Kill Whitey

Darryl took care of calling GPS. The phone lines at the distribution center were busy and it took him a long while to get through. When he finally did, Darryl told our supervisor, Scott, that the head gasket in my Jeep had blown and we were stranded along the side of Interstate 83 waiting for a tow truck. Scott wasn’t real happy with this news. Apparently, our Load Area was getting slammed with boxes. Twelve trailer shipments of Total Gyms had arrived and they all had to go out immediately. Dock workers fucking hate Total Gyms. They’re heavy, unwieldy, and generally a big pain in the ass. The plastic binding straps can snap if you use them to lift the boxes, and the cardboard has sharp edges that will give you one hell of a paper cut if you’re not wearing gloves. The only thing worse than seeing an endless supply of Total Gyms rolling across the conveyor belts and sliding down your chute is at Christmas and the start of summer, when book distributors like Ingram and Baker & Taylor increase their shipments to bookstores. That’s just pure fucking hell—all those heavy boxes of diet books and How to Get Rich guides and whatever Oprah got wet about on television. Makes for hard days. That’s probably why I don’t read much, anymore. Thank God Oprah’s off the air now.

So Scott was pissed off, but not at us. He was just mad in general. Our department was getting its ass kicked. But he believed the excuse—believed that we were standing alongside the highway with a busted head gasket—and we were off the hook and out of trouble.

Relatively speaking.

We still had that whole Russian mob thing to worry about.

Sondra started crying again. It happened suddenly. No preamble or warning. One minute she was sitting there at the table, petting Webster and drinking her coffee. The next, she had her face in her hands, her body wracked with sobs. Webster hopped off her lap and ran into the living room. He stopped there, turned around, and watched her. Then he looked at me.

“Hey…” I reached for her, but then pulled my hand away. I didn’t know what to say. ‘Sorry your old man molested you,’ didn’t seem appropriate. Neither did, ‘I’m sorry that you became a sex slave for the Russian mob’ or ‘Hope you and your unborn baby escape the psychopath who wants to kill you’. I was pretty sure Hallmark didn’t make greeting cards for such occasions.

I realized that Darryl and Webster were both looking at me now. They had the same expression on their faces: Do something, dumb ass.

So I did.

I got up, walked around the table and put my hand on Sondra’s shoulder. The silk was soft and smooth. Her skin was warm. She didn’t move, didn’t look up or acknowledge me, but neither did she push me away or run off screaming. I patted her shoulder and made empty promises—that it would be okay, that it was alright, all better, she was safe now. Sondra didn’t respond, but after a few minutes, she raised her head and wiped her eyes.

“I am sorry. I not mean to cry so much. I am just very afraid. And very tired.”

“Would you like to lie down for a little bit?”

She nodded. “Da. Just for few minutes.”

I took her by the hand. She didn’t resist. Webster trotted after us. I led her to my bedroom and immediately regretted it. The room was a mess. The sheets were rumpled and covered with crumbs—even a stain from the last time I’d eaten a meatball sandwich in the bed. Webster shed a lot and wads of cat fur covered the bedspread. Dirty clothing and wet towels littered the floor. My dresser and nightstand were a forest of empty beer bottles, joint stubs, half-read paperbacks, plates, bowls, and CD cases. The room smelled like ammonia; Webster’s litter box was hidden in the corner. I hurriedly attempted to tidy up, grabbing an armload of towels and clothes. Sondra giggled.

I turned around. She smiled at me and shut the door behind her. Webster immediately howled his displeasure at being locked out of the bedroom.

“See? You are like other men. Waiting for mother to clean up after you.”

I couldn’t tell if she was being serious or joking. Shrugging, I dropped the dirty laundry in the hamper.

“The bed’s clean,” I said. “Just a little messy. Go ahead and lie down for a bit.”

“I am not wanting to be alone.”

“I’m sure Webster will climb up there with you. He never turns down a chance to nap. As you can hear, he wants in.”

“I like cat very much. He is fuzzy. But you will stay, too, yes?”

“M…me?” I swallowed. “Sure…I g-guess. If you want me to.”

“Da, I want you.”

She lay down on the bed, propped herself up on her elbows, and smiled again. I smiled back. She patted the mattress next to her and kicked off her high heels. Her robe had come unfastened again. Trying not to stare, I sat down on the edge of the bed and unlaced my boots. I jumped when her hands touched my shoulders.

“Shhh,” she whispered.