Chapter 5-2
2009 Words
Maxie didn’t usually work on Mondays, except for occasional pop-bys, just to make sure Rajit and Dina hadn’t decided to rob her blind or turn the place into a c***k house. They had both been with her for close to a decade, but you never knew.
This week, however, she figured she’d better arrive before opening, and she was right.
“What the devil is that about?” asked Rajit as soon as he came in. “R.I.P. Carol Walsh? Who is she and what does she have to do with us?”
“Nothing to do with us,” Maxie said. “She died in a car crash Saturday night. Right out in the street there.”
“No.” He ran a hand through his graying hair as he turned back to the window. “Were you here to see it?”
“Spike and I both. Some drunk in a pickup truck.”
“What a shame. A pretty, young girl, too.”
After Dina arrived, Maxie had to go through the whole story again.
When she was done Dina nodded gravely. “Should I clean that up?”
“Clean up what?”
“All that junk on the sidewalk.”
“Not our problem. Okay, I’m gone. Don’t forget the beer delivery.”
The next morning there was a framed photo of Carol Walsh wired to the light pole, facing the store, and a sign that said DON’T DRINK AND DRIVE! Heart-shaped helium balloons, all pink, had been added.
Around three Maxie saw close to a dozen people on the sidewalk. All college students, she thought, but dressed up. Must have come from the funeral. One of them had a guitar and they sang a song she didn’t recognize.
After that a girl came in.
“You can’t be here, hon.”
She blinked, eyes red from tears. “I just want a soda.”
“I can’t sell you anything,” said Maxie. “You’re underage.”
“Not alcohol. Just a soda!”
“Sorry. I don’t make the law.”
The girl was shaking. “What about that truck driver? I’ll bet you’d sell to him!”
Maxie took a breath. “He wasn’t a customer.”
“He could have been. How many drunks have you sold to?”
“I’m sorry about your friend, hon, but you need to leave.”
The girl marched out.
Maxie saw her talking to her friends, glaring back over her shoulder. Now they were all looking at the store, and they didn’t look happy.
Wasn’t even one of them old enough to come in and buy the poor kid a Coke?
Wasn’t even one of them old enough to come in and buy the poor kid a Coke?
It became routine. Customers would ask about the memorial and Maxie would explain.
“What a shame,” they would say. “Such a pretty girl.”
“What’s wrong with people these days?”
“Why does the drunk always walk off without a scratch?”
She just nodded and slipped bottles into bags.
Late on Wednesday afternoon Maxie saw a tall man in a dark suit up front. She did a double take because he stood almost exactly where the Smokey had been and was watching the counter the same way.
When there were no customers he walked over, empty-handed.
“How can I help you?”
He opened his mouth, swallowed, and tried again. “Are you Maxine Lorgan?”
“That’s right.”
“My name is Dennis Walsh.” He waited, expecting her to recognize the name. Then she did.
“Oh my gosh. Was that your daughter?”
He nodded. “The police tell me you, you tried to help her.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”
“They say you risked your life to try to get her out before the car burned.”
Maxie felt embarrassed. “Anybody would’ve done that.”
“No. I don’t think so. Our family is grateful.”
“I’m really sorry for your loss.”
Walsh nodded and then stopped, staring past her. Finally, he spoke: “I don’t—She didn’t say anything?”
Maxie shook her head. “I think it was, you know, instantaneous. She didn’t suffer, for what’s that worth.”
“No.” He nodded again, looking around the store. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in here. Funny, I drive right past on my way to work.”
“Where’s that?” she asked, for something to say.
“The Carlyle Building on Court Street. I’m an architect.”
“Well, drop by anytime.”
Walsh nodded. He looked around once more and left.
Poor lost soul.
Poor lost soul.
The next morning the memorial was bigger. There were two pink teddy bears wedged in the doorway of Lorgan’s Liquors, like bizarre homeless men. That thought made her laugh, even as she moved them out of the way. She propped them against the light pole.
“Hey!”
She turned.
A street-cleaning truck was passing. The driver leaned out the window. “You gotta get that crap out of the street.”
“It’s not my crap.”
“You can still get a ticket for it.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Maxie grabbed a potted plant, a heart-shaped pillow, and the teddy bears and pulled them onto the sidewalk. “Satisfied?”
“Now you’re blocking the pavement.” The driver grinned. “Not my problem. Good luck with the cops, though.”
“Thanks a heap.”
It was five o’clock when she saw more kids outside, leaning against a Saab that was parked in front of the light pole. One of them split off from the pack and came to her door. He was tall, wide, and redheaded, and if he didn’t play football, he was breaking a coach’s heart.
“You can’t come in here,” she said.
“Why did you move the memorial?” His voice was hoarse.
