At the Crossroads

In the lull before the holiday lunch rush, Chris stared across the food court. Several last minute shoppers stuffed the remains of their early meals into the brightly colored trash bins. All that uneaten food. All that waste. How many hungry and homeless could it save?

Every year people rushed by, consumed in their quest to give something to others who truly needed nothing as if a month of spending could make up for their greed and callousness throughout the rest of the year. They would throw their loose change into a red bucket and call it even but only when a ringing bell reminded them.

“Hey, Zeus. Que pasa, cuz?” His cousins Jayme and Juanita stood with Pjotr at the far end of the counter, all three dressed their brown and orange Fish Shticks’ uniforms. Chris hated knit polyester. It was hot and even clean it smelled of frying oil. Why weren’t any of them allowed to wear organic cotton?

“Haven’t you heard?” Judy said, “He goes by Chris now.” He turned to find her standing in the doorway to the back arranging her short, black hair beneath her cap as she came on shift.

“Oow, a big shot,” Jayme said. The three across the counter looked at each other and laughed.

“I go by what they call me,” Chris responded. His name didn’t really matter.  

“We’re just messing with you, man.” Pjotr reached across the counter and roughed Chris’s foldout paper hat. He’d forgotten his uniform cap again today. “Hey, we still on for dinner tonight?”

“I scored us the back room at the Garden,” Judy said. “Big enough for all of us. And private.”

Another round of laughter. “Better watch it, cuz, or Magda will get jealous,” Juanita teased as she smiled sidelong at Judy.

“We’re not that way,” Chris said. He turned to find Judy looking at him with a peculiar expression he’d seen from her a lot lately. He wished he knew what it meant.

“If you say so,” Juanita said. “Later, cuz.” The three of them trailed laughter as they headed across the food court to clock in for their shifts.

A pair of teens approached the counter and considered the menu overhead. Before Chris could deliver the required greeting, Judy tapped him on the shoulder. “I’ve got the register.” She pulled a thumb behind her. “Mr. C. wants to see you in back.”

“Welcome to Your Daily Bread,” she said as he headed for the office. “May I take your order?”

Chris passed through the two chair break area, just across from the backline then snaked around the pre-prep and clean-up stations. Over the scent of hot soups that permeated the restaurant and decay rising from the dishwashing sink, he smelled yeast and flour, the staff of life. Your Daily Bread’s signature side in all flavors, light to dark, sweet to rye.

In the tiny office just big enough for the desk piled high with paperwork that nearly buried the computer, Mr. C. was ensconced in his ergonomic desk chair as if it were a throne. Miss Anna was perched in the guest seat by his side. Stacks of promotional material and posters leaned against the wall behind them.

Chris rapped on the door, but didn’t enter. Miss Anna floated up and squeezed by him sideways. The knit polyester of her uniform vest rasped across his shirt, yielding in a discomforting way his did not. She smiled over her shoulder as she left. She did it just to tempt him, and to make Mr. C. jealous. Mr. C. watched her sashay back to the frontline through the office window mostly obscured by old notices, safety reminders and the schedule.

Unlike the insipid carol loop that was piped through the rest of the food court, Mr. C. had his personal XM receiver tuned to the O’Really Hour as usual. Today, O’Really was ranting that Christmas had become an anti-capitalist redistribution of wealth. Last week he had regaled his enraptured audience with tales of a War on Christmas that bordered on mythic dogma.

The hypocrisy made Chris angry. He was angry a lot lately. Something inside of him had changed, something he didn’t understand. He didn’t feel grounded anymore. More often than not these days he felt detached. As if everything around him were happening in a movie and he could only watch. Unless he was angry. Then everything came into sharp focus for a little while. But he hated the way it made him feel. Judgmental and out of control. Like at the bank.

“Shut the door and take a seat.” Mr. C. was eyeing him oddly. He must have drifted off again.

Chris pulled the door closed behind him and wedged himself in the chair between the desk and the wall, shoulders hunched inward and hands upon his knees so that he didn’t encroach on the desk.

“Miss Anna’s just been telling me there have been some discrepancies in our inventory again,” Mr. C. said gravely. “Do you know anything about it?”

Chris shook his head, his eyes cast downward on his feet. Did he really need new shoes? Unfortunately, the law required he have them to work. Eventually, he’d have to buy another pair. Maybe he’d get lucky and find some castoffs at the thrift store again.

“Look Chris, this has got to stop. One more incident and your next stop’s the unemployment line. Or jail, like those hoodlums you hang around.”

