I feel a soft pressure on my left shoulder and I turn to see her perfectly manicured hand resting on my already tired shoulder.

“Nona, honey, is that you?”

I turn and there she is. Evelyn is tall, confident and dressed for battle. Her picture on Facebook is nice enough, but it doesn’t do her true presence justice. She is striking in a crisp black pantsuit, holding only a small duffle. Her make-up is applied thickly, covering her age but not her beauty.

“Uh, yes it’s me. Evelyn?” I respond, suddenly very aware of my own appearance. I swivel from the polished wooden airport bar top and stand to shake her hand.

“Darlin’ I’m from Texas and as far as I’m concerned we’re sisters from here on out. I need a hug and from the looks of things you do too. Oh, and call me Eve, that’s what all my friends call me,” she says as she leans in and gives me a good squeeze. Her accent is thick but charming.

“Now let’s get to it,” she says motioning to the bartender.

“What’ll it be ladies?”

“Two shots of tequila, over here,” she instructs, motioning to the bartender. “And a margarita. No ice.”

“No ice? Would you like it frozen?” the bartender responds.

“No, I don’t like my drinks watered down, honey,” Eve declares back.

The bartender nods and gives a sly smile. She then turns to me and offers a look of compassion. She can probably tell I’ve been crying. I tried my best to keep it together on the first flight, but I couldn’t help letting a few tears slip.

“I’m fine. Really,” I say trying to avoid her pity. The look of concern on her face tells me she’s not having it.

“Darlin’ ain’t a damn thing about this situation is fine. But we’re gonna need to make the best of it. My momma used to say when God hands you lemons all you can do is make lemonade. To tell you the truth though, the only thing keeping me from gettin’ my shotgun is that damn look I’m gonna see on Joe’s face when I walk into this hotel room.”

“So you really think we should get a key and just open the door?”

“What else were you planning? I ain’t see no other way around it. I don’t know about you but I need to see this with my own eyes.”

“Honestly, I think it’s going to make me sick,” the idea of seeing Richard, my husband, with another man was beyond anything I could have ever imagined. But here I am, sitting with a woman I connected with on Facebook two weeks ago because she sent me a message with the title, “YOUR HUSBAND IS SLEEPING WITH MY HUSBAND!” All caps, too.

And to think I only got on Social Media because my daughter, our daughter, told me it was a good way to keep in touch with lost relatives. I bet Richard would have protested if he knew it was going to lead to all this. A cross-country connection to meet his lover’s spouse. The thought of it turned my stomach.

“Honey, you look sick. Take this.” Her long acrylic nails moved the shot glass delicately and placed it directly in front of me, the edges were frosted in salt and interrupted only by a plump slice of lime.

I nodded and felt the edge of my mouth twinge a bit. I could use a real drink and I appreciated her insistence. We made eye contact before licking the rim and tilting back to let the tequila slide down our throats. Our eyes met again after smashing the limes against our teeth. I felt warm and twenty years younger, but only for a few seconds. A marriage of 28 years ending like this, with a stranger, some tequila and a plan to break in to a hotel room. It was still unbelievable.

“We need another,” she said turning toward the bar and then back to me.

“Oh, no I’m fine. One is more than enough for me.”

“No, we most certainly are not fine!” she said with a laugh.

Her smile was infectious and I suddenly felt like I couldn’t let her down. She was the only one in the world that knew what I was going through and some how she found a way to help me relax.

“Well, at least you’re honest. I’ve been trying so hard to keep myself together. To not let on that I’m hurting but it hasn’t been easy,” I said, accepting the next round.

“Wish we could say the same about those sorry husbands of ours,” she said shaking her head and then smiling before we both gulped the drink. I noticed she had a touch of red lipstick on her tooth, but it was endearing. Everything else about her was so perfect, just a small slice of red across her front tooth that she couldn’t see herself.

“I don’t know about you but we’ve had our share of infidelity,” she went on. “I just thought we were over it. I thought it was something he did when we were younger. And back then I was all about our kids and the money he was bringing in. It didn’t happen often and I thought we would get past it. I thought we would grow old and leave it all in the past. Boy, was I wrong. I just never thought it would be a man,” she chuckled.