“Read the sign on the pole. The metal sign, I mean. Thursday morning is street cleaning day. They have to be able to reach the curb.”
metal“Oh.” He looked out the window. “She was my sister.”
“I’m sorry.” She walked toward the door, mostly to keep him out. “I’m Maxie.”
“I’m Trevor. Trevor Walsh.”
They shook hands.
“You were there,” he said. “You stopped the fire.”
She nodded.
“Too bad you didn’t let that drunk bastard burn.”
The cops didn’t get around to complaining about the sidewalk, but customers did.
“I understand the sentiment,” said a woman in a Tom Ford suit who purchased top shelf gin and vodka every weekend, regular as clockwork. “But who wants to be thinking about DUI accidents when they’re buying booze? You should ask them to move. It’s got to hurt your business.”
She shrugged. “I suppose it’ll die down on its own.”
Other customers put it differently. “Lot of trash outside to walk through. I couldn’t even park my car near the store.”
“Was she the one who was drunk, Maxie?”
It was Dina who cracked. Dina, who was usually the model of a no-drama middle-aged woman. She called Maxie at home on Monday afternoon, in a panic.
By the time Maxie arrived there were half a dozen people, mostly teens, on the sidewalk, yelling at Rajit who was blocking the doorway and yelling back.
Maxie came in through the rear. Dina was standing behind the counter, arms folded.
“What happened?”
There were tears in her eyes. “It’s my fault. That junk was blocking the doorway. I tripped over it. So, I came out with a trash can and threw most of it away.”
“Hoo-boy.” She took a breath. “Trash in the back? Get some cartons and put anything in them that isn’t too filthy to save. Then bring them up. Oh, and have 911 ready, just in case.”
She stepped outside and tapped Rajit on his skinny, seventy-year-old shoulder. He backed up with a look of gratitude.
“Can I help you folks?”
“You stole Carol’s monument!” said a girl with green braids, tears pouring down.
“Look,” said Maxie in the sweet-reason voice she used mostly on accounts receivable clerks. “If you leave stuff on the street some of it’ll disappear. You know that.”
“I saw her take it!” It was Trevor, the brother.
“Who?” asked Maxie.
“Her. That one.” He was pointing at Dina who stood in the doorway with a wine carton in her arms.
“She was trying to keep stuff from being damaged. See? We saved it for you. Everybody, this is Dina. Say hello, Dina.”
Dina gave a nervous nod. She put the box down of the sidewalk. Two girls dropped to their knees and started through it. “Where’s the scrapbook?” said the girl with the green braids.
“Did you see one, Dina?”
She shook her head.
“Must have gone earlier,” Maxie said. “Listen, we have to keep this sidewalk clear, right? City ordinances. You could get fined.”
“You could,” said Trevor. “That’s all you care about, isn’t it? Money.”
YouA couple of regular customers were coming up the sidewalk. They took one look at the crowd and crossed the street. No doubt heading to Berryman Wines on the next block.
“See?” said the first girl. “All she cares about is that we might be chasing away some of her drunks.”
“Watch your mouth, hon. I don’t sell to the intoxicated.” She waved a hand. “We got your stuff back, okay? Now I’m going in and if you’re still blocking my shop in five minutes, I’m calling the cops.”
She ignored their yells and went inside.
Rajit and Dina looked at her.
She sighed. “That went well.”
Spike wasn’t due until two the next day, but he showed up at noon, a little wild-eyed. “Have you seen it?”
“Seen what?”
He pulled out his phone. “Look!”
The video started with that same picture from the poster. Then the subtitles appeared.
Carol Ann Walsh was 19 when she died.
Carol Ann Walsh was 19 when she died.Killed by a drunk driver.
Killed by a drunk driver.There was footage of the kids gathered on Pace Street.
Carol’s friends protesting in front of the store that sold the drunk the booze.
Carol’s friends protesting in front of the store that sold the drunk the booze.“Like hell,” said Maxie.
The owner admitted to throwing away the memorial set up in Carol’s honor…
The owner admitted to throwing away the memorial set up in Carol’s honor…“I did not.”
“Yeah,” said Spike. “But on the video, they can’t hear what you’re saying. And you brought the box out…”
“This will not stand.”
“You ever hear of the Streisand Effect?” asked Charmaine. She was Maxie’s lawyer, and they were talking on the phone.
“Is that why we get so much snow in the spring?”
“That’s the lake effect, and I don’t think it applies around here. No, doll. The Streisand Effect is named for the Divine Barbra. She got mad when someone put a picture of her house up on the web and sued them for invasion of privacy. Guess what happened.”
“The photographer committed hari-kari?”
“Nope. The picture went viral. Something hardly anyone had noticed was seen by hundreds of thousands of people, all because Babs tried to censor it. You get my point?”
- Writer
