By Cyn Nooney

Tanya says Hollis beat a boy last night. Tanya says the boy crawled through the girl’s bedroom window and good thing Hollis caught him. He beat that boy so hard he soiled himself, Tanya goes on, taking a drag from her cigarette. She saw it with her own two eyes, heard all the whooping and hollering, then the boy curled up beneath the window, jeans streaked with shit. We’re at work when Tanya tells me this. She’s standing near my desk, her back against the easel where I lay out the company newsletter. I’m twenty-three, she’s thirty-eight. She works in purchasing. I’m in PR. Her cubicle is catty-corner to mine. As she talks Tanya adjusts the underwire in her bra with long, tapered fingernails painted the color of strawberry frosting. My boobies are sagging by the minute, she says, Hollis used to spray ‘em all over with whipped cream then slurp up every last bit, but now he never touches them let alone glances their way.

It embarrasses me when she talks like this, but I keep a straight face, so she’ll tell me more. I like to know what’s coming down the pike. She has a young son, Hollis Junior, and a daughter named Mercy who just turned fourteen. Mercy is the one with the window in her room that the boy crawled through.

Ash is dangling from the end of Tanya’s cigarette. I hold out a pixie cup. Don’t let that fall, I say—God forbid we wreck this divine industrial carpet. We work at the corporate headquarters of Heavenly Burgers, a fast-growing fast-food chain. Tanya arches her neck backward and cackles. I can see her dimply stomach jiggling through her orange polyester blouse.

Hollis nailed shut that window, Tanya goes on, and Mercy’s grounded now. For good. Ever since she stopped going to church, she’s been toying with the devil. We told her straight out: We catch you with that boy again, we’ll disown you on the spot.

Don’t you think that’s extreme? I want to ask yet something tells me not to. I’ll find out soon enough. Tanya spends more time in my cubicle than she does in her own. She likes to talk almost as much as she likes to smoke, which is fine by me because it keeps me from having to say much. Tanya often calls me her faux daughter and I don’t disabuse her of this notion. I haven’t seen or heard from my own mother in many years. Last I knew, she was somewhere in Reno. My father lives in New York.

We leave the office a little while later along with several other coworkers and cross the plaza toward City Hall, where the Prince of Wales, a wavy-haired man from Britain, is due to appear. Dallas is his first stop during a weeklong visit to Texas for its sesquicentennial. According to the newspaper, lawmakers initially planned to call the event Jubilee 150 but later abandoned the phrase because jubilee is too sissy sounding. I have lived in Texas five years now—I came here for college from a small town in Utah—and if there’s one thing I’ve noticed, it’s how frightened people are of that word.

In the plaza the air is alive with whistles and shrieks, a few random claps, reeking of sweat and aftershave, and I’m consumed with thoughts of the beaten boy and suddenly I worry Prince Charles will get assassinated. That would mean his two young sons would grow up without a father and who wants to picture that. I’d rather see Princess Diana. If she were here, I’d somehow finagle my way next to her and ask a few things, like, is she happy? Is her husband as dull as he appears? Is he a mama’s boy, who also won’t mind when she dies because then he’ll become king? Then I wonder whether Prince Charles is imagining the grassy knoll where President Kennedy got shot, it’s not too far from here, less than a mile, but twenty-three years is a long time ago. The prince is standing on a concrete patio surrounded by boring looking officials who take turns speaking into a microphone. Like most cities, Dallas is basically made of concrete. Unlike many others, there is zilch for the eye to feast upon. Tall glass buildings poke toward the sultry sky. Very few shade trees. Hot and humid more often than not. Time and again I miss Utah’s dry air and majestic mountainous beauty, a place I spent much of my youth longing to leave. My parents managed to do that before I did, though, one right after the other, headed separate ways, leaving me in the care of a great aunt who died last year.

