She was starving, fingers trembling, her vision blurred. It was the combination of three margaritas, too many chips with salsa and no real food the night before. She needed something solid. No croissant today.

A few minutes later she stood by the coffee bar. The cashier had dropped a bagel with a tub of cream cheese into the thin paper bag. Her coffee was up next. She was tempted to tear off a piece of the bagel, but then she’d had to juggle package and hot coffee and scrap of food. She was civilized, she could wait.

Suddenly, the lights blinked out. The espresso machine spit and went silent at the same time the chatter around her increased. A power failure wasn’t a shock in winter, when the wind was driving, rain pounding the building. But this morning already hinted at the promised seventy-four degrees. The sun was a benevolent presence rising to its place.

The patrons in line shifted their feet, tapping communication devices to get the time, looking anxiously over their shoulders, all their faces crunched into a plea – do something. What course of action was most promising, wait for the power to flick back on or drive to another Starbucks, join another line?

Tammy was so close, just one more minute and she would have been out the door, on her way, unaffected.

The barista stared mutely into the cup that should have been Tammy’s latte, a puddle of espresso, no steamed milk.

Can you just add milk, I’ll stir and it’ll be fine, she said.

The barista shook her head. I don’t think so.

Oh come on, said Tammy. She set her bagel on the counter and reached over to grab the paper cup. The barista held on tight. The top of the cup folded, bent into a spout, cracking where the light plastic coating rimmed the lip.

Please let me have it. I’m late.

I can’t. it’s against policy.

What do you mean?

We can’t charge you for an incomplete drink.

Well I already paid.

We’ll have to give you a refund, or a credit.

But the power’s out. I can’t get a refund and I’m late.

The barista moved out of Tammy’s reach. Just be patient. The power will be back in a minute.

Tammy backed away from the counter and turned. The bag with her bagel was gone. She glared at the people in line, some heading toward the door to leave, the lucky ones who hadn’t invested as much time, hadn’t forked over their cash.

Did you see who took my bagel?

No one answered. They stared, a crowd of wolves, eyes glittering, snouts tuned for the odor of weakness.

She needed food. Now. The baristas were huddled around the cash register, as if staring at it would bring it to life. She scurried, half slipping on the tiled floor, to the end of the counter, around the back and reached into the glass case. There was no time to be choosey. She grabbed three brownies, a slice of banana bread and a scone.

Hey! The man shouting at her was too in need of a fix to lose his place in line. No one would prevent her walking out the door with her stash of sweets.

She strolled to the door, popped the brownie in her mouth. As she chewed she turned and grinned at the man. This was better than a rush of caffeine. She pushed open the door and walked away from the odor of coffee and the line of people, waiting to pay.

© 2010 Cathryn Grant

His mind was dark, as goopy as the stalks that had fallen from the elephant ear plant, rotted into a pulp that was plastered across the concrete path. Slippery stuff covered the ground, decomposing life that would nurture the soil, he supposed. He couldn’t stop thinking of the decay in his own body. The yeasty skin and rank smell between his toes, the crevices filled with bacteria after fifty years on the planet.

He should clean the yard. He should stop flopping on the sofa every night, sipping topaz-colored liquid from a sparkling glass, a slap in the face for his decrepit condition. How had his life skipped over that image on the pages of Cigar Aficionado, hair that grew from a scalp that was scrubbed free of dead skin, clothes draped over a lean, muscled form, an easy smile? The photograph was air-brushed, but it sold him that sixty-five dollar bottle of scotch.

He walked to the corner of the yard. Floating in the backed up water was a plastic figure. A toy that one of those skinny, loud girls next door had tossed over the fence. He picked it up. It wore a hard plastic skirt and a body-hugging turquoise tee shirt.

He pinched the arm between his fingers and bent it out to the side. In his own shoulder, he could feel the tearing pain. Applying more pressure he pushed until the arm snapped away from the joint. The arm was as thin as a straw between his fingers. He let it fall into the water where it floated aimlessly. He tossed the one-armed figure over the fence and knew he was a bad person. He bent and fished the arm out of the water, cradled it in his palm. Too late now to undo the destruction.

