Irresistible Fiction – Class Blog

THE LIBRARY BOOK

She stopped a few doors up from the library and checked her to-do list. Just the library left.
She laughed to herself as she realised which shop she’d stopped outside.
Why would a British girl of South Asian heritage be interested in a tanning salon?
She moved to the next shop and read the property for sale adverts, her eyes flicking left and right. She spotted her assessors, seemingly engaged in a heated discussion.
Taking a few deep, slow breaths to calm her heart rate, then using her nerves to sharpen her mind and focus, she walked into the library.
Once inside she glanced round, checking the layout and the people. Nothing obvious.
The two old men at one of the tables were playing a game of Snap. The mother reading to her twins looked genuinely sleep-deprived.
The woman in a burkha sat away from everyone, engrossed in a tome, making copious notes.
She headed for the Travel section.
Her younger self would have been in heaven — all those places to visit. Now she had a job to do. Prove her worth, pass the test, and move onward.
Where was the book?
What did it look like?
All she had been given was a title — The Himalayas by Tandem.
Methodically: start with H — not there. Work from A–Z, thorough search.
Still not there? Try Geography.
Same process.
Still not there?
Before pulling the whole place apart, where else could it be? Bicycles… travel from A–B…
Transport.
Look in B… no. Look in T… no. Right. Work through from start to finish.
Getting to the Ls, something caught her eye — a slim book, more of a pamphlet really.
There it was.
Removing her target with the next book, she slowly turned round to lean against the shelves. Her left arm passed across the front of her carpet bag. A hidden pocket opened on the outside of the bag, and The Himalayas by Tandem vanished.
She turned a few pages of the larger book, returned it to its place, smoothed her bag, and walked unhurriedly to the front of the library.
The woman in the burkha was still making notes.
The old men had, it appeared, fallen asleep mid-game. The baby must be asleep as the exhausted woman was reading a newspaper.
Her stomach lurched.
She kept walking.
There, outside, were her assessors. They should be inside assessing.
Hang on… no.
They looked the same, but they didn’t.
What to do?
Right. Do the search again.
She was shocked, but not surprised to see another copy. It joined its fellow in the hidden space.
Now what?
Think.
Deep breath.
Marching over to the librarian’s desk, she demanded, “Where do I find the book The Himalayas by Tandem?”
“I’m not familiar with that title,” the librarian said, already tapping rapidly at the keyboard. “No, it’s not on our local system.”
“Can you check the national database, please?” she asked, only marginally lowering her voice.
The librarian’s fingers whizzed over the keys. Then she stared at her screen, tapped a few more keys and shook her head.
“I’m so sorry, but that book doesn’t exist.”
The old men woke up and resumed ther game of cards.
A woman in a burkha entered the library and went straight into the toilets.
The woman in the burkha who had been sat at the table packed her things into a carrier bag and headed into the toilets.
One of the assessors was talking to their cufflink.
Sneezing, she walked towards the toilets, a tissue pressed to her nose — suggesting a nosebleed.
Minutes later, two figures in burkhas exited and left the library.
A young woman followed shortly after, dressed like a 1950s model about to step into a convertible.
The burkha-clad women, one moving with the waddle of advanced pregnancy, walked in to the tanning salon.
The model stood outside the estate agents for a few moments, studying the properties. Then, nodding, she. Opened the door
THE LIBRARY BOOK

She stopped a few doors up from the library and checked her to-do list. Just the library to go.
She laughed to herself as she realised which shop she’d stopped outside.
Why would a British girl of South Asian heritage be interested in a tanning salon?
She moved to the next shop and read the property for sale adverts, her eyes flicking left and right. She spotted her assessors, seemingly engaged in a heated discussion.
She took a few slow breaths, steadying her heart rate, then stepped into the library, nerves sharpening her focus.
Once inside she glanced round, checking the layout and the people.
Nothing obvious.
The two old men at one of the tables were playing a game of Snap. The mother reading to her twins looked genuinely sleep-deprived.
The woman in a burkha sat away from everyone, engrossed in a tome, making copious notes.
She headed for the Travel section.
Her younger self would have been in heaven — all those places to visit. Now she had a job to do. Prove her worth, pass the test, and move onward.
Where was the book?
What did it look like?
All she had been given was a title — The Himalayas by Tandem.
Methodically: start with H — not there. Work from A–Z, thorough search.
Still not there? Try Geography.
Same process.
Still not there?
Before pulling the whole place apart, where else could it be? Bicycles… go from A to B…
Transport.
Look in B… no. Look in T… no. Right. Work through from start to finish.
Getting to the Ls, something caught her eye — a slim book, more of a pamphlet really.
There it was.
Removing her target and the next book, she turned slowly to lean against the shelves. Her left arm passed across the front of her carpet bag. A hidden pocket opened on the outside of the bag, and The Himalayas by Tandem vanished.
She turned a few pages of the larger book, returned it to its place, smoothed her bag, and walked unhurriedly to the front of the library.
The woman in the burkha was still making notes.
The old men had, it appeared, fallen asleep mid-game. The babies must be asleep – the exhausted woman was reading a newspaper.
Her stomach lurched.
She kept walking.
There, outside, were her assessors. They should be inside assessing.
Hang on… no.
They looked the same, but they didn’t.
What to do?
Do the search again.
She was shocked, but not surprised to see another copy. It joined its fellow in the hidden space.
Now what?
Think.
Deep breath.
Marching over to the librarian’s desk, she demanded, “Where do I find the book The Himalayas by Tandem?”
“I’m not familiar with that title,” the librarian said, already tapping rapidly at the keyboard. “No, it’s not on our local system.”
“Can you check the national database, please?” she asked, only marginally lowering her voice.
The librarian’s fingers whizzed over the keys. Then she stared at her screen, tapped a few more keys and shook her head.
“I’m so sorry, but that book doesn’t exist.”
The old men woke up and resumed their game of cards.
A woman in a burkha entered the library and went straight into the toilets.
The woman in the burkha who had been sat at the table packed her things into a carrier bag and headed into the toilets.
One of the assessors was talking to their cufflink.
Sneezing, she walked towards the toilets, a tissue pressed to her nose — the suggestion of a nosebleed.
Minutes later, two figures in burkhas exited and left the library.
A young woman followed shortly after, dressed like a 1950s model about to step into a convertible.
The burkha-clad women, one moving with the waddle of advanced pregnancy, walked into the tanning salon.
The model stood outside the estate agents for a few moments, studying the properties. Then, nodding once, she opened the door.

RUMBLE FISH 

We were running towards each other through a field of daisies that seemed to wink at us as we drew closer. The sky above us was an intense cerulean blue with wisps of thin, almost transparent clouds. I saw you getting nearer to me, the curl of your forelock bouncing on your forehead as your muscled but lean body ran towards me. Your dimpled face as you smiled at me, your understanding hazel eyes full of love…

It always went that way, the daydream. I’d nurtured it ever since you were first hired at our firm. Hatch had called all of us into the boardroom so he could introduce you to us all. All of us heading towards the room that was usually locked, we were grateful for the break in our tedious and never ending tax work. 

And surprise, surprise, Hatch had arranged for us coffee and doughnuts (I, myself, took three) and after we all (20 of us) took our seats at the huge boardroom table, Hatch excused himself for a moment and then came back, all smiles. He was followed by you and I momentarily forgot the cream filled doughnut I was enjoying to look at the man of my dreams.

Hatch cleared his throat and then told us, “I’d like to introduce to all of you a brilliant lawyer who has just passed the bar with flying colors. He is my son, Warner Harding Hatch.” He turned towards you and gave you an uncharacteristic hug. Then he turned back to us and continued, “And he will need the help of ALL of you secretaries.”

I swallowed the rest of my cream filled doughnut, swearing to myself that you could depend on me. 

Hatch then gave you the floor and I swore I’d never heard a voice quite like yours. Like the lower keys of a piano playing a seductive melody. As you spoke about law school and your plans of what you’d like to accomplish here in the office, I felt like I was entering the fourth dimension. The two extra doughnuts on the paper plate in front of me were momentarily forgotten.

Since that day, I put everything I had into typing up your plethora of documents, forms and notices, filing away your court pleadings, motions, subpoenas, contracts, wills, and client correspondence, screening your calls. The other secretaries were doing the same things, I knew, but I liked to think I did them better. I did them the way you deserved to have them done.

You usually stayed late, like your father, but my shyness kept me from approaching you before we all left, like the other slender better looking secretaries were doing. 