I shook my head. “I’ve never dealt with anything like this. Richard has been good to me our entire relationship. I think the only thing that got me here was the proof. The room numbers, the matching itineraries. I just need to see this for myself. I have to admit; this has broken me. I don’t know how you have yourself looking so nice. It’s like you’re actually looking forward to this.”

“Listen here darlin’, if you’ve been through a marriage like mine, you know the one thing you can’t let him see is you looking down. Looking distraught over him while he’s been out around town with God knows who. If you ask me, Joe is just a greedy man. Ain’t nothin’ more to it.”

“That is good advice,” I said look down at my sweatpants. At least they matched my top, I thought. “But what exactly do you mean by greedy?”

“You know greedy. Like he wants everything. Men, women, whatever he can get his hands on. Joe conquers things. Businesses and lovers. It’s just who he is. But for me, this is too much. I’m fixin’ to use this whole situation to my benefit. It ain’t like it used to be, women win big in divorce cases these days.”

“I didn’t even think about that. I just assumed he must be gay.”

“It’s greed, darlin’. It ain’t you. Trust me, I know what your Richard is going to say. Let me save you some time. ‘He’s sorry. He won’t do it again. It was a one-time thing.’ Whatever he tells you, whoever he cheats with, it always all comes down to one thing. He’s a greedy man that wants more than his fair share. It’s that simple. Don’t ever think it’s you. No matter what they say,” she said motioning to the world outside our little Denver airport bar, “it’s because he’s greedy.”

We were on our third shot by now and I wasn’t protesting. We tilted back, went through our routine and came back to the conversation.

“You know, you’re right,” I say shaking my head in acceptance.

“I’ve been dealing with this shit for years. I don’t know about you but I’m done. I can’t wait to bust down this door. Come on, let’s get to the plane. We’ll have almost two hours to work out a plan. I’m so glad to have you with me.”

I nodded, my hesitation gone. I needed to do this. Maybe I wasn’t as excited as Eve, but I needed to see this for myself too. And I was certainly going to suggest part of the plan be a wardrobe change and some fresh make-up.

We both got down off our stools and began walking together toward our gate. It was like being with an old friend. I felt like I had some back-up for the first time since I found out. I had been too embarrassed to tell anyone. But for the first time, I told myself It was him. Not me. I could tell whoever I needed to, it was him, not me and it was because of greed.

“Well at least our husbands have one good quality in common,” Eve said as we reached the gate and got out our tickets.

“Oh yeah, what’s that?” I asked.

“Good taste in ex-wives.”

And we both had a good laugh.

“Did you do it?” Aaron asks as I slide into the seat behind him. I pretend not to know what he’s talking about as I begin to unpack my bag.

“Do what?” I respond with a sly smile.

“You know what I’m talking about. Fourth period. Did you finish Geometry?”

“Obviously,” I say with a cool confidence.

“Well, can I have it?” he shoots back. I can tell he’s nervous and I like the little bit of power I have over him for the moment.

I shrug my shoulders and his face crumples. I wait a few more seconds before giving in, “Yeah, it’s all yours,” I say, sifting through the day’s work to find the page of proofs I’d worked out perfectly the night before. I even double-checked my answers, evidenced by the small tick marks sprinkled across the page.

“All right class,” Ms. Schaeffer says, as I hand Aaron the paper and focus my attention to the front of the room. “I’d like to go over the multiple cho…” she trails off as a deafening alarm screams across the loudspeaker.

My first thought is a fire drill but the look on Ms. Schaeffer’s face is filled with an unbridled terror that is enhanced by a sudden convolution of screams and loud bangs echoing from the outside hallway.

Aaron says it first, “A shooter!”

He scrambles from his chair knocking over my stack of homework, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the far corner of the classroom. My mind is frantic. How can this be happening? I cower with Aaron and the rest of my classmates as Ms. Schaeffer runs to lock the door but she’s too late.

For a moment she is still, standing in front of the door, eyes locked on the small window above the door knob and the evil on the other side. The blasts shoot through the door and into the classroom and the whimpering and muffled cries around me turn into deafening screams.