Tanya and I didn’t make it to the event in time to see the Rangerettes perform but several of these white-booted entertainers are off to the side, along with military band members and the color guard. Disappointment quickly sets in—this is the first time I’ve been in the presence of somebody famous and I expected to experience something profound—but then Perry approaches and I brighten. I whisper to Tanya, That’s that guy from the bus stop. The one I’ve gone out with a few times.

Perry is wearing a rumpled khaki suit. He strokes his chin. Hey, he says, and I say, Hey yourself. He moves a hand above his eyes, shielding the February glare, and in a matter of seconds he explains that he’s relocating next week due to a promotion—he does something in finance—and he’s been meaning to give me a call.

Glad I ran into you, he adds, let’s get together before I leave.

I boink his nose with my fingertip and reply in a friendly manner, Wish I could but I’m all booked up. Good luck to you, though.

As he turns away, I curse under my breath, Two-bit player.

Tanya nudges my elbow. Well done. Mercy could learn a thing or two from you.

Stupidly, tears sting my eyes. But Perry is not the reason. He was nothing more than a distraction after Luther patched things up with his wife.

People are cheering and clapping now. The Prince of Wales waves overhead and turns to enter City Hall. For some reason I thought he might acknowledge last month’s shuttle disaster, the explosion of Challenger right after takeoff. Surely, he knows that it happened but maybe like most people he moves on quick as they please. The air feels instantly flatter soon as Prince Charles goes inside. Tanya talks all the way back, mainly about how stubborn-headed her daughter is and the atrocity of Perry’s bristly neck beard—Did it burn your thighs, she wants to know, but I don’t answer.

I’m about to ask what her parents would’ve done if they hadn’t approved of Hollis, but then we encounter a man wearing a jaunty beret striding next to a Dalmatian puppy. It might be the cutest dog I’ve ever seen. It’s frisky and friendly, wears a collar but no leash. I bend down. Hold out a hand for it to sniff.

Hey fella, aren’t you precious. What’s your name?

Shield, the man says. You ain’t got cooties, do ya?

Um, no?

Alright then go on and pet him but watch out or he might follow you home. He’s a sap for pretty girls.

The dog pokes out its pink tongue and fervently licks. I laugh and tell the man, That’d be fine by me.

Tanya clears her throat, Time to go, Drue.

Straightening up, I smooth my skirt. The man wears a Rolex that I’m pretty sure is fake. Rolexes are all the rage these days, and many Texans are drawn to fancy things. He snaps on the dog’s leash.

Smart move, I say, I’d hold on to him too.

As we approach our cubicles we’re laughing about my boss’s runny nose. Crusty Ron is what we call him behind his back. He was holding open the lobby door for us when we returned, his royal blue tie spotted with blips, and now we hear a gravelly cough: Hey, you hens, get back to work. It’s Del, a guy who lost his legs in Vietnam. He works adjacent to us, and his cubicle is bigger than the rest of ours to accommodate his wheelchair.

Del always has a pipe clamped in the corner of his mouth and rarely engages with anyone. I probably wouldn’t either if I had no legs. His barren scalp reminds me of my grandfather and my grandfather was not known for kindness, so I usually avoid Del, and that seems to suit him. Tanya arches her eyebrows at me. They’re drawn on with thick red pencil that I assume is meant to match her dyed nutmeggy hair, and there I go again, picturing Luther’s tender lips.

Yo, Del, Tanya says, loud enough for anyone within a thirty-yard radius to hear, Pipe down, will ya? Stick your own pipe you-know-where. She smiles wickedly and points her index finger at me, the ash of another cigarette in need of tapping. She leans in close, and I brace for an assault of her noxious breath. Secretly, he loves listening to us, you know? she says.

I nod and reply loudly enough for Del to hear, Time to get back to the grind.

Halle-fucking-lujah, he calls from beyond the partition.

Grabbing my shoulder, Tanya lowers her voice. If only Mercy was sensible like you.

I give her a cockeyed look. I did crazy things at Mercy’s age too, I say. And worse things since then. Maybe try talking to her?

