Page 1 of Bear Strength

CHAPTER 1

“I swear, this is the last time you do this to me,” I growl at Dominick, my fingers clutching the steering wheel of the old clunker which barely got us to his school.

He doesn’t even look at me. He doesn’t need to. We both know he’s guilty, but we also know that I don’t have the time to deal with this now. I’m already late as it is. Really fucking late.

He turns to go, his hand on the door already, his backpack hanging loosely on his left shoulder, and I always think how all of his books are just going to come spilling out of it.

“Hey!” I shout a little less angrily this time. “Didn’t you forget something?”

He sighs, facing me again, with that annoyed teenage look of angst. Crap. And, he’s only 11. I thought I had at least a year, hopefully two, before that starts.

“Aren’t you upset?” he snorts.

“Take it as part of your punishment, being nice to your mom in front of your new friends,” I grin, turning my cheek to him.

He sneaks a glance around, to make sure no one is watching, then plants a quick peck on my cheek.

“Sloppy, but it’ll do. Now, get out. I need to get to work,” I add. “If I still have a job, that is.”

He doesn’t show any concern over this. I mean, why would he? Kids generally tend to think money grows on trees. I wait a few seconds for him to cross the street. Then, I roll down the window, and peek out of it.

“Hey, Dom!” I shout as loud as I can. “Love you!”

I can’t see it from here, but I know he’s rolling his eyes at me. That kid is really going to be the death of me, but I can’t think about that right now. I press on the gas pedal, and rush across town.

In about half an hour, maybe a little more, I’m pushing the door open to a small diner. It’s one of those old school places, which seems like some lost remnant from the 1950s. Surprisingly, there are still people out there who actually enjoy this ambiance, with the red tiles, retro posters on the wall and Jerry Lewis rocking from the old, light up jukebox.

I myself don’t have a particular preference for it. It’s a nice enough place. More importantly, it’s a place that was hiring when I needed a job a few months ago, when Dominick and I first moved here. The owner, Bill Warrington, just took one look at me, and he seemed to read right through me.

“You runnin’ from somethin’?” he asked me, as if that’s the most common interview question anyone could get asked.

“What makes you say that?” I replied, all nonchalant.

“No one moves to Swallow Springs unless they got somethin’ to hide.”

“Well, not me,” I lied just like that. Didn’t even blush. Blushing would reveal the truth, and the truth was too dangerous to share. “My husband passed away, and I just couldn’t stay in our old apartment, with all those memories of him around. Plus, it’d be nice for my son to grow up in a small place. Different values, you know?” I rounded up my little monologue, as Old Bill, as others here referred to him, eyed me from behind his thick rimmed glasses.

That was how I got the job, the same job I’m now not so sure I have any longer, because I’m over an hour late and I didn’t have any way of calling in.

“Is Bill in?” I ask Susie, the girl who’s usually working the second shift, and she just nods.

I’m surprised to see her in. She should be arriving after 2. I leave that question unanswered for now, and rush over to Bill’s office, or the slightly larger storage place which he likes to refer to as his office.

When I open the door, he is sitting at his desk, his balding head bowed down. A moment later, and he’s aware of my presence there.

“Bill, I’m so…” I start.

“Sorry?” he asks, and I can just nod to that. “I’m sure you are. But, you should be tellin’ that to Susie as well, because I had to call her to come in hours before her own shift starts, to cover for you.”

“I know, and I’m really -”

“Sorry, yes. This is the second time this happened. Why didn’t you just call to let me know?” he doesn’t sound angry, just trying to understand.

Susie told me his own daughter died in a car accident when she was 21, and he never really got over that. His wife died shortly after, and now it’s just him, running this place on his own. So, he’s always been understanding, even compassionate, as if he’s looking for his daughter in every young woman that crosses his path, trying to help her somehow.

But, how can I tell him that my son hid my car keys because he doesn’t want to go to school and that it took me half an hour to get him to fess up about it? It sounds ridiculous. Also, I don’t have a cell phone. It’s safer that way. So, there was no means of me calling ahead of time to let him know I’d be late.

“I know I screwed up,” I press my lips tightly together. “Please, don’t fire me. Please. I need this job.”

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