“They’re my cousins,” Chris said quietly.

“I don’t care who they are. I don't want to see them by the back door after we close.”

“I’m their ride home.” Chris shrugged apologetically.

“They’re thieves,” Mr. C. said, his chair creaking as he leaned forward. “That Russian boy carries a knife.”

“They’ve never stolen anything,” Chris said.

“Security caught them carrying bags of store products across the parking lot.”

Chris just looked at him passively. “They were cleared of that. The inventories never came up off.”

“That just means no one can figure out how they stole it.” Mr. C sighed as he leaned back. “I should have been able to make you a supervisor by now, Chris. You’re conscientious. Kids like Judy worship you. But after the incident with El’azar, what am I supposed to do? What would you do in my situation?”

Chris looked up and considered. Mr. C. seemed to be asking a genuine question. But he’d never been very good at judging the intentions of others.

“Have you thought about my idea of giving the leftover bread to the homeless shelter each night?” he asked.

Mr. C.’s face clouded. He must have said something wrong.

“I’ve already told you, that’s not possible. Too much liability for the franchise. We’re not running a soup kitchen here.”

Chris just looked at him. Did he even understand what he’d just said?

“After the stunts you pulled at Fish Shticks and Communal Wine, you’re lucky to have a job anywhere in this mall.” Mr. C continued. “We won’t even talk about that scene at Churchill Bank last week.”

“She needed the loan,” Chris said softly. “I only did what was right.”

“What’s right?” Mr. C. exploded. “How is two grand in property damage right?”

Chris looked down at his shoes and said nothing. Mr. C. would never understand.

“You’re just lucky I convinced the branch manager to let you work it off. And that’s only because I don’t think you thought of it yourself. I think you listened to those hoodlums’ bad advice. But the only reason you’re still working here is because I’m an elder at your father’s church.”

“He’s my stepfather,” Chris said.

“Whatever. I told Joe I’d help you out. But one more problem and I’ll bounce you right back to being a laminator at Bamboo Yew. Or worse if this inventory comes up short.” Mr. C. turned back to his computer, apparently finished with him.

“And El’azar?” Chris asked, not moving from his seat.

Mr. C. eyes rose slowly, brimming with fire. Unafraid, Chris held his gaze until Mr. C. snatched up a pencil and started working out the daily numbers on a clipboard. Chris generally avoided confrontation but wouldn’t back down from what was right.

“Check the schedule.” Mr. C. tapped the glass with the pencil. “You’ll find he’s on it. That might change depending on what corporate has to say. Now get back to work. You can start by scrubbing out the grease trap for the Baconator.”

Chris rose and opened the door. He was halfway through it when Mr. C. added, “I’m not prejudiced you know.”

Chris turned back and looked at him. Then why do you keep a separate set of files for all the immigrants who apply, he thought but for once did not say. With a flip of Mr. C.’s hand, Chris was dismissed.

He paused at the window just long enough to consult the schedule. El’azar’s name was scrawled at the bottom with a handful of shifts.

Chris set off to retrieve the degreaser and a scrub brush. He hated the Baconator. Just the smell of it made him feel unclean. But Mr. C. knew that.

***

Chris rolled the mop bucket to the back door, one of its wheel thumping as it wobbled over the terra cotta tiles. One of his last chores before he could clock out. Outside in the common cleanup area, he dumped the grey water then began hosing down the non-skid mats from the kitchen and scrubbing the metal screens from over the grills. The work was almost meditative but he hated the scent of kitchen waste and rubber mixed with the acerbic orange degreaser. It reminded him of his days at Bamboo Yew. He enjoyed working with his hands but he couldn’t tolerate the chemicals involved.

As he hauled the last of the mats back inside, he found a trash bag full of the leftover bread waiting by the door. Judy must have bagged it up while he’d been working. He heard her clomping around the stockroom and poked his head in. She was collecting the supplies she needed to restock the front. She paused when she saw him in the doorway.

“Miss Anna was back here all day doing inventory,” Judy said. “It’s a miracle she didn’t find anything missing.”

Chris just smiled. He noticed Judy was still wearing her Doc Martens. Miss Anna had asked Mr. C. to ban them, at least for the women. She said they conveyed the wrong impression to the guests.

“I was thinking maybe tonight we send the pickup to Mother Mary’s,” Judy continued.

“We’ve talked about this, Judy,” Chris sighed.

“And all we’ve done is talk,” Judy said, grabbing up a stack of cups. “Those women could really use some of what we’ve collected. You know the shelter’s budget has been slashed again this year.”