Dred throbs through my veins, as I hold Aaron’s hand tightly and crouch low, but it is inevitable. I want to say goodbye to so many people. The explosion of gun shots pepper the room, silencing the terror around me as they tear through the flesh of my classmates. This is it, I think as I feel my body begin to rip apart and a spill of crimson clouds my vision. A surreal sense of lightness follows the wave of unspeakable pain. I squeeze Aaron’s now limp hand once more and give in to the darkness.

Dear John,

I’ve thought about you often over the years. I wonder from time to time if you ever think of me. I’ve come to accept the deep ache that comes with losing true love in your absence. It’s changed me in a way only people that have lived it can understand…but I want you to know it hasn’t been all bad. And for that, I thank you because it’s taught me the importance of cherishing those that care for me now.

I know our time together was brief but in my heart I believe you left for reasons outside your control. But no matter what happened, I am still here. Things don’t always work out the way we plan and I understand that now. I just want you to know that I still want to know you. That if you ever want to be a part of my life, I will welcome you. That no matter what you do, I will always love you.

Your Daughter,

Stephanie

41 days since my last kill, Ted thought as he sat in the blind shrouded by a cluster of defrosting pines. The faint scent of wet morning grass tickled his sinuses and reminded him of spring and death. He needed this. With work and school, it felt like he hadn’t been outside in weeks.

He’d stalked the same family the year before but hadn’t been able to finish the job. He was sure they would be back though. They were creatures of habit, after all. He planned to spend two days in the blind, if needed. Ted wished it could be more, but he had to be back at work on Monday. Answering phones with Anne over watered down Folgers wasn’t exactly his idea of a good time, but it paid the bills and at least he could talk to her. Unlike his mother.

He craved this moment and considered himself lucky to have the opportunity to be out in the magnificence of the Pacific Northwest. Of course, he would go after a female and, if he remembered correctly, this particular family had three. One would be enough, but two would be exquisite. Best not to get greedy though. The kill was exhilarating but the cleanup could get messy, not to mention exhausting.

Ted was asleep when they approached the first night. Legs cramped from being folded and unused, he rose slowly when he heard their first steps in the clearing. When he recognized the same herd from the year before he felt lucky. Stalking prey takes time, meticulous attention and even then, often yields disappointing results. He recognized the one he wanted quickly. Like a boy picking out a puppy, he locked his eyes on the doe-eyed female and knew she would be his.

He approached unseen, hidden by the landscape he knew so intimately. His movements were precise and measured as he sliced open the back of the tent, pulled the girl out swiftly and crammed her into the back of his 1968 Volkswagen Beetle. He wouldn’t have to drive far before he could get things started. Just a few miles outside the Tacoma Family Campgrounds, a little deeper into the woods, would do just fine.

The Devil came dressed as a Saint,

“Be a good Christian,” He professed to the faint.

“Do the right thing, be kind to your mother,

“Deny idols, be good to one another.”

“Shower me with gifts, lie in my name,

Hide my secrets, expose no shame.

Build me a church, tall and proud,

The gothic sculpture must reach the clouds.”

And the people decided they had to listen,

All in the name of becoming good Christians.

They built a great structure, beautiful and strong,

But with an evil foundation, it couldn’t last long.

As the years went by, the little children suffered,

But as they grew up, they began to tell one another.

They told of their pain, and all of the shame,

They spoke of the Devil and who was to blame.

They spoke to their elders and tried to expose,

The Church and the Priests and the lies that were told.

“That can’t be true, don’t speak of such things,”

Was all the validation the elders could bring.

So time went on and more children were hurt,

But no man could stop the power of the Church.

And visitors would marvel with glorious wonder,

At the magnificent Church and the stained glass they sat under,

“Of course, this building was made for God!”

Exclaimed all the people, with their values at odds.

So on that day, a new chapter was written,

Much like the day, the apple was bitten.

God came down, and set the Church aflame,

And told the people, they had themselves to blame.

“Think for yourselves! This is not right!

