Hunter’s Baby

by Alexis Abbott

  “Anywho, I’m just dying for a latte,” says the woman. She pinches the bridge of her designer shades and lowers them slightly so she can squint up over my shoulder at the menu on the wall. Oh. She’s one of those types who doesn’t seem to decide what she wants until she’s already at the register, even though she’s had a good five minutes standing in line to peruse the menu. I decide to offer some suggestions to try and move her along, as the line is only growing longer and longer and the people behind her look increasingly impatient.

  “What type of latte? Hot or iced? What sort of flavors do you usually go for?” I ask helpfully. She scratches at her chin and tilts her head from one side to the other.

  “Hmm,” she contemplates. I have to grip the underside of the counter to let out some of my own pent-up annoyance and impatience. I wish I could tell her, Look, lady, I’ve got a whole line of people standing behind you who know exactly what they want. Just make a decision already before they all decide to start a mutiny and kill us both. But instead I just smile beatifically and watch her hem and haw over the menu.

  “What’s that new pink latte I keep seeing ads for everywhere? Looks like strawberry or cherry blossom or something, I think,” the woman asks curiously.

  “That’ll be our rose-cardamom latte. It was just supposed to be a promotional flavor for spring back in April, but it was such a hit we decided to keep it for the rest of the year. Would you like to try that today?” I press her, my words stumbling over each other in my haste to get through this damn transaction.

  “What does cardamom taste like?” she asks, leaning more heavily on the counter and peering up at me with brown eyes behind her shades.

  Oh, good god. Is this is a game of twenty questions? How can one woman take up so much space and time? Is this really happening right now? All the customers behind her are glaring daggers at me as if it’s my fault that little Miss Gucci Shades has decided to move in and start paying rent at my cash register or whatever. But I must be strong.

  “Cardamom is kind of complex. It’s a little spicy, a little sweet, kind of citrusy-- and some people say it’s sort of minty, but I don’t taste that at all,” I explain. I’ve rolled out this exact description probably a hundred times already. It’s like a rehearsed speech at this point.

  “Spicy? Hmm. I don’t know about spicy,” she murmurs.

  “It’s not super spicy,” I backtrack, feeling my heart sink as my attempt to sell her on it seems to be failing. “It’s really good. I promise.”

  She raises an eyebrow and looks at me hard, like she’s sizing me up to determine whether I’m telling her the truth. As if this is the most life-changing decision one could ever make. Then, to my mingled relief and exasperation, she replies, “Eh, I think I’ll just get a large iced pumpkin latte with soy milk.”

  “Oh. Okay! Yes, ma’am. Coming right up. That’ll be five-sixty-two, please,” I remark, my fingers flying across the buttons on the screen. As I’m ringing her up, part of my mind seems to function on autopilot while another part of my brain drifts away to focus on the music filtering out of the radio station playing softly over the cafe speakers. It’s one of those easy-listening indie stations, generally playing the kind of music that makes me want to lie down and take a nap. I always wonder if Marty picks that station to balance out the caffeinated energy of the customers. As if playing a rap song or a rock song would send our jittery customers into a mosh pit and start wrecking the interior design here. I finish ringing up my garrulous customer just as the final twangy notes of the current acoustic song fades out and is followed by a radio DJ announcing in a cheesy, soft voice that there’s a breaking new development in a suspicious crime wave striking Albany. At first I try to tune it out, assuming it’s just another electronics shop being robbed or some little old lady getting mugged-- the usual unfortunate but less-than-intriguing fare you tend to hear about when you live in a metropolitan area like this one in upstate New York. But then, I hear a string of words that immediately captures all of my attention and makes my blood run cold.