“The people who need it most live at 5 Night Salvation this time of year,” he said looking around the stock room. Why was everything they used plastic and disposable? Why couldn’t they go green? “Maybe next time.”

“Three years and it’s always maybe next time.” She strode over to the boxes of plastic utensils, snatching up handfuls of what she needed. “I’m tired of maybe next time.”

“The homeless have a greater need,” Chris insisted as patiently as he could. Why did other people need him to show them the obvious? Why couldn’t they see them for themselves? It was so distracting and frustrating.

“Greater than women who’ve been assaulted by their husbands and children who’ve been abused?” She pulled down a box of paper napkins.

“If things get bad enough, they all end up at 5 Night Salvation. For most of them, they aren’t.”

“You can’t be serious.” Judy stopped to stare at him. “I think you’ve lost touch with the community we’re trying to help. You have no idea what these women go through.”

“The homeless have it worse,” Chris said. He found an empty box and began placing the things she’d collected in it. “That’s all I need to know.”

“Maybe you’d understand if you didn’t live the perfect life with the perfect mother and father.” Judy dumped in the additions from her arms.

“He’s my stepfather,” Chris said, arranging the items neatly in the box.

“But he acts like a real father, which is something most of these women never had. Maybe if Joe had beaten you or hit on you, you’d have more compassion.”

Chris paused to look at her. “Your stepfather can’t hurt you anymore, Judy. He’s gone. You need to let him go.”

“This isn’t about me,” she said, rummaging through another shelf for a box of salt packets. “This was supposed to be about us helping people. These women need us.”

“I can’t help everyone.” An edge crept into his voice. Why did they all think he could? Why did they all look to him?

“You make it sounds like you’re doing this alone,” Judy spat, tossing the salt in the box followed by the pepper. “We’re the ones taking all the risks. Pjotr almost ended up in jail.”

“Without me, you’d all be reduced to stealing,” Chris stated, angry now. “You and Simone can go play Robin Hood if you want. But not with me. You knew that from the beginning.”

“I bet it’d be different if Magda suggested it,” she sneered, snatching up the box.

Chris stared at her, stunned. Where had that come from? Judy glared back then turned away as if searching the shelves for anything she’d missed. Silence settled over them like a shadow. It echoed through the empty restaurant like their anger.

Judy broke it first. “Mr. C. offered me a supervisor position today,” she said softly, not looking up at him. “It comes with a raise. But it probably means we wouldn’t be working together as much. I’d be opening instead of closing.”

“Will they let you work backline?” he asked. She’d been pressing Mr. C. and Miss Anna for more than a year.

“Depends on whether Miss Anna leaves. You know they’re getting married, right?” Her green eyes sparkled mischievously at letting out the secret. “It’s kind of funny both of them seem to think a woman’s place is in the kitchen, but only at home.”

Chris paused to consider until his patience had refilled. He needed to remember she was young. All his friends were. Had he ever been that young? “Maybe you should take it,” he finally said.

Judy looked at him in the same peculiar way as earlier. Was she hurt?

“Yeah, well, I don’t know.” She took a step toward the door. “I told them I’d think about it.” She fell silent again, clutching the box, ready to return to the front.

“You want some help restocking?” he asked. “I’m done back here. We can walk over to the Garden together.”

“You go ahead,” Judy said, looking through the box to see if she had missed anything. “I’ve got some stuff to do before I can leave. I’ll catch up when I’m finished.”

“I’ll drop the collection on my way out,” he said, nodding toward the bag of bread.

“Yeah, ok. I’ll tell Ada.” Judy no longer looked at him. Had he said something wrong?

“I’ll see you at the Garden then. Don’t forget our tip money.”

Judy nodded and headed toward the front.

Chris clocked out, then picked up the bag and keyed the alarm on the back door. Instead of exiting out into cleaning area, he turned down the unpainted access hall that led to the backs of the regular shops.

The squeak of his nonskid work shoes echoed in the unpainted concrete corridor as he passed the brown, metal doors that were the mall stores employee and delivery entrances. All the others were long gone. For retailers, closing took only fifteen minutes not half an hour or more like the restaurants.