Lunchtime at the firm’s cafeteria, we secretaries sat at a long table with only a few of us eating heartily (me included). All of them were gushing about how perfect you were, about how perfect your body was, about the dreaminess of your face, the lush hair, the cute ears. I would sit there taking solace in the ravioli or linguine I was eating, trying to drown out what they were saying with my daydream about you.

Since the firm was hosting its annual Christmas party at the Raddison Hotel, as always, our next lunches together in the cafeteria were all about what the secretaries would be wearing. Many of them were eating only celery sticks in order to slim down (as if they needed to) for the event. Comments like, “Do you think I should wear that black slinky dress?” or “The blue satin?” or “What about my silver mega-high stilettos?” 

As for me, being pudgy at my best and overweight at my worst, I’d already decided on a loose tunic and expandable stretch pants in darker colors. My mother had sewn them for me and she insisted that they’d be perfect for the party. She’d even lent me a set of silver (stainless steel) earrings and a necklace and I have to say that I looked better than usual wearing those things.

Hatch gave us the day off to prep ourselves for the Christmas party. Myself, I had nothing to prep so I spent my time that day with my mother baking Christmas cookies to give to our neighbors. I actually enjoyed doing that; my mother put on Christmas music while we baked and talked and made us mulled cider to sip while we were baking. 

When 7:00 rolled around, I told her, “Time for me to get ready, Mom!” and I bounded upstairs to take a shower, fix my hair and get dressed.

As I was finishing up, my mother knocked on my door and opened it. On seeing me all decked out, she said, “Regina, you are the most beautiful woman in the world!” 

As I blushed, she came near me and with a bottle of her favorite perfume, spraying some behind my ears, under my neck and inside my wrists. “There!” she announced. “Now you’re perfect!”

She gave me one more hug before I dashed downstairs to the waiting taxi.

On the 20 minute trip to the Radisson, I sank back in my favorite daydream, You and me running towards each other but this time, in a field of sunflowers with willow trees in bloom. Various mockingbirds were chirping from them, approving what they saw us doing. 

As the taxi driver pulled up to the hotel, I donned the fur jacket my mother had lent me and paid the driver. The downstairs lights of the Radisson were blazing and made it easy for me to see where I was going on my way to the front door.

A concierge greeted me, learning I was going to the Christmas party bash after I gave him my ticket. He very kindly led me to an elevator and accompanied me to the fifth floor.

The whole floor had been converted to a wide party room with tables upon tables of delicacies, an open bar (or maybe two) and a ton of employees from five different law firms in our city. There were also displays of huge aquariums with gorgeous fish swimming around and several pieces of artwork hung on the walls. I’m always amazed each year I come here, but this time, I was truly flabbergasted. Holding my purse, I stopped in front of an aquarium and tried identifying the names of the several well fed fish swimming around. 

I must have stood there agog for a while when I sensed someone at my side. It was you. You asked me, “You like fish, too?”

I turned towards you, my mouth remaining open. It was the one and only you. And before I could close my mouth, you handed me a glass of bubbly, which I accepted. 

I was surprised at my calmness as I answered you, “Yes, in fact, I love fish. To me, they’re beautiful no matter what kind they are.”

You smiled at me and nodded, “My feelings exactly. I actually have an aquarium at home.”

“What kinds of fish does it have?” I asked you.

“Rumble fish. The gold fish I used to like got old,” you said, smiling at me.

Feeling comfortable, I took a sip of the champagne (surprisingly good) and said, “We only have a small aquarium with gold fish.”

You stated, “That’s how I started out. Maybe someday you’ll graduate.”

I laughed and said, “With a little luck!”

You took a step back and looked at me fully. Then you said, “Regina, right?”

I nodded.

You then drew closer to me and said, “Regina, I have to tell you that all the documents you’ve prepared and typed up for me have been just what I needed. I want to thank you!”

We were then interrupted by an announcement that dinner was ready. You looked at me and said, “I have to sit next to my father, Regina, but I’d really like to talk more later. You’ll be here, right?”

I told you I would. 

We made our way together towards the lavish tables at which quite a few people were already sitting. I was surprised when you grabbed my hand and squeezed it before you headed to your father’s table. I found an empty seat at the table where the secretaries of our firm were now seated and I sat down with a smile on my face. 

While we were being served by white coated waiters, the whole table turned towards me.

“What were you guys talking about?” the nearest one asked me. Then the whole group followed with questions like, “What’s he like?” and, “Was he really holding your hand?”

I knew they were all wondering why Warner Hatch chose to spend even a second of his time with someone as dowdy as me. 

I simply said, “We talked about fish. That’s all.” Then I started eating the lobster bisque in front of me.

The secretaries now talked among themselves, some of them drunker than the others. I settled on the soup which was delicious. 

At the end of the dinner, several lawyers (some drunker than others) stood up to make announcements and jokes and Merry Christmases, like always. Our plates were taken away and then we were served slices of Yule logs and coffee. 

A band started playing traditional Christmas music and several people got up to dance. I decided to just enjoy what I was looking at. A few of the secretaries had junior lawyers or paralegals asking them   to shake a leg, leaving our table half empty. After a while, I decided to go look at the fish again. 

Watching them swim around was calming. Their aquariums were huge. They wove around plastic sea plants and seaweed and various aquarium trinkets, flashing their fins and colored tails that belied their blank stares. I suddenly remembered the first (and only) aquarium my mother had bought for us, maybe on my birthday. How excited I was! I’d spend hours following the various goldfish we’d put in them, wondering what they were thinking and feeling. Then I found myself wondering what rumble fish looked like.

“You can close your mouth now, Regina.” It was you. I shut my mouth and gave you a smile. Then I said, “I was just wondering what rumble fish look like.”

“I should show you someday.” You pointed at the aquarium and told me, “These here are clownfish.”

I ventured, “I love their colors. Freshwater?”

“Sadly, no,” you said. “Saltwater only, because it has more oxygen. If you put a clownfish in fresh water, its organs will die.”

“Well, there goes my hopes to have any clownfish in my aquarium,” I sighed.

You chuckled and added, “Rumble fish, however, are freshwater fish.”

“Really? And do you know if they can live in the same tank with goldfish?”

“Interesting you should ask, Regina. The answer is no. Goldfish  prefer colder water and they produce a lot more waste. Rumble fish like warmer water. They prefer cleaner water.”

We went on talking about fish (!) for quite a while. A few partygoers started leaving around midnight, including the majority of our firm’s secretaries who flung us jealous looks as they made their exits, a few drunkenly so.

We then both started talking about our families and schooling until Hatch came up to us, observing, “Hiding out with the clownfish, I see.”

You quipped, “It’s the only place to be, Dad.”

Hatch used his hand to ruffle your hair and, leaving, said, “Don’t stay too late, you two. They’re closing up.”

I then said, “You know, I, have to get going, too.”

We were now alone with the aquariums and the lights above us were flicking off. Then it was dark except for the aquarium lights. 

You started stammering, “Well…it’s been a…pleasure talking with you, Regina. I…hope we can talk again.”

Before I could answer, you put your arm around me and gave me a delicious kiss. At first I was surprised but then, I kissed you back.

A voice called out, “Fifth floor is closing!”

Hand in hand, we made it through the nearest door. Soon we were at the elevators and the one we took down opened immediately. The ride down wasn’t too brief for us to kiss each other a few more times. 

You then walked me to a waiting taxi and hugged and kissed me before I got inside.

As the taxi drove me home, I realized I liked you more than who you were in my fictitious daydreams. I felt a certain centeredness, as if the way I was was just fine, perfect even. 

And back at work the following Monday, that centered feeling remained with me. As I rode the elevator up to the office with a few fellow secretaries, the feeling didn’t diminish.

Once in the office, I headed toward the kitchen for my usual cup of coffee and greeted a few secretaries on the way to my desk. 

And something was on it. Something alive. Swimming around in a very small glass fishbowl with strands of seaweed to wend itself between. Something purple.

A rumble fish. 

THE PERP

On Friday evenings. I always walk to the pizza joint a good mile from our house. It’s become kind of a reward for my mother and me, after both of us working the whole week and eating dinner at home. Besides, it gives me a chance to get out and move my limbs and enjoy the goings on in the city where we live. 

That Friday night, as I was leaving, I told my mother no as she tried to press some money into my hand. I earn far more than she does as the church’s secretary and besides, I like the chance to get out. 

