Adriana felt her daughter’s shoulder pop as she yanked the four-year-old back onto the sidewalk. A semi-truck roared past, a second later, dragging a plume of hot fumes.
“The red hand means stop, Izzy!” Adriana yelled. “And you never, ever cross before me!” Her body shook from adrenaline.
Izzy’s face bunched up into a knot and tears instantly plopped on the gum-splotched sidewalk like burst water balloons, darkening the scalding summer concrete and quickly disappearing. Everyone had a short temper in Tucson when it was above one-hundred-and-fifteen but Adriana realized she might have overreacted.
“Remember, we cross with the white man,” she said, forcing calm into her voice. “But even then we have to look both ways.” Grand was a five-lane surface street with a forty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit, a narrow sidewalk, and a Circle K every other block—not a street designed for children. Or anyone, really.
Adriana bent over Oscar’s hand-me-down stroller. She tried pulling the sunshade lower even though she knew it was already fully extended. She felt a tug at her hand from Izzy.
“It’s, it’s the white man,” Izzy stammered, pointing at the pedestrian signal.
“Is it safe to cross?” Adriana asked, looking left and right twice, turning her head with exaggeration.
“I think so.”
“I think so, too.”
They stepped onto Sunset, another five-laner. The black asphalt beneath Adriana’s thin shoes felt hot enough to sear a steak. She would have worn her work shoes for this length of walk—any nurse who’d been on the job more than a week knew the importance of supportive shoes—but she had to keep those as white as possible because Star Valley Nursing Home was in the midst of a layoff. Adriana had been spared so far, and if maintaining bright white shoes gave her an edge, she’d take it.
A horn blared as Adriana pushed the stroller up to the sidewalk. A silver Porsche screeched around the corner behind her, passing so close it sucked at Adriana’s thin, yellow dress, revealing her dark, smooth legs.
The driver whistled and yelled, “Damn, momma’s hot!” from the open window.
Adriana didn’t flip him off, for Izzy’s sake.
“What did he say, Mommy?” Izzy asked. “Was he mad at us?”
“No, he wasn’t mad. Come on. Keep up.”
“Then why did he yell?”
Adriana searched the dusty vaults of her mind for something—anything—to get off the subject of catcalls. “He said he was too hot. He needed to go to the cooling shelter. You know, the one we went to when our air conditioner stopped working?”
“But the cooling shelter is that way!” Izzy pointed. “Mommy, the cooling shelter is behind us!”
“Don’t worry he’ll find it.”
“But he was going the wrong way!”
Adriana dragged Izzy with one hand and pushed the stroller with the other. The wheels creaked over the uneven, cracked sidewalk. One spun uselessly in the air half an inch off the ground. Izzy mumbled to herself about the cooling shelter, that if the man couldn’t find it he’d die. Adriana would have liked to help with that.
She could smell herself whenever the hot, belching breeze of traffic rushed from behind. She smelled like body odor’s body odor, cheap floral deodorant, poverty, baby wipes, and fresh sweat even though her skin was dry, the sweat on her exposed skin evaporating before it formed beads.
She felt eyes on her from the passing cars. Some were the leering eyes of men. Others were women, critical of her for taking her kids out in the heat. She imagined a scolding by one of these women. Everyone knows you don’t take babies and four-year-olds out when it’s over a hundred, just like you don’t leave a dog in the car while you do errands!
But it wasn’t Adriana’s fault her hours had been cut at Star Valley, or that her husband left a week before Oscar was born and hadn’t paid a dime in child support. It wasn’t her fault Oscar had been in and out of the hospital with RSV and that his medical bills meant her Civic sat in front of her apartment with a dead alternator.
She paused to check on her six-month hold. His forehead was flushed, warm, and still wet from the water she’d poured over him a few minutes ago. His eyes were closed tight. How was he managing to sleep when it was so hot? Goosebumps rose on Adriana’s arms. She prodded Oscar’s ribs with a finger. Nothing. She prodded harder. Still no response.
“Oscar!” She shook him hard enough to rock his head back and forth, and continued shaking him until he began to cry.