He pressed the push bar on the door nearest the walk-in clinic and exited into an alcove that held three bolted down mini-dumpsters that were screened from the parking lot by a cinderblock wall. Two were marked with the broken circles of orange biohazard stencils. The last was plastered with red skull and crossbones indicating poison. It had been Judy’s idea to repurpose an unused container after Pjotr had been stopped in the parking lot. The medical waste disposal agency never touched it because they didn’t think it was theirs. Poison Control didn’t know it was there. The perfect drop site she’d said because no one would ever dumpster dive it. Felipe had changed the lock and ground a set of duplicate keys.

Chris slipped the bag of day-old bread through the mailbox style drop-chute. Pjotr or Andrea would come by with their bags next, then Juanita or Jayme in turn. They each scrounged what they could, all according to Chris’s instructions. Judy worked out the details and handled the accounting of their collective tips which they used as communal finances. In a couple hours, Ada would make the pickup on her final security round then deliver everything to 5 Night Salvation on her way home. Tonight, that would have to wait until after dinner. Chris hoped Pjotr remembered to pack the fish in ice as he emerged into the twilight and wandered across the parking lot to meet the others.

***

The back dining room of the Garden of Vegan was aglow in flickering electric candlelight. The long table was piled high with the bounty known simply as The Feast, platters heaped with luscious fruits and exotic vegetables, bowls filled with an assortment of olives from green to black, trays with vegan antipasti dishes and a Mediterranean sampler. Though no one quite trusted the Caesar salad despite the all vegan claims of the menu. Something about the Parmesan substitute just didn’t ring true. A hollowed-out pumpernickel round had already been decimated to scoop out a creamy spinach and artichoke dip which now dripped and ran down its wounded side. The baker’s dozen around the table had turned their attention to the overflowing basket of pitas and the saucer of olive oil mixed with herbs.

By the time Judy arrived, the gathering had started on their second round of wine. A rich, bright, vegan Shiraz. The waitress had never brought out wine glasses, so instead Magda had begun decanting the house red into water goblets. Now she was curled up in a chair next to Chris, playfully tempting him with the perfect strawberries she’d picked out from the fruit tray by dangling them over his mouth, her fingertips stained the same color as her lips.

“What’s she doing here,” Judy asked. “I thought this was a private celebration.”

“Leave her be, Judy,” Chris said. “I invited her. She as much a part of this as you are.”

Judy took a seat in the empty chair between Pjotr and Juanita on the opposite side of the table, hooking her purse over its back to lay her claim. “Well, I hope she’s contributing because all this will cost a fortune.”

“It’s not like you’ll have to worry about money for much longer,” Magda said. Chris tore off a hunk of his pita, scooped up some eggplant caponata and handed it across the table.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Judy asked, folding the pita over before take a bite. A trail of juice dribbled onto the table.

“You’re taking the promotion, right,” Magda said. “What’s that, another twenty dollars a week?”

“Thirty,” Judy said, sopping up the spot on the table with the white, cloth napkin which came away stained a bloody blackish red. “After taxes. I’m still considering it.”

“I’m sure you’ll do the right thing, given what they’ve offered,” Chris said, taking a sip from his goblet. He didn’t usually drink, but tonight was a celebration. They’d waited a long time to all be together. Christmas Eve was the one night everyone was guaranteed to have off.

Judy just glared at him. When Magda offered him another strawberry, she snagged the carafe in front of Pjotr and poured a very full goblet of her own. She began catching up.

***

As evening wore into night, the room grew warm, loud, and heady with the commingled scents of wine, sweat, and expensive perfume. Soon all that remained of The Feast was the basket of never-ending pitas and the Shiraz, just enough to nourish body and soul, Chris thought. Sustenance and lifeblood. He took in his friends around the table. This might be the last time they were all together. Everyone was changing. Soon they would be ready to move on. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold them all together.

At one end of the table Pjotr was playing with his new butterfly knife, whipping it open and closed in a flashing blur of circles as Bar-Talmai, Alpha Jim and Andrea drew back in surprise. Directly across, Juanita looked drowsy from too much wine. At the other end, Matty and Ada were deep in conversation with Simone as she zealously condemned the policy changes at the bank after the loan fiasco. In a lull, Chris heard someone say, “Maybe if the Christians hadn’t co-opted a bunch of pagan symbols, they wouldn’t have this problem.” Someone else responded, “Word.” Tomas and Jayme looked upset, while Felipe turned to Chris with a quizzical expression as if seeking an explanation. He only shrugged and smiled back through a haze of wine.

Beside him, Magda was now showing off the collection of expensive perfume samples the manager at Harrods had given each of the girls in the lingerie department as a gift. She nattered on about the top and bottom notes as she waved each card under his nose in turn and speculated how they might interact with her body chemistry. She did smell nice. Her scent was warm and soothing, relaxing Chris in a soft way that none of his other women friends did. Feminine like his mother. She was the only one who could make him forget and set down his burdens for a little while. She expected nothing of him.

