Dense

Dense

Colleen Shea Stump

I'm a bad person. In my 30s, I chased everything in pants. My gallivanting gifted me a husband who wore uptight suits with monochromatic ties and only ate macadamia nuts, other nuts too pedestrian for his sensitive palate. Our relationship detonated when cards on the felt-covered tables and Manhattans-on-the rocks took over, leaving me bankrupt on the street with my boy. The ex? Soft landing in a fancy rehab in Mexico, the bill footed by his overindulgent parents.

Now in my 40s, I reside in Transitional Housing with my 10-year old son and The Boyfriend. My folks, if I ever introduce them, would call The Boyfriend Blockhead (Mom) and Bruiser (Dad). My son gets to the point and calls him Idiot, but in a in a nonjudgmental way 'cause when we encounter a group of hoodlums on our way to Housing, his cocky, I-can-take-down-anyone attitude serves a purpose -- protection.

I work at Hummingbirds, a boutique grocery snugged between an organic free-range butcher shop and a bookstore catering to a Northwest lifestyle. The owner of Hummingbirds, with her granola ways, makes the store a must-go-to for our neighbors who live in McMansions with views of the Sound and Olympics, hours 7:00 AM to 7:00 PM.

Six days a week I stock, perform barista duties, and kowtow to people who are mirror images of my ex in-laws. Poetic justice I guess. If I sound bitter, I'm not. Or maybe a little, but I'm trying not to be as this job might prove to be the shortest route to housing stability for me and my son.

My one aspiration is Deli Manager. I'm a Google addict, forever searching for the latest in specialty meats and exclusive cheeses around the world. Four out of six days a week I stay late, experimenting with new combinations. Think olive-oil marinated cherry tomatoes grilled with Chèvre served on a thyme baguette (courtesy of meikepeters.com).

A day doesn't go by without my boss saying she loves by my work. But last week, she sent shockwaves through my Goodwill-clothed body when she asked me to train our newest employee, Destiny, a task up till now she preferred to do herself.

Destiny? Natural fingerwaves floating to her shoulders. Me? Over-colored, dry straw scratching the back of my neck. Her golden-brown skin covers all her flaws except for a scar below her right eye while I apply an inch of beige foundation into my facial craters courtesy by my two-pack a day habit during my freedom-tour.

We laugh about my ex; she clams-up and fidgets with the necklace she hides under her shirt whenever the topic shifts to hers. I tell her everything about my son. Her daughters remain strangers. Opposites and immediate allies.

At first, customers were cold to her, her skin the wrong color, not wanting her hands anywhere in the vicinity of their espressos or precious peaches, but they warmed up and came in for her jokes and to absorb her smile like Vitamin D.

Then BAM!

Two weeks in, the owner promotes Destiny to Deli Manager. Big announcement at the weekly staff meeting, all 12 employees sandwiched in the break room. Destiny squeals in shock, jumping up and down. Adrenaline pumping humiliation, I zig-zag through the crowd, seeking air and pushing tears down.

Destiny calls my name as generous slices of the double-chocolate cake sheathed by black velvet icing (my favorite) pass in celebration. Plateless, I respond with a beauty pageant smile as I walk back behind the cash register.

How could she be so dense? This was my moment. My promotion. My raise. What makes her more qualified than me? The dream of getting out of Housing evaporates before my eyes, the nightmare of my ex strutting through the Hummingbirds' door and taking my son from me front and center. I grab my gut, my stomach acids in the blender.

Over the congratulatory ruckus in the breakroom, the phone rings.

I consider ignoring it but can't. I must work. Tears clouding my eyes, I stumble over and pick-up. A deli order for O'Reilly's law firm, day after tomorrow. I go through two pencils, points breaking, blinking the blur away. And as if that's not enough humiliation, I to deal with three huffy patrons as the jocularity continues in the workroom, blinking to hide my tears.