She refuses to speak to me, Tanya says, her chin slightly quivering. Hollis Junior’s all I got left.

Mercy is just a kid, I say. The boy, too, right? Sooner or later, they’ll flame out, but the harder you try to keep them apart the more they’ll want to be together.

Tanya lights another cigarette, takes a long draw. You know what? I want to introduce you to Mercy. Would you do that? Maybe hang out with her a couple Saturdays or something—you’d be a good influence.

That’s the last thing I am, I object. Plus, I’m terrible with kids, teenagers scare me to no end. I pause for a second then quietly ask, Do you know if the boy is all right? I want to add, I can’t stop thinking about him, but I know she doesn’t want to hear that. If nothing else, Tanya believes in loyalty.

All I know is he better not turn up again, she says. Me and Hollis, we can’t allow it, we won’t allow it.

I throw her a puzzled look, trying to reconcile this woman with the one who cried on my shoulder a few weeks back after a young man who used to work here (he left before I started) mistakenly dove into a newly-emptied swimming pool after jogging, and fatally cracked open his head. He was so handsome, so kind, Tanya had told me in between sobs. I just can’t believe it. He was so young, so full of promise.

What? Tanya says now.

Well, I mean—

Tanya drops her voice again. A black boy never crawled through your window, now did he?

For a moment I remain still. Then slowly I glance at my watch and tap it a couple times before pivoting away. I need to finish a press release about a new location of Heavenly Burgers opening next month in Gun Barrel City and fire it off to the local papers, then apply final touches on the back page of the newsletter. That’s where I list monthly birthdays—all the managers and assistant managers of our stores plus the head honchos here at corporate. Other than my boss, I’m not sure anyone else in our office reads the newsletter. Not that I care. Right now, I despise just about everybody: Tanya, Del, the man with the dog, my runny-nosed boss, even Prince Charles. But mainly myself.

Tanya is the only person I can think to take me to the clinic. The few friends I made in college have all moved away.

Other than the tugging it didn’t hurt as much as I thought it might, but now I’m bleeding straight through the maxi pad the clinician gave me. There’s another one in my purse. General anesthesia was out of my price range, so I went with local. The nurse told me to go directly home afterward and get lots of rest, but Tanya wants to swing by the hospital first. Only long enough to pay our respects, she says, won’t take but two minutes. A coworker of ours named Bobbie who’s been battling cancer for some time has taken a turn for the worse.

When we enter the stark room, it’s obvious this is Bobbie’s last stop. A plastic mask clouds her face, and a tube juts out that is connected to a loud whooshing machine; her chest feebly rises with excruciating effort. Three family members pace somberly around the room, occasionally flicking the blinds or popping their knuckles. Other times they stare at the emergency instructions taped to the back of the door. A woman around Tanya’s age who I take to be Bobbie’s daughter strokes her forehead and sparse gray hair. Me? I don’t feel anything. Other than invasive. Bobbie’s husband is surprisingly decent-looking and trim for someone north of sixty. He looks pained, which is normal enough, yet I can’t help but wonder if his expression reflects obligation or sorrow. I’m betting on the former. Physically, Bobbie resembles Mrs. Claus but that’s where commonalities end. Sure, it’s awful that cancer has clocked Bobbie’s days, but the woman is no peach—she’s been known to pilfer food items stowed by coworkers in the breakroom fridge, then loudly protest when accused. One time she flipped Luther the finger while he sat waiting for me in the parking lot after work. And on two separate occasions I overheard Bobbie threaten to withhold a colleague’s paycheck. At some point, overseeing payroll evidently went to her head. I can’t imagine her being much different at home.

