Shelter

by Gilley, Lauren

  His smile slipped when his eyes fell over the customer at the table. The man raising the mug to his lips was young, thirtyish, Latino but light-skinned, his black hair gelled and sculpted into some kind of douchebag ‘do. And as Carlos let his gaze wander down he verified that, yes, he had fancy, shined-up shoes too.

  It was the guy Sean had told him to call “Diego” from the alley. Here was a drug buyer sitting at a table in front of Alma, smiling at Alma, thanking her in his criminal, drug-buying voice. He’d be leaving her a tip with his drug-buying hands.

  Guilt twisted his gut when he thought about what his own drug-selling hands did to her body at night.

  Too late he realized that he was making a spectacle, standing inside the door like he was, glowering at the guy. Alma was coming toward him now, a frown marring her pretty face.

  “Carlos.”

  He shook himself. Forced a tight grin. “Hey, baby.”

  They didn’t exchange intimacies in public like this, but she laid a hand on his arm in a concerned way before she greeted his coworkers and offered to show them to a table. Carlos followed, because he didn’t want to look more conspicuous than he already did, but he shot a glance over his shoulder and locked gazes with the buyer. Diego, or whatever his goddamn name was, gave him a little up-nod of greeting.

  The rest of the guys had pushed together three of the dinky café tables and Carlos found his way robotically to a chair, his pulse feeling like it had been slowed down, then sped up, then pulled to a halt again, like a straight shift transmission with a new driver behind the wheel.

  “Menus are behind the napkin dispenser,” Alma said. He tried to focus on her face, only becoming more disturbed by the notion of the well-dressed buyer sitting mere feet away from them. From his girl. She twitched a little frown, worried about him. But she kept up her spiel. “The specials today are tomato basil soup with a half Caesar salad, or French onion with a half of a pastrami on rye. Half-priced cappuccinos too. I’ll let you guys have a look and be back.” She gave him one last lingering look that seemed to say, talk to me, and whisked away, low heels clipping over the tile.

  “Hey, bro,” Salvador, who he’d somehow managed to sit beside, nudged him in the ribs. His brown eyes were lit up. “Isn’t that your girl?”

  “Yeah,” he sighed.

  Dave, always trying to be complimentary even if it wasn’t always too tactful, nodded. “She’s real cute, Carlos.”

  He stared down at his menu and tried to keep from scowling. “Thanks.” As he swiveled his head around to check and see if fake-Diego was still sitting there, accepting coffee and polite chit-chat from Alma, he saw Salvador’s almost delighted expression.

  “Yeah, she used to be his sister-in-law,” he told the group.

  Mike groaned. “Cousin-in-law. And I thought we talked about this, dipshit.”

  Carlos was too preoccupied to be aggravated. The dealer was still there, eating some kind of fruity looking sandwich with small, delicate bites. He had his napkin in his lap like he was at cotillion or some shit. He read the paper and sipped his drink and seemed completely at home.

  You’re being stupid, he told himself, returning to his menu. Just like he was living multiple lives – or lies, as they were – lots of normal people dipped into product, indulged in a little coke here and there. No one talked about it, but it happened.

  But yet, all the words ran together and he had no idea what anyone around him was saying. When Alma returned to the table, he had no idea what he wanted to order. He asked for the special and about three seconds after she’d walked away to put in for their food, his phone dinged to indicate that he had a new text message. It was from Alma:

  R U OK?

  Fine. Talk later, he sent back and tried to pick himself up and get back into the conversation at hand.

  He stayed aware, though, knew that Diego settled his bill and left about twenty minutes later with a smile and light chat with Alma. He’d been in here before, he realized, a cold shudder running down his spine. This wasn’t the first time he’d interacted with Alma. His departure settled his nerves somewhat; he ate and managed to steer Salvador off the topic of his love life and back to the somewhat safer topic of the upcoming Christmas vacation.

  “They wanted us to have all the lots done,” Alex said, shaking his head. “But they’re still laying the plumbing in lots eighteen through twenty-five, so they’re only gonna fuck up the sod if we roll it out.”

