The Vanishing Girls by Callie Browning (read this if txt) 📕

wandering outside to join them more than once, but he worried that Clifford would find his actions odd and say something. Finally, on the sixth Friday, fortune smiled on him when at four o’clock, a call came for a collection at the geriatric hospital. He waited until Clifford had driven off the lot and into the evening traffic before he picked up two beers and pushed open the back door. Eileen sat atop the table with her feet resting on the bench and eating biscuits out of a plastic bag when he joined her.

“Want a beer?”

She raised an eyebrow. “One: I’m off the clock and therefore within my rights to cuss, so don’t be alarmed if anything slips. Two: I didn’t know you drank beer.”

Holden had a penchant for fine champagne, well-aged cognacs and even the occasional Irish whiskey if he was feeling particularly rambunctious, but it wasn’t for Eileen to know that. “Whatever gave you that notion?”

She smirked. “Let’s just say that if I was a betting woman, I doubt I’d lose my shirt on that particular wager.”

“Why is that?”

Eileen bit the inside of her lip, but her eyes were alight with mischief, reminiscent of the twinkle in her eyes on the night he’d hired her. “You forgot the opener.”

Holden looked down at the beers and realized with dismay that they were indeed covered with bottle caps.

“You don’t know how to open them without an opener, do you?” She reached over and took the two bottles, flicking the caps against each other so quickly that Holden had no idea that she’d opened one of them until he heard a metallic ping when the cap landed next to him. She took the other beer and a soft carbonated hiss sounded when she prised off the cap with her back teeth before she handed it to him.

“Now you know two ways to open beer bottles.”

Holden grunted. “Not really; still not sure what you did with the first one.”

Eileen broke into a fit of giggles. “I like that you’re honest.”

Holden sipped the beer and smacked his mouth as though he’d swallowed a mouthful of grey mopping water. “A well-aged cognac, this is not.”

Eileen grinned. “Biscuit?”

Hoping that the sweet flavour would help to untie the knots in his tastebuds, Holden reached inside the bag and said in surprise, “But they’re broken.”

“I know. That’s what makes them taste so good.” She looked at him quizzically for a moment before she said, “You’ve never had broken biscuits from the biscuit factory? It’s practically a right of passage for every Bajan.”

Holden studied the biscuit in his palm with the imprint of a tiny chattel house etched in its golden surface. He enjoyed sweet biscuits but usually, when they looked like this, he’d already taken a bite.

“I can’t say I have.” He nibbled the biscuit and his eyebrows shot up. “You’re right… but why does it taste better?”

Eileen smiled. “I have no idea, but why fight it?”

He grinned and sipped his beer again.

She chewed and tilted her head back to catch the last rays of dying sunlight. “I’m kinda glad you came outside today. I saw you watching us from the bathroom and I figured it’s gotta be kinda lonely — not to mention, smelly — in there.”

He averted his eyes. How the hell had she seen him?

“I didn’t say that to embarrass you or anything.”

“And yet, you’ve done just that.”

“Sorry,” she said, sincerity etched on her face. “I’ve realized recently that I’d do well to take a leaf out of your book and think before I speak, but I admit that it’s a work in progress.”

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with how you express yourself; rough honesty is better than a gentle lie. But I’m glad you feel inspired.”

“Yeah… I’m learning a lot from you and Clifford.”

Holden’s face soured. He shook his beer gently and said, “I take it that Clifford’s company is scintillating enough that you spend your evenings here instead of with your…loved ones.”

Eileen shrugged. “I’ve only been here a few weeks and I’ve got some bills to catch up on; I can’t exactly be blowing my money on wild hobbies.”

Holden had to hand it to Eileen; she had responded, but she didn’t answer.

“So do you have any hobbies…maybe some that you like to do with…others?”

“I go to the library on Saturdays and I spend Sundays reading and cleaning.” She looked across the car park toward Buckworth Street. The after-work rush had subsided and now only a handful of vehicles went up and down the road. Eileen dusted her hands on her skirt and handed Holden the biscuits before she descended from her perch on the table. “I’m going to skedaddle now that traffic has eased up.” She smiled as she reached for his empty beer bottle. “I’ll take that. And…it was nice talking to you. I had fun.”

She took both bottles with her to the car, started it and drove off, honking the horn twice as she careened down the road. Eileen had grown more and more perplexing as the days went on. Her afro was as big as her attitude and Holden had never been exposed to antics as quirky as hers. He’d hoped to learn more about her but all he’d been able to gather was that she was thrifty; she’d probably taken the empty bottles to claim the deposits at the bottle depot. But he had to admit that he’d never imagined that he could have so much fun drinking beer and eating broken biscuits.

* * *

THE NEXT DAY was quiet. Clifford and Holden were at a funeral and Eileen was left to lock up since they wouldn’t return until after closing. It was the first time Eileen had experienced such quietude at work. With no incoming calls or filing to do, the solitude soon turned to boredom and Eileen spent the bulk of the afternoon spinning in her chair and staring at the ceiling.

Later in life, Eileen would question if fate intervened when she accidentally spun too quickly,