Tonight was different, I felt. I chose a different route than the one I normally take and it led me to streets with houses I hadn’t seen before and businesses and people. I kept my wits about me and zipped up my jacket as the temperature was going down. Passing by various houses, I saw people coming home from work, mothers setting tables, mom and pop businesses still open with various patrons buying groceries and whatnot. 

As I was entering the pizza joint, I was in a good mood for no good reason. I’m a 30 year old single man who lives with his mother, the kind of person who should be ashamed of himself. What’s more, I’ve never even had a girlfriend. But the shame of all that started to wane about a year ago and nowadays I was realizing I was just where I wanted to be.

The warmth of the pizza joint made me smile and, after a short wait, I was carrying out my mother’s and my favorite: a Chicago deep-dish, medium sized. 

Balancing the flat box on the palm of my left hand, I enjoyed its warmth as I made my way home, deciding to head back on my normal route.

I knew the way blindfolded and I chose to watch the stars that had come out. I felt good about that and good about myself. 

I was just about home when I felt a large arm grab me around the waist in the darkness and the pizza flew to the ground. My heart picked up as I then felt what I assumed was a knife against my throat. Despite my fear, I knew what was happening.

I’m an avid reader and my favorite books are detective novels and true crime. I’ve read a lot about how perpetrators capture their victims. And how some of the victims manage to get away. That fascinates me. So while this man had me by the waist and had the tip of his knife embedding itself in the flesh of my neck, I felt ready. 

I could feel his sour breath breathing behind my head as he told me, “Your wallet and your keys, dude.”

I could tell, even in the darkness, that the perp was a twenty-something, probably a drug addict. The knife he held at my throat wasn’t hurting me any and I was surprised that I wasn’t freaking out. I then felt the arm around my waist loosen some. I knew enough not to turn my head to get a glimpse of the perp because it might make him drive the knife deeper into the front of my neck. Instead, I told him calmly, “Of course.” 

I slowly loosened my arm from his hold on me, making like I was going for my pocket. I felt the pressure of the knife lessening now. 

One book I’d read a while ago had a crazed man from the 60’s high on some kind of uppers who grabbed a younger woman on her way to her car after work. He had sprung out somewhere in the parking lot where she’d parked her Mercedes and she was wearing ridiculously high heels. The old guy grabbed her from behind and, as I remember, he had a knife at her throat, just like me. She grabbed the hand holding the knife, spun around and kicked him in the crotch with the point of her high heel. He fell down bawling, both hands over his severely damaged private parts. The knife had been thrown and the woman had picked it up.

What impressed me about that scene was the calmness of the young woman.

And so I calmly reached my hand into my front pocket and pulled out my keys. It’s funny; I usually keep my keys in the other pocket where the perp’s arm had me pinned. I flashed on how lucky I was. 

With a firm grip on my keys, I whirled around and keyed the perp in his eyes. He stepped back and then fell, yelling, “Motha fu…!” I then saw the knife on the ground and I calmly went over and picked it up. 

Then I heard my mother. “Son?” she screamed. She’d opened the door when she heard the noise we were making. 

She came up to me, babbling, “Sonny! Are you alright?”

We both glanced over at the perp on the ground, blood flowing out of both eyes as he was wailing. 

Someone had called the cops and after they pulled up to us in their patrol car, they got out quickly, guns drawn.

I filled them in as best I could. In the background, I saw one of the cops handcuffing the perp who was now standing. Both his eyes were gouged and blood was streaming out of them. I felt momentarily proud of myself. The cops put him in the caged back seat and I could hear him wailing through the closed patrol car.

Neighbors who I barely knew started surrounding my mother and me after the cops and perp had left. They’d turned on their porch lights and I could recognize a few I’d seen before on the street.

One of them told me, “You’re bleeding on your neck!”

My mother put some Kleenex she always has with her on my wound and said, “Let’s get you home, Sonny.”

As we headed back to our house, I noticed the pizza box I’d let fall from my hand, now on the ground. The box hadn’t opened, so I picked it up.

My mother dressed the cut on my neck after bathing it in alcohol and putting Neosporin on it. 

And we heated up the Chicago Deep Dish in the microwave and had ourselves a great dinner.

THE AMERICAN 

Those damn huastecos* are always, always late. They show up only if they have a mind to. The ones the American has hired have shown up sometimes hours later than the time agreed upon, all without a trace of guilt on their faces. It must be a cultural thing, he thinks for the umpteenth time.

He looks over at his wife of forty years, still asleep in this heat. She has the sheets and light blankets thrown off her sweating body but the constant heat doesn’t seem to bother her like it does him. He sighs and moves toward the kitchen to make coffee. He’ll need some before he leaves for the appointment which might determine their lives down here.

Before the American leaves, he checks on his wife one more time. Still sleeping. But she’ll know where he has gone. He leaves the bedroom door open to give her more air and also turns on the fan. That’ll put her in a good mood.

His appointment this morning is with the only bilingual lawyer he could find in this town. The lawyer had told him to meet him in his office so he could determine due diligence on the property and see if any permits or trusts will be needed. 

The property the American and his wife were now living on had recently been put for sale by the owner whom they had never met. One morning they both noticed a professional looking sign posted on a stake sunk down partially in their yard. It clearly stated: EN VENTA*. After his wife had paged through her English-Spanish dictionary to be sure of the meaning of the phrase, they had decided to buy the property, the house, the barn/garage and the surrounding barbed wire fences. 

They’d begun renting the house five years earlier and had found living in Veracruz a whole lot cheaper than living in the states and even cheaper than living in Baja California, where they’d first retired. They’d had to get used to a lot of differences here, yes, but overall, living in this eastern state of Mexico had been pleasant, different, had given them something different to look forward to each day. 

The American noses his scratched Ford Bronco 2000 into the space on the street left open a few doors down from the lawyer’s office, located between a farmacia* and a stand that sells tacos and empanadas*. He opens the Bronco’s door into a wave of humid heat that instantly makes him sweat, something he’s still trying to get used to. 

The uneven sidewalk is dappled in shadow, however, with its various  cedar and guayaba trees. He finds the lawyer’s door locked and knocks on it repeatedly. He checks his watch. He knocks again. Then he gives up and wanders into the farmacia. As always, there, the patrons and the workers look up at him, the only white man in their midst. They smile their metallic smiles at him and give him deference. He thinks it’s because he’s so tall. At 6’3”, he towers above all of them in here, really all of them in this town. 

He spends a few minutes there eyeing the items that have been relabeled in Spanish for sale and wonders if the lawyer has shown up yet.

Then, a very old and wrinkled Mexican woman tries to clutch his hand. Wearing a faded dress, she is standing right in front of him, barely reaching his belt line. He sees her crooked fingers trying to reach his hand and, as he glances around, he sees several huastecos behind her, staring at him. He faces the old woman and says, “Sí?”

He has no hope of understanding the stream of words coming out of her mouth. After an uncomfortable moment of silence, a young black haired man says hesitantly, “She want mohney, señor.”

He is used to this. He keeps 200 pesos in his front shirt pocket for these kinds of occurrences. He digs down and produces the 200 peso bill, green in color, and hands it to the old woman. She takes it and gives him a toothless smile, saying, “Grathiath, theñor, grathiath!”

He’s afraid now that he’ll be late and tries to extricate himself from the bystanders who now are reaching for him to give them money too.

Their hands are now all over him and the front door looks so far away. This brood of needy humanity is blocking his exit. He looks up at the cashier who is laughing at his predicament. No help there.

He finally manages to inch his way to the door by roughly disentangling himself from all those hands.

“You are late,” the lawyer tells him as he enters the office 10 minutes later and sits down. 

Refusing to feel chastised, the American tells the man, “I knocked on your door promptly at 8:00, but you weren’t here. As I remember, we agreed upon 8:00 AM.”

The lawyer, failing to understand all of his client’s rapid-fire English, covers up his embarrassment by looking down at some sort of document on his desk, pretending to review it. When he lifts his head, he manages to say, “I have the owner with me when we come. But you not here. So he leave.”

The American, now getting angry, says, “I was here when you told me to be here.” He repeats his words slowly. The lawyer smiles, understanding. Then he picks up his cellphone. In a few seconds, he’s speaking in Spanish. To the American, he sounds fawning, and he can hear an angry voice on the line.

When the lawyer hangs up, the American looks up at him. “Well?” he says.

The lawyer sighs. And sits down. He finally says, “The owner is busy man.”

“Well, can’t he come to your office later? I’d like to get this finished.” The American’s annoyance is growing.

