Stealthy Steps

by Vikki Kestell

  Then I pulled the baggy shirt over my head and down around the sacks and practiced filling the bags with groceries from my kitchen, checking to make sure that what I put in them stayed “invisible” during the whole process.

  The mites made various comments during my experiments. I don’t know if they were expressing—ahead of time—their concerns about my plans or if they resented the extra work of covering the large shirt and all that I stuffed under it. If they resented the extra work or all the trial and error practices, I was unmoved.

  “Nano! Do me a favor and get lost,” I grumbled. As far as I was concerned, they owed me. Big time.

  Symbiotic relationship, my left foot.

  I drove to Walmart and got out, pleased that my car’s interior lights could no longer illuminate my absence. Once in the store, I browsed the aisles and covertly filled the sacks with what I needed or fancied. I kept one of my baggy shirt’s buttons undone. It made slipping items into the sacks easier.

  It also made it tricky for the mites, who hummed and buzzed over the addition of each item. More than once I saw a shimmer as they struggled to accommodate my added baggage. I was tempted to bust into a malicious chuckle—but I digress.

  Besides, after I’d added a few items to the sack, the mites had already figured it out. No more shimmer.

  I don’t need to coddle you, I sneered.

  When I had what I wanted stowed under the shirt, I had to hang around awhile until the self-checkout lanes were empty. Then, as fast as I could, I pulled the items out one at a time, ran them through the scanner or used the produce option until the sacks on the side of the scanner were full and I was done.

  I had cash with me and I had just finished paying when a Walmart checker wandered over. His name tag read, “Gary Vigil.” He noticed the two sacks of groceries on the side. He checked the readout and saw they’d been paid for. He frowned and looked around for the groceries’ owner.

  I tried to be patient, but I was getting a little anxious. If he took the items away to restock them, I’d have to start over, and I didn’t want to do that.

  Then the strangest thing happened. I’m not joking. I’m still chewing on it and considering its implications.

  The music coming over the PA system cut out and a mechanical voice intoned, “Gary Vigil. Gary Vigil. Report immediately.”

  Except the mechanical voice pronounced “Vigil” with a soft “g” (like gee whiz) making Gary’s name “vigil” (as in “candlelight vigil”) instead of using the Hispanic pronunciation, “Vee-hill.”

  “Report? Report where?” He grumbled something uncomplimentary before striding away.

  I stood there blinking, wondering if what I thought had happened actually had happened. Could the mites really have—

  Honestly, I’d only stood there three seconds before the nanomites stung my hand.

  “Okay, okay! I’m on it. Sheesh. My hand is gonna have a callus at the rate we’re going,” I complained. I grabbed the sacks and pulled them to the side of the scanning station. I was, for the second time, about to move the items one-by-one into the sacks under my shirt when I had a better idea.

  No one was nearby except the checkers in other lanes. I got down, sitting on my heels, lifted my shirt, and stuffed each plastic grocery bag into the fabric sacks hanging over my shoulders.

  I was done in five seconds and out the door in another five. The rest of the trip home was uneventful, but it left me with a lot to think about. In the meantime, do you remember that reckless, “I-don’t-care” feeling I mentioned earlier?

  It got worse.

  That rash, careless attitude did a slow burn deep down inside. Agitated and restless, I found myself holding heated conversations—with myself—that went something along these lines:

  My whole childhood was spent hiding. If I didn’t keep out of Genie’s way, she would make me pay. I had to be quiet or she would make me wish I had been.

  Not one person saw what she was doing or what she was really like. I was always afraid of running afoul of her and her temper, so I kept quiet, kept to myself, stayed in the background, stayed in the shadows.

  No one helped me! No one saw through her lies!

  No, she was always the pretty, vivacious one, the one everyone noticed—while I was the plain, ordinary one—the stupid twin sister that people scarcely realized existed—except when I got in trouble. I was too afraid of Genie to speak up, to compete with her or tell the truth about her.

  As the twig is bent, so grows the tree! Even after she left for college, I knew I would always be ordinary and plain. No one special. A woman no one noticed.

  Well, it wasn’t fair! It wasn’t right! But then, life isn’t fair, is it?

