Frank dropped a spoon on the floor while lifting it from the drawer to his cereal bowl on the counter, and Evie jumped out of her chair, her heart racing.
“Dad, are you okay?” She rushed to grab the spoon and hand it to him before he could stoop to reach it.
He straightened, scowling as he took it from her. “I just dropped a spoon.”
Pouting, she clenched her hands.
He said, “I’m not going to drop dead in front of you. You’ll have some warning, trust me.”
Turning away, she pinched the bridge of her nose to stop herself from crying again, then stalked back to the table and her own bowl of cereal.
They’d kill each other before he could die of cancer if they kept this up. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come.”
“No, I’m glad you’re here.”
It was just as well she had to rewrite the entire script for the May issue of Eagle Eyes. It would give her something to do instead of staring at her father, watching for symptoms.
She insisted on clearing the dishes, asking all the while if there was anything else he needed, if there was anything else she could do to help. Did the garbage need to go out? (No.) Did the dog need walking? (Mab had a pen out back and walked herself.) Cleaning? Cooking? Anything?
“Evie, I’ve lived alone for five years. I can take care of myself.”
This left her with her eyes watering, yet again.
He closed his eyes and seemed to be counting to ten. “Why don’t you run to the store? I’m almost out of eggs and bread. I probably need to stock up since there’s two of us.”
She jumped at the chance to do something, anything. And to get out of the house. She hadn’t even been back a day, and she was feeling claustrophobic.
He tried to give her money to pay for the groceries.
“No, I’ll get it.”
“Nonsense. You had to travel all this way, you’re staying here as a guest—take it.”
The starving-artist days when she’d struggled to make ends meet with a part-time data-entry job were still vivid in their memories. He wasn’t used to her being able to pay, much less offering to do so.
“There’s little enough I can do while I’m here—let me buy groceries for you.”
“Evie—”
Take a deep breath, count to ten. Like father, like daughter. “You can buy next time.”
After a moment, he put the bills back into his pocket. “Okay. My ration book is on top of the microwave. At least take that.”
She’d have to make sure to really stock up, so that next time didn’t happen for a while.
Hopes Fort had seen its heyday when her grandparents were teenagers. The sugar plant and steel mill had been in operation then. They closed down after World War II. Work dried up, and most of the agriculture became unprofitable. None of the buildings downtown had been constructed later than about 1960.
Another high school classmate who hadn’t left town was a manager at the Safeway. Evie had caused a mild scandal after graduation when she went to Los Angeles for college. Most people who left town went into the military, or if they went to college at all it was to one of the state universities before moving to the Denver suburbs to raise their 2.5 kids. Everyone was convinced she’d get shot on the L.A. freeways within months. They wanted to know if she’d have to wear a bulletproof vest to go to class.
She traded a few pleasantries with the manager, who asked how Frank was doing. Evie said fine because she didn’t want to explain in any more detail—and more than that, she didn’t want to start crying.
The store was almost empty. Many of the shelves were also empty. Evie piled her cart with what she could, mostly canned staples and dry goods. She pushed
her cart to the only open checkout lane and started unloading. Between her father’s ration coupons and her own, she was able to cover the haul.
A man stepped into place behind her. She felt bad that he’d have to wait while the clerk rang up her cart. He only had a candy bar on the conveyor belt.
He stood too close to her. She inched forward, away from him. And he inched forward, right up to her again. She tried to ignore him.