You don’t need this book. It only causes fights.”

“Listen to the children. They do not lie.

Their pain is real. Hear them cry.

Do not sacrifice the truth for your pride,

Salvation only comes to those that don’t hide.”

Can you relate to someone that looks different than you?

Or do you stick to your own, cause that’s easy to do?

Do you listen to the pain of those not in power?

Or to money, greed and envy do you cower?

Perhaps the true test of God is not religion.

Maybe it’s not even your financial position.

It’s most definitely not your gender or creed,

But whether you can show love to a soul in need.

"How have you been?” the stranger asks,

A sudden feeling, as if I’m being attacked.

It’s hard to move, I’m not sure where I am,

I need to get home, but I don’t know if I can.

I have to calm down, I can’t let her know,

I must relax, I’ve got to take control.

“I’m just fine,” I say, as I look around the room,

I don’t recognize a thing, an impending doom.

Her eyes are kind, concern across her face,

There’s something about her, I just cannot place.

“That’s so good to hear, I’ve missed you so much,”

For some odd reason, her face, I need to touch.

“I’ve missed you too,” I easily lie,

I think she knows, I can see it in her eyes.

“It’s ok,” she says, “I understand,”

She leans in softly and caresses my hand.

I gaze at her beauty, her petal soft skin,

There is a sense of comfort, sparked from within.

She reminds me of Stella, my long-passed cousin,

But so many years have gone by, at least a dozen.

I think of her funeral, the day was somber,

The trouble with time is, for me, it seems to wander.

I remember that day, but yesterday is a blur,

I am grateful for the moment with this sweet-faced girl.

And suddenly the look in her eyes turns grim,

And when I look down, I don’t recognize my own skin.

I turn my hands over, and tremble with fear,

They have aged, at least, over forty years.

I look back up at the girl just once more,

The tears in her eyes begin falling to the floor.

And for one glorious instant, it all becomes clear,

I lean in and whisper, “ I love you, dear.”

She beams with a smile, her eyes are calm,

She looks at me and says, “I love you, Mom.”

Thwaaack!

I feel the bang of Ryan’s fastball ball hot against my back. I’m thankful it’s just a tennis ball this time. Last week we used a racquetball and it would have been just as well if we played with a rock.

“Gotcha!” I hear from behind. He’d made good on the free hit, but I’m ready to play again, scooting back in anticipation of the next throw. I am not scared of fourth graders.

“Sorry guys, I gotta get home. Soccer practice,” Brandon says, throwing his Jansport backpack over his shoulder.

“I gotta go too,” Ryan says, dropping the ball at his feet. Hopefully, it will be there tomorrow.

I shrug and set off towards home. Straight down Delany, a right on Westover and then another on Kamisha Way. It’s early and if I go straight home, I will still be able to watch my favorite Batman cartoon before Mom comes home and makes me start on my homework. I’m halfway down Delaney, the new fall air crisp against my skin, when I hear it.

“Hey porch monkey!”

At first it doesn’t seem real, but when I look up, there it is. A white Chevrolet truck with its windows rolled down, driving menacingly slow beside me. Two middle-aged white men are glaring at me from the front seat. I stop and the truck stops too. They continue to stare like I’m food. Devilish grins and searing eyes focused all on me.

“Yea you, little nigger! We talkin’ to you.”

The realization hits violently, another Thwaack! This time from the inside. I look around and realize it’s only the three of us. The usually busy street is dead around me, lonely and cold. An eruption of laughter spills from the car and I catapult forward into a desperate sprint.

Two houses up I pivot right, bounding through Mrs. Hoyle’s front yard and through her back gate. I climb up her back fence and throw my body over the side, rolling down the embankment but catching myself before I get to the small creek that separates our two yards. I run straight through the water, my jeans soaking and heavy as I drive my knees up and take two large strides over the hill. I climb up our back fence, run across our lawn and swing open the sliding glass screen door, which I slam shut and quickly bolt.

No one is supposed to be home. My parents both work; Mom teaches high school Chemistry and Dad is a computer programmer. But for some reason when I look up, my eyes stinging with tears and my breath all but gone, I see my dad sitting in his favorite leather chair.