  Still, when she finally went away, I started to hope again. I worked hard and I had dreams that my life was actually going somewhere. I had a great job and, at last, people were starting to value my work, starting to value me.

  The anger swirling around in me sizzled a little hotter.

  Now everything I worked for is gone. Gone! Ruined! Because of these stinking nanomites! What did I do to deserve these, these things living in me, controlling my life?

  It wasn’t bad enough that I lived in the shadows all my childhood, practically invisible? Now I have to live out the rest of my life literally invisible?

  Now I’m nothing more than a freak!

  A long-simmering rage bubbled to the surface and with it, a new determination. Maybe it had more to do with Genie than I recognized, but I was done. I was through being passive. Finished taking the blame for her actions. Done trying to please, trying to fit in—trying to hide my true self. And done letting the nanomites try to control me.

  Just done.

  OKAY, WELL, MAYBE “DONE” didn’t fit all situations.

  Zander came to the door late Sunday afternoon. He knocked, rang the bell, and called to me through the closed and locked door.

  “Gemma? Gemma, I know you’re in there. Listen, Abe is really worried about you. I am, too. Please, can we just talk?”

  Jake, on hearing Zander’s voice, rubbed up against the door and yowled as if I’d neglected to feed him for a week.

  Traitor! Ingrate! I nudged him away from the door with my foot which, of course, freaked him out. He screeched and attempted to scatter to the four winds—meaning his feet were moving in all directions but going nowhere until his claws got some purchase in the carpet and he bolted from the room.

  “Gemma? Is Jake okay? Are you okay?”

  I stared at the floor and shook my head. Maybe I needed to call him and call Abe, feed them the same plausible line, something that would put them off a while longer. But suppose I did? Sooner or later someone was going to pull the trigger on a wellness check by the police—and I was not ready for it to be “sooner.”

  My thoughts returned to Zander. What would I say to him if I called him? I asked myself. What story do I tell him? And Abe? He knows me too well. He will know I’m telling a tall tale.

  I just kept silent.

  “Gemma, this isn’t over. You need to let us see you so we know you’re all right.”

  Zander’s steps clattered down the porch and away from my door. I chanced a peek through the curtains. He was headed across the cul-de-sac toward Abe’s house. I slid out my side door and followed behind. The sky was hazy, my shadow negligible.

  He almost missed Emilio. Almost. The kid was tucked inside the little hidey-hole he’d formed by pushing into the bushes so often.

  Zander stooped down in front of Emilio’s spot and talked with him for a few minutes. When he stood up, his face was flushed, his mouth turned down.

  Wow. I think he’s angry! I’ve never seen Zander angry, I realized. I was astonished. Christians weren’t supposed to get angry, were they? And ministers? Didn’t the “not supposed to get angry” rule apply double?

  Instead of continuing on to Abe’s house, Zander strode to his car and tore away from the curb. Fifteen minutes later he returned. I was standing on the
sidewalk far enough from Emilio to feel comfortable.

  Zander had a little rectangular box from a chicken place out on Central. He called Emilio out and gave it to him. They sat on the curb and I hung back as Emilio tore into the chicken and whatever else was in the box, but Zander kept him talking. After a few minutes it dawned on me that they were talking about me.

  Not good! No, not good at all. I edged just a little closer.

  Emilio actually waved his hand in my direction just then—and I froze. Then I realized he was pointing at my house, not at me. He said something that made Zander’s gray eyes squint, and I could tell he was confused.

  Good. Confused is good! Better than believing the yarn Emilio is likely feeding him.

  I moved up onto Mateo’s “lawn” (not much more than neglected weeds and snake grass) so I wouldn’t be between my house and Emilio’s pointing fingers. I was, however, between them and Mateo’s house.

  Uh-oh.

  I hadn’t yet gotten close enough to overhear exactly what Emilio and Zander were talking about—but I couldn’t miss when Mateo stormed out his front door behind me. Zander and Emilio had their backs to Mateo and neither noticed his approach.

  I didn’t know what to do. Should I cough or make a noise? I picked up a pebble instead and tossed it toward Zander. It smacked him on the shoulder and he glanced up—and caught Mateo’s advance.