Still, it’s hard watching Bobbie struggle to breathe. Even if you don’t like someone it’s nothing you want to see. I reach for a tissue on the bedside table and pretend-dab my eyes then loudly clear my throat. No one seems to notice me other than Tanya, who catches my eye and places a finger over her mouth. I feel like slapping her. Only reason we’re here, I’ve just realized, is because Tanya and Bobbie attend the same church. Tanya is looking for points. I go into the tiny, attached bathroom and change my pad then consider the state of my gaunt pasty face in the mirror above the sink. Heartless beast, I whisper to my image. Right then I decide that what I want on my deathbed is to be surrounded by inconsolable loved ones who gaze kindly upon me. I’ll do whatever I need to in the meantime to make sure that happens. I don’t want pity, there’s nothing worse than that, but I want people to experience real sadness. Deep, dark, infinite sadness. They won’t be relieved by my passing. They’ll be ripped apart.

The next morning my sheets look like a Rorschach test. So does my nightgown. I feel groggy but I also vividly remember dreaming about Luther, his decadent skin pressing against mine and the way he described our entangled limbs: We’re a heavenly combo, like that burger-and-shake deal you peddle, only better—Nutella and mayonnaise on rye.

Gross, I told him.

Oh, really? he said, and reached over and tickled me, then smothered me with kisses.

Luther and I were together for nearly a year. When we met—scouring a newsstand outside Kroger one Sunday morning—he was separated from his wife and lived in a one-bedroom apartment off Northwest Highway. I partially moved into his place after a few months. He gave me my own two drawers in his dresser, and all the closet space I wanted. I loved the way he smelled (inexplicably like fresh baked scones), the books he read (Invisible Man, Another Country, Their Eyes Were Watching God), and the way he could impersonate Sidney Poitier’s commanding retort from In the Heat of the Night: They call me Mister Tibbs! Naturally I also loved his long, lean body, and the glow I felt with his muscular arms wrapped around me. But mostly I loved his rich baritone laugh and the way he could bust me up. He frequently told jokes, usually when we ate dinner. The last one went like this: What’s the difference between a philosophy major and an art major? When I shook my head, he said, A philosophy major asks, Why do you want fries with that?

He could also sing, and sing he did, into my ear in bed, in the kitchen, while we watched TV. Oh Drue, he’d croon. Don’t be cruel to a heart that’s true.

And even though I couldn’t sing worth a lick, I’d croak the line back to him, pausing afterward to add: I could never be cruel to you.

After changing my sheets, I shower and hustle into the office, where I click off some tasks: A reporter from Gun Barrel City wants confirmation about the ribbon-cutting ceremony for the new Heavenly Burgers location; Ron wants to proofread the newsletter before I send it to the printer; and he also wants to double-check the press release I’m supposed to have already written about the skyrocketing success at our Tulsa location—it recently became our top producing store. I jam a sheet of paper into my typewriter and spew the B.S. as quickly as I can. After delivering the draft to Crusty Ron, I wind my way over to Tanya’s cube on shaky legs. I feel both nauseous and dehydrated, which I didn’t know was possible. Shouldn’t one cancel the other out?

How are you, pumpkin? Tanya asks when she sees me.

Just dandy, I lie. I lean against her partition and close my eyes for a second. What if I made a mistake, I whisper. What if that was my only chance to—

Tanya tilts her head and appraises me with her own brimming eyes. Whenever I’m upset, she gets that way too.

God isn’t vengeful, she tells me. You did what was best and you’ll have another chance. He wants that for you.

She looks so sincere, and I want to believe her but the whole while I’m thinking, If God’s not vengeful, then why the hell is her husband? What does God think about Hollis? Or her, for that matter? Wouldn’t she be considered an accomplice? But I can’t bring myself to say anything else. I simply let the tears stream down my face—for Mercy and the boy, for me and what was, and for Luther who I miss so much I might die.

Back in early December, Luther had begun coming home later and later from work. He taught philosophy at a local university and claimed that prepping for finals, followed by grading, was eating his time. Soon, the jokes stopped. Soon, we were going to bed at different times. Ultimately, I moved most of my stuff back to my apartment and one weekend during a dismal shopping trip to help select Santa toys for his three-year-old son, I begged Luther again to tell me the truth about his whereabouts, and he snapped at me in the main entrance of the Galleria, Stop interrogating me!