  “Dude, I know,” Salvador agreed. “And I ain’t workin’ on Christmas, I can tell you that shit right now. My brother and I gotta go see our mom, take her to church…”

  Carlos saw Alma at the soft drink fountain and excused himself from the table. If he was going to have to bail on dinner, he’d rather do it in person.

  She heard his approach and half-turned toward him, cup held beneath the Dr. Pepper spigot. The way one hand balanced on her hip and the way her shirt stretched over her breasts, she looked a bit like some kind of soda model or something. It was cute. It didn’t help with his nervous preoccupation, though.

  “Hey,” her eyes did a walk down to his boots and back up again as she tried to figure out what was up with him.

  Lying to her was awful. He’d always advertised himself as the honest one, the shoulder she could lean on, and now the deception felt almost sinful. But he forced a smile. “You look hot.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yeah. Pregnant waitress. Not just a cliché, but tantalizing too apparently.”

  “Apparently.”

  She set the Dr. Pepper down and reached for the next cup. When she glanced at him, he swore she could see all the way through him and knew everything there was to know: drugs and all. Which was stupid, but it reminded him that, of all the people in her life, Sam had been the only one whose faults she’d been blind to. He wouldn’t get the same benefit of her undying affection if she figured out the truth.

  Which was why he had to keep lying to her. Just for a little bit longer.

  “You okay?” Alma asked.

  “Yeah, it’s just…I hate to do it, but I’m gonna be home late tonight.”

  “Flannery’s?”

  “Yeah. I gotta go in early. Won’t be home for dinner.”

  Disappointment tweaked her features, but she nodded. “’Kay. Hard to turn down the money.”

  That it was.

  17

  “Christmas movies already?” Alma changed the channel on the tiny little white TV set up in the corner of the kitchen counter and then made herself put the remote down, returning to her laptop. She wasn’t really watching it, but the house was too quiet without some kind of background chatter. Apparently, though, she’d been paying more attention to the tube than her job hunt, hence the need to flip away from It’s a Wonderful Life. A sitcom marathon now keeping her company, she went back to perusing the web listings in front of her.

  The café had been a great opportunity – in that it had been an open position that paid money and she hadn’t been unemployed for six months in this economy. But it wasn’t, she knew, going to provide the kind of income necessary to raise a baby. The more her bump grew, the harder it became to blame her queasiness and weight gain on a bad diet, the more disturbed she became by the prospect of just how much her new little bundle was going to cost. She knew she was supposed to be keeping a pregnancy journal so she could one day share this experience with her little one, should have been playing around with color schemes for the nursery and trying to think of some trendy, multi-syllable middle name for the poor kid. But instead, she was tabulating figures and looking for a better job.

  Which made her head hurt. Again, she found herself propped up on an elbow, staring at the TV. “Focus,” she told herself, but it didn’t work. Sadly, she knew that, had Carlos been there, she would have been more productive. So far, she’d only submitted three applications, and she didn’t feel hopeful about any of them.

  The chime of the doorbell startled her. She recovered quickly, but Sam had long ago taug
ht her that caution wasn’t weakness. And it never hurt to be prepared for a bad situation. So she got to her feet and went to the silverware drawer over by the fridge, slid out the false top full of forks and spoons and knives, and withdrew the little .22 revolver that was stashed there. Sam had a safe full of heavier fire power in the bedroom closet, but in close quarters, the small caliber handgun would do just fine.

  The entry hall was narrow, the sidelights to the left and right of the door the only windows and even with the aid of the security light overhead, she only saw a shadow on her porch. One hand on the butt of the gun at her back, she threw the locks and cracked the door.

  “Alma, it’s me,” a familiar, feminine voice said. And the lamp revealed Caroline on her front step. “Can I come in?”