“Son,” he says, “you know not to come in this house slamming doors. Now, I expect,” he pauses, noticing something is wrong, “What is it?” I remain silent at first. I drop my bag to the floor and sit down on the floor next to him. He’s watching the Ranger game and I try my best to turn the focus to the TV, but his eyes remain transfixed on me, and he says it again, “What is it?” I look up and his eyes catch mine.

“I was walking home,” I stammer, “and a truck pulled up next to me. They yelled at me. At first, I didn’t think they were even talking to me,” I pause, before releasing it.

“They called me a nigger and I ran,” the words hang in the air before dropping like a dagger. My father’s eyes narrow and he turns the game off.

“Listen to me son,” he says, pausing as he collects his words, “What happened to you today happens to every black man in this country at some point. It’s something you’re never going to forget. The feeling you felt touches us all,” he lets the thought sink in.

I consider what he said carefully, “I feel like I did the wrong thing by running,” I say, shaking my head. “Like they won,” I say, disgusted at the idea. I was never one to back down from a challenge, but I suddenly felt embarrassed at my reaction.

“Let me tell you a story,” he says patiently. “I grew up in East Texas and out there we had fire ants. Not like the ones ’round here. No, these were monsters and when they bit you, they left welts that itched for weeks.”

I nod. I’m grateful for my dad’s kind voice and calming eyes.

“Something to know about fire ants is that they are strong. Some even say they can carry ten times their weight. They’re also loyal. Always going back to their mound. Making it stronger, building up their families.

“Now, back then we didn’t have extra money for toys and things like that, so we had to make our own fun. Anyway, one day, I was out in the yard and got to watching some of those ants. Now mind you, back then, white folks called us niggers all the time,” he pauses thoughtfully as I shake my head at the thought.

“But I’ll tell you, those ants, they lived with purpose. They worked in lines, gathering their food and following after one another to make sure the job got done. They went back and forth, back and forth, working hard together for the common good of the whole.

“Now after a while, I got bored, as kids do, and I took a cup I’d been drinking from and poured out a stream that traveled across some of those lines the ants had been traveling. So, what do you suppose those ants did?”

I shook my head, “I dunno, went around the water?” I reason.

“You’d think that wouldn’t you? But no, those ants got confused, crazed even. They were running around as if they were completely lost, unable to get back to their mound and too upset to figure out another path home. They kept at it too, going around and around, unable to calm down enough to reason their way back. Some would eventually wander off, others would get lost trying to find another way. And of course, that’s what I’d wanted. For some reason, something in me wanted to disrupt the order they’d created.

“But there were a few of those fire ants that decided to wait it out. Eventually they even mustered the courage to cross over the water as it began to dry out. It was Texas after all,” he smiles.

“The point is that I cut those ants off from their family that day just like they used to do to our people during slavery. They took us from our families, they told us we weren’t good enough, that we weren’t people. And I’ll tell you son, when I think about it, even now, I could understand why a slave would have gone crazy. Can you imagine? Cut off from everyone you ever loved or cared for, then taken to a strange place where you were treated like an animal?”

I look down at the thought. My dad places his hand firmly on my shoulder and draws me into his eyes.

“But son, our people, yours and mine, they found their way. Even though everything they ever knew or ever loved was cut off from them, they survived. Our ancestors made it because they remembered their strength. They didn’t give up and because of that, you and I are sitting here today. We are the best of an already strong people.”

He leans forward in his chair and crosses his arms on his knees, his face inches above mine. “I want you to learn something from today, son.”

“Yes, dad,” I say, focused on his words.

“Some of the people out there,” he motions his arms in a large circle as if making a tornado, “they still want to cut you off, to stop you from accomplishing what you were made to do in this world, to make you feel like you are lost, like you don’t belong, to distract you. They want to make you crazy and they do it with that word. We owe it our ancestors to not let that word affect us when they say it,” he says, sitting up proudly in his chair. “We are the survivors and we find our way back home to love and to family no matter what they do to us,” he pauses thoughtfully, “Just like you did today.”