"Cassie, thanks for working the counter. Couldn't do it without you!" said the owner as she picks-up more plates. How could she be so dense? My pain all over my face.

Destiny takes the afternoon off to celebrate with her girls, leaving me holding the bag. Of course, the typical afternoon trickle of customers spirals into a stampede with multiple requests for specialty meats, cheese and lattes.

When I finally lock the door, the mercury in my irritability thermometer is boiling over, creating a bio-hazard. Itching for revenge, my hands remove the O'Reilly order from my pocket and shred it into a million pieces. Good luck, I think, envisioning docile, unsuspecting Destiny attempting to make 20 toasted clubs, 3 gluten free and mixing up the Waldorf salad -- 11 straight, 5 without mayo, 4 without walnuts. The sweet taste of revenge fuels my ego as I brush the paper scraps from the counter to my purse.

Wanting to deliver more hurt, I relocate 10 pretzel buns with layers of Black Forest Ham and Havarti to a shelf in the far back of the cooler where no one goes. Although I know to the depths of my soul my actions are pathetic and juvenile, my hands and legs finish the deed, the devil on my shoulder cheering me on.

***

The next morning, I stare with morbid curiosity as her hands fumble to set-up for the lunch rush. I don't offer to help, too busy rubbernecking her misery and patting myself on the back.

But she prevails, cutting jokes with the lunch crowd while adding final touches of arugula, aioli, onions and pickles, her bronze lipstick smiling in the reflection mirror.

"Out of sight job today," the owner says showing her the register run. "Higher than usual for a Wednesday."

I go out back for a smoke. A new, old habit.

***

Later.

"Cassie, any idea how I was down so many sandwiches? Was there a rush last night?" Destiny asks me, leaning on the drink cooler by the register.

"A small order, a couple of hoagies. Mostly meat and lattes." My eyes anywhere but meeting hers.

"Okay...so strange. Thanks, friend."

A few moments later laughter explodes as Destiny pulls her head out of the cooler, holding the tray of traveling made-up pretzel buns. "Hey, look! They're in the wrong spot. Newbie jitters!"

At closing, alone again, 20 sandwiches go on a field trip to a back shelf in the walk-in cooler. I congratulate myself - down sandwiches and the O'Reilly order. Tomorrow will end her reign as Deli Queen. My plan for housing stability back on track.

***

I arrive early to find Destiny behind the counter sweating bullets.

"Everything okay?"

"No. More sandwiches missing."

"Weird. Hey, ready for the squeeze? Remember, O'Reilly's sending a runner around 11:30 of so."

"What?" Her hands up in the air. "Today? Kidding, right?"

"Nope." I start to walk away. "Can't screw up! The firm? Bread-and-butter for the owner."

"How did I miss this? Where do order forms go?" Her hands digging through a random stack of paper, sweat bubbles forming on her forehead.

I look away. A two-bedroom apartment at stake.

A couple of customers later, my ears catch her dialing the firm.

"Can you lend me a hand, now?" she said, coming around to the cash register, her big, beautiful brown eyes pleading, lips pouting.

"Nope. Stocking. Smitty's Farm. Wait till you see the heirloom tomatoes. Photo perfect." I walk away, no longer an enabler, a lesson courtesy of my ex.

***

The lunch rush hits with a vengeance. Her premade sandwiches evaporate in the first 20 minutes. At 11:30, the O'Reilly runner dashes to the front of the line. I take my seat, the theater curtain about to rise.

Never missing a beat, Destiny smiles and hands the runner their multi-box order. SHITE! What is she, a sandwich whisperer?

"Cassie? You know better," said the owner running to help Destiny. "For heaven's sake, stop stocking and get to the front. "

I dart to the front, heat rising up my neck.

***

Destiny stays after I lock the doors.

She approaches me, nose to nose. "How did you know about O'Reilly's? No one else did."

"Somebody ...uh..."