  “This is a Smooth Listening One-oh-Five-Point-Nine news exclusive. Police witnesses have shared the news that there has been a body discovered in Ithaca, New York. Yes, that’s right, dear listeners. A body. As yet unidentified, but it looks to be possibly some sort of contract killing. The victim, whose name has not been released, seems to have been stabbed through the neck with a surgical instrument, perhaps. The police are calling it a random murder at this time, but rest assured, Smooth Listeners, that we will be providing updates as more information from Ithaca PD trickles in. Be careful out there, folks! Stay safe and, as always, stay smooth,” croons the DJ in his artfully sleepy voice.

  After that brief bulletin, another song starts back up, but it’s too late. I’m totally lost in thought, my heart pounding like crazy. I feel tingly all over and enraptured by the startling news. I glance around, frowning to see that nobody else seems to have even paid the least bit of attention to the breaking news. Is the discovery of a murdered body really not very interesting to these folks? Are they truly more interested in gossiping and sipping fancy macchiatos to care that a man has been brutally killed in a city not so far from here?

  The cogs in my brain are already churning faster and faster as I contemplate the sparse details of the murder. Stabbed through the neck? A supposed contract killing? And yet also a random murder? I want to roll my eyes at how silly it sounds. How could a contract killing ever be random? It’s the opposite of random by the very nature of the reason for committing the crime. It’s something done for a reason. Maybe not always (or ever) a good reason, but still. I can’t stop fixating on the conflicting information, trying to make sense of it so that maybe at some point in the near future, when or if I get a little slice of precious free time, I might be able to cover this case on my new, fledgeling true crime podcast…

  “Blossom!” barks a gruff, demanding male voice, the source of which seems to be mere inches from my ear. I am so startled that I let out a little yelp of fear and whip around to face my manager, Marty Driscoll, who’s looming over me with a red, scrunched-up, grumpy face that will eternally remind me of a slobbery bulldog.

  “Y-Yes, sir?” I stammer, blinking rapidly as I try to jolt my brain back to the present moment. I realize with a sinking feeling that there’s a long, long line forming all the way out the doors. Who knew four in the afternoon would be such a popular hour for people seeking a boost of caffeine?

  “You have a customer! Stop daydreaming and do your damn job. you still have three hours left on your shift. You can listen to the news on your own time, not mine,” Marty scolds.

  I nod vigorously, feeling sick to my stomach. I’ve never dealt very well with harsh criticism, especially when men raise their voices. After the upbringing I had, it’s just one of those things that always makes me tremble.

  “Yes, sir. My apologies. I-I’ll do better,” I insist, turning to serve my next customer with my cheeks burning beet red.

  “Good,” grumbles Marty as he waddles away, presumably to browbeat someone else.

  I look up at my customer with the same forced smile I always wear as part of my work uniform along with my name tag and my apron, but my smile falters when I see his face. He’s a middle-aged man, probably in his late forties or early fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair, beady black eyes, and what I assume to be a perpetual scowl. He looks at me like I might as well be a servant or perhaps a dairy cow who’s failing to produce milk. Instantly, I feel uncomfortable. It’s like those shrewd, squinty little eyes are trying to bear down into my soul and extract my deepest fears and insecurities. I know his type immediately, instinctively. He hates women, all women, but especially the young and pretty ones like me.

  That’s right, I’m not oblivious. I know I’ve got a nice figure and a pleasant face. Add to that my big blue eyes and wavy blonde hair pulled back into a peppy ponytail, and I know I must look like the epitome of this guy’s favorite prey.

  “I’m so s
orry for keeping you, sir. I got a little distracted, I guess,” I tell him, nervously fiddling with the lanyard around my neck. “So, what can I get started for you today?”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me how my day is going?” he growls.

  I blink in surprise for a moment, then it dawns on me that I had asked Miss Chatty Cathy how her day’s been, and apparently this guy is offended I didn’t offer him that same tepid, pointless greeting. So I yank my smile up a little wider and ask, “How is your day going, sir?”

  “Well, it was alright until I got here, to be honest with you, Miss,” he grumbles. “You might want to learn how to pay attention if you want to keep your job. Not every customer is going to be as forgiving as I am.”