The lawyer, finding no document to stare down at this time, shows real embarrassment. 

The American replays his lawyer’s words to himself on his way home in the Bronco. From what he could understand, the owner of the property they want to buy is also the lawyer’s boss. And is also the lawyer’s grandfather. This grandfather is a very busy man, it seems. The lawyer had suggested they meet up with his grandfather tomorrow at one of his worksites. The American had told him, “Just tell me where and what time.”

They’d promised to keep in touch.

The American relays all this to his wife when he gets home. She’s prepared a chicken salad with avocados, salsa and tortilla chips and a bottle of chilled white wine for them. They sit on the shaded porch to escape the heat and he’s brought out the floor fan to help cool them off. 

She comments, “Sweetheart, it’s their rules, not ours. We have to just play along and do our best not to offend anyone down here.” She went on to tell him that she’d signed them up for beginning Spanish classes. “I mimed to the woman at Super Alan that we needed to learn more Spanish and she told me she’s available to teach us after she gets off work.”

The American nods, concentrating on the EN VENTA sign in their yard. He is clearly not enthused about learning more Spanish, but he realizes he needs to know more in order to negotiate down here. He then puts his hand on his wife’s and says, “Thank you, hon.”

The lawyer calls later that night.

The next day, the American and his wife climb into the Ford Bronco at 7:30 AM. They are supposed to meet the lawyer and his grandfather at a cement factory just outside of town. Their appointment is at 8:30 AM and they want to make sure they’re on time.

The cement factory appears to be closed at 8:00 AM when they arrive. They get out of the Bronco and walk to a huge building that has four roll down doors padlocked to the cement floor. There are no cars in the makeshift parking lot. They are the only ones there. 

The American snoops around the building for another door but finds nothing. Just cement dust and several empty beer cans thrown against the wall. The wife comes up to him, having obvious problems walking the uneven terrain in her high heels. He tells her, “This is the place he told me. I guess the only thing we can do is wait.”

He guides her back to the Bronco and they get inside.

Twenty minutes later, he sees a van pulling up far down the dirt road and his hope rises. He nudges his wife’s arm. 

As the van gets closer, he can see four people crammed into the front seat. The vehicle is moving slowly and his wife remarks, “Jesus! There must be twenty people packed in the back seats!” No wonder the van is moving so slowly, he thinks.

The vehicle comes to a stop in front of the cement factory and the American counts 25 young huastecos getting out. One of them takes his time opening the padlocks and a bunch more raise the rolling doors where metal sticks have been left on the floor inside. The sticks are then used to raise the doors fully.

Feeling timid now, the American approaches one of them and only says the lawyer’s name. Loudly. They all stop. There is discussion between them and he hears the door of the Bronco slam. His wife comes up to him with difficulty and sees the huastecos talking among themselves. She says to them the lawyer’s name. 

Suddenly they all smile and nod their heads. One of them says graciously, “He…late. He…late…always.”

The rest of them laugh.

His wife laughs with them. Then she hobbles into the factory with them as they go inside, one of them grabbing her arm.

The American watches them leave, flabbergasted. How is it that they seem scared of him but they get along well with his wife? He shrugs his shoulders and follows them inside.

The factory is utterly packed with tools, bags of cement, cans of paint, tubes of piping, stacks of gutters, weed whackers, lawn mowers, Coke machines, racks of bags of potato chips and cookies. He looks at all this, momentarily distracted from why he’s here in the first place.

The huastecos have now made his wife comfortable in a folding chair and have given her a cup of coffee. And she has taken it upon herself to point at the different items in the factory and telling those still with her how to say what they’re called in English. They seem delighted.

The American now dares to step out of character and walks up to where they are. One of the huastecos says the name of a shovel, “Pala.”

He repeats as badly as he can, “Pay-la!”

They all laugh. And suddenly, the American feels better. They go on like that until clients start coming in, usually with wives and kids in tow and making the factory seem busier than it actually is. He finds another folding chair and sits down next to his wife. They spend their time observing the huastecos.

Noontime approaches and the American and his wife, having eaten no breakfast, are feeling hunger pangs. He gets up on a hunch to see if someone might be selling tacos outside. He finds an old woman dressed in an embroidered dress that reaches her sandals standing behind a stand made of plastic cartons. There’s also a grill set up and burning on top of which pans are heating up empanadas. 

He nears her, his empty stomach leading him, and he smiles at her, saying, “Cuatro, por favor.”

She gives him a metallic smile and says, “Por supuesto, señor!”

He watches her put the empanadas on two styrofoam plates and she adds chopped onions and tomatoes and tiny bags of salsa. On the sides of each plate she adds rice and black beans. She then tells him, “Cincuenta pesos, señor.”

He pays her, takes the plates in both hands and says, “Muchas gracias, señora.”

“Que le vaya bien, señor,” she tells him and he keeps running her phrase in his mind on his way back to his wife.

They are enjoying the food in their folding chairs, with the American saying to the huastecos who are leaving, “Que le vaya bien!” and each of them look pleased.

“Where’d you pick that up, hon?” his wife asks him.

“That’s what the lady who sold me our lunch said to me,” he says. She smiles. And smiles more as he keeps repeating the phrase to the people who are leaving.

The American, inspired now, says to his wife that he’s going to look around at what the factory is selling. “We might just need something,” he says.

She nods. “It’s a good chance to practice your Spanish, too.”

He moseys over to the weed wackers and starts fingering one. Then he lifts it out and begins studying it. A worker sidles up to him and says, “¿Usted sabe cómo prender la desbrozadora?

The American straightens up and repeats, “Desbrozadora*, desbrozadora.”

The worker smiles at him and then takes the weed wacker out of its box. He indicates a thick plastic loop on its side and mimes pulling it. He also points at a plastic container and says, “Gasolina*.”

The American then says, “Sí.” And the worker smiles, puts the device back in its box and motions the American to follow him. 

At the crowded counter, the worker deftly lifts the weed wacker above his head with one arm and guides the American to the front. The American now knows that the plethora of people waiting there are family members of the huastecos who want to purchase something. He throws a glance back at his wife, still seated in the folding chair. She smiles at him and nods. Then she speaks to someone coming in.

The worker quickly rings the American’s purchase up and the American pulls out a debit card. The worker’s face falls when he sees the card is not Mexican. He says, “Lo siento, solo efectivo*!señor.”

Those customers at the counter are now staring at what’s going on with this tall gringo. They are amused.

“Efectivo*,” the American says. “Efectivo,” he repeats as he pulls out several 500 peso bills. The customers at his side are amused and he feels them cheering him on when they tell him, “Efectivo, efectivo, efectivo!”

Smiling now, he keeps repeating the word as he hands the worker the bills. The customers are now patting the American on the back, looking hungrily at the bills. 

The purchase completed, he lifts the weed wacker above his head and makes his way through the crowd to where his wife is sitting. She is still greeting and saying “Que les vaya bien*,” to the customers coming and going. He sits down next to her with his purchase between his legs and resumes his recently adopted practice. Until 5:00 in the afternoon. And neither the lawyer nor his grandfather have graced the doors of the cement factory.

————-

The American and his wife enter their driveway just as the sun is setting. They’d stopped at the local stand selling cecina* to pick up a quarter pound for dinner just as the owner was closing down. Looking up, he saw the Americans rushing towards his stand and smiled at them, saying to them, “¿Un cuartito*?

The American and his wife said, almost at the same time, “Sí, señor, por favor.”

Once home, his wife hurries inside to begin cooking dinner. The American hangs back for a bit. Then resolutely walks toward the sign posted in the middle of his yard. He kicks the sign over, picks it up, and carries it to the trash.

They eat their fried cecina, rice and black beans on the porch that night, accompanied by a bottle of red wine. 

They are content.

* “Huasteco” refers to an indigenous people, their Mayan language, and a distinct cultural region (the Huasteca) in northeastern Mexico

**En venta – for sale

*Farmacia – pharmacy 

*Empanadas – a type of baked or fried turnover consisting of pastry dough and a sweet or savory filling

*desbrozadora* – weed, grass cutter

*gasolina – gasoline 

*efectivo – cash

*Que les vaya bien – May all go well with you

*Cecina – a type of salted and air-dried meat

*Cuartito – a quarter pound

MISSING

They’d been looking at each other furtively across our wide living room that was filled with my coworkers and my family. My wife and I had invited all of them to celebrate my promotion to vice president of the company I’d been working for since I began as a mere office cleaner. I was only 17 then. 