Slowly, he eased himself down, first to a squat, then sitting in the three-inch deep slough. Cold water quickly saturated his pants, numbing his skin. He wanted her back. And in contrast to the water his tears were warm and soft as spring rain.

© 2010 Cathryn Grant

The scent of Chinese food hung in the air – garlic and batter-dipped, fried meat, mingling with Indian cuisine and grilled burgers. Debra’s stomach grumbled, but she turned toward the salad bar, a chilly island, lacking enticing aromas, but also lacking fat, as long as she steered clear of the bowls of pasta nestled between tubs of jicama and cubed tofu.

Debra filled her bowl with lettuce and veggies then looked up. Walking across the center of the room, carrying a cardboard box of food, was Alan Preaker, Senior Vice President. She sucked in her breath and dropped the slotted spoon back into the bowl of olives. She shouldn’t be eating those any way, their skin slick with oil.

Debra turned toward Alan, offering a restrained smile. Something flashed in her peripheral vision. She glanced to the right and saw Gary Harmon. Great. The one guy in her group of twenty employees who thought she owed him her undivided attention. He didn’t even report directly to her, but continued to try to leap over his own manager’s head, demanding that she listen to his concerns, that she acknowledge he knew more than his boss and probably more than Debra.

Bullshit. He knew nothing. He was an annoying little fly and she wished his manager would get control of him. Already today Gary had left her two voice mails. On her cell phone. Her cell phone! He had no right to call that number, it should be reserved for important issues, for management. It was unacceptable for anyone to call their manager’s manager. Who did he think he was? Or was he just clueless?

“What’s your revenue forecast for the quarter?” said Alan. It was always like that. No pre-amble, no pleasantries. It was the executive privilege, the assumption that every single person working for you was continuously thinking about the same things you were. That your real role was to be a walking vending machine of whatever information the executives wanted at any moment in time. “I believe we’ll achieve $400M on the low end products alone.”

“Excellent.” Alan went on to dig into each product – how many units shipped, how much revenue for the up side, the down side?

While she tried to keep her mind responsive to each successive question, she saw another flicker, as if a gnat had flown at her eyeball and become wedged under the bottom lid. She blinked and saw the flicker again. It was moving, tracking to the direction she turned her head. Gary again, waving at her from behind Alan’s back, wiggling his fingers.

Debra scowled. She was talking to an EVP, why was Gary dancing around like a deranged man on a street corner? This was a perfect example of what was wrong with him. She smiled at Alan, realizing she’d missed his question. Trying to cover, she said, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Alan stared, his eyes piercing blue, she could see him re-calculating his assessment of her, down from very bright to not-the-sharpest-woman-in-Marketing after all. “It’s not rocket science. I want to know when the XT35 is expected to start shipping.”

She laughed and gripped her tray until her fingertips felt numb. Gary jumped higher, waving both arms now. She turned again. “I wasn’t sure if you meant beta or shipping in volume,” she smiled, hoping to charm.

Her cell phone rang. Loudly. She’d set it on high so she could hear it in the cacophony of the cafeteria. She looked up. Gary had his cell phone to his ear and was grinning, pointing at her. Was he calling her? Had he cracked completely? She left her fingers creep across the tray and flipped the volume to vibrate. After a few shudders, the phone went silent.

Alan continued to fire questions. Her arms ached from holding the tray away from her waist. The water bottle wobbled. Her phone vibrated, dancing on the tray. Now Gary was closer, still bouncing on the balls of his feet, less than ten feet behind Alan. His lips were moving, talking. She thought she heard popping sounds. She did. He was mouthing, pick up, pick up, pick up. She tightened her grip as the phone buzzed angrily.

“Are you going to answer that?” said Alan. “Someone seems anxious to reach you.”

She shook her head, holding her breath.

“Then do you know what the delay is with the XT35?”

Suddenly Gary was at her side, her phone silent. “I can answer that.”