  Ugh. The nerve. Keep your cool, Blossom, it’s just a paycheck…

  “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll do my best to ensure the rest of your time here at the Lazy Bean goes smoothly. What would you like to drink today? And what name would you prefer for the order?” I prattle off, scribbling the name Ronald on a cup and going onto autopilot so that I don’t climb over the counter and claw the bastard’s eyes out.

  I put in his order as fast and accurately as possible, and I heave a sigh of relief when he moves on down to wait at the end of the barista counter for his drink. But as I’m serving the next customer, I see out of the corner of my eye that the jerk is clearly complaining about me to Marty! Shit. Shit, shit shit. That can’t be good.

  A few moments later, Marty sidles up next to me and growls into my ear, “I just gave that man his drink for free, but it’s coming out of your paycheck. Remember that next time.”

  I’m pissed off, but there’s nothing I can do except nod. I scramble through the next several orders until, finally, it’s time for my break. As usual, I prepare myself a free cup of coffee behind Marty’s back, and then hurry out the back to the little patio where we all like to hide out for smoke breaks. I don’t smoke, but I do love getting ten minutes to myself to stand outside and breathe the fresh air. Although, I’m not sure just exactly how fresh the air here is in the city, but it’s better than being cooped up in the Bean all day with no interruptions. I’m twenty-three, a single mom living in a strange city that still doesn’t always feel like home. I’m from a small town originally, so sometimes I do struggle with the faster, more impatient pace of life here. I do find my little ways to ground myself and entertain the curiosity I’ve had since I was a child.

  I stand there, bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet and using the hot coffee cup to keep my hands warm in the autumn breeze. Luckily, I have a long-sleeved shirt and jeans under my work apron, so I’m not too chilly out here. I look up and down the narrow alley, waiting for my usual encounter. Everyone thinks I’m a sucker, but to be honest, I kind of look forward to my brief chats with the clever, spunky homeless girl who usually meets up with me during my afternoon break.

  Just like clockwork, she comes strolling around the corner. I give her a smile and a wave and she responds with a cool, aloof nod. Her name is Samantha Monroe, and she’s only eighteen, a whole year younger than my little sister, but she’s been on the streets for two years now after getting kicked out of her parents’ house. I still have never managed to ask her exactly what happened with her folks, but I figure if she hasn’t told me yet, there’s probably a reason she doesn’t want me to know. The young girl walks up to the patio and leans back on the railings, dressed in a ratty old sweater with holes at the elbows and ripped jeans. Her shoes look like they might fall apart at any moment. I hand her the coffee, which she accepts with a big smile.

  “Medium roast this time. Should be a little less bitter,” I tell her.

  “Thanks, B. I really needed this today,” she replies, taking a sip.

  “Are you cold?” I ask, looking at her less-than-ideal outfit. She shrugs.

  “Eh. Not really. I keep moving all day, so that keeps me warm,” Sam says.

  I bite my lip. “Hey, look. Have you heard about what happened in Ithaca?” I ask.

  She frowns and shakes her head. “Nah. What happened?”

  I lower my voice and explain, “The cops found a body.”

  “A dead one?” she clarifies.

  I nod. “Yes. A dead body. What other kind would they find?”

  She chuckles and shrugs. “Girl, I don’t know. Sometimes when I’m sleepin’ on a park bench people call the cops on me, too. I’m a body. But I’m not a dead one.”

  I smile-- the first genuine smile all day. “Okay. Fair enough. But anyway, I want you to be careful, alright? The police are saying it’s a random homicide, but around here, that could mean anything. I worry about you being on the streets. Might make you an easier target.”

  She nods slowly. “I know. But I’m smart. I take care of myself, B. I’ll be fine. Don’t you worry about me. You got your own baby to worry about, eh?”

  I laugh. “Yeah, I suppose that’s right. But Flora doesn’t sleep on park benches. I’m a little less concerned about a murderer getting to her.”