Now, here I was, greying at the temples, with the same wife and three grown kids, and finally the vice president of the Beecham Lowe Firm. I had reason to be proud of myself. I’d spent most of my working life here, learning the ropes from the higher ups, getting along well with everyone and basically selling my soul to the firm. It was my everything.

I could feel my wife’s arm snaking into my own as she whispered to me, “I’m proud of you, Sean. You deserve this.” Her voice had that twinge in it that let me know she’d had one too many. But tonight it was okay, I reasoned. 

I squeezed her arm. My eyes went back to Lilly, our oldest, and her obvious interest in our new hire, a thirty something who thought he knew everything. 

Between those two, the room was filled with our middle aged guests, paper plates in hand with the catered food we’d had prepared and cups of whatever kind of drink from the open bar.

The youth of my 17 year old daughter and our new hire seemed to offset the merriment of our aging guests. At least it did to me. My wife let go of my arm to go grab another drink.

Roger Maalouf had been hired by the president and me six months ago. Bob hadn’t noticed the young man’s brashness; he was just desperate to fill in the paralegal position that had been left after Monty had passed the bar. Our firm only had room for two paralegals, the other taken by Bernice, an efficient researcher, although a pain to look at. 

With Monty’s absence, she threw up her hands one day in my office and declared, “If you don’t hire another paralegal, you’re gonna end up with none.”

I told her, “Give me a week.” And I got on it.

We soon had in our waiting room quite a few freshly graduated paralegals, resumes in hand and hungry looks on their faces. Bob and I gave them brief interviews and they seemed to be sorely lacking until a black haired young upstart showed himself to be the best of the bunch. It seemed as though he knew it, too, and this bothered me. But Bob, now being harassed personally by Bernice, his sister-in-law, was desperate. 

Roger was hired with no more discussion. I was surprised until I found out this Roger was Bob’s nephew. Keep it in the family.

I have to admit he was good. Willing to research what we had no time for but at the same time brashly offering his opinions on what he thought we should do with various clients. I noticed he cleverly kept his mouth shut whenever his uncle was around. 

What’s more, I knew he’d be a good lawyer someday. A rainmaker if he could get his ego under control. Meanwhile, I would just have to put up with him.

Now, here he was in our living room making eyes at our 17 year old daughter. 

I made my way towards Lilly, being protective I guess. Knowing how I would’ve been when I was Roger’s age. 

“Having a good time at this boring party, Lil?”

She swung her face around and smiled at me. “Of course, Dad!” Always the kid to placate, she added, “Who wouldn’t have a good time celebrating your promotion?” She stood up and gave me a kiss. 

And I couldn’t help but say to her, “Just be careful, okay?”

She gave me a brief keep-out-of-my-business look, followed by a smile. I kept looking at her as I backed away, fully aware of her budding beauty and the problems that would bring soon. But I banished the feeling, telling myself that we had raised Lilly to have a good head on her shoulders. 

A lawyer in the firm next to ours reached out to shake my hand in the middle of the living room and for the next hour or two, I found myself gabbing about different cases with him and other attorneys and hangers on. The number of drinks they’d consumed became increasingly obvious and never failed to make me glad I was a teetotaler. 

As our guests began picking up their wraps and purses and saying their goodbyes, I noticed my wife was having trouble keeping herself standing. I had to guide her carefully down our long hallway and lay her down on our bed. Our clock radio showed me it was 1:00 AM. 

When I got back to our living room, there were a few stragglers barely sober enough to drive. I did my best to shoo them out the door and then turn off the lights and head down the hallway in the dark. I sank down on our bed, my wife snoring softly. Just before I put my head on the pillow, I suddenly realized I hadn’t seen Lilly or Roger in all the hubbub.

I looked over at my wife to ask her if she’d seen our daughter, but she was dead to the world. I knew I couldn’t wake her up now. So I got out of bed and made my way to Lilly’s bedroom. This I’d done countless times and she’d always been whispering on her cellphone, trying not to wake us up. 

But this time, now 2:30 AM, Lilly’s mom was empty. Bed made, everything in order as always, except my daughter wasn’t there. Interestingly, though, she had left behind her cellphone. For Lilly, that was strange. I thought of yelling to my wife, but on second thought, I knew it was better to go around the house myself. 

So I flipped on lights as I entered each room, yell-whispering Lilly’s name. 

Nothing. 

—————

I’d thought briefly about calling the police last night but I knew their protocol: 24 hours missing before they’d put someone on it. That’s what I told my wife the following morning when she, finding our daughter still missing, told me she was calling the cops. 

She reluctantly made us coffee and pulled out a semblance of breakfast from the fridge. 

Finally she said, “Well, she is 17 anyway.” She took a swallow of coffee. “I mean, it isn’t as if she were five or ten.”

Her comment relieved me somewhat. 

But as that Saturday came to a close with no word from Lilly, both of us started to panic. Trying to contact her on her cellphone was out. So late Saturday night, my wife and I went to the police station to make a missing persons report. They took photos of our most recent cellphone photos of her, took down our information and promised us they’d be out looking for her. And that they’d be in touch. 

Now, all we could do was wait. My wife served us some leftovers from the party, none of which we had any appetite for and she settled down with a leftover bottle of wine to drown her sorrows. As for me, I decided to drown my sorrows in my own way: I went for a run.

As I was charging along in the darkness, it occurred to me that I could do nothing until Monday so as my legs pumped up and down, I laid out my plans.

By Sunday, still without news about Lilly, my wife and I put up copies of photos around our neighborhood and in mailboxes. Then we drove to town and did the same thing. We spent the afternoon calling Lilly’s friends to no avail. Finally we called Sean Jr. and Derrick, our sons, both husbands and fathers. They both reacted with concern but tried to reassure us. As they both lived out of state, I realized there was little they could do.

Panic is a thing I don’t do well with. I think it’s because, as a lawyer, it’s necessary to be in control. Of everything and everyone. Any inklings of panic threaten to chip away at the wall of control I’ve so carefully built over the years. But after talking with my sons and seeing my wife settle down with yet another bottle of wine that late night, my feelings of being absolutely helpless began to overwhelm me. All my instincts were pointing at that Roger as my target. Had he kidnapped Lilly? Or worse? Where had they gone after the party two nights ago? They’d obviously left together. I thought wildly of calling the cops and having them search for him, so I could beat the truth out of him, but then I remembered that wouldn’t go over well with Bob, the kid’s uncle.

On Monday, when Roger didn’t show up at the firm, I went into Bob’s office and shut the door. He leaned back in his custom made recliner and said, “Great party, Sean. We should promote you more often.”

That got a tight smile out of me but then I got to the point. “Bob, our new hire, I mean, your nephew, was flirting with Lilly, my youngest, at the party, which I have nothing against.”

He stared at me for a full minute. I had to be careful here. Then he said, “Anything wrong with that, Sean?” 

“Of course not!” I blurted out. But I knew I had to tell him the truth. I continued, “It’s just that when everyone went home after the party, we couldn’t find her anywhere.” I went on to tell him about issuing a missing persons report and putting up the Have You Seen Me? photos.

Bob looked at me and he seemed to be figuring out if I was joking with him. My face remained stoic, then concerned, then overly concerned. I must’ve looked desperate. He backed down.

He looked up at me and admitted, “The bastard didn’t show up this morning.” I noticed ‘bastard’ with surprise.

I only nodded.

Bob was already on the phone with his secretary, “Get me the personnel file on my nephew. Now.” 

Interesting, I surmised. Bob doesn’t even know where his nephew lives. 

We were headed in Bob’s BMW to his nephew’s house or apartment or hotel room, none of us knew which. Bob looked split; on the one hand, hesitant and on the other, determined. I was barely hanging on.

—————

Twenty years ago, Bob Maalouf, himself a brash law school graduate a year ahead of me at Ole Miss, had passed the bar and had hung his shingle in a trendy office in a good part of town his father had bought for him. Then, as I was studying for the bar, he hired me on, no questions asked. And I felt like it was my due. 

I suppose you could say that I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. An old saying, but very true in my case. I grew up privileged and always expected the best. And I got it.

At the time Bob hired me, everything seemed to work like clockwork for me. I put in my time cleaning his offices and doing the filing. As soon as I passed the bar, I immediately started earning a good salary but I will say I put long hours in and treated my clients justly. Bob favored me, I knew, but I also knew I shouldn’t take that for granted. The fact that he’d brought me on made me feel indebted to him and I supposed I would always feel that way. 