Alan and Debra turned to Gary at the same time. Gary’s pointed elbow tapped the edge of her tray. Her bottle toppled and rolled. Debra tried to grab it and her phone slid after it. The bottle bounced and the phone crashed to the floor. Without thinking, she started to bend. Her salad flew up, flipped and smashed on the floor, a splattered mass of tomato, broken glass and balsamic vinegar that ran across the tile like discolored blood.

Alan glanced at the mess then turned his eyes to Gary. “Come back to my office with me.” He looked back over his shoulder, “Someone will clean that up, don’t worry.”

“What a mess.” Gary shoved his phone in his pocket and laughed.

© 2010 Cathryn Grant

She had a brilliant lesson prepared for her class of four year olds this Easter Sunday. It was a lesson they would never forget, one that would drive home the meaning of the Easter events, something that was not easy to do with four year olds.

As she’d grown older, Easter had become an increasingly disturbing day. All the holidays were difficult because on those days, her face was rubbed in the happiness of married women with precious children. This morning, the women’s faces would glow as they leaned on their husbands after working together to hide eggs, wallowing in the ecstatic shouts of their children as they discovered their prizes – boiled and plastic – and baskets filled with chocolate and jelly beans.

It was an abomination . Not only were eggs pagan, they had absolutely nothing to do with the death and resurrection of the Savior. She supposed it was a vague tie-in with the idea of re-birth, but none of the children understood that. Their minds were a cottony web of sugar, furry rabbits and baby chicks. Did they know those fluffy yellow things would grow up to have their heads whacked off to provide the chicken nuggets the children loved so much? Shelly had faced reality when she was a small child. She’d grown up on a farm, not in this disconnected suburban community where everyone was cocooned from the brutality of life.

She sat in a child-sized chair, waiting while the children trickled into the classroom. The girls wore pastel skirts and jumpers. The boys strutted in shorts and pastel tee shirts. The energy in the room told her they’d already indulged in chocolate. The children loved Sunday School, loved coloring and pasting and hearing stories. They stared with moist lips and liquid eyes at the large bowl in the center of the long, low table.

When all eleven children were seated, she uncovered the bowl. She explained the significance of Easter morning. “But how many of you came to church on Friday?” No hands rose. She read their puzzled looks – who attended church on Fridays?

She explained the importance of Good Friday. “Are you thankful for the suffering that was endured for you?” Twenty-two eyes stared at her blankly. She plucked a dried liquid amber pod out of the bowl, then passed the bowl, telling each child to select a pod.

Once all their tiny palms held a prickly dried ball, she instructed them to close their hands tightly around it.

“Ouch,” said Lauren. “That hurts.”

“You’re hardly squeezing it,” said Shelly. “Press harder. Imagine that crown of thorns shoved onto your head.” She walked around the table folding her hand over each child’s hand, pressing hard. Some children’s eyes filled with tears and their lips opened slightly, turning pale. Some of the children tried to wrench their hands away from hers, but she simply tightened her grip. Their strength was no match for hers.

She knew the mothers would be unhappy, but they shirked their responsibility. They couldn’t simply offer their children the fun parts of a spiritual life. They had to know what it all meant. It was her job to teach them.

Now they were all gone. It was possible there would be repercussions. The mommies and daddies had not looked happy at their children’s twisted, red faces. The deacons might take away her job as a teacher of small children. That wasn’t important. She’d done what that job required when no one else would.

Shelly picked up the one remaining liquid amber pod. She clenched her hand around it, feeling the pricks dig into her skin. She wrapped her left hand around the outside of her right and squeezed harder until she felt her blood escape through the surface of her skin. Maybe just one child in the class had learned the lesson – to feel the suffering of another human being.

© 2010 Cathryn Grant

Tina clenched her fingers around the sticky plastic steering wheel of her Honda until her hand ached. She wanted to ram her car into the bumper, but knew it wouldn’t make a dent worth talking about and would only cause more trouble for her. As if she didn’t have enough already, with her daughter missing again.