“Thank God,” Adriana whispered.
“Why’d you do that, Mommy?” Izzy asked with a thumb in her mouth, a habit she’d picked up after her father left.
“I was just making sure your brother wasn’t too hot.”
“I bet he is too hot because I’m too hot, and tired,” Izzy whined, dragging out tired into three exaggerated syllables. “I wish Grandma was here. She’d carry me.”
“Me too, Izzy.” Adriana held back tears. Her mother hadn’t been able to afford Star Valley Nursing Home. She died in the ER, along with Adriana’s last shred of hope. If Mom was still around to watch the kids and help split rent, she wouldn’t be out here with a cranky four-year-old putting her baby at risk searching for a job she didn’t want.
Adriana felt ashamed for wishing her mother back into existence for logistical purposes. It seemed like everywhere she went these days shame was right behind her, holding the leash. And of course she should feel ashamed. The illegal, debasing things she’d done to provide for her children. . . things no mother should have to do, things no woman should have to do.
“Okay. Break’s over,” Adriana said.
“Can I have a pink Otter Pop when we get home?”
“Yes,” Adriana said, knowing they were out of Otter Pops.
Daryl flicked his cigarette butt through the two-inch slit and quickly rolled up his window. It was a fucking oven out there. But an oven had its purposes. For instance, the sidewalks were almost completely clear of panhandlers. Daryl’s pulse always ticked up a notch when a red light forced him to stop alongside a homeless man and his nervous-looking pit bull.
Most of them held greasy cardboard signs—Veteran Anything Helps God Bless—and pushed stolen shopping carts loaded with other stolen crap. They staggered about from fentanyl-induced hysteria like they’d just climbed out of a fresh grave. Daryl wasn’t afraid of the homeless, though. For a man of Daryl’s impressive stature—five-foot-nine-and-a-half and one-hundred-and seventy pounds—being afraid of a homeless veteran gimp would be a joke. They just made him uneasy, that was all.
Daryl’s phone buzzed as he made a left turn onto Grand. He grabbed for it like a starving rat lunging for a piece of moldy cheese, his dopamine receptors opening their mouths wide in anticipation of a treat.
It was just a text from Mother. The dopamine fled as quickly as it had come.
Did you get the margarine? the text read.
“Damnit,” Daryl said, still looking at this phone. He’d forgotten the fucking margarine. Nine heaving plastic bags of groceries and two-hundred-and-ten dollars later—nearly all of his weekly unemployment—and he’d forgotten the main reason he’d driven to Fry’s in the first place. He had two options. Turn around and waste another twenty minutes of his weekend, or go home to a barrage of ridicule.
He was about to make a U-ey when a third option presented itself. He could blame the bagger for misplacing the margarine. He looked up at the road and straightened out. He’d been halfway into the bike lane.
Yes, Daryl typed into his phone, steering with his knee. Got the margarine. Heading home now. Got Land-O-Lake like you wanted.
Daryl practiced what he’d say when he got home. Bagging lady must have fucked up because I definitely bought it.
Mother would scold him for using foul language then ask which bagging lady it had been, as if his Tub-O-Lard mother ever went out. Daryl would pause to think. Maybe he’d pull out the stops and furrow his brow and scratch his chin.
It was one of those real dark-skinned women, he’d say, knowing this would distract Mother from looking at the receipt.
Algeria I bet, Mother would say. Or one of those other shithole countries with the ear-splitting Islam.
You can’t say that in public.
Oh hell, Daryl. I know that! You think I’m a idiot or something?
I don’t think you’re an idiot. I think you just need to watch what you say sometimes. He and Mother had a similar conversation last week so it was easy to imagine this next part.
Gotta watch what I say cause I’m a woman, huh? You think all women are dumb, doncha?
No, Mother. He was fully reliving the conversation now.
“You think I should keep my mouth shut ‘cause I got a pair of these?” At this, Mother had grabbed her ample, sagging breasts and lifted them up and down as if she were measuring their weight. Daryl turned away, breakfast rising in his throat. Against his will, something even less pleasant rose in his pants.