  Sam reaches over and pats my shoulder. “Seriously. I’ll be okay. It’s just one homicide all the way over in Ithaca. Big whoop. We live in the state of New York, B. There are murderers everywhere.”

  “Well, that’s comforting,” I sigh.

  She giggles and gives me a look much wiser than her years as she starts going down the stairs to leave. “Take care of yourself, girl. I’ve got to go. Don’t want Big Bad Boss-Man to come out here and bitch you out for giving out free coffee to the riff-raff like me,” she says, winking at me over her shoulder.

  After she disappears around the corner, I head back inside to finish out my shift. It goes by uneventfully, and at long last I get to clock out, whip off my stupid apron, and get in my car to go home. As soon as I start up the engine, I hook up my phone to the stereo to play my most favorite guilty pleasure: a true crime podcast. I’ve been listening to them for years now, hungrily devouring all the crime-related content I can find. My sister, Sage, says it’s a little morbid of me to be so intrigued by this stuff, but I can’t help it. And over the years, she’s starting to come around. In fact, I think I might be able to even get her to co-star on my own podcast with me. She may not be as interested in true crime as I am, but she does love to listen to herself talk. I know a podcast may sound like a pretty silly endeavor to some, but I don’t want to be a barista forever. My dream goal is to become a journalist, and I think that starting my own podcast would be a great way to break into the industry.

  To my excitement, I find that the podcast I’m listening to just uploaded a mini-episode discussing the murder in Ithaca. I listen with rapt attention as I drive home, catching all the little details. My heart stops as I hone in on one little detail the other report left out…

  “There’s only been one murder attributed to this guy so far, but we personally suspect he’s going to be a prolific serial killer, so we’ve dubbed him ‘The Gardener.’ Why that name, you may ask? Well, the answer is simple. He left a calling card at the scene of the grisly murder: a white lilac, dipped in the victim’s own blood.”

  Suddenly, it’s like a memory I’ve kept sealed in a vault for five years comes springing at me out of the darkness. The sensation of sitting in the dewy grass, holding hands with the boy I loved, cuddling and kissing under the fragrance and shade of a white lilac bush that used to grow tall and impressive in a park down the road from my childhood home. Memories of his lips pressed against mine, his fingers interlocking with my own, as we whiled away the blissful hours together, wrapped up in young love. Memories of the young man I figured I’d never see again.

  The man who remains the unknowing father of my child.

  Blossom

  I can still remember just what it feels like to have the whole world ripped out from underneath you in a moment. How hard it is to reconcile the new life you’re being forced to live with the twisted but beautiful life you were living before. It was never perfect, of course, and there were times when my old
life was nigh unbearable. I grew up in a small town in northern Maine, the kind of place with only one stop light and endless fields of wavy green and wildflowers. The winters are long and sparkly white with snow and ice, while the warmer months are filled with dragonflies, chirping birds, and lush gardens. The rocky coastline can strike awe into the hearts of even the most jaded world traveler. There are lots of farms and quiet cottages tucked away from the rest of civilization, down long and winding dirt roads. It’s a picturesque place to call home. That much I can’t argue against.

  But there’s a downside to living in humble, rural isolation. Everybody knows each other. Everybody remembers your name and who you’re related to. They remember what role you played in your fifth grade Christmas play. Your roots grow deep and people get stubborn about their homes and their ways. Change comes about slowly, and anyone who doesn’t fall right in line with the way of things will stand out like a sore thumb. Luckily— or unluckily, depending on who you ask— I tended to be pretty damn good at blending in. After all, that’s the way I was taught to behave. Girls are meant to be quiet and soft and obedient. They’re supposed to be helpful without being asked, and speak only when spoken to. My mother was always the paragon of feminine virtue I aspired to. She’s demure and diminutive and always, always dressed like she’s going to church. Specifically, like she’s going to church in the 1950s. Fluffy blonde hair, poofy sleeves, floor-length floral dresses, beige heels. She’s the domestic goddess, queen of cooking, cleaning, and child-resting. Supposedly.