The light turned green. Traffic at her left moved forward. The Mercedes didn’t budge. Tina slammed her fist on the horn and held it there, enjoying the pain that assaulted her ears. The driver of the dream machine probably didn’t hear the bleating horn, what with hermetically sealed doors and surround-sound stereo, or a cell phone piped directly into the ear canal. What she wouldn’t give for a car like that. All it took was money, something that had been MIA all her life.

There was movement at the edge of her peripheral vision. She glanced at the sidewalk to her right. Two guys were slouching along, staring with mouths partially open, looking at Tina, and slowing their steps. She shook her hair and tried to relax the muscles around her jaw.

There was one thing Tina had going for her, and that was her looks. The driver of the black car was compelled to announce on her license plate that she, and all those connected to her – high income husband, smart, athletic kids – was better than everyone. Of course, most people thought they were better than others. Even Tina recognized that tendency in her self. She was broke, had a kid headed for trouble, couldn’t find a decent guy, but she knew she was better looking than any woman in the ratty apartment complex where she lived, better looking than the mothers of her daughter’s classmates. They might have pedicures and manicures and hundred dollar haircuts, but Tina had the kind of looks that didn’t need all that. Men, at the end of the day, didn’t care about painted nails and carefully clipped hair. If they were honest, they preferred messy hair, a long tangle down to a woman’s waist, like Tina’s. The guys watching proved that. They were staring at Tina, not the woman in the Mercedes.

It still wasn’t moving. Tina leaned on her horn again. A thin arm emerged from the driver side window of the Mercedes. A bracelet, shimmering with red stones, swung from the sudden movement of the arm. The middle finger emerged, pointing straight up, informing Tina she could wait until the driver was damn good and ready to pass through the intersection.

Tina’s pulse quickened, the pounding increased until she was aware of a vein in her throat fluttering, her temple throbbing, all the blood in her body rushing to put that bitch in her place. It had to be something that would leave Tina free to go about her business without fear of an unpleasant encounter with a police officer.

She shifted her left foot to the brake, pressed hard, then shimmied her right foot over to the gas. She pressed it a quarter of the way to the floor. The engine roared, then squealed. The Mercedes didn’t move, still shoving those words in Tina’s face – Superior, as if the entire vehicle was flipping her off.

Tina slammed the Honda into park, flung open the door and walked toward the driver’s side of the Mercedes. The woman’s head was turned toward the opposite curb, watching the same guys Tina had seen leering at her. As if she smelled Tina’s skin, the woman’s hand dropped to the armrest, hit the button and the window slid shut before Tina could say a word.

Off to her right, Tina saw the flicker of a person running. She heard a door slam. She turned, only half aware, and watched as her Honda lurched into reverse, backed a few feet away from the Mercedes then swerved around it, screeching between the Mercedes and the curb. It took off down the street, the two ogling guys inside. Now, the Mercedes driver decided to move through the intersection. Tina stood in the middle of the street. A car honked and swerved around her. She watched the license plate frame grow smaller. Superior. Believe it.

© 2010 Cathryn Grant

That young couple, two houses up the street, let all kinds of wild stuff grow in their yard, let the dandelions go to seed. The result was big pulpy stems flopping around Tony’s yard.

He inserted the blade at the base of the next weed and heard the sound of a car creeping down the street. First sighting today, like clockwork. Twice a day on weekdays, the car came down the street, varying from one to three times on Saturdays, never on Sundays.

He knew what that car was doing. Someone watching the houses, studying patterns in parking and yard work and lights turned on and off. A dark blue sedan – a Nissan – with tinted back windows. The windshield and front windows weren’t tinted, but he could never see who was driving. He always tried hard not to look like he noticed the slowly moving car, almost straining as it pulled into the cul de sac across from his driveway navigated the circle, then back out to the end of the street, stopping at the corner before turning right.

