By David Desjardins
When he got his first look at it, Frank wanted to turn right around and let the tax agents keep the dump. The lawyer had warned him. What little he remembered of his father’s stories about Cousin Leon might have prepared him for this ramshackle storefront in Pawtucket surrounded by hulking three-deckers and a Portuguese social club with pale-green vinyl siding, apparently still operating despite its boarded-up windows. Still, those were architectural gems compared to the squat cinder-block structure before him: a tiny neighborhood grocery store that had been his cousin’s sole source of income for thirty years. The large rectangular windows were clouded with grime and old cigarette ads, and a rusted-out piece of pressed tin above the screen door read, “Leons Grocery.” The only other sign in a neon-orange block script, read “Sorry We’re Closed.”
Yeah, no kidding.
Frank closed the rental car door and leaned on its sun-hot roof. Why had he bothered coming? he asked himself. Like he had time for this nonsense. It had been three months since Jenny sent him packing with an ultimatum: Get it together—keep it together—and just maybe, we’ll try it again: you, me, and the twins. His outburst one evening at dinner—in front of the girls, for Christ’s sake—was the last straw, coming right on top of his epic meltdown at Staples over the inventory debacle, his boss calling security to see him out.
What he really should be doing now is filling out more applications, not wasting cash and time in this filthy corner of northern Rhode Island, trying to summon up a mental image of his elderly cousin, never mind a legitimate reason why a virtual stranger would leave him this hole-in-the-wall and a few hundred bucks in the rinky-dink credit union up the street. If he left now, he could probably be back in New Haven in time to check the job center’s updated listings.
Instead, Frank shook the store keys from the lawyer’s manila envelope and finagled one of them into the door’s scratched-up brass cylinder. Inside, a scatter of unopened mail covered the doormat, and dust lined the tops of cans and shelves along the far wall. Frank turned a container of mushroom pieces and stems in his hand to check the expiration date, shook his head, and put it back. The Bunny Bread loaves showed a sickly green through their cellophane wrappers. A switch on the far wall clicked without effect; apparently, the power was cut sometime after they’d hauled off his cousin’s body and never turned back on. He pressed his hand against the glass front of a refrigerator case; it was warm, and he grimaced at the milk and butter containers inside. He felt like a survivor in some dystopic movie.
Toward the back, he spied the gloom of a dark space, tiny, with a heavy sourness guarding it. He stepped gingerly toward a crack of light that betrayed a drawn window shade, which he opened, illuminating a room that saddened him: a 12 x 9 ft. space, enough for a monk or a prisoner. There was a single twin bed, toaster oven, electric kettle, La-Z-Boy recliner, and an AM-FM radio shaped like a small plastic suitcase. Adjoining this room, an even tinier one held a toilet, sink, and shower. A gloss of animal hair coated nearly every surface, and a pair of silver bowls sat on the floor upon a spread-out sports section. One bowl held a trace of water, the other a desiccated lump of something brown. Was this where they found Cousin Leon?
On a shelf near the radio was a framed black-and-white photo of two boys. Frank recognized the younger of them as his father. The older one—Leon, he surmised—gazed off-camera with a smirk as if he’d just been told to stop whatever he was doing right now.
Stepping back into the store, Frank finally noticed the large display case near the door. Its thick beveled glass smudged with what seemed like hundreds of little fingerprints, and he bent low as a jeweler evaluating a pawned necklace. His eyes moved from Necco Wafers to Hershey’s, from Dum-Dums to Candy Buttons to Fireballs. On the bottom shelf, he spotted the Flying Saucers and nudging himself up onto the slate counter next to the case, he snaked his arm around the back to retrieve one. Its papery surface had always reminded him of the Communion Host at St. Rocco’s. He shook the wafer capsule and heard the rattle of what he and his childhood pals had called the “aliens” inside. Hopping back down, he drummed his fingers on the glass and hummed softly to himself. And before letting the screen door slam behind him, he turned to stare at the case for another long minute.
He called the lawyer the next day. Yes, he said, I do want the place; please follow up with the necessary paperwork. Pay the estate tax, pay yourself, whatever. Oh, and send the documents to me at the store. Yeah, you heard right.
Two days later, Frank called to have a dumpster delivered to the store’s driveway and paid two neighborhood kids $20 each to pitch most of the inventory into it. Once the shelves were bare, he gave them twice that to wash them down and repaint them.
The candy counter’s restoration he kept for himself. He tore up an old T-shirt, misted the surfaces with ammonia, and scoured them till he felt light-headed. He cradled the long, flat cut-glass candy trays in his arms, caressing their sharp angles before scrubbing them clean. He obsessed for hours over the candy display, taking care to vary the label colors of contiguous sweets, as a cartographer does the hues of bordering nations. The black licorice adjoined the tricolor Bazooka Gum, the yellow-and-red Mary Janes flanking the green Mint Julep squares. When he finished, he took a string of Pull-and-Peel for himself, sat on the front steps, and waved at the passing cars, savoring each mouthful. A pony-tailed man in a grey tank top emerged onto the top flight of the social club’s fire escape and lit a cigarette. Frank waved at him too.