He looked up to find Judy glowering at Magda from across the table as she unfolded another card for him to sniff.

“You should donate those to the cause,” Judy said. “They are the exact sort of thing the women at Mother Mary’s need.”

Magda glared back at her. “Why should I? They were given to me.”

“It’s not like we don’t all know what your boss was trying to buy,” Judy said, her green eyes sparkling with wine.

“Maybe if you dressed a like girl instead of a construction worker, someone would actually notice you,” Magda snapped, gathering up the samples possessively. “Maybe a little perfume once in a while and you wouldn’t be alone.”

“And maybe,” Judy said between sips of wine, “you’re just jealous that I don’t need to dress like a whore just to get a raise. What did you give him in return, a private modeling session in the dressing rooms?”

Magda reddened, clutched the cards to her chest then fled the room in tears.

“I think someone’s Secret Santa has a guilty conscience,” Judy sniped at Magda’s retreating back. “What a selfish little drama queen.”

“Give it a rest, Judy,” Chris said with a sigh as he refilled his own glass. “You didn’t need to do that.”

“It would be one thing if she helped us by collecting toiletry samples,” Judy said, still glaring at the doorway through which Magda had disappeared. “It’s not like she needs to keep everything for herself.”

“They’re a small gift that makes her feel good,” Chris said. “And that makes me feel good.”

“That’s the problem, Chris,” Judy emphasized his new name as she turned to face him, “You’ve lost sight of what we’re trying to accomplish. It’s not just about you.”

“What I’ve already accomplished,” he shot back, his anger rising. Why did she bring that out so quickly in him now? “Everyone here sees things differently since they met me. As I recall, you came a little late to the party.”

“Without me, there would be no party,” she said, rattling her purse as she set it on the table with a thump. “Without my efforts, all this would have ended long ago. It still might if you’re not careful.”

“I just hope your new friends serve you half as well,” Chris whispered around his glass.

“What exactly are you getting at?” Judy asked. “Why don’t you just come out and say it instead wrapping yourself in some enlightened enigma.”

“You don’t see any of the others trading their old friends for new.” With a sweep of his hand, Chris encompassed the entire table. Absorbed in their own conversations and the vagaries of the wine, none of the others noticed the growing confrontation. “None of them would sell us out.”

“You’d really like that wouldn’t you? You always did have a martyr complex.” Judy shook her head and laughed. “You think you know everything about everyone but you can’t even see that Magda has a thing for you.”

Chris’s mouth dropped open.

“You know Miss Anna does, too, right?” she continued in a conspiratorial voice. “I mean, who wouldn’t? Just look at you. You collect women like a herd of mares.” She laughed and took another sip of wine. “You’ve got a serious problem and don’t even know it.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” he spat, as angry now as he’d been at the bank. “Why don’t you go spend some time with your new friends and get back to me? Maybe they’ll invite you to the wedding. Unlike the rest of us, you’ve got the right name to do more than clean their house.”

Judy’s face reddened as if she’d been slapped. “Is that what you really think?”

“When has what I thought ever mattered to you? You just charge ahead and do what you want regardless of the consequences.”

“No, Chris, I’ve holding this together while you’ve been falling apart,” she countered. “You know how much I’ve done for you. How much I’d do. I was the one who told you about those files in the first place.”

“And yet you were never in them,” he said, crossing his arms.

“That’s unfair,” she protested. “I’ve had to fight just like the rest of you. And now you want to treat me like I don’t belong? Maybe I would be better off somewhere else.”

“Then go,” he commanded, pointing toward the door. “And pay the bill on your way out. We’ll be right behind you as soon as we finish off the bread and wine. We wouldn’t want anything to go to waste.” He raised his glass in one hand and a half a pita in the other.

Judy knocked over a salt shaker snatching up her purse. As she fled into the shadows, the others stirred from their celebratory stupor just long enough to notice Chris’s raised glass. Scrounging pitas first, they lifted their own in return. “To life,” someone shouted. A chorus of eleven voices echoed the sentiment in unison, their eyes gleaming like the electric candles. Only Chris remained silent, uncertain of what he had just done.  

***

Soon after, the waitress and the busboy began hovering in the doorway. In the bar a clock chimed midnight. Christmas Eve had become Christmas Morning. The staff longed to go home but it was against policy to ask anyone to leave.