He’d attempted to talk to his neighbor on the left about the car. One night when Bill came home from work, well past dark, Tony accosted him the minute he emerged from his car. Bill’s shoulders had twitched and his head shot up, and he’d backed against his open car door like he wanted to run, but was trapped by the steel brackets holding the door behind him.

For over thirty minutes that night, Tony urged Bill to express concern, explained that someone was watching the street. Of course Bill had never seen the car turning in the cul de sac. He left for work before the sun came up, and arrived home when it was setting, or later. He acted as if he didn’t believe Tony, that Tony was reading something into the situation. Tony suggested he come out in the yard on a Saturday, work in the yard all day like Tony did, and then he’d see the pattern, at least one day a week.

Bill acted as if he couldn’t wait to get away from Tony’s rush of words. Finally Bill pushed Tony out of his way, slammed the car door with a thud and hurried to his front door, mumbling that his wife had dinner ready.

Bill was too complacent. It looked like Tony was going to have to figure out the right course of action all on his own. He considered calling the police, but it was difficult to picture how that would play out, a patrol car sitting in front of Tony’s own house, warning the suspicious driver. It would be like those ridiculous checkpoints for drunk drivers they published in the newspaper. Easy enough to avoid. Besides, the police had grown increasingly sluggish about showing up in a timely matter when Tony had called about that pipsqueak dog barking all day long, and when he’d insisted they come check out that repeated sawing sound coming from the vicinity of his roof. The last time he called they said he needed to think of the most logical conclusion, not the most sinister. Some public safety.

Tony sat back on his haunches, sweat ran down the back of his neck. That was enough weeding for today. Tomorrow he’d tackle the duplicate square of lawn on the opposite side of the front walkway, neat as a folded tissue. He turned carefully. The car hadn’t maneuvered the cul de sac correctly and was backing up for a three-point turn. Without thinking, Tony bolted across the street.

He rushed at the driver’s side of the car. The driver must have seen him coming, which was logical since his six foot, five inch frame was hard to miss. But the bastard panicked, hit the gas too hard, the car still in reverse. Then the car stopped too fast, tires screeching like a trapped possum. Tony hit the side of the car hard, his fists landed on the roof and his shadow fell over the half-open window so that even this close, he still couldn’t tell who was driving.

Now he could see the outline of a baseball cap. He stuck his arm in the car to grab the bill of the cap, and the window raced up, trapping his arm. He yelled and tried to pull it out, but it was pinned. The window lowered an inch or two and he stumbled back clutching his arm.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” A woman. “Wait until my husband hears this. I told him how every time I drive my son to school you’re out here staring at me. Like you’re up to no good.” The car lurched back again and she shot toward the opening of the cul de sac. The back fishtailed slightly and the edge of the bumper slammed against his leg. He fell to his knees. A rock, embedded in the tar, gouged his kneecap and blood flowed quickly, forming a dark, wet spot.

© Copyright 2010 Cathryn Grant

Some days, some weeks she felt like the blood had been drained out of her veins, dragging herself out of bed three times a night, tugging wet clothes out of the washer, stuffing them into the dryer.

A woman hovered near her tiny round table. “You need this chair?”

Madison shook her head. She inserted the forest green straw into the opening on the plastic dome that covered her Mocha Frappuccino®. The liquid was, thick, almost like drinking a solid. She loved the jolt of caffeine, the shock of icy cold on her tongue, the sweet chocolate.

“No one’s joining you?”

“Go ahead and take it, I don’t need it.”

The woman smiled, a grin slightly too big for her face, revealing very tiny teeth so it seemed as if the lips didn’t belong to her jaw, as if she’d borrowed them from someone else and was trying to wrap them around her childlike teeth.

Madison opened her book. She sucked at the mocha, her cheeks vacuuming hard to get at the liquid. She could feel the woman still standing there. Hovering. Go away. Madison’s thought failed to materialize into something tangible. Instead, the woman’s presence grew stronger. Madison felt the heat of the woman’s eyes on the top of her head.

She looked up, knowing it was a mistake.