He called Jenny that night, feeling he was on a roll. She put the girls on the phone right off, without even a how-are-you. They sounded distracted, and he could hear Scooby-Doo on the TV more clearly than their own one-word replies to his questions. When Jenny got back on the line, he couldn’t help himself.
“Christ, Jen, do they have to constantly watch that crap? The fuck.”
Her silences were always worse than her rebukes. This one was longer than most.
“Frankie, you really want to go there? After everything you—”
Another one. Shorter this time. Frank could hear her deep breath, remembered the marriage counselor prescribing those to both of them.
“Last time you said you were doing better. How long has it been, using the Zoloft?”
“Yeah, well, maybe you should make it four before you call again.”
She hung up.
After another week, Frank had restocked enough of the store to be able to reopen, the front windows washed and stripped of their ancient cigarette decals, the sloping floorboards sanded and lacquered. He kept the sign as it was, although he did hammer out the dents and inserted a painted apostrophe in “Leon’s.”
Business was light the first day, even though he’d rented a sandwich board announcing “Grand Reopening” for the neighborhood boys to take turns lugging around out front. Most customers came and went quickly with their milk or bread or cigarettes, showing little interest in chatting with him. Some looked carefully through the canned goods without buying any. Many of the women came in pairs, speaking a language he did not know. They all counted their change carefully and smiled at him as they left.
He’d set out a pen and a notebook labeled “Suggestions” on a table next to the candy counter, but upon examining it midday, he guessed that many of the customers had mistaken its purpose. The comments included “God bless Mister Leon,” and “He was a good person,” and “Sorry for your loss.”
Late in the afternoon, a woman wearing far too many layers of clothes for the weather pushed open the screen door. Frank guessed her to be about 50. Her makeup was thick, and her hair, frosted and feathery, curled forward to follow her jawline. She looked around the store suspiciously, and her gaze didn’t change any when it fell upon Frank. She was struggling to control a miniature collie that whimpered and tugged frenetically at its leash.
“You the new Mister Leon?” she said.
“I guess you could say that. Name’s Frank.” He held out his hand, but she ignored it.
“Why you?” she said, yanking back sharply on the straining leash. “Why’d he leave you his place?”
“Well, honestly, I can’t say,” he replied, hoisting himself onto a stool he kept near the counter. “He was my cousin—actually, my father’s cousin, so I guess that’s first removed, to be exact. I only met him once, years and years ago. Actually, I was hoping someone here in Pawtucket could tell me. Were you his friend? I’m sorry, what’s your name?”
The woman knit her brows as if he had asked some sort of trick question, and she let the dog tow her toward the back of the store. She stood there, seeming to sniff the air near the back room, and then hung the leash over the refrigerator unit door.
“This is his dog. Goes by the name of Jeff, if that matters. They were going to put him in the pound till I stepped in. Eats like a horse for such a runt, I’ll tell you. Anyway, I’m done with him.”
Frank jumped as if someone had just spilled a drink on him. “Hold on. You can’t leave him here.”
“Yeah? Just watch me.”
The woman took two loaves of bread over to the counter. “Let’s see. Give me a pack of them Salem Lights too.” She pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from her pocket and flattened it against the surface of the counter. “And here, I want this number: five lottery tickets worth.”
When he didn’t move, she sighed. “Listen. . . It’s Frank, right? I’m not taking him back; get that out of your head. And he won’t leave on his own, believe me. So do what you have to do. Just take care of me here, okay? I have places to be.”
Frank stared hard, feeling his face thicken, close to going off on her. Instead, he slow-counted in his head as the doctor said––what he should have done with Jenny. He grabbed a brown paper bag and threw in the items.
“Just a second,” she interrupted. “I almost forgot. Grab a half-gallon for me, will you? The Hillside Farms there?”
He retrieved the milk and began ringing her up, but as his fingers hovered over the keys, she grabbed his hand.
“Mister Leon and me, we had an understanding. So, you don’t have to fuss with that thing.”
She paused, her hand on the grocery bag, ready to leave but expecting his protest. But he was too rattled to respond, and she strolled out, the door’s string of bells jangling after her.
Finally, he shook himself, ran to the door, and barked after her: “Hey, lady.”
She turned. “It’s Sheila, Hon. Don’t worry. We’ll talk some more.”
The dog’s arrival settled one thing for Frank, at least: the question of where to live. For weeks he’d been renting a room in Attleboro, just over the state line, but they didn’t allow pets, so he bought some bedding and started sleeping in the back with Jeff, who seemed to accept the arrangement.