Suddenly I knew what was going on. It was what I’d always feared. He was spending time with his wife again, his guilt about leaving her had buckled his resolve. The risk of me losing him had always been front and center, especially with a young child involved—the angst had set up permanent shop in my mind right from the start. I wouldn’t even allow myself to imagine a scenario in which we’d always be together, no matter how much I wanted that. As far as his wife Shasta, I often tortured myself with concocted images. I pictured her as inquisitive and elegant, a well-read woman who studied plays and listened to classical music; other times as an ebullient firecracker, on par with Luther’s wit, who massaged his feet while they both hummed lullabies to their beautiful boy. On my worst days, I imagined Shasta to be each of these things, because there was no reason she couldn’t be all of them.

That day at the mall I spun around and left, leaving Luther standing there in the high-ceilinged foyer. I wanted him to come after me, or at least call out, but he didn’t, and I didn’t look back. As much as I hated his recent behavior, as much as I hated how much it hurt to lose him, a part of me understood. A part of me loved him even more.

A week passes, then another, and every day I regret what I’ve done but I tell myself it was for the best, given all the factors: The father and I have no future together; my mother often wished (out loud) for a career rather than a child, and my own career has just begun so why botch that up; and lastly, there’s the issue of coke. The coke I snorted with Perry again and again to numb my emptiness. Cocaine was my first thought when I discovered I was pregnant. Obviously, it cannot be good for a fetus. If it weren’t for that stupid flimsy powder that I stuck up my pimply-prone nose, I might’ve made a different choice. I might’ve seen things through. I have only myself to blame and that’s the hardest of all to accept. There is one more additional reason, one I will likely never admit out loud, one that makes me sadder than all the others combined—it’s about the unfairness the child would encounter every day.

On a Thursday comes news that Bobbie has passed. Tanya and a few others from accounting plan for a celebration-of-life ceremony to take place the following day in the breakroom. Did you even like Bobbie, I ask Tanya, while watching her jot down a list: paper plates, plastic cups, serrated knife.

Show some respect, she mutters. The woman is dead.

Del says he doesn’t want to attend but I wheel him down to the gathering on Friday anyway. It’ll do you good, I argue. Try to play nice for a few minutes.

I can get there on my own, Del whines and tries to swat away my hand.

But we both know you won’t, I respond, pushing him toward the entrance. Plus, there’s no use trying to fool me, you enjoy a sugar rush as much as the next person. I’ve seen the Twinkies you scarf after lunch.

Can’t a man have a secret? he grumbles. But I see him crack a grin.

Then he whispers something I barely discern, Don’t know why you let that windbag take up so much of your time.

Who? I say, but now we’ve reached the breakroom, and Del clamps right back up, his lips a straight line. For Sentimental Reasons is playing from a boom box on the counter. Luther used to sing that to me, too. I think of you every morning, I dream of you every, every, every, every night.

The last time my coworkers and I gathered in this room was exactly one month ago, when we’d clamored around a small television set to watch live coverage of the space shuttle launch. Seven crew members were on board, including a schoolteacher. The president of Heavenly Burgers had granted us permission to watch, but only for a short time following takeoff. Then we were to return to our desks.

As Challenger launched into the sky that day, I realized that my period was late—a week, possibly two, and I’d always been regular—but a mere seventy-three seconds later, I forgot all about that. Because right there in our windowless lounge, on live TV, the space shuttle blew apart in front of our disbelieving eyes. Seven people essentially combusted, along with all that steel and titanium, and there was nothing anyone could do.

For I don’t know how long, we sat in stunned silence. The explosion was all I could think about for the remainder of that day and it continued to consume my thoughts throughout the week and into the next. It felt like the air had been collectively drained out of the whole country, and I couldn’t stop visualizing the explosion. So much had ended, and changed, in a lurid flash. Sleep wouldn’t come at night. Security didn’t exist in the light.