"No. I talked with everyone. Leaves you. Trying to get me fired? Aren't we friends?"

"What? You're accusing me? Back off, you hear me?" red blotches popping up on my face and neck.

"Not so fast. We found the 20 missing in the walk-in. Someone moved them."

"Don't blame your ineptitude on me! Two weeks in and you think you can manage the deli? Who are you kidding?" My voice up an octave.

"You better step off." Her finger a centimeter from my nose.

"Are you threatening me?"

"Stating facts."

As if on cue, The Boyfriend materializes at the head of the aisle, standing behind her. I shudder at the sight of him, bulging muscles, stiff smile, forgetting I let him in before locking up.

He leans down to Destiny's height. "Hello, Destiny. Are you making problems for my girl?" Low and menacing.

A small scream escapes her lips as she turns around. She kneads her necklace's pendant and puts her head down, wiping the back of her neck as if to remove his breath from her skin. She snatches her purse and runs to her car.

"So much fun," chuckled The Boyfriend.

***

At Housing, I rant about the unfairness of the owner, Destiny's self-righteousness, and my tomato-induced backache. The Boyfriend tosses around a couple of payback ideas, cracking himself up. Never thought he'd act on them, the dumb-head.

***

The next day, she works a double. In between, she takes a catnap in her car.

With no more than 60 seconds of her break remaining, Destiny charges through the front, slams the bathroom door, her sobs and dry heaves discernible though she flushes the toilet as often as possible without over-flooding the plumbing. The Boyfriend struts in, bulging muscles. Neanderthal grin.

"What did you do?"

"What we talked about last night." Smirk.

"You didn't hurt her, did you?"

"No. A little fun. I laid across her windshield while she slept and when she opened those brown eyes, she stared straight into mine and shrieked, her face a hot mess. She honked and started the car, but I hung on, laughing in her face. A neighbor came out and threatened to call 911 so I left. She got the message, believe me."

Destiny walks out of the bathroom, eyes red, to wait on a customer, avoiding interaction with me and my loser boyfriend.

***

Days pass. My stomach acts up as the owner and Destiny bond. I blame my dysentery on the flu.

***

Destiny with the day off, I open alone. Deep in the walk-in cooler, I almost miss the sound of the wind chime announcing a customer.

I step back to ask them to give me a minute when my body slams into a wall of brick. Indignant, I swing around to confront the jerk, fist ready, adrenaline pumping.

"Where is she?" he asks, low and gruff. Eyes vacant. Hands in pocket.

"Who?" I demand, hands on my hips, all bluster. Knees ready to give out at the mere size of him.

He pushes me deeper in the cooler, a steel shelf cutting into my back.

"My wife. Where is she?"

"Your wife?"

"You twit!" He yanks on her employee tag hanging on the outside of the walk-in. "Her. Stop stalling. Where is she?" Breath of dead whiskey and weed.

"She quit."

"Liar!" He pulls a knife out of his pocket and rests the cool blade on my neck. "I'm gonna' ask one more time. Where is my wife?"

"Took the day off."

"Now, we're getting somewhere, liar," blade at my throat. "Let's try something new. Where are my kids?"

"No idea."

"What school do they go to?" He puts more pressure on the knife. "Speak up!"

"I don't know! Please let me go before my boyfriend gets here."

"Oh, a boyfriend? Too bad I locked the door. Now, my girls? Where. Are. They?"

He pricks my skin with the blade's point, drawing blood and thundering pain.

"Washington Elementary."

"Address!"

"14th South and Jackson."

KABAM! He wallops me in the nose. Red explosion. The image of Destiny's scar below her right eye flashes in my mind, intermingles with light bursts of stars from the hit.

He lifts me off the ground and throws me at the wall of the walk-in and barricades the door from the outside.

***

With one hand pinching my nose, on my knees, I search the floor of the cooler for my cell. Hand shaking, I depress the power button. Light.

Contacts. Destiny. Five rings. Connection ends.