Slowly, the others collected their belongings, hugged and drifted out after saying their goodbyes, leaving Chris with only Pjotr and his cousins. He was their ride.

Chris was pensive and sullen. The others knew not to talk to him when he was like this. Pjotr toyed with his knife for a little while then settled deeper into his chair as his eyes drifted shut. Juanita’s head was already on the table. Jayme’s soon joined it.

Chris reflected on the evening as he rolled two olives around each other in a bowl with his finger, one black, one pale. The wine had left a sour taste in his mouth. He thought about what Judy had said. Had he truly lost sight?

“We should check to make sure the pickup went ok,” he finally said. Bleary eyed, the others stirred. Pjotr pocketed his knife. They wandered out of the restaurant together, the waitress unlocking the door for them and relocking it behind them. The parking lot was mostly dark and empty. A slight chill had crept into air. A damp haze pooled beneath the stanchions with the pinkish parking lot lights.

As the four of them approached Chris’s car, a beat up, third-hand VW bug, a small, familiar shadow detached itself from a nearby sedan and moved to intercept them. On the far side of the parking lot, Chris noticed the yellow flashing light as a security vehicle made its final rounds. He wondered if Ada was driving.

“Give us a minute,” Chris said to the others. He left them clustered behind him. In the rising fog they became as indistinct as ghosts. Judy hunched deeper into her coat as he approached.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes fixed on the ground at his feet.

“It’s ok,” he said, “we both had too much…” He was cut off as she threw her arms around him and squeezed him tight. Her body was hard, and shaking. Her uniform smelled of kitchen work and corruption. He held her a moment then gently pushed her away. Tears trickled down her face.

“Hey, what’s all this,” he said in a soothing voice. From the corner of his eye, he saw the lights of security car creeping closer.

“Whatever happens, I just needed to say I loved you,” she said. Before he could react, she flung herself into his arms again and kissed him, a long, passionate, yielding kiss. After a moment, he surrendered. He kissed her back.

A moment later, she disengaged. Fresh tears streamed down her cheeks. They held each other’s gaze for just a second then simultaneously looked away. No more words passed between them as Judy turned to go.

In stunned silence, Chris watched her fade into the darkness.

“What was that about?” Pjotr asked, suddenly standing beside Chris along with his cousins.

Before Chris could answer, all three were bathed in the headlights of the now rapidly approaching security vehicle. A gleaming white Honda Pilot pulled up beside them, Crossroads Mall Security emblazoned in blue on the door, its yellow-orange light swirling over them in waves.

Pjotr’s butterfly knife appeared in his hand with a sudden series of flashing clicks, the naked blade poised to sting the first security guard that strayed within range. Another nearby sedan pinned them with a spotlight as red and blue flashers exploded on its dashboard.

“Put away that away, Pjotr” Chris said. “That’s not how this goes. They’re here for me this time.”

Reluctantly, Pjotr complied. “She did this, didn’t she,” he said as he slipped the knife back into his pocket.

“It’s probably best if you three head home without me,” Chris said, handing Pjotr his keys. 

The security guard eyed them disdainfully from a few feet away while his partner flanked them from around the back of the SUV. Both men looked like weightlifters.

“Jesus Cristobal Salvador,” the first guard addressed Chris once the other man was in position, “We have some questions for you regarding a theft from your employer. We have a surveillance video. You need to come with us.”

“Are you three with him?” his partner asked, a hand resting on his taser. The others exchanged glances then mutely shook there heads. “Then I suggest you get going. I better not see any of you around here again before the mall opens if you know what’s good for you.”

With one hand on either arm, the security guards guided Chris to their waiting SUV. As Pjotr, Juanita and Jayme retreated to a safe distance, the two men ushered Chris into the backseat then drove through the parking lot trailing a police escort.

They rode in cramped silence.

As the SUV passed a clump of landscaping that doubled as rainwater retention, Chris spotted Judy’s silhouette framed through the window, one hand hanging onto a twisted scrub oak branch overhead. He was confused with emotion. Why had she kissed him? Why had he given in to her temptation? She was so young. She looked up to Chris like he might be her savior but deep down he was just a man, the same as all the rest. Vulnerable and broken, just like her. She looked so devastated now.

When she followed him with her eyes without so much as waving, an ache tore through his chest as if he’d been stabbed. Had she really said she loved him? As the SUV retreated around the corner out of sight, the last of his passion bled away.


© 2012 Edward P. Morgan III