But now, no one talked about it anymore.

Someone is handing me a slice of Bobbie’s cake when the front lobby receptionist appears by my side. There’s someone here to see you, she says.

Warily, I exit the breakroom and push open the lobby doors. Someone here to see you always reminds me of something you’d hear in a horror film. But standing in the middle of a woven rug is crisp-suited Luther, who looks sharp and poised despite chewing on a hangnail. He arches his eyebrows, flashes an impish smile. I haven’t seen him for over two months, but I try to appear nonchalant. Hang on, I tell him—let me grab something. Don’t move.

I rush back into the breakroom and yank hold of Tanya. Follow me, I instruct, and she does.

Tanya, I say, when we’re standing before him, I’d like you to meet Luther.

They’ve never been introduced but Tanya experienced firsthand how devastated I was after we broke up. Some days I even placed my head flat on my desk, which our employee handbook strictly forbids—napping is cause for termination. Sucking on a cigarette, Tanya would tickle my scalp with her long pointy fingernails and burble soft things. At the sight of Luther, a hand flies up to her mouth. Why—she starts, and I cut her off.

See you in a bit, I say brightly. We’re going out for a quick walk, just wanted you to meet him.

I rush Luther out the door, and he looks at me sideways. What was that all about?

You know exactly what that was about.

He sucks in his breath, says, Interesting to learn you were ashamed the whole time.

I was never ashamed—you know that.

So why the secrecy?

I could ask you the same question.

Touché.

What are you doing here, anyway, I ask, as we cross the street toward City Hall Plaza. He doesn’t answer but his hand brushes against my hip and I quelch my rising desire. He’s not mine, I tell myself. He never fully was. We stop walking when we reach the patio where Prince Charles once stood.

Luther squints for a moment and his deep brown eyes gleam, as warm as his hand. I feel like I owe you an apology, he begins. Or an explanation—

You don’t owe me anything, I say, even though I like where this is headed.

Crows circle overhead. It’s the last day of February. The sun is out but it’s not the brow-beating kind.

I didn’t end things the right way, Luther goes on. I know I screwed up. I never should have let myself become involved—

Now I don’t like this at all. From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the bereted man with the Dalmatian I saw a couple weeks back. I waggle my fingers in recognition—figuring he might remember me, plus I’m glad to see Shield again—but as he gets closer, the man shoots us a dirty look. The kind we’ve seen before.

To Luther I say, Spill it. Tell me what’s up.

Gently he cups my shoulders, which prompts the man with the Dalmatian to yell, Hey! Get your hands off her.

I feel Luther stiffen; his hands slide away. No, I want to tell him—ignore the guy. But I don’t want to cause a scene.

I’m warning you, says the man. Move away from that girl.

Ignoring him, Luther withdraws a gold chain from his pocket. A locket hangs from it containing a small black and white picture that we took at one of those instant photo kiosks. Purposely, I’d left the necklace behind at his place, between the pages of Sula. It was too painful for me to keep.

I fold his palm over the chain. It’s yours.

The man is still hurling us dirty looks and I think I hear him say sic ‘em under his breath.

Drue, I can’t, says Luther. I moved back with—

Yeah, I know.

Luther slightly bows his head. I want, he stammers…to do right, you know? Do right by my boy.

What about doing right by Shasta? I shoot back. My voice hisses more than I intend.

His head is still lowered. Still working on that, he says softly. Listen, I don’t blame you for being angry. But maybe we can get some closure?

I scoff and kick a pebble. How’s this for closure? I’ve been carting around a little Tibbs.

Luther’s face clouds and I can tell he wants to look away, but I keep my eyes fixed on his, daring him not to. His mouth briefly opens then closes. I don’t know what to say, he finally manages. Other than, when were you going to tell me?