Contacts. Washington Elementary.

"This is Cassie Johnson, mother of Jason. An emergency. Destiny White's ex threatened me with a knife. On his way to take the girls."

"Who is this?"

I explain once more, the secretary putting the principal on the phone. I hang up, collapse to the floor, my pulsating nose causing the worse migraine of my life.

Voices from the other side of the walk-in door release the barrier.

"Cassie!"

"I'm fine. Destiny!"

I snatch my purse, a roll of paper-towel and dash out the door, trail of red splashes on the sparkling waxed floor.

***

Foot on the gas, I speed down the back roads to the school.

I abandon my car on the sidewalk and spot Destiny crisscrossing traffic. Her eyes catch me and blink.

"Cassie! You're hurt!"

"Later. The girls!"

I reach for her hand, and we rush in the building, the principal hustling us in.

"Police on the way. Girls secure in the nurse's room. You two, my office, under the conference table."

"Lock down! Lock down! This is not a drill," crackles over the PA system.

Destiny and I huddle together, her necklace pendant catching the light - St. Rita of Cascia, Patroness of Survivors of Domestic Abuse.

Seconds later, pounding and glass spraying.

"I'm here for my daughters. I need to see my kids now!"

Silence.

"I know you're in here. Show your face!"

We hold on tight as tears spring from our eyes.

Footsteps stomp out the office to the hallway. "Alicia? Latoya? Where are you? It's your father. Get out here now!"

We hear sirens off in the distance.

Then, one pair of feet thundering up the stairs.

Sirens break our eardrums then stop mid-screech.

A riot of boots crunch through the broken glass, down the hall and into the office.

"Guard the exits. You, second floor. We'll take first."

Feet moving.

"Request for backup. Washington Elementary. Man allegedly armed with a knife. Broken front and office door. Lock down."

Silence. Destiny and I cling to each other under the table as she whispers a prayer to the Virgin Mary on a continuous loop.

Boots return to the hallway.

"Subject in custody. Repeat, subject in custody. Disarmed."

Destiny and I high-five under the table, tears of relief flowing down our cheeks.

Noise of boots and struggle.

"Let me go! You have no right!"

Under the table we look at each other, both recognizing his voice, our hands shaking.

"Stop resisting, sir. You're under arrest. You have the right to remain...." The voice fades, as do the boots after they crunch through the shattered glass.

Car doors slam. Tires crunch on the pavement.

"Destiny, he's gone! You and the girls are safe."

"Hopefully forever this time."

***

We hear a key in the lock and feel fresh air whoosh into the room.

"Ladies, all clear. We've got him."

We crawl out from under the table, the female officer helping us to our feet. "Wow, he did some damage."

Our necks whiplash to each other, us forgetting all about my nose. "Oh that? I'm fine. Been through worse."

"Should be checked out. Consider pressing charges. Follow me." The two officers escort us to the nurse's office.

The girls rush into Destiny's arms, words flying. "Mom! Dad? Is he gone?"

"He's gone. The police took him," Destiny, hugging the breath out of her girls. "We're going to be fine."

"It's all my fault. Please don't be mad, Mama. Please!" Alicia's lips quivering. "Everything's my fault!"

"What do you mean, everything's your fault? None of this is your fault, baby girl. Never."

"Dad! I called him. On a school phone."

"You what?"

"Asked him for money." Sobs rack Alicia's body. "But I didn't tell him where we were. I swear!"

Destiny hits her thigh with her fist, eyes pinching tight.

"Mamma?" asks Alicia, her eyes down. "Please don't be mad. I wanted to help. We hate when you work late. We try to be brave, but the tent? Scary at night."

Destiny and the girls in a tent? Nausea washes over me.

Destiny sobs, head in her hands. I walk over to comfort her.

She ends up comforting me.

Another mom, like me.

Homeless.

So ashamed. I am a bad person. A dense one at that.