Butcher

30

Months later Sharon was still haunted by the shooting. Innumerable times, in sweaty dreams, she'd prayed for the moment back, rewriting the scene each time. Once or twice, to punish herself more, in the recreation of the event she'd let the man take Stacey. There were other haunting moments.

Sometimes, especially in the shelter, shadows would loom in an ominous form, and the absence of real security would do nothing to alleviate her anxiety. They'd installed an alarm, but the one-way-view access entry, with locked door and video monitors, had gone the way of other good intentions, victims of the usual budget crunch. She felt vulnerable, both for herself and for ones like Vonetta Jackson, a black version of the Linley woman, who sat across from her recounting a tale of woes sadly familiar to Sharon.

“I'm sorry if I'm trouble,” the woman said. Vonetta, unemployed and unemployable, very pregnant, had twice been the target of ghetto bangers looking to steal, or when there was nothing left to take, to rape and brutalize.

“You're no trouble,” Sharon smiled. “Soon as we get you fed we'll find you a place to sleep tonight, okay?"

“I can go back to the project tonight."

“You don't want to do that.” She felt herself getting angry, not with Vonetta so much as with the shadow of a man filling the open doorway inside her imagination. She was suddenly reliving the damned thing again. Seeing every indelible detail, even the trivia, like the plastic name tag of a kind young cop as he leaned over to reassure her.

“—all I got to do is fix the door—"

He had leaned over and whispered to her.

“—and I be fine.” Poor Vonetta.

“Sure,” Sharon said, “you'll be fine."

“You'll be fine,” he'd said it just that way as the police were finishing with her. “Don't change the way you tell it. Remember what he said: ‘I'll kill all you bitches dead!’ Just stick to that.” Chill bumps covered her arms.

“But that is what he said,” she'd whispered back, very scared again, but frightened for herself this time.

“Yeah, I know,” he said, in what she thought was a slightly matter-of-fact tone. “I'm saying don't change your story around."

Why would she change her story around? She snapped out of it as the phone on her desk buzzed. She picked it up and learned she had a call. Her father was on the line.

“Vonetta, hang on a second will you please? I've got to take this quick call.” The girl sat patiently. “Hello.” Sharon spoke into the phone.

“It's me.” Her father was calling from southeast Missouri. “Could I ask a favor?"

“Sure."

“Would you go over and get my mail, please?"

“Glad to,” she said.

“Wait a day. Go over day after tomorrow and see what all I have. Put it in a bag and mail it to me here at the motel, you mind?"

“No problem, Dad."

He told her he was trying to find someone who'd called him and then apparently vanished. Sharon had his extra keys.

“You looking for anything particular?” she asked.

“No. Just get it for me one time. Leave everything after that because I'll be back after next weekend, one way or the other."

“Oh, good.” She brightened.

“Monday at the latest. I'm going back to St. Louis and take care of business and I'll be back home no later than Wednesday week."

“How's Bayou City?"

“Wet. Is it raining?"

“Um, it wasn't,” she said, turning to glance out a window. “It's kinda grungy looking, like it could mist or something. I think they're predicting rain tonight, though.” She turned back and noticed Vonetta was gone. Her sigh of exasperation was audible on the other end.

“You sound tired,” he said.

“Not really,” she said, not wishing to explain. She knew how concerned he was about her since the shooting incident.

“What's the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing. Really. Just the blahs."

“Well, perk up and get peppy."

“Okay."

“I'll talk to you later. Thanks for the mail and be a good girl, all right?"

“Hug and kiss."

“Hug and kiss.” The line went dead. Your little girl loves you too, Daddy.

What's the matter? Oh, Vonetta Jackson is pregnant again and she has the mind of a houseplant. I'm almost thirty, unmarried, and every guy I've ever dated probably thinks of me as a ball breaker. I have a police record. My father is a professional Jew who hunts Nazis as a hobby. I'm depressed, foolish, ungrateful, and have a problem interfacing with my software. It's going to rain. Other than that...

On the other hand, as Mom used to say, she thought, look at the bright side. In most places it is legal to make a right turn on red.