It turned out Bob’s nephew was living at the Hampton Inn on the outskirts of town. Bob told me to look for a silver Lexus GS, and he even knew the plate number. Sweat began beading on my face when I spotted the Lexus parked in the low class hotel’s parking lot. He pulled in next to it and we both got out. Ahead of us was room #7. 

Bob got to the door first and knocked on it with his fist loudly and repeatedly until it opened. His nephew Roger stood yawning in the doorway, blinking sleepily in the bright sun. 

“That you, Uncle Robert?” He yawned again.

Bob’s importance made it seem as though he was towering over Roger. He stepped inside the hotel room rudely and I heard him say, “Just didn’t make it to work or are you taking the day off?”

I found myself rushing into the hotel room as well. 

The place was a pigsty. Dirty clothes piled everywhere. Cigarettes butts squashed in every crevice. Fast food wrappers and empty coke cans and beer cans thrown about. The same old same old of a single man. 

And no sign of Lilly. I was almost let down. I hesitated a bit before I asked Roger, “Do you have any idea where my daughter is?”

He yawned again with his mouth wide open. Then he sank back on the bench Bob was already sitting on and said, “Your daughter?”

Bob shoved his shoulder and said, “The girl you were making eyes at at his party, you idiot.”

Roger smiled, “Oh, yeah.” That was all he said.

I stood up and shouted, “Well, my daughter’s been missing since the party, asshole, and you’re the last person she was with.” 

Roger stood there, like an idiot, obviously fighting a hangover from the amount of empty beer cans thrown all over the room.

His uncle shoved him again. “Roger, you could be in a lotta trouble, hear me? Now tell us when the last time you saw Lilly was. Now!”

The asshole was sweating and suddenly ran to the bathroom where we could hear him vomiting. My own stomach lurched.

He finally came out, wiping a forearm across his mouth. Under his swarthiness, he looked pale. He sat on the bed and said quietly, “I took her driving around after we left. I swear, I thought she was eighteen. When we got to talking, I realized she was still in high school. I didn’t know before, I swear.” He said this to me. He continued, “When I realized how young she was, I told her I was taking her home. She didn’t seem too happy about that. So when I stopped at a stoplight, she just got out, and I swear I didn’t do anything to her.”

I said, “Did you go looking for her?”

He looked at me as levelly as he was able and said, “Sir, I must’ve driven around for hours. I really looked for your daughter. She wasn’t anywhere! So I finally quit and went home. I figured she’d make it home on her own.”

I pushed, “Didn’t you think about calling us or calling at least your uncle to let us know what happened?”

Roger’s pallid complexion was replaced by blushing. He admitted to me, “Sir, I’m such an idiot. I spent the rest of the weekend…” he waved his arm around the empty beer cans and liquor bottles I hadn’t spotted before. 

Bob offered, “She might’ve gone to a friend’s house, Sean. You know, hiding out?”

I was caught up short. Lilly had no reason to hide out from her mother and me! Or had I been wrong?

While Bob was issuing a final warning to Roger about him being at work bright and early tomorrow morning, I was mulling over reasons why our daughter would need to run away from my wife and me.  I couldn’t for the life of me imagine any. 

We made it back to the office minus our “star” paralegal for the day. The amount of work we had to do seemed tripled without Roger, but we stumbled along, seeing client after client, doing paperwork, making unscheduled trips to court, and when we both left at 9:00 PM, I realized I hadn’t thought about Lilly at all that day. But my worry rekindled itself on my way home that night. 

—————

Since we’d weeded out Bob’s nephew as a possible culprit, my mind was bouncing from one gruesome possibility to another as far as what could’ve happened to Lilly. I had half a mind to keep driving around in search for her as I made my way home. 

But I didn’t.

I pulled up in our driveway, surprised to see my wife actually up and in the kitchen, talking to someone. I opened the back door and saw Lilly sitting at the kitchen table. And I lost it.

“WHERE in God’s name have you BEEN? We’ve been worried SICK about you, Liliana!” I felt like I was going to cry. But I just stood there.

My wife whispered, “Calm down, Sean. Please.”

Lilly stood up, came over to me and began hugging me. Tears were streaming down her face and pretty soon my own tears overflowed. My wife came up next to us and put her arms around us. She was crying, too.

I have never felt so relieved, so happy, in my life.  

And you know? No more was said: no rules laid down, no admonishments. We both knew Lilly belonged at home with us and I believe she believed it, too.

THE NIGHT IN QUESTION 

I had seen her several times through my window or when I was leaving. The new neighbors. From what I could figure out, they were a couple and since I lived in the apartment next door to them, I could hear their baby cry once in a while. It never bothered me. 

I’d been living in this apartment for several years now, with none of the other residents striking my fancy like this new girl. She was chubby, probably baby weight, with curly hair and a creamy round face that looked vulnerable. Her boyfriend (husband?) had that imposing look, like someone used to being in charge. To me, he looked cruel. 

I keep the Venetian blinds drawn over my own window, which allows me to view the goings on at our apartment complex without being seen. The people who’d been renting next to me, a pair of giggly girls who’d been working at the Bank of America up the street, had suddenly taken a powder and had left behind several pieces of furniture. The apartment manager had told me they’d skipped out on paying rent. 

So I was glad this new couple and their baby had found a more or less good place to live. 

I spend my days holed up here, designing web pages for large companies and even for the government. I earn well enough, even though there are slim times between contracts. Over the years, I’ve learned that designing porno sites comes in handy between more respectable work. It keeps me busy. It also allows me to stay home, which is what I like. 

About a month ago, I could see the apartment manager opening the door next to mine. He had the imposing dude next to him and they both entered the empty apartment. After some muffled conversation inside, they both came out. Later on, the chubby girl holding her new baby and the dude opened the door and I could hear more muffled conversation. 

Since then, they’ve been living next to me which allows me to view the chubby girl, often with her baby, coming and going. And more often with the dude.

Once in a while, I can hear their muffled arguments which seem to be about money. But I could be wrong. Come to think of it, I’m still not sure what the dude does to bring home the bacon. They do have a car and I can hear it starting up and screeching away usually after one of their fights. It’s the dude who goes. And more often than not, the chubby girl is left crying in their apartment. With her baby.

On the night in question, this is what happened. I’d been between contracts and was working half-heartedly on a porno website whose “company” sounded like two young dudes working in their garage like Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak (but to a far lesser degree). 

I suddenly heard a loud knock on my neighbors’ door and then I heard the baby crying. I opened two strips of the Venetian blinds to see that the chubby girl had sunk down on the door step, her baby in her arms. She was crying hysterically.

I was caught in a quandary. Should I go outside to help her or should I stay in and see what happened? I glanced at my watch and could see it was nearly midnight. 

She pounded on the door from the door step and was now yelling, “Norm! I know you’re in there! Let us in! I gotta change his diaper and feed him!”

From inside their apartment, I could hear the TV and some rumbling around. 

She kept pounding their door and the baby was crying even louder. 

I found working on that porno website impossible. So it wasn’t beyond my ken to know they needed my help. And it wasn’t beyond my ability to get the key the apartment manager had left with me to their apartment. Just in case. 

I have to explain something now. I’m a very intelligent man, although disgustingly ugly in my estimation. I’m also extremely shy to the point where being with other people frightens me to death. I’ve always been that way and I’m used to it. Becoming an adult has allowed me to just accept the way I am and who I am . My utter shyness has barred me from doing many things but on the night in question, it was almost as if the universe was testing me. Either act or bail out forever. 

My sweaty hand was gripping said key as I moved slowly to my door. It was like the time I was 6 years old and had to open the door to my first grade classroom alone. No mom or dad around for me. I had inched my way to that door hearing the high voices of the other small kids around me but I had felt so alone. 

I finally made it to my apartment door and silently opened it and felt the warnings of an upcoming snowstorm. I saw the poor chubby girl still on the ground, clutching her baby to her girth to keep him warm. 

It took every last drop of strength for me to say, “Hi. I’m your neighbor. I have a key.”

She struggled to get on her feet and I moved slowly towards her to help her. Her arm was freezing. 

Suddenly struck mute, I just stuck the key in the lock while laying my ear against the freezing door. But I didn’t turn the key. I was too afraid. The sudden cold wind further reminded me how cold it was here, outside. A Chicago wind. The Windy City in January.

Inside, I heard the TV blaring and someone stumbling. No, two people stumbling. 

I looked at my chubby neighbor and said that I heard two people inside.

