A Hole in the Universe by Mary Mcgarry Morris Page B

stood in the shadows, shocked by the debris piled in the corners of her once-immaculate porch—leaves, papers, plastic cups, fast-food bags, empty cigarette packs.
    The younger cop looked like an infantryman with his combat pants tucked into his boots. He shook his head in disgust as Mrs. Jukas described coming home last week from the doctor to find Feaster stretched out on a lounge chair in her backyard. He had refused to leave.
    “You should have called us.”
    “I did, but you never came!”
    “We told her we’ll keep going by all night,” the older cop told Gordon in a low voice. “But I think she’ll feel better if she knows you’ll be keeping an eye on things, too.”
    Gordon doubted that, but he nodded, then asked what had happened.
    Apparently Mrs. Jukas had told Feaster and his driver to stop having that girl sell drugs in front of her house. They said if she didn’t shut up and go inside, they’d burn her house down. She told them she was going in all right, but to call the police! Which she did, but when they arrived, no one was here.
    “Because it took you twenty-five minutes to get here!” the old woman shouted from her chair. “Twenty-five minutes! Next time I’m taking pictures. And I told them, too. That way I’ll have proof!”
    The older cop rolled his eyes at Gordon. The younger cop was trying to explain that for her own safety she shouldn’t rile these people up. They could be very dangerous. Especially Ronnie Feaster, who lately thought he had free rein in this part of the city.
    From now on, she should stay inside and just let the police handle it.
    “Handle it! You call this handling it?” she said in a tremulous voice. With her arms crossed and hands clasping her shoulders, she looked frail and drained. “What good are you?” she asked wearily. “The minute you’re gone they’ll be back.”
    “Mrs. Jukas!” The older cop sounded almost irritated. “Your neighbor here says he’ll keep an eye on things, so it’s not like you’re going to be alone or anything. Right, Mr. Gordon?”
    “Yes, sir, that’s right. I will. I’ll keep an eye on things,” he said.
    “His name is Loomis.” She stared at the cop.
    “Sorry, thought you said Gordon,” the cop said on his way down the steps.
    “I did. Gordon’s my first name.”
    As the cruiser pulled out, she looked up wanly at Gordon, the devil she’d been left with. She shrank deeper into her lopsided chair with its frayed and dangling nylon strips.
    “Here.” Gordon picked up a McDonald’s bag and tore off a piece. He wrote down his telephone number. “You know, if you’re afraid, or if you just hear something and you want me to take a look.” He held out the paper. “Well, anyway.” He laid it on the very end of her chair arm and took a step back. “It’s good to have. Just in case.”
    Her stricken face belied the certainty that the very last thing on earth she’d do would be to call Gordon Loomis in the middle of the night to come murder her in her own bed.
     
     
    It was the most vivid dream. He was in the Market, naked, stacking an applesauce display. Customers were pushing carts past him, up and down the aisles, but no one seemed to care. Suddenly, the entire pyramid began to shift. He threw out his arms to stop the rolling, tumbling jars, but they kept shattering all around him. He sat up, confused, then leaped out of bed with the alarm of breaking glass and a piercing wail. He opened the window and leaned over the sill.
    “Help! Help me! Please help!” a woman pleaded through the leafy darkness.
    He pulled on pants, then grabbed the Corcopax flashlight and ran outside. Mrs. Jukas clutched her porch railing. “They broke my window!” she cried as he ran up the steps. “I was sound asleep and then the window broke.”
    He said he’d look, but she wouldn’t go inside with him. She stayed by the front door while he checked the three rooms downstairs. None of the windows were broken. Both kitchen doors