“I’m here treating myself to an iced latte, non-fat. I really should have soy because I’m a little bit lactose intolerant, but it’s not severe and since it’s a treat, I’m treating all the way. I had a lot of nausea last week and so I got fired from my job because they have no sympathy when you’re sick, as if you can help it or do something about it. I mean, especially nausea, what are you supposed to do? So I got fired but then my boyfriend decided to move back in so at least I have help with the rent and food right now and he said he might be able to figure out some way to help me get on at his company ‘cuz they could use someone really sharp and professional-looking like me.”

Madison looked at her book. She re-read the sentence but it floated away and all she saw was black type on paper. The condensation on her plastic cup slid down like sweat, pooling on the table.

“I’m sorry that you have to be here alone, that all you have is that book to keep you company. I know how that feels to be out alone in a place where everyone else is socializing and you’re just sitting there with no one to talk to.” The woman’s voice floated past Madison in the same way the words on the page had drifted into meaningless shapes. Madison clenched her shoulders and tightened her grip on the book.

The woman dragged the chair to a few feet to a nearby table. Her voice was distinct in the background noise of the other murmuring coffee drinkers, it went on without stopping.

Madison looked at her watch. She’d promised to be back at three, it was two-fifty now. She picked up her cup and sucked at the straw, but nothing was left.

Copyright © 2010 by Cathryn Grant

So Diane had to lie. And soon it was a habit. White lies made life much simpler.

When Diane went out for an apple martini after work, she told Mark there had been a traffic accident, staying well away from him so he wouldn’t sniff the vodka that sometimes oozed from her pores. When Diane didn’t want to spend an entire Saturday afternoon at a baby shower, cooing over tiny black patent shoes and hats shaped like strawberries, she called to say her mother was throwing up repeatedly and Diane had to drive her to the clinic.

Lying was so much cleaner than being honest. It covered her like a burkha, protecting her entire being from emotional messiness. No one got angry when she lied. Not only was it easier, it was fun. And if she was careful, if the lie was based in truth, there was no chance of getting caught.

Karen yanked open the office door and poked her head into the hallway. I left my cell phone in the conference room after that pricing meeting. Will you go get it?

Diane nodded. I’m returning the projector since I’ll be over that way.

Sure. Fine. Karen ducked back into her office as if she was retreating from an audience with royalty, bobbing her head, keeping her gaze on Diane while she stepped backwards.

It was difficult to escape, even for a trip to the restroom. Karen expected her assistant chained to the desk. She’d repeated that several times when she hired Diane. If I can’t find you, then you’re of no value to me. Your job is to be there when I need you.

Diane lingered in the hallway, watching until Karen’s eyes were glued to her computer display. The projector had been returned when Diane was near the conference room earlier that day. A ready made gap of time created that allowed her to text the hot guy in sales that she could slip away for thirty minutes. Even the mundane act of pulling up his name in her list of contacts made her heart-rate thicken. The pressure of filing expense reports drifted out of her mind as it filled with a single-minded focus on Joe’s brown eyes and hips designed to wear expensive slacks.

As she walked away from her desk, her knees wobbled and her neck was flushed. His office had a window in the door, but when she met him there, he pulled closed a 12-inch-wide set of mini blinds. Sure it made passers-by curious, but it kept Joe and Diane from being caught as he spun her around and slid his hands up her skirt in one fluid motion. She loved wearing skirts since she’d met Joe.

Today, she pushed her lie further than she should have – forty-five minutes to retrieve the cell phone. Her lips were slick and raw and her cheeks had two perfect red circles just beneath the bone. She steadied her breathing, a difficult task as she strode across the cobblestone path between buildings as fast as her heels would allow.

I needed that phone twenty minutes ago. What took you so long?

There was another meeting and they didn’t want me to come in until they’d finished what they were discussing. A very hush-hush product coming, I guess.

Karen stared at her. Is that right. Well you took so long, I called over there. Don’t lie to me. Not ever.

Diane nodded.

You’re flushed. Are you upset that I caught you?

No, said Diane. It was the truth.

Copyright © 2009 by Cathryn Grant