She nodded. Her body still trembling and the baby starting to cry again gave me strength to turn the key and open the door.

A waft of really warm air hit me and I saw the imposing dude putting his pants on. I reached outside and grabbed my chubby neighbor and her baby and pushed them inside. 

As I stood there, she went straight into the bedroom, her baby in tow. At the same time, a cheap looking woman with ratty hair sprang out of the bedroom and hustled out the front door, almost knocking me down.

This was the most excitement I’d had in a long time. Still, I stood at their door, not knowing if I should leave or stay. The dude, ignoring me, found the bedroom door locked and so he shoved his shoulder against it and then used his bare foot to kick it in. 

The cheap door swung wide open. I could see the chubby girl on the bed nursing her baby who was now quiet. 

The dude edged slowly to the bed and sank down on it, unsettling a little the chubby girl, still nursing. He said, “It didn’t mean anything, I swear.”

She sighed. “You said that the last time. And the time before that, Norm.”

I realized this was none of my business, so I hightailed it back to my place. The front door ended up being locked and I’d forgotten my key. Idiot.

It was still really cold, but my neighbors’ door was still open, so I snuck back inside. They were still in the bedroom, the broken door still open. I had no choice but to go sit on their sofa and bide my time. And swallow down my nervousness about not knowing what was going to happen. 

At least they weren’t screaming at each other. The baby had probably fallen asleep. My illuminated watch told me it was now 2:30 AM in their dark and messy living room and I remember yawning until I must have fallen asleep.

—————

Someone was shaking my shoulder rudely and a male voice was telling me to wake up. I opened my eyes and saw the dude standing over me, looking like he was going to knock me out again. I struggled to a sitting position on their couch.

“I don’t remember telling you to spend the night here,” he barked. I wondered where the chubby girl was. 

I glanced around their now messier living room with the morning light outside. Then I found my words, “It’s just that I locked my key in my apartment last night.”

He was now sitting down in a chair across from me, eating Frosted Flakes dry from the box. He said, “You better call the super.” 

My head was now clear enough for me to say, “I would if I hadn’t left my cellphone in there.”

He kept crunching and then swallowed. Then he called, “Nora! Go find the super’s number!” He went on crunching. Then he flipped on the TV to some cop show. 

The chubby girl came into the living room a short while later with a cellphone. She had already dialed the apartment manager and stuck the phone up to my ear. After several rings, the manager picked up. “Yeah?”

Norm and Nora were now staring at me. I said, “Rich, this is Alfred…Al in 22B? I locked my keys in last night and I need someone to open my door. Please.”

Rich grumbled and then swore some. I heard a female voice in the background. I heard him say, “Alright, alRIGHT!” Then he said, “Give me 15, 20 minutes,” and hung up.

Nora now had the baby cradled in her arms with a pacifier stuck in its mouth. She reached an arm out and took the box of Frosted Flakes that Norm had put on the coffee table. She gave it to me and said, “Here. Breakfast.”

While Norm smoked and watched the cop show, I dug my hand in the box and ate a couple of handfuls. Better than nothing.

The cop show turned out to be a movie and it wasn’t until the credits were rolling that I heard Rich outside, yelling my name. I jumped up and told Norm and Nora, “Thanks for putting me up, guys.”

As I went through their door into the cold morning, I didn’t hear them say a word. 

Rich was in a bad mood, I could tell. He just inserted the key to my apartment and opened the door a crack. Then he left, saying, “Next time, think twice, Al.”

I told him I would and shut the door.

Once inside, I stripped off my clothes and took a long, hot shower. Then I dressed in my usual garb. And then I returned to my computer, none the worse for wear.

It Happened One Summer Morning 

We must’ve been seven and six years old respectively, my brother and I. I mean I’m his big sister, although now he towers over me. But back then he only came up to my shoulder and, often as not, was always grabbing my hand, needing to be told where to go and what to do. And I took charge of him whenever Mama told us to git outta the house. She spent her days washing folk’s clothes and hanging them on the wire lines our neighbor had strung up for her.

So when Willy and I were told to git, we often wandered downtown because there it was different, exciting somehow. And expensive.

My own knowledge of “cheap” and “expensive” was just beginning to take hold of me but I already knew I preferred the more expensive items we’d run across at the Five ‘n Dime and at the Kroger’s. 

Willy and I spent countless hours perusing the small plastic toys at the Five ‘n Dime. The owner, Miss Schroeder, was a client of my mother’s and obviously felt she could trust us. Each time we entered to the sound of the tinkling bell hung above the door, she always said, “Mabel May! Willy! Come right on in!” followed by, “But don’t touch nothin’ you ain’t gonna buy.”

We heard her say the same thing each time we went there. 

I’d already managed to scrounge up a few coins from the coffee can in our kitchen when my mother was on the porch smoking her first cigarette of the day that morning. When Willy and I had finished our Cheerios and I’d washed our bowls and put them in the drainer, I walked out to the porch, the coins tightly secreted in my front pocket. 

From the rocking chair, my mom blew a stream of smoke into the already hot morning and said her usual, “Alright now, yall git. I got work t’do.”

Music to our ears. We hightailed it down the road, oblivious of the huge white Alabama sun in the cloudless sky, the shadows of the trees not yet stretching out enough to give us shade. No matter. We were going to town!

Kroger’s was always our first stop and I figured I had enough money to buy us a well deserved popsicle each. We entered the store, cooled down by the huge fans they’d recently installed which made the shoppers, mostly housewives sweating lightly in their cinched-in floral dresses and pill box hats, have to shout to have their meat cuts determined by the butcher, Mr. Kennedy. But at least it was cool in here. My brother and I took our time approaching the freezer case, its contents of several flavors of ice cream, frozen Sara Lee cakes, frozen vegetables and pizzas, and finally the single popsicles in their colorful display.

We stood in front of them, figuring out which flavor we wanted this time. Willy usually took a long time choosing. So I left my pineapple one inside the freezer until he made up his mind.

He suddenly opened the door and pulled out a boysenberry one and I grabbed my pineapple and we hustled up to Betty, the cashier. I scrounged around in my pocket, hoping she’d knock a few cents off, but this time, no go. 

She looked at us with amusement but said, “That’ll be 20 cents, you two.”

I managed to dig out 19 cents in nickels and pennies. 

Betty seemed to enjoy making me squirm as she told me, “Well now, Mabel May. Looks like y’all’s a penny short.”

She’d let Willy and me slide countless times before, but I only had what I had with me. 

I reluctantly grabbed my pineapple popsicle and headed back to the freezer with my mouth in a grim line to hide my disappointment. Putting my precious popsicle back, I tried to enjoy the cool air of the freezer for a second. It did give me strength.

When I made it back to Betty, Willy was already outside eating his boysenberry one and there were 9 cents waiting for me on the counter. I grabbed the coins and muttered, “Thank you,” to Betty. She yelled after me, “Y’all come back!” I imagined she was proud of herself for not giving in this time. 

Willy did give me a couple licks on our way to the Five ‘n Dime. I’ll say that.

By the time we got to our next stop, Miss Schroeder had her hands full with a group of sweating mothers who wanted to buy things for their Girl Scout daughters. Furniture for a dollhouse. She kept scurrying up and down the aisles of the Five ‘n Dime for construction paper, pipe cleaners, cotton balls, what have you. She barely noticed Willy and me entering. I now had 9 cents in my pocket and I deserved something special with the sacrifice of my pineapple popsicle at Kroger’s. 

Willy fingered the lookalike GI Joes while I scoped out where the mothers and Miss Schroeder were. Over by the paper doll patterns. Feeling braver, I inched over to the display of nail polish, the kind my mother used to wear when Daddy was around. I’d been eyeing the display each time we’d come in. A picture of a graceful hand on whose long fingernails were painted a gleaming and tempting red followed by Maybelline in cursive writing was posted above the various baskets of different colored nail polish in shiny new bottles. The price was also posted in red: 25 cents. I’d have to think fast.

The mothers and Miss Schroeder appeared to be deep in conversation as I stood on tiptoe and looked over the top of my aisle. I could also see the buzz cut of my little brother in the boy’s stuff aisle. I stood there, at the Maybelline,, sorely tempted to take just one little bottle of red nail polish. I told myself again I deserved it because I’d been so good to Willy.

The loud tinkling of the bells over the front door jarred my hand away from the basket. The rotund body of Miss Schroeder’s sister, Delilah, entered the store, scanning for whatever she was looking for and ignoring the other shoppers. She called out, “Maisie! Where y’all keep your nail paint? I don’t got all day!”