  **

  The downtown Hilton’s bar was full of well-dressed men, like Sean, who sipped scotch from glass tumblers and seemed completely at home in the swanky environ, unlike Carlos. He played with the swizzle sticks in his rum and Coke and stared at the backlit, mirrored wall behind the bar, its collection of liquor bottles dazzling in the glow of the Christmas bulbs that had been threaded around their bases.

  “Did he recognize you?” Sean was playing it cool, sipping his vodka and scanning the crowds around them, but the pitch of his voice told Carlos that he wasn’t thrilled with the nature of this conversation.

  “Definitely.” Carlos shook his head at the memory of seeing Mr. Nice Shoes so near Alma.

  “What about your girl?” They’d already had that awkward hashing out of the fact that cohabitation led to the declaration of property when it came to women. “Did he know she belonged to you?”

  “He was…” he caught himself because though the guy had nodded at him, had acknowledged that they knew one another, he hadn’t grinned, hadn’t been smug. He’d given no indication that he knew Carlos and Alma were connected. Hadn’t made any threats. He’d just been sitting there, chatting with her like he was a regular customer. And though that chilled him to the bone, it made sense that a swanky dresser would frequent cafes rather than diners and the like. Sam had always been so quick to dismiss coincidences, though, so he stared at the shiny wall behind the bar and said, “He must have. Why else would he have been in there?”

  “To eat? This is paranoid shit, Carlos. I never said you wouldn’t run into some of these guys again.”

  “But…” he trailed off because Sean was right. His only argument here was his gut instinct that something had been off about seeing Diego at the Silver Plate. And he refused to believe it had only been his personal anxiety at seeing his real life colliding with his lie.

  **

  Alma tipped the tea kettle up and poured the warm, wonderful-smelling liquid that was fast becoming her non-caffeinated, pregnancy favorite into the two mismatched mugs she’d set on the table for them. She returned the kettle to the stovetop and offered Caroline the crystal dish full of sugar which was declined with a slight shake of her friend’s head. So far, the whole time it had taken the tea to brew and steep, they’d said nothing aside from Alma’s initial offer of something to eat or drink. She’d shaken some chocolate covered pretzels out onto a plate and now that they had their tea, the only thing left to do was sit down and face one another. She pulled out the chair across from Caroline and did just that, clearing her throat.

  “I guess you got my texts.”

  The blonde stared down into the depths of her mug and nodded, the overhead light catching ribbons of gold in her hair.

  Back in high school, Alma had been the outspoken, brazen one, but Caroline had been the quiet, steady strong one. Alma was reminded of that as her blue eyes swept up to meet hers. They seemed old, much older than her twenty-four years. So much for dumb blondes, Caroline had never been one.

  “I did,” she said. “I just wasn’t sure how this would work, so…” she shrugged, “I decided not to pop in on you at work.”

  That was understandable. Public places were never ideal when it came to personal discussions. But a phone call would have been nice. Alma felt frumpy sitting there in her yoga pants and favorite long sweater that buttoned up the front and hung down nearly to her knees. She nodded. “I appreciate that. Surprised you came by, actually.”

  Caroline shrugged. Took a sip of tea. “I’m not sure what we’re doing here, but…”

  Alma frowned, but it was a reflective expression. She’d really screwed up. There’d been a time when she and Caroline had claimed to read one another’s thoughts. And now they didn’t even know what to say to one another. Well, she did. She was the one who’d wanted to have a sitdown.

  “This is going to sound stupid,” Alma started. “Too little too late and all that.”

  Caroline’s brows twitched.

  “But I wanted to apologize.”

  “For what?”

  Where did she begin? The laundry list of offenses was longer than her arm. “For a lot of things. I wish we hadn’t drifted apart - ”

  “Drifted?” Caroline interjected. She heaved a sigh, little shoulders jacking up around her neck and falling again. Alma had to admire the firm way she locked gazes with her. “We didn’t drift, Alma. You blew up at me about Sam and I decided I wasn’t going to bother you anymore.” She shook her head a fraction, glancing over toward the fridge. “I thought you’d reach out once you’d cooled off, but you never did.”

