents are healthy, she said. My dad said he needs a drill.
That’s good, Ann, I said. But you’ll have to come back.
I want a drill, she said. The owner isn’t even here, that’s his fault that he’s not here. No one would ever know.
No way, I said. Come on. Fifty-two, fifty-four … Okay, how about one nail? she pleaded. Can’t I have one nail?
They were loose in the bin, little tiny T’s. Dark brown-gray. So I can hang up the 42 on my wall? she asked.
But you’re going to be giving the 42 back, I said. Rememher? That is not your P. Remember? Mr. Jones! I called. Are you here?
One hundred and twenty, Lisa said, loud.
Ann kicked her feet around. I don’t know what you’re talking about, she said.
118ihle S‘94 Ann! I said.
Her face soured. Fine, she said, I’ll give it back.
Then you can take one nail with you, I said. But just one.
She spent what felt like an hour picking out the perfect nail, named it Howard, and walked over to the door. Still no sign of Mr. Jones. Lisa was on the verge of finishing up and I hurried Ann toward the exit and Lisa shouted, Five Hundred! but by then I had my hand firmly on her shoulder and she pretended to rev up to run into the street into the cars but I held her back, hard, and said:
Don’t you even DARE, in a really mean voice, and her shoulders sank and she moved closer to me and suddenly became very loving.
We walked through the door, and the sun was a notch lower, and in the park kids were out of school, jumping around the benches, flicking the drinking-fountain water.
I’m supposed to go to the hospital now, said Lisa, taking my hand.
Ann said: I’m supposed to go back to school and get picked up for ballet class.
Want to switch? Lisa asked, as we reapproached the park. Sure, said Ann. Okay.
Lisa’s face lit up. Really? she said. Really?
Ann burst out laughing, total revenge exacted for all the pirate suffering she’d endured in the last hour.
No way, she said. I was only kidding.
After I’d dropped Ann in front of the school and Lisa in the blue pooling reflections of the hospital, I went back to the hardware store to look for Mr. Jones. The door was still wide open, and the room filled with evening, shadows of tools shifting on the walls.
Mr. Jones! I called out. Are you here? Hello? Everything was quiet, still. I went into the back room, piled high with brown boxes and the sawdust-sweet smell of broken cardboard and old apples, but there was no sign of him. Mr. Jones? I said again. I was feeling worried by now, he’d never been gone for this long from the store when it was open, so I walked over to his house, and knocked on his door for a good ten minutes. There was no answer. I needed the feeling of knocking on that fine oak so I stayed there for a while, just working out my whole day on the door, my worries about Ann parents, about Ann taking the 42 from Mr. Jones, about the approaching end Of 50, about a tableful of coughing seven-year- olds, about Lisa’s mother stuck on the sixth floor of the hospital for the rest of her life, about the science teacher’s smile, the way he saved it and didn’t overuse it, and I knocked until it was too cold to stay. I waved at my parents’ house on my walk home. I didn’t go inside.
I-d p
(“D
had my first big success in track as a fifth-grader, and in fifth grade speed is a big deal. I was faster than the fastest boy. And he was fast. On that particular day of sprinting I really felt like I might kick into orbit, thigh up shin back heel high blast forward. During the race, seeing those other kids next to me, ahead of me, behind me, made me want to run faster just to leave them behind, just to race ahead like nobody’s business, and that’s what I did, and I was nothing but tight muscle and intent.
When I won I was the most famous girl of all girls for a while, and the boys started insulting me and I knew that was good news and I ran again and I ran again and I sprinted again and again until it was clear that I wasn’t one — shot lucky. That girl can run, said my gym teacher. I went and stood at her hip. She saw I was there. You can RUN, she said. I felt like I might die with pride for myself and die of humility because I didn’t know how I did it, I just did it, and it made me want to give things to other people and I shared my dessert at lunchtime and when I came home from school I helped my mother lay out her brochure on History of the Highway and I thought secretly who
needs a highway really when we all know I can ran to New York City and back in five seconds.
Excuse me, I have someplace to go.
I ran track in high school for a year and I got it back for a bit, for a second I felt that crack-open of my lungs, releasing new lungs, infant-pure, a new heart, shuttling out from behind the old one, new bones, air shedding the skin off my back, molting and sleek, but my father had faded by then, and it never tasted as good as that one time before when I won and I wanted to win. That weekend, he and I went to the track so I could show my stuff, and he had the stride of a giant but still called me Miss Speedy and one time, once, I almost pulled ahead.
At home, I stood on top of the dinner table. I am growing right this second, I told my mother. She laughed at me. Really, I said.
I think I can feel my bones move.
She poured me a glass of milk. Here, she said.
We both watched the white liquid disappear, from the glass, into me: magic.
Birthday 51 was now a week away.
The nothing birthday. The number of nothing.
Sunday, I grabbed the plant food to give my dad but walked downtown first to check on Mr. Jones.
The hardware store was still wide open, but there was still no sign of him perched on his stool by the cash register, reading.