I’m telling you now.

He squeezes the bridge of his nose then peers intensely at me, his eyes wide with concern. I guess I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me before—

I sense the man inching closer.

Maybe because I figured you’d think I was trying to trap you or something, I answer coolly. And even though that’s not the case, what is true is that I’d want you all in, and we both know you can’t do that…and then I thought, wait, I’m the one who’d be trapped.

What are you saying?

I’m saying you can have a clear conscience—I took care of it.

Took care?

Slowly, I nod. My head feels heavy, like I’ll have to concentrate extra hard to keep it upright.

Dalmatian man has scuttled over to us, pinching a baggie presumed to be full of Shield’s poop. He drops it by Luther’s foot.

We’re not bothering anyone, says Luther calmly. Please move along.

Fact is, you are bothering me, snarls the man. Right out here in front of God and everyone, disturbing the peace. Disturbing my lawful rights.

A vision floats before me of a crumpled teen boy.

Sir? I plead. Can you just attend to your dog.

You ought to be ashamed of yourself, the man replies. Shaming your family, humiliating your kinfolk.

He turns his head to the side and spits on the ground and without thinking I retrieve the poop bag, snag it open, and heave it toward his face. Shit splatters across his chin and his nose and he lunges toward us, flailing his arms. A speck hits his Rolex.

Drue, Luther scolds, and pulls me away.

Our feet slap the concrete and soon I’m breathing hard. I don’t look back to see if the man is chasing us. I can hear Shield barking, but I tell myself Dalmatian puppies can’t do much harm, though I don’t know if that’s true.

Are you crazy, Drue? Luther shouts. Trying to get me killed? I can’t get in a fight with that man.

We run toward an alley.

Why’d you do it? Luther asks, once we’re out of sight. We’re leaning against a chain-link fence, catching our breath. We no longer hear the man or the dog.

That fuckwad deserved it.

I’m not talking about that, says Luther. He doubles over like a marathoner after a race.

I bend down too. A clean break’s always better. No ties, right? You’re the philosopher…what do you say?

It’s a lot to digest, Drue. I can’t believe you…I mean, you know—without talking to me.

He takes my hand, says, Let’s keep moving. We round the corner to a paved parking lot that sits behind the corporate headquarters of Heavenly Burgers. The building is squat and red-bricked with a short staircase that leads to a second-floor rear door, where shipments are delivered. We stop near a row of cars, and I poke Luther in the ribs.

Would it have mattered if I kept it?

It might’ve, he says, looking forlorn. Anything’s possible.

Be real, I sneer.

He doesn’t know how many times I picked up the phone to call him, how many times I dialed his number before chickening out and hanging up before he could answer. Nor does he know how many nights I lay awake after we broke up, crying over him, and our loss. Sometimes I still do.

Don’t you think it’s unwise to bring another child into this world? I say quietly. Dangerous, even?

He lets out a resigned sigh. I deal with dangerous every day.

The sun is beginning to lower, casting long shadows across hoods of dingy sedans and Corollas. It must be close to five. Crusty Ron is probably wondering where I am. All I know is it’s usually the wrong people who get attacked, I say, and if anyone should get a good beating it’s that ass-wipe at the plaza. He needs to be taken out.

Whoa, Drue, where’s that coming from? Luther looks at me scornfully. Get off the cross, someone else needs the wood. Let’s get back to the matter at hand.

The matter at hand, I repeat sarcastically, then pretend to snuff out a discarded cigarette butt with the tip of my shoe so he can’t see my sadness, my shame. I thought I’d considered everything carefully. I thought I’d weighed each factor again and again. But why had I been so stubborn and pigheaded? So worried about how he might react? Did I fear he’d admit I’d been nothing but a distraction for him?

Does the father know? a social worker had asked me at the clinic. Has he been informed?

I wish—I say, then stop.

Luther opens his arms. Come here.