“No, of course not!” he said “And don’t do that in front of me. It’s not right.”
“Why? You don’t like ‘em anymore? You liked ‘em well enough when you was a little boy.”
“I don’t want to talk about this again.”
“Sucked on ‘em until you were in first grade!” She cackled and coughed from her COPD. “I wonder though. Sometimes I do wonder about you, Daryl.”
“About what?” He was losing his patience.
“When the last time you talked to a woman was, other than your momma.”
“I speak to women all the time.”
“I think you got something against ‘em. Can’t imagine why. Well, I can think of one reason, actually.”
Daryl throttled the steering wheel as he rode the ass of a purple Kia Soul. “For the last time. I’m not gay!” He changed lanes without looking and cut off an SUV. Daryl gave the finger as the driver honked. He floored the accelerator, leaving the Kia and the other asshole in a cloud of diesel. The traffic light ahead turned yellow. He pressed the accelerator to the floor and made the light, sort of, flying through the intersection at sixty.
His phone buzzed again. Dopamine flooded his brain.
It was Mother and the dopamine receded. What the hell did she want now?
Too many recordings on DVR. Need to record Hannity tonight. Which should I delete Diamondbacks game or Cardinals?
DO NOT delete either game, Daryl texted. I haven’t seen them yet. Delete an old episode of—
His truck jolted violently and rubber screeched against concrete. He dropped his phone and used both hands to steer himself off the sidewalk.
“Shit!” Sweat dripped from his pits. He swore again, looking in the rearview to see if anyone had noticed. No one was behind him. He searched by his feet for his phone. He found it. And finished the text.
“I’m so hot,” Izzy groaned. “Can we sit in the shade?”
“We only have half a mile to go,” Adriana said.
“That’s so far!”
“The sooner we get there the sooner you get that Otter Pop. There’s a purple one with your name on it.”
“I want pink.”
“Right.”
“And I wanna rest in the shade.”
“Look around, Izzy. Do you see any shade?”
“There was a tree back there.”
“We’re not backtracking.”
“Can we go inside a store?”
“There’s our street up ahead. Remind me what our address is.”
“I live at 2644 Dodge boul-de-vard in Tucson, Arizona zip code 85712,” Izzy sighed.
“That’s good.”
“I’m not a baby.”
There was a clearing in traffic on Grand and Adriana didn’t want to walk a quarter mile out of their way to cross at the next signal. “Hold my hand,” she said.
“Ooooo! Mommy’s being bad, Oscar! Mommy’s crossing the street without the white man!”
“Adults are allowed to cross without the crosswalk.”
“That’s not true!”
“Adults over twenty-five can,” Adriana said. “It’s a new law.”
“When am I going to be twenty-five?”
“In fifty years.”
“Oh.”
Adriana eased the stroller off the curb.
DO NOT DELETE EITHER GAME! Daryl texted, holding his phone low in his lap in case a cop rolled by. Was Mother getting senile? She was only fifty-nine but she’d been watching Hannity for over a decade and she knew the schedule. Maybe she really was losing her grip, Daryl thought, considering the way she would drift from one subject to the next with no obvious connection. What would he do with her if she really was getting dementia? He wasn’t going to watch her all day. No fucking way. He’d put her in a home. Screw that, he’d put a pillow over her face.
He thought of Mother’s comment about him breastfeeding in the first grade. It must have been a fucked up joke. But it wasn’t normal to remember breastfeeding, was it? Maybe he didn’t actually remember breastfeeding. Maybe Mother had teased him so much that the memory had been implanted. Either way, Mother had done a job on him. The things she said, it was no wonder he’d never been in a relationship. It was no wonder Dad left.