Miss Schroeder mumbled something to the mothers and headed her sister’s way. I myself made a beeline over to where Willy was standing. (Without the nail polish.) Over the top of the aisle, Delilah’s puffy black clad body all but blocked my view of the coveted nail polishes. Miss Schroeder was fluttering around in an obvious effort to please her.

One of the mothers, arms full of construction paper and other necessities for her daughter’s Girl Scout troop, came down the aisle where Willy and I were now standing. She was calling out to Miss Schroeder, “Maisie! I gotta git home and take the sitter home like a half hour ago!” Willy and I put our hands behind our backs. 

Miss Delilah’s large body made thundering noises as she led her sister to the cash register. By default, Miss Schroeder took her sister first, to the utter annoyance of the other mother. The sister left with several viles of red nail polish amongst a cloud of cheap perfume. 

The mothers, one by one, dumped their items next to the cash register and Miss Schroeder rang them all up quickly. The first mother left muttering. 

When it was all over, Willy and I headed to the door, me feeling deflated. 

We both said, “So long, Miss Schroeder!” as the door closed behind us, bells tinkling. 

A beat cop was walking up the street when we heard the door of the Five’n Dime crash open. Miss Schroeder sprang out and yelled, “Lyle Joe! These kids’ve robbed me!”

The beat cop stopped, stared at Willy and me as if we were the worst criminals he’d ever seen on his beat and put his arms on our shoulders, squeezing hard. Both my brother and I were shaking and I caught myself thinking you could be arrested for even thinking about robbing nail polish. We had no choice but to stand there in the heat, his grips hurting our shoulders and take what was coming. 

Miss Schroeder walked back and forth in front of my brother and me but she was talking to Lyle Joe. “They been hangin’ around my shop all mornin’, Lyle Joe. I could see it in their guilty faces that they done robbed me.”

His fingers grabbed my shoulder tighter until I cried out.

“Ha!” Miss Schroeder pointed down at me. “You see?”

Lyle Joe swiveled both of us around so we were facing his round, well-fed belly cinched in by his heavy belt and holster. I kept my head at the level of his belt, my eyes brimming over. I had no idea what was happening to Willy. I was that scared.

He ended up marching us back into the Five ‘n Dime. By this time, I was crying. When I looked up, my brother only wore a grim face. 

Lyle Joe said to us, “Y’all empty out yer pockits on this here counter NOW!!”

Quaking in my boots, I pulled out the nickel and 4 pennies I had in my front pocket, wet with my sweat from outside. 

“Now you, young’un,” he ordered Willy. I turned my head toward my brother and he was now crying. 

He sank his skinny arm into his front pocket and pulled out a lookalike GI Joe. I could feel his resignation emanate from his whole body. His face was now a mess of tears and snot. 

I stood there, not believing what I’d seen. Willy looked so small, so guiltily small. 

The grownups towered above us. I watched in disbelief as Lyle Joe took his heavy hand from my shoulder and reached for the handcuffs dangling from his belt. 

Then I saw the puddle of piss below Willy’s feet widening on Miss Schroeder’s floor.

I couldn’t stand it.

I screamed, “I did it, y’all! Willy didn’t do anythin’. It was me who done stole that GI Joe.”

Lyle Joe apparently knew (or figured out by now) that the handcuffs he now had in his hand were adult-sized and would do nothing to detain my skinny seven-year-old wrists. He chuckled.

Miss Schroeder, over her offense by now at the sight of such utter shame that my brother and I were suffering, muttered, “Well, y’all. Ah don’t think we need to arrest anybody right now. You two let this be a lesson, y’ hear me?” 

And they just let us go. 

The Alabama summer heat seemed like another well deserved punishment as it weighed us down on our way back home. 

My mother, sweating buckets, was in the backyard getting the now clean and dry clothes she’d washed and hung up earlier. 

As we trooped in, I could smell the biscuits and gravy she’d prepared and my gratitude overwhelmed me. She came in, placed the laundry basket on the kitchen table and noticed our tear stained snot nosed faces. 

She surprised us when she said, “Don’ wanna hear nothin’ about it, y’all. Now y’all go git washed up befo’ we eat.”

This One Book 

I was disappointed they didn’t have it on Kindle, my go-to bookstore where I’d been downloading books written in my native tongue for fifteen years now. I even looked for the paperback and the hard bound to see if I  could have it shipped to me, thereby taking longer, but no such luck. 

I’d been feeding my insatiable desire to read books in English here thanks to Kindle and I’d never been let down. Now, the fact that they didn’t have this one book made me feel betrayed by the whole Amazon outfit. As if their whole worth was based having on this one book available to me. 

It’s strange that since I don’t live in California anymore with its plethora of bookstores where you can find any book or perhaps order it, it seemed to me that such abundant availability would only sour my search for this one book. Would be like having a huge wardrobe with several styles of the one thing you were determined to wear. But the fact was that I’d been living in a different country for fifteen years now. And my problem was that I was determined to get this one book, come hell or high water. It was my mission.

There was one biblioteca in the small pueblo where I was now living. I’d never paid much attention to it on my daily treks downtown to go shopping or to see friends. But now, getting this one book which seemed like looking for a needle in a haystack and in the dark, I had no choice but to consider the biblioteca as a possibility. The futility of my mission had me hanging back for a few days, followed by the day I summoned all my courage just to walk inside the biblioteca. My heart was thundering in my chest. And when I dashed out, I was surprised to be covered in nervous sweat. I considered myself to be bilingual but going into new places and meeting new people has always put my nervousness in overdrive.

Nevertheless, I finally made it there, fully geared up to spend a few hours looking for this one book.

When I entered, a bell tinkled upon my opening the door and the few people sitting at wooden desks and reading looked up at me. I also saw some young people sitting at second hand computers from the 90’s typing with fast fingers, their faces glued to the screens. 

I found the front desk behind which an older woman with a long gray braid down her back was sitting and she looked up at me and smiled. “¿En qué puedo ayudarle, señorita?

Grateful that I could understand her, it still took every last drop of my courage to ask her about this one book. She noticed my American accent and asked me where I was from.

Settled down now, I told her, “Soy de California pero vivo aquí.”

She came around the desk and grabbed my arm. She had surprising strength for someone so short. She guided me through the aisles of mismatched bookshelves that were surprisingly full of every kind of old edition, seemingly not in alphabetical order. 

The woman let go of my arm and then squeezed my hand as we both heard the front door of the biblioteca opening with its tinkling bell. She threw me a look that said I was now on my own. Then she rushed away.

I fought down the feeling that everything should be available whenever it was wanted – a normal feeling to have in the country I come from – and stood gazing at this plethora of books. As I stood there in the first aisle, my thoughts traveled way back in time to when I was around nine years old.

In the 1960’s, our family was living on a ranch in California whose house and barn and fences had been built by my father (may he rest in peace), a few of his friends and my sisters and me. We had bought a baby brown and white calf who spent a lot of time sucking my sisters’ and my fingers with its raspy tongue. My father told us the baby was doing what it thought was normal, trying to suck its mother’s teat. That baby calf, who my sisters and I named Lucy, was the love of our young lives. She followed us everywhere, even while we were immersed in our many chores, calling out to us with her “Mmmah! Mmmah!”, pleading with us to come play with her. And we always complied.

Lucy was a given in our lives and one day she disappeared. My father told us to keep looking for her while he wrestled with some plumbing project and my mother kept to her various daily duties which my sisters and I should have been helping her with.

My sisters and I splayed out, calling, “Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!” in every nook and cranny over every hill and dale of our ranch. It wasn’t until late afternoon that my youngest sister noticed some barbed wire of one of our neighbor’s fences shaking. She walked nearer to the fence and started screaming for us.

We found Lucy, her bloody legs entwined in barbed wire and trapped beyond her limited ability to escape. It was obvious she was worn out by her fighting to get herself free and I can still hear her weak “Mmahs” as we came closer to her. 

Finally, my father came with wire cutters and had to struggle to free her, she was so bound up in the barbed wire. It was nighttime by the time Lucy was free and we loaded her up in the back of our station wagon that my mother’d driven over.

Thinking of all that about Lucy, some 50 years ago, and now standing in this first aisle of the biblioteca with its mountains of books, I was glad my sisters and I had been faced with the huge task of finding our beloved calf. That experience gave me enough fortitude to know that if I kept searching, I’d find this one book.