  In case you haven’t figured it out, Mateo isn’t the shy and retiring type.

  “Hey, you *blank*! (Insert pejorative term of your choice.) What the *blank blank* do you think you’re doing?”

  Zander stood up and folded his arms across his chest. Emilio jumped to his feet, too, and huddled behind Zander’s back.

  “We’re just talking.”

  “What’s that?” Mateo got in Zander’s face and pointed at the KFC box.

  “I was just sharing a meal with your nephew. No need to get upset.”

  “Get over here,” Mateo yelled at Emilio.

  The kid, his expression fearful, crawled out from behind Zander. As soon as he was within reach, Mateo’s hand lashed out, striking Emilio full in the face. The kid stumbled and fell to the ground. Then he was up again, and moved out of Mateo’s range.

  No sooner had Mateo’s palm connected with Emilio’s cheek than Zander’s hand snaked out and caught Mateo’s wrist. Zander yanked Mateo closer, and Mateo struggled against Zander’s grip.

  Zander and Mateo’s faces were inches apart when Zander snarled, “Jesus saved me out of the gang life, but that doesn’t mean I don’t remember what I was or how I used to deal with a pandillero like you. Now back off.”

  He released Mateo’s wrist, at the same time shoving him backwards and off balance.

  I was staring dumbstruck at a very different Zander, a man who was as familiar with violence as Emilio’s uncle was. Zander’s eyes glittered with fearsome fury and I skittered away, shaking my head, trying to reconcile the man in front of me with the kind associate pastor I knew. The pieces did not fit.

  Mateo must have seen something in Zander’s face that he didn’t like, either, because he stood his ground but did not retaliate. “This is my turf, you *blank*. I don’t care who you are. If you want to keep your pretty-boy looks, you’d best get the *blank* out of here.”

  The encounter had taken mere seconds, but Emilio had used the precious moments to snatch up the chicken box and vanish. Maybe those seconds were exactly what Zander had hoped to buy.

  Zander’s features smoothed. “Like I said,” he repeated, “I was just sharing a meal with your nephew. No need to get upset.”

  He nodded to Mateo and stepped away toward Abe’s house. I followed at a distance, but I kept looking over my shoulder. Mateo, arms folded, face set in grim lines, watched and then stalked back to his house.

  I shook my head, hoping to clear it. I didn’t like how much Mateo’s angry expression reminded me of Emilio. I didn’t like thinking of Emilio growing up to be like his uncle. I steered away from thinking about the Zander I’d just witnessed in action.

  That was worse.

  As I drew abreast of Abe’s house, my old friend stepped out of the shadows of his porch and greeted Zander. “That was a close one, son,” he said softly.

  Zander climbed the steps and the two of them sat down together. I sat on the steps and listened in.

  “Yeah, but I can hold my own,” Zander replied. He was, I thought, still angry—but trying very hard not to let it come out in his tone.

  “So did you see my girl Gemma?”

  “Nope. But I’m pretty sure she’s in there.” Then Zander snickered. “Jake’s in there and you know how Gemma isn’t exactly his favorite person?”

  “Whoo-ee! That’s an understatement, pastor!”

  Zander snickered again. “Well, Jake sounded happy to hear my voice but tore away from the door just like he does whenever Gemma gets too close.”

  “Ha! I do b’lieve Jake thinks Lu left that house to him and not to Gemma! They been feudin’ over it ever since. Like cats an’ dogs, like cats an’ dogs!”

  Abe and Zander then had a good laugh at my expense while I fumed on the steps below them.

  Finally Zander added, “So yeah, I’m pretty sure she’s in there. I just don’t understand what she’s hiding.”

  The swing where they were sitting swung back and forth for a few minutes. Then Abe laughed softly.

  “Once my Alice colored her hair,” he reminisced. “Don’t know ’zactly what went wrong, but the solution fried her hair something awful. Most of it fell out—left her nearwise bald. Never will forget it—nor the smell of all that fried hair.”

  “You think Gemma fried her hair?” Zander was as dubious as I was insulted.