But now, thinking of the way Dad treated her, Daryl felt ashamed for bashing his mother. She’d raised him alone on a line cook’s salary. And she hadn’t always been such a psychotic bitch. He thought back to the early days, back when she sort of fit in with the rest of society. She’d actually seemed happy for a while after Dad split, probably because she didn’t have to cover up the bruising with makeup. But the good times ended when Daryl was in high school and Mother quit working at Giorgio’s. She claimed it was impossible to compete with illegals in the kitchen because they were willing to work longer shifts for lower pay. She was probably right. Daryl had experienced this himself at Amazon. Technically he’d been replaced by an autonomous forklift, but he was sure illegals were part of the problem.
A text came through. Dopamine flooded his brain. Daryl turned left across traffic onto Dodge, reading the text at the same time. It was Mother. The dopamine fled.
Deleting Cardinals game. You had plenty of time to watch.
“What the fuck, you stupid bitch! Hannity doesn’t even run on the weekend!”
“Oscar, honey? Oscar, wake up!” Adriana shook Oscar and poured the last of her warm water bottle over his forehead and chest. Why had she gone out in the heat of the day and put her sick baby at risk? She could have waited in the air conditioning in Fry’s for the next bus if it wasn’t for her pride. She’d wanted to get out of the grocery store the minute her job interview was over because stocking shelves was beneath her. For Christ’s sake she was a certified nursing assistant, she’d gone to college, and someone who looked like her—she hated that she was this vain—shouldn’t be bagging groceries or corralling shopping carts. She could have been a model if things turned out differently.
Although, was Fry’s really that much worse than Star Valley, where the new administration not only fired the most senior and highly paid staff members, but had installed thirty surveillance cameras? Those damn cameras. Always glaring down at her, seeming to insinuate she was doing something wrong, as if Adriana was the only one who pocketed the odd bottle of Oxy to help make rent.
Oscar moaned and wiped feebly at the trickle of water that Adriana poured on his face. The panic hissed out of her like a flat tire. Oscar was fine. Her baby was fine. She’d be off the street and inside soon. Everything was fine, damnit. She would put him straight in the bathtub with cold water when she got there. But another terror took its place. Izzy.
Adriana spun around. Dodge was a quieter street than Grand, but—
“Izzy! Get back on the sidewalk right now!” Adriana yelled. Somehow, Izzy was forty yards away in the bike lane in front of a four-way stop sign.
“But there’s a quarter!” She bent to grab the coin.
“Out of the street now!” Adriana applied the stroller’s safety brake and ran.
“I’m not crossing the street!” Izzy yelled, examining her newfound wealth.
The roar of a fast-moving vehicle approaching from behind made Adriana run faster.
“This is more money than I’ve ever had in my whole entire life!” Izzy said, proudly.
“Izzy! Get out of the street!”
The front end of Daryl’s Silverado closed in on the little girl. He braked and veered out of the bike lane. His phone tumbled from his hand. He saw the whites of the mother’s eyes in his peripheral vision, glowing like the edges of two eclipses. He had time to note the mother’s beauty and wonder why such an attractive chick was out on the street like a homeless woman. The little girl disappeared beneath his hood.
When he came to a stop, well past the intersection, he looked back through the cloud of scorched tires. The little girl was lying on her side. She was dead. He killed her. He should get the fuck out of there before the mother had time to memorize his license plate. He looked in the rearview as he pushed the accelerator. The girl rose. The mother grabbed her and swallowed her in a hug. The girl was unharmed. She’d just fallen over.
“Thank you, Jesus,” Daryl whispered. He rested his head against the steering wheel and put a palm to his chest to slow his heart. He was only thirty-five but a heart attack felt like a very real possibility. His hands shook. He needed a cigarette.
There was a tap on the passenger’s window and bolted upright. The woman was standing there, breathing heavily. Even in her frantic state—sweaty hair plastered against her forehead, eyeliner running—she was a specimen to behold: wide eyes, flawless brown skin, perfect bone symmetry framed by a thick frock of glassy black hair. She was thin but her breasts looked heavy and firm beneath her yellow sundress. She had perfect hourglass hips and waist. Her arms and legs looked smooth to the point of slippery, as if she’d just hopped the border, though Daryl guessed Mexicans could only be called wetbacks in Texas where they had to cross the Rio Grande.