I move toward him, eager for his touch. I feel him draw me close. I try not to let it feel too good. Damn him for being the only man I’ve loved, the only one who didn’t try to change me, the only one who helped me believe I might be worthy of good things.

I’m sorry, he murmurs, I really am. But you could’ve talked to me, you didn’t have to decide on your own. That’s all I’m saying. Maybe we could’ve come up with a plan.

You don’t get to do this, I muffle, but his neck has that sweet scone aroma and I inhale deeply and hold on. Briefly I think about the boy that Hollis tortured. I wish I had asked his name. Then without warning the awful man charges around the corner twirling a baseball bat. Luther whispers something but I can’t make out what he says because crazy guy yells at Luther, I will hurt you.

Part of me wants Luther to confront him but I envision the worst. Quickly, I shove Luther hard in the chest: Run goddammit. Get the fuck away! To myself, I pretend that I’m yelling at the man, not Luther. Go, I growl in a voice I don’t recognize, and then cruelly, Go back to your wife and kid.

Luther flashes me a pained expression, but I shove him again, harder. Leave!

As he reluctantly takes off, I watch the vanishing outline of his sinewy back, the curve of his calves pushing against the fabric of his suit pants. He raises his right arm behind his shoulder, wiggling his fingers in a wave. The fingers that will never again trace my spine, flit across my collarbone, my sternum, the top of my thighs, but an abrupt end is better than an extended one, I suppose. Having him near me for any longer won’t change a thing. Rip that Band-aid right off, girlie, my great aunt used to instruct, don’t let the stench set in. You’ll get too soft.

Bat-man moves closer. Smudges of dog shit still cling to his face. You owe me a Rolex, he says menacingly, slowly punctuating each word. Shield bounds from around the corner, pink tongue flapping from the side of his mouth. I point and tell the man to look. He doesn’t. Rage fills his face.

Come here, boy, I yell, before turning and scrambling up the staircase two steps at a time. I bang on the large steel door. Delivery! I call in a feigned peppy voice. Open up!

The man follows me over to the stairs. He pings the bat against the railing a few times. You ain’t pretty, you ugly, and I gonna ugly you up some more.

Suddenly I’m seized with a terrible thought. Maybe I’m no better than him. Not by enough, anyway. My crime is silence. Always has been. Doesn’t that make me an accomplice too? I picture the bloody boy beneath Tanya’s window, shaking, begging, shitting himself. I pound again on the door, praying the handle will turn, offering a crack to slither through. And then I imagine the bat coming down on my head.

Mercy swells in my vision: fetus-curled on the floor where her boyfriend was beaten, removing the nails from her window. The round-cheeked girl in the silvery frame that Tanya used to keep on her desk. Where is it now—in a drawer? I realize I do want to talk to Mercy, I do want to spend time with her like Tanya suggested, the sooner the better, and who knows, maybe one day Mercy will allow me to meet her beau. Jiggling the doorknob, I accidentally jam it into the stomach of a bewildered clerk right then peeking out.

If you had any confidence, you’d be one dangerous woman, Luther told me more than once. You’re the only one stopping yourself.

Gripping the door, I turn around and brazenly address the man, Only a sissy would hide behind a bat.

He charges upward and I careen past the clerk, hollering thanks and instructing him to hurry and lock the door, don’t let that man in whatever you do, and then I barrel down the corridor, zinging past glass-walled offices that are now mostly empty, past conference rooms and supply closets, past the breakroom where I can hear the din of someone clearing away Bobbie’s celebration-of-life mess, past the high, swinging doors of the restrooms, and then over to the maze of cubicles, hoping to catch Tanya before she leaves.

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Cyn Nooney‘s work has appeared in The Penn Review, CRAFT, Chestnut Review, Ursa Minor, Fractured Lit, New York Times, and elsewhere. In 2022 she was the winner of ScreenCraft’s Cinematic Short Story Competition. She received her MFA from Pacific University and lives in the San Francisco Bay Area.