The Schwa Was Here

“I’m not getting out of the car,” he told me when we pulled to a stop in the parking lot of Waldbaum’s supermarket.

“If you don’t get out, you’ll never know what happened.”

“Well, I’m getting out,” said Lexie, irritated that I had kept what little I knew from her. “Even if you don’t want to hear, Calvin, I do.”

In the end, he got out with us, and the three of us walked to the supermarket with the grave determination of my mother on double-coupon day.

We passed the checkers, who were complaining about the stock boys; we passed the stock boys, who were making jokes about the checkers; and we pushed our way into the room be­hind the meat counter without anyone noticing or caring that we were there.

Gunther was blasting the meat-cutting room with a steam hose to disinfect the stainless-steel instruments. It was a fright­ening noise to walk in on. A screeching hiss filled the air, which was stifling and humid. When he saw us, he stopped. He didn’t yell at me this time, or make accusations. He didn’t demand that we leave. He just studied us for a moment, the hose now silent in his hand.

“This is him, then? The friend?”

“This is him,” I answered.

“His name is Calvin,” Lexie added.

Gunther took a look at Lexie, opened his mouth as if to ask something stupid like, “This one is blind?,” but thought better of it. He put down his hose and pulled up a few chairs, the chair legs squeaking on the sweating tile floor. We all sat in si­lence, which was somehow worse than the awful hiss.

“You have to understand it was none of my business,” Gunther began. “None of my business at all. This is why I don’t speak sooner. Other people, they talk, talk, talk until words mean noth­ing. There is no truth.” He pointed to his chest. “I keep truth here. Not in other people’s ears. So you know what I say is true.”

The Schwa hung on his every word, clutching the edge of his chair just like Crawley did in the helicopter. Gunther didn’t speak again for a while. Maybe he wanted us to drag it out of him. Maybe he thought it was a game of twenty questions.

“Tell me what happened to my mother,” the Schwa said. It turns out all Gunther was waiting for was the proper invita­tion—and although he claimed that his memory wasn’t what it used to be, it didn’t stop him from remembering things with the detail of a police report.

“The woman—your mother. She would come here all the time. Those were the days that I worked the swing shift usually. Four to midnight. Busy time. Always busy time. People rushing home from work. Di

I looked to the Schwa to see how he would react. He didn’t flinch.

“I do remember that she was not a happy woman,” Gunther continued. “No joy in her eyes, or in her voice. The way she would reach for meat. It was as if just the reaching was a bur­den. As if to lift her arm took all the strength of her soul. I see many people like this, but few as unhappy as her.”

“Does this sound right, Calvin?” Lexie asked.

The Schwa shrugged. “I guess.”

“Go on,” I said. “Tell us about that day.”

“Ya, the day.” Gunther glanced at the door, to make sure no one would come in to disturb us. “The other butcher who worked here during the day—Oscar was his name—he hated his job. He was a third-generation butcher. In three generations the blood can thin. No passion. No love for the work.”

“He couldn’t stand the daily grind,” said Lexie. I snickered, but quickly shut myself up.

“I never trusted him,” Gunther continued. “He was unpre­dictable. How do you say . . . impulsive. He would say such things! He said he would someday slam a cleaver in the man­ager’s desk, and walk out. Or he would threaten to cut the meat into strange, u

“What does this have to do with my mother?” the Schwa asked impatiently.

“Very much to do with your mother,” Gunther said. “Because your mother was there when he finally snapped.” Gunther leaned forward, looking directly at the Schwa. It was like me and Lexie were no longer in the room.

“Actually,” Gunther said, “it was your mother who snapped first. I was right here in the back room when I heard it. This woman crying. Crying like someone had died. Crying like the world had come to an end. I don’t do well with crying women. I stayed back. Oscar was the emotional butcher—he was best with the emotional customers, so I let him talk to her.

“First he talked to her over the counter, trying to calm her down. Then he took her behind the counter and sat her down. I had to take over special orders while they talked. I could hear some of what they said. She felt like she was watching her own life from the outside, as if through a spyglass. So did he. Many times she thought she might end it all. So did he. But she never did ... because more than anything, she was afraid that no one would notice that she was gone.”

I could almost see the blood draining from the Schwa’s face. He was so pale now I thought he might pass out.

“I go back to fill a special order for lamb shanks. It was the Passover, you know. Never enough lamb shanks at the Passover. When I come back, Oscar has taken off his apron, and he hands it to me. ’I’m going,’ he says. ’But Oscar, still you have half an hour of duty,’ I tell him. ’Busiest time. And the Pass­over!’ But he doesn’t care. ’Tell the manager the beef stops here,’ he says. Then he takes your mother’s hand, pulls her out of the chair—maybe that same chair you sit in now. He pulls her up, and now she’s laughing instead of crying, and then they run out the back way, like two cuckoos in love. That’s the last anyone has ever seen of them.”

The Schwa stared at him, slack-jawed.

“There you have it,” Gunther said, crossing his legs in satis­faction. “Do you want me to tell it again?”

The Schwa’s head began to shake, but not in the normal con­trolled way. It kind of moved like one of those bobble-head dolls. “My mother ran away with the butcher?”

“It is more correct to say that he ran away with her . . . but yes, this is what happened.”

His head kept on hobbling. “My mother ran away with the BUTCHER?”

Gunther looked at me, as if I should explain why the Schwa kept repeating the question.

The Schwa was borderline ballistic. “What kind of sick per­son runs off with a butcher, and leaves her five-year-old kid in the frozen-food section?”

“These are questions I ca

“The important thing,” I told him, “is that she didn’t disap­pear.”

“THIS IS WORSE!” he screamed so suddenly it made Gun­ther jump. “THIS IS WAY WORSE! THE BUTCHER?’

He stood up and his chair flew out behind him, hitting a stainless-steel table that rang out like a bell. “I hate her! I hate her guts] I hate her hate her hate her!”

Gunther stood and backed away. “Maybe I go finish clean­ing.” Since emotional customers weren’t his thing, he disap­peared into the meat locker to hide.

Now it wasn’t just the Schwa’s head that was shaking, it was his whole body. His fists were clenched and quivering, turning white as his face turned red.

“She left me there, and I thought ... I thought it was my fault.”