A Year Less a Day Read Online Free Page B

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    Trina cuts her off as she drags the animal around the room by its collar, looking for a tether. “It’s all right, Ruth. It’s not mine—it’s a stray.”
    â€œTrina, this is a café!” remonstrates Ruth, but Trina’s determination to rescue the animal makes her deaf, and she quickly fashions a leash out of an electrical extension cord attached to a floor lamp.
    â€œNo, Trina,” screeches Ruth advancing the length of the room with the frying pan. The dog, sensing hostility, takes off with Trina and the lamp in tow. “Stop ... Stop,” yells Trina as she is dragged toward the street, then she braces her feet against the door frame while the electrical cord streams through her grasp.
    â€œLet it go,” screams Ruth, racing to grab the lamp. Too late. The coloured glass lampshade explodes on the floor and the remnants of the lamp fly across the room to slam into Trina’s back.
    â€œOh, shit!” exclaims Ruth.
    â€œDon’t worry, I’ll pay,” shouts Trina heroically, clearly enjoying the tug-of-war with the dog, and now,with the lamp’s standard jammed across the doorway, the cord stops streaming and she begins reining in the reluctant animal.
    â€œDon’t you dare bring him back in here,” barks Ruth as she stomps back to the kitchen, “And you fucking well will pay for the lamp.”
    Ruth is still in the kitchen, bawling into her apron, when Trina returns to the café and starts picking glass shards out of the carpet. “I put him in my husband’s car,” she tells Cindy triumphantly.
    â€œIs he safe on his own?” queries Cindy.
    â€œHe’s found my husband’s lunch,” laughs Trina, “Sushi and a low-fat strawberry yogurt.”
    â€œTrina!” exclaims Cindy, but Trina cuts her off as her face suddenly falls.
    â€œOh, Christ. I’ve left the kids’ guinea pig in the oven.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œTell you later,” yells Trina as she heads for the door and collides with Tom. “Sorry, Tom,” she calls in her wake. “Family crisis—baked guinea pig.”
    Tom shakes his head and laughs to Cindy. “What the hell has she done this time?”
    â€œApart from wrecking ...” starts Cindy as she drops glass fragments into a dustpan.
    â€œHang on,” says Tom, grabbing the morning paper. “Need the little boys’ room first.”
    â€œOh, crap,” calls Cindy. “We’re not even open yet.”
    Ruth’s appetite for a fry up has vanished in the kafuffle, but it is no longer Jordan’s condition that bothers her. One nagging voice has been supplanted by another—a voice of reason.
    â€œYou can’t afford to eat the profits any longer,” shetells herself, and settles for a couple of carrots and a cup of tea while she cooks for the customers.
    By eight-thirty the breakfast rush is winding down and Ruth has laboured upstairs and checked on Jordan four times. He wakes on the final occasion.
    â€œWould you like some breakfast, dear?” Ruth coos.
    Jordan pushes aside the blanket and struggles out of the chair. “What’s the time? I should be cooking.”
    â€œDon’t worry, we’ve coped,” Ruth says, and bursts into tears with the instant realization that she’s going to be coping for the rest of her life. That, short of a miracle, her life is heading for a wreck as fast as her husband’s, but unlike him, she’s the one who’s going to have to deal with the bloody aftermath. “We’d better tell your mother,” Ruth snivels as she reaches for the phone.
    â€œShe’ll say it’s God’s punishment because we don’t go to church anymore,” says Jordan.
    â€œAnd that’s my fault?” shoots back Ruth, knowing well that her mother-in-law will blame her.
    â€œHe always used to go,” she’ll spit, “before he met