“Sir?” The woman made a window rolling motion.
It was too late to flee. Daryl rolled down the window part way, bracing to be spat on or screamed at. He probably deserved both. Hell, of course he did.
“I—” he began, unable to get anything else out because his mouth was dry as Mother’s snatch. He tried again. “I’m so sorry for—”
“Thank you,” the woman said. “Thank you for saving my daughter’s life.”
“I should have been watching her,” Adriana said. “I turned around for one second and then she’s in the road going after a quarter.”
“No problem, ma’am.” The driver tipped his hat. His cheeks instantly flushed as if he knew how unnatural he looked doing it with his salt-stained Cardinals baseball cap, which was on backwards.
“I was just trying to cool him off.” Adriana reached into the stroller and stroked Oscar’s thin brown hair as Izzy sobbed beside her, holding a scratch on her elbow as if it was a spurting artery.
“It’s okay,” the driver said. He paused before adding, “I did what anyone would do.”
“I know this is asking a lot of you,” Adriana said, placing a hand on her chest and watching his eyes follow. “But could you let us cool off in your truck? We’ve been out in the sun way too long. It would just be for a minute or two.”
Adriana got the sense he was thirsty for female company as he lunged across the passenger seat to open the door. His thirst worked in her favor. She boosted Izzy in and lifted Oscar from his stroller. He felt like a superheated fire pit stone.
The driver turned the AC to max as Izzy, crying, climbed in the backseat.
“Thank you, sir. I’m so sorry about my daughter. I know better than to leave her unattended like that. She’s a wanderer.”
“It’s no big deal.”
“To me it is.”
“Well. . . I guess it was a good thing I was paying attention.”
“And thank you for letting us cool off. I’m Erin,” she lied.
“Mommy, that’s not—”
“Hush, now,” Adriana said, cutting off Izzy. “Here, knock yourself out.” She handed her phone to Izzy. “I usually don’t let her on it because it’s so addictive.”
“Like a drug,” the man said.
“Yep. A sedative.”
The man extended his hand. “My name’s Daryl.”
Adriana shook his sweaty hand and smiled. “It’s always a nice surprise finding out there are still good people in the world,” she said.
“Oh! You’re probably thirsty.” Daryl reached behind his seat and brought out a gallon of water. He handed it to Adriana, who unscrewed the cap and held the jug while Izzy drank. When Izzy finished, Adriana poured water over Oscar, mumbling an apology for getting the seat wet. She trickled the water over his mouth before passing the nearly empty jug back to Izzy.
“Thank you,” she said, touching Daryl’s shoulder. He flinched slightly. He was a nervous one. She had to be careful not to scare him off.
“I’m glad I could help out,” he said, glancing at her wet sundress.
He might have been nervous, but he was lonely and horny enough. Adriana almost felt sorry for him.
Daryl was terrified his erection was showing through his jeans. If he’d been in basketball shorts he might have blacked out from embarrassment. He wasn’t well-endowed by any means, but the way this woman looked and moved and spoke and touched his arm had his welterweight penis punching above its class. If Mother could see, she wouldn’t be insinuating he was gay. He was disgusted with himself for thinking this.
“Supposed to be even hotter tomorrow,” Daryl said, hating himself even more for bringing up something as droll as the weather.
“You won’t find me out in it again,” Erin laughed.
The baby kicked out his tiny foot, knocking Daryl’s wallet to the floor, which had been resting on the center console.
“Sorry about that,” Erin said.
“It’s okay.” Daryl bent to stuff the bills—four-hundred bucks of Mother’s disability—back in. He closed his wallet and tucked it into his back pocket where the leather brick sat like a carjack for his ass.
Erin fiddled with the air vents, directing them onto her baby’s face. Daryl turned the radio on and flipped through stations until he found something that wasn’t a commercial. The weight of the silence was crushing. He wiped sweat from his forehead. What was she really doing in here? He glanced at her. Her bronze wet tits pulled at his eyes like magnets. Was she. . . interested in him? She’d made direct eye contact with him multiple times, had even smiled at him multiple times. And she hadn’t left yet. That alone must have meant something.