  **

  “Look,” Sean thumbed a few bills off the roll of cash he produced from the inside of his suit jacket and left them on the bar with a little two-fingered wave for the bartender. “You got worries, and I get that, I do. But you gotta chill the fuck out.”

  “I know,” Carlos agreed with a sigh, rubbing at the headache that seemed intent on residing between his eyes. He gave his boss one last pleading look as the dealer got to his feet and adjusted his black wool overcoat. If only he could get him to understand. “It’s Alma,” he said. “She’s pregnant. I can’t get Sam’s wife and kid killed.”

  Sean’s face showed no sign that he’d heard, and his eyes went to their surroundings as he leaned in close. “Maybe you shoulda thought about that before you started fuckin’ your dead cousin’s bitch.”

  He left in a swirl of expensive material and understated cologne. Inside, Carlos was screaming. But outwardly, he picked up his drink and took another pull.

  **

  It was her fault, and Alma knew it. But she’d thought Caroline’s constant good manners would keep this from getting ugly. Now, once again, the ball was in her court. It was in her nature – in her DNA – to get up from the table and go stony-silent, refuse to acknowledge her own mistakes and shortcomings. But that was the attitude that had led them to this place. She was determined not to follow in Diane’s cold, emotionless footsteps.

  “I was wrong,” she said. “I…,” she released a shaky breath, because speaking ill of him made her nauseas, even if she knew the words were true. “Sam was so important to me I couldn’t stand to hear him questioned.”

  Caroline’s gaze came back, blue eyes curious in an innocent sort of way.

  “I was twenty-one and stupid.”

  “Seventeen,” her friend reminded. She’d been seventeen when the magnetic pull between she and Sam had overgrown the boundaries they’d put up between one another and things had become physical. Caroline twitched a sad smile. “I guess I thought he was a phase. A really intense phase. But I wasn’t trying to make you hate me. I just wanted to make sure he was really what you wanted.”

  Alma nodded, a lump forming in her throat. “I didn’t want to have to think about that. It felt so right with him that I just…”

  “Couldn’t doubt him.”

  “Yeah.”

  A heavy silence descended. Alma knew that, just like with her mother, there would be no way to convince Caroline of the solidity of her love with Sam. That would never happen, nor was it the purpose of this meeting.

  She tapped her pale pink nails against her mug. “Carlos and I are sort of together no
w.”

  “I heard.” Caroline made an apologetic face. “Sorry. Your mom told me.”

  “Figures. She always did like to talk.”

  There was a loaded pause and Alma waited for the blonde’s opinion to drop. Finally, Caroline took a deep breath. “I like Carlos.”

  Alma blinked. “You do?”

  “Yeah. He’s sweet and he’s always been nuts about you.”

  She’d expected more of the same, if not at least a narrow-eyed gaze that questioned her sanity.

  Caroline grinned. “Don’t look so surprised. I’m not your mom. I could give a shit how much money he has; it’s about whether or not he lets you be you.”

  She wanted to, but she couldn’t stop the laugh that came bubbling up out of her throat. “Thank God for that!”

  “What?”

  “You not being my mom.”

  Caroline chuckled too and the next pause, in which they both sipped at their tea, was decidedly less uncomfortable than the ones that had come before it.

  “Are we gonna be okay?” Alma asked finally. It felt too good to be back with her friend, to be with any friend, really, but especially Caroline.

  “I dunno,” the blonde’s smile slipped a moment, her hair flashing side to side as she shook her head. “I wanna be. But I think we’ll have to wait and see.”

  Alma nodded.

  “So, what’s it like being pregnant?”

  **

  In the backseat of his Escalade, Sean scrolled through the call log of his phone. Was Carlos an overly cautious pussy? Yes. But he couldn’t blame the kid for his reasoning.

  He found the number he’d filed under Diego because his new liaison hadn’t given him anything else to go on. He dialed and the other line was picked up on the third ring. “Yeah?” he recognized the smooth, perfect American accent of the Latino drug buyer.