Shelter (11 page)

             
Okay, so he’d watched way too much TV.

             
His hand was on the release bar of the door that would take him back into the main area of the first floor when he heard a sound. Footsteps. Slow, even, as if whoever it was had an interest in keeping quiet. As if, maybe, whoever it was, knew he wasn’t alone in the building.

             
Carlos sucked in a breath and held it. His heart hammered against his sternum and he tried to convince himself that he was spooked and imagining things. His haunted memories were now affecting his auditory senses.

But there were definitely footsteps on the other side of the door, echoing across all the concrete and exposed sheetrock of the cavernous room.
They sounded almost like dress shoes, the heavy thud of a man’s tread emphasized with a
crack
of an expensive dress heel. Which ruled out a vagrant.

His finger caressed the trigger guard of his Glock, and he asked himself, as he listened to the owner of the snappy shoes pace around, what he thought he was going to do. Shoot the guy? Put another murder in this building’s history? The obvious answer was to duck out the exterior door behind him and take off down the alley. But sick curiosity made him stay. That and the whispered promise of
revenge
that swirled around in the back of his mind.

The owner of the footsteps lingered another few moments that felt like forever. Carlos had to remind himself to breathe. And then they retreated at a steady pace toward the other door, the one that had to be worked open through the hole in the wall, and the door hinges squealed. There was a clang as the lock slammed into place. And then it was silent except for the sound of his pulse pounding in his ears.

He waited an extra minute or two, just to be sure, then he tucked away his gun and flashlight, punched the bar on the door behind him and slipped out into the vacant alley.

When his phone rang, he swore, and then swore again for being so goddamn jumpy. “Stupid fuck,” he scolded himself as he checked the ID display. Alma.

“Hey, baby,” he managed to keep his voice normal and upbeat.

“Hey.” Just with one word, she sounded tired, but like she was smiling.
“How’s your day off going?”

“Fine.” He stopped at the street corner, checked both ways, then set off toward his car parked on the opposite curb. “What about
you
? First day. Did it go okay?”

“Well, I didn’t get fired. So I guess that counts for something.”

It was amazing how, only moments before he’d been a panicked wreck, and now, the sound of her voice had turned him inside out and doused him with sunshine. Deep down he knew he was no good for her, for a lot of reasons. But she was so very, very good for him that he kept hoping he had a chance of turning this Sam/Sean/drug situation around so he could be what she needed. Carlos chuckled. “That’s a step. Job retention’s a good thing.”

She breathed a little laugh that warmed him until he thought he might not need his jacket. “True.” There was a pause. He imagined her taking a deep breath. “Are we still on for my place tonight?”

“Absolutely. Whatcha making?” he asked as he hit the remote to unlock his doors.

“
I thought I might splurge for steaks.”

Carlos frowned. “Only if you’re craving them. I’m not really in the mood for anything that bloody.”

12

Alma was surprised she hadn’t forgotten what her house looked like she visited it so little. The yard was going to absolute hell; it was late fall, so the grass wasn’t growing, but the weeds were, and they were getting thick. Leaves had piled up in drifts along the base of the four-foot chain link fence that ringed the front lawn, they spilled out of the gutters brown and orange and crackly. She’d been picking up the mail, though, and she shifted it around in her arms so she could insert her key in the back door and release the deadbolt.

The rear entry led straight into the kitchen, and the air smelled stale. Not sour, just unused, like the windows needed to be left open a couple
of hours. It was a modest house; as she set the mail on the counter, she could see the foyer and its coat rack, the living room, the hall that led to the two bedrooms and bathroom. It was a starter home in one of the more transitional neighborhoods on the edge of Marietta, it almost had a Powder Springs address. Their – her – neighbors were an eclectic mix of new families, day laborers and college students rooming together and splitting the rent. It was a messy little community with lots of character and though it lacked the elegance and style of her parents’ place, it was comfortable. Sam had bought the house for her which, of course, had made it special beyond words.

Alma swore she could feel him as she paced across the floor to the cordless phone that was mounted on the far wall. The reminders were everywhere – his handwriting on the message board beside the door, the scratch in her Kitchen Aid mixer, the latest copy of
Guns & Ammo
that had come in the mail – and that was without going deeper into the house and encountering his photograph.

The blinking light on her answering machine told her she had three messages, and she cringed as she hit the play button, worried she’d be bitched out by the recycling people for not leaving her bottles and papers out on the curb like she was supposed to for the past two weeks. Instead, she heard:
“Hi, Alma, this is Sue from Dr. Laramie’s office reminding you that you have an appointment this coming Monday at three-thirty. You’re scheduled for an ultrasound. Please give us a call back to confirm. Thank you, have a nice day…”

She tuned out the next two message
s, instead chewed at her lip and recalled her last appointment with Dr. Laramie. She’d been an unkempt bundle of sniffles and tears, overcome with grief for Sam as the nurses had drawn blood and checked her vitals. Filling out paperwork had been torture, having to write his name in the blank labeled “name of father.” No one, from the receptionist to the doctor himself, had seemed to know how to handle her, so they’d been polite and upbeat, hadn’t responded to her miserable tone when she’d answered their questions as to whether the father would be joining her for the appointment.

This time, though, was going to be better. She squared up her shoulders and walked out of the kitchen, through the living room back to her bedroom so she could change before she started cooking. She longed for the soft comfort of sweats, but instead compromised with black leggings and a long, fitted sweater. Part of feeling better was looking better, and so far it seemed to be helping.