Oscar squirmed in Adriana’s arms. He was feeling better and probably wanted milk.
“So, you live around here?” Daryl asked.
“Couple miles away,” Adriana said.
“I could drop you off.”
“No, that’s okay.”
“Oh.” He seemed let down. “Take your time cooling off. I’ve got nowhere else to be.”
“Thank you.” Adriana wanted to leave but she didn’t move. A few weeks ago she left the kids at home to run an errand and her eighty-year-old neighbor heard Oscar crying. The old bitch had called protective services, who’d arrived just before Adriana got home. Adriana was on their list now, and the old bitch was home all day every day, just waiting to make the call because she had nothing better to do with her time. Adriana had an eight-hour shift tomorrow and Oscar’s babysitter refused to come back until she was paid for the previous week, which Adriana couldn’t afford.
Adriana just needed enough money to get through July and then Izzy would start kindergarten, freeing up about a thousand dollars a month currently spent on preschool. With that thousand a month, plus the extra income from Fry’s and the discount on groceries, Adriana could slowly pay off her credit cards. Eventually she could apply for a student loan and finish her degree. She’d earn twice as much as a registered nurse, which required a B.A., as she currently did. This would take years, but it seemed within reach. It all hinged on the next few weeks, which hinged on the next few minutes.
Adriana closed her eyes and visualized how close Daryl’s truck had come to running over Izzy’s head. She saw the phone in his hand. She saw the skid marks that started at the stop sign, not before it. She saw his wallet, bulging with cash. She saw the way he’d been looking at her. He wanted her so bad he’d probably drain his entire bank account to fuck her even with the kids in the backseat. She had to go through with this. Just one more time and then she’d be done for good.
Darly was confused when Erin leaned into the backseat and set her baby next to the little girl.
“Make sure he doesn’t fall off the seat, okay?” she said. “Can you do that?”
“Okay,” the little girl said.
Erin turned to Daryl. “I want to ask you something,” she said, reaching in her purse.
“Okay.” Daryl felt giddy. She was actually interested in him! Where would he take a woman like this on a date? Anywhere she wanted. The most expensive place he could find.
She put her hand on his thigh. “Do you like me, Daryl?”
“Yes,” Daryl squeaked.
She leaned close to him, her hand creeping up his thigh. “Do you want to fuck me?” she whispered in his ear.
“I. . . I. . .”
“Yes or no.”
“Yes,” he gasped.
“How much?” Her breath was hot on the side of his face.
“A lot.”
“How much would you pay?”
It was too good to be true. She didn’t like him. She was a hooker. So be it. He didn’t care right now. “I’ll pay anything.”
“That’s good. Now one more question. What do we do when we come to a stop sign?”
“Huh?” Had he heard her correctly?
“I said, what do we do when we come to an intersection?”
“I don’t . . . know what you’re talking about.”
Her hand moved to the back of his head, fingers weaving their way through his sweaty hair. “We look both ways,” she said.
Something pricked him in the thigh. Daryl flinched and looked down as Erin withdrew a hypodermic needle. He stared at the needle stupidly, groggily, then back to Erin. She calmly put the syringe in her purse as he slumped against the side window. His eyes fell shut against his will. He felt Erin pull his wallet from his back pocket. He tried to grab her arm but his limbs were waterlogged. He tried to remember her name and her features for the police report, though he was already forgetting what happened as he slipped into unconsciousness.
Adriana walked four blocks home, called Oscar’s babysitter, and told her she had last week’s pay plus an advance if she could come tomorrow morning. Izzy was crying in the background because there were no Otter Pops. Adriana ended the call and threatened to send Izzy to her room if she didn’t stop. Izzy quieted down, somewhat, and Adriana made instant lemonade as a consolation. Sirens wailed from a few streets over.
“Was it heads or tails?” Adriana asked Izzy.
“What do you mean?”
“The quarter you found.”
“Oh! Heads!”
“I thought so.”
KENNETT PETERSON 