  “Never know. Alice, though? She din’t go to church for three weeks. Had me cut off the parts that din’t fall off, make it more even-like. Wore a hat, she did, ever’where she went, for months after that.”

  I’d heard enough. I stormed across the cul-de-sac and in my side door, slamming it behind me. Abe and Zander were still chuckling when I left.

  NOTHING ZANDER HAD done fixed Emilio’s situation one bit. A box of fried chicken wouldn’t mend the pain of abuse Emilio dealt with daily—pain I could relate to all too well.

  The next morning I watched Emilio march to the bus stop, shoulders slumped, head down.

  “Yeah, I feel ya, kid,” I whispered. The anger boiling around inside of me scooted over and made room for resentment toward Mateo for his treatment of Emilio. I knew the school would feed the boy a hot breakfast when he got there, but that just made me madder.

  He shouldn’t have to depend upon the school to feed him, I seethed. That’s Mateo’s responsibility.

  I pulled on shoes and a hoodie and ducked out the kitchen door. I jogged across the street to Mateo’s house. Bottles and cans littered the sidewalk and his lawn. Mateo’s car was the only vehicle parked in the driveway, but last night the cul-de-sac had been lined with his crew’s cars for another wild party.

  This morning Mateo’s house was still. How hard could it be to walk inside and take a look around? His house had the same floorplan as mine, so I was familiar with the layout. If I saw what I expected, I could phone in an anonymous tip to Children, Youth, and Family.

  Why not?

  Turns out Mateo and his girlfriend were still sleeping, but their side door was unlocked.

  So Emilio gets himself up and out of the house for school on his own? I pondered that realization as I snooped through their kitchen.

  It was worse than I had imagined. Mateo’s crew had left ample evidence of their self-indulgence: The counters and floor were filthy. Dirty dishes and empty bottles were piled everywhere. The trash overflowed.

  I eased open a cupboard door and then another and another until I’d looked in all of them. I tried the fridge. I found nothing more than coffee, condiments, and a lone box of cheap wine.

  Do these people ever buy food? No wonder the kid’s starving. The growling in his stomach
is prolly what wakes him up in the morning, gets him going.

  That careless, almost reckless thing in my belly glowed a little hotter.

  I heard stirring noises from the other side of the house and the sound of a toilet flushing. I moved into the dining room, behind the table, where I could watch and not be in the way.

  I glanced down at the tabletop.

  Interesting.

  Corazón wandered into view.

  She looks terrible, was my first thought. Her hair was dirty and matted. Dark circles hung under her eyes. I remembered how lovely the girl had been when she and Mateo had moved in a couple of years back.

  “Lovely” seemed miles back in the rearview mirror for Corazón.

  She set to work making coffee. As soon as she flipped the switch on the pot, she took out the trash, ran a sink of hot soapy water, and started making inroads in the piles of dirty dishes.

  The distant toilet flushed again and Corazón flinched.

  A moment later a shirtless Mateo sauntered into view, his gut hanging over a pair of pajama bottoms, his feet scuffing along in old slippers. I had a good look at him, probably the closest I’d ever had. His dark eyes were bloodshot, his face lined and puffy. The man was not old—maybe in his late twenties—but he was already running to fat.

  Yeah, a steady diet of alcohol will do that for you, meathead.

  Mateo’s head was shaved like Emilio’s and his left hand, arm, shoulder, and neck were covered in swirling ink. I didn’t know gang signs but I would have bet money he bore his gang’s emblems in his body art.

  He had scarcely plopped into a chair when he demanded, “Where’s my *blank* coffee?”

  “I have it, Baby.” Corazón set it in front of him and stepped back. Quickly.

  Mateo grunted and slurped from the mug. “Gotta meet my boys at noon.”

  “Okay.”

  “This place is disgusting. You better have it cleaned up when I get back. And have something hot fixed for dinner.”

  Corazón swallowed. “Sure, Baby. Just need some groceries.”

  Mateo grunted and slurped his coffee again. He reached for a metal box on the table. The box sat next to an ashtray filled with the pinched ends of tiny, rolled cigarettes—and next to the plastic-wrapped block of off-white powder I’d noticed a few minutes ago.