Alma was stepping out of the bathroom, massaging her scalp that was sore thanks to the tight braid she’d worn all day, when her eyes landed on the bed. Beneath the white down comforter and beaded pillow shams, she knew the sheets still smelled of Sam’s cologne and the harsh soap he used. They were the same sheets on which the baby had been conceived. She thought of Carlos, of the warmth in his voice when he’d answered her call earlier. The way he called her “baby” like she was the best thing on the planet.

Then she stepped forward and took the corner of the comforter in her hand, peeled it back. She didn’t lean down and breathe in one last whiff of the sheets like she wanted to, afraid she wouldn’t be able to go through with this if she did, and yanked them off the mattress.
Don’t turn back
, she told herself as she stripped the linens and bundled them up in her arms.

Into the washing machine they went and she pulled out the knob, watched the water start pouring into the drum with a hiss. In went the Tide. And she didn’t cry as she watched a clinging piece of her life with Sam literally wash away.

But she wanted to.

Carlos arrived about an hour later, just as the aroma of the baked herb chicken in the oven was starting to permeate the kitchen. As she’d chopped and diced and sprinkled, stirred and steamed, she’d been fixating on the new crisp, white, untouched sheets on the bed, asking herself if she was really going to be able to lay down on them with Carlos and maintain her composure. But seeing him walk through the back door felt so right it took the apprehension in her belly and turned it on its head.

His eyes found hers as he said, “Hey,” in a voice that indicated he was worried if she was handling this new, great big step or if she was about to crumble. It was so similar to the look he’d given her that first day he’d come over, when he’d been dripping with rain water and when both their emotions had been so raw, she felt her heart swell. Carlos was a good man. More considerate and sweeter than anyone she’d ever had in her life.

“Hi,” she smiled. “How’s chicken sound?”

“Well, it
smells
great.” He glanced around the room and she thought he seemed rattled. Paranoid no doubt. Or maybe he felt Sam’s ghost in the room with them. His eyes landed on hers again. “How are you doing?”

She closed the distance between them, slipped her arms around his waist and buried her face in the hollow of his throat. “I’m good.”

**

“I love this movie.”

Carlos chuckled. “Then why’ve you spent the past hour making fun of it?”

Alma was tucked up under his arm on the sofa, using him as a body pillow. The soft blue glow of the TV was the only light on in the room and it flickered across her face. She looked serene, peaceful. “It’s not so much ‘making fun’ as it is pointing out helpful suggestions the characters should have taken to heart in order to not die a horrible death.”

He chuckled again. The last time they’d watched
Jeepers Creepers,
she’d been sixteen and had missed out on all Halloween festivities thanks to the flu. Tom and Diane hadn’t been too keen on one of the landscapers spending the evening on their couch, but Alma had been so pitiful and weak, they’d been willing to put up with him because he made her laugh.

“For instance,” she continued, “early on, when they go back to see what the monster threw down in that drainage pipe? You
never
double back! Least of all where the
monster’s
been!”

Do you double back when it’s your cousin bleeding out in a stairwell?
He asked himself purely for torture. But he shook the thought away. 

“But you know,” Alma said. “The whole premise of all horror movies hinges on the fact that people must act as stupidly as possible in order for any of the madness to occur.”

He loved that she was a nerd. “But what about something like
The Sixth Sense
? No one was overly stupid in that.”

“True. But, I like to think of that as more of a supernatural thriller. There was actually a story there, and the plot didn’t revolve around teenagers being torn to pieces.”

“You know, I think you’ve put waaaaay too much thought into this,” he teased. Really, it was a good sign to see her back to her chirpy, analytical self.

She flung up her hands in mock indignation, also a good sign. “You can never think too much, Carlos! I don’t think anyone ever accused Shakespeare of thinking too much – it’s kind of
the
most important part of writing.”

“Guess you’ll have to get famous and prove that to everyone, huh?”

He’d meant the prod to be gentle, light and supportive, but he saw a frown put shadows in the corners of her mouth. “Yeah…don’t count on that happening.” She sounded sad. Then her head twisted around and her blue-around-the-edges dark eyes flipped up to meet his. “And don’t gimme that inspiration crap. Getting published is not one of those if-you-set-your-mind-to-it kinds of things.”

He grinned and poked at her temple. “Not for just anyone, but
your
mind, I dunno, I think it’s pretty great.”

She returned the grin, teeth gleaming white. “You are so cheesy, you know that?”

He shrugged. “Little cheese never hurt anybody.”

The moment was so exquisitely normal, put him in such a trance, he didn’t realize he’d spoken until Alma’s expression shifted dramatically. She sat up straight, shrugging off his arm. “What did you just say to me?”

She hadn’t balked at his
I love you
, so he wasn’t sure what could have sent her reeling backward like this. “I…” he wanted to kick himself when the words came back to him. Staring down into her eyes, warm and safe beneath the shelter of their bond that grew tighter by the day, he’d opened his mouth and said, “You always shoulda been with me instead.”

Shit!

“Alma - ”

But she was already getting to her feet, struggling to untangle her long legs from the fleece throw she’d had tucked in around the both of them.
“How,” her hair fell in front of her face and she pushed it back with aggravation. “How could you say that? Do – do you really think that?” Even in the dim light of the TV, the hurt in her eyes was like a physical entity that reached through the distance between them and slapped the shit out of him. “Oh my God.”

“Alma
, wait.” He tripped over the throw in his attempt to stand. “Fuck…Alma!” By the time he was upright, she had gone down the hall.