Manuel Munoz - What You See in the Dark

Teresa held still, listening for Candy before she even knew what she was actually doing. The floor fan had not yet been turned on and she waited for some kind of signal of Candy’s presence in the silence of the storeroom — a shuffle of paper, Candy’s shoes against the cement floor, a cough against the dust in the air, but the place remained quiet. The longer the silence went on, the more Teresa hesitated, and she strained for the bells of the front door or voices or the telephone. Nothing came. The longer she waited, she knew, the greater the chance she would never have the boots.

She stepped off the ladder with the boot box in her hand and walked down the aisle, listening. Candy was not at the desk. Teresa stopped momentarily and listened once more. The clock read twenty minutes to noon; the lunch hour was finally arriving. She bent down to get one of the large paper bags with sturdy twine loops, carson’s printed on both sides. Briskly, she unfolded it, as if she were going about her business, but after one more glance at the beige curtain leading to the front of the store, Teresa slipped the boot box into the bag and walked quickly to the rear exit, the door leading out to the alley and the garbage cans, and there she tucked the bag behind one of the trash bins, inconspicuous, where she would pick it up after work.

It was that easy. When she turned back into the storeroom, it was still empty, Candy nowhere in sight. Teresa was surprised at how calm she was, how she could mask herself in the same way Candy had when Mr. Carson had come searching for her earlier in the morning. She made herself look busy, as if all she’d done was sharpen her pencil and gather more index cards. By the time she ascended the ladder again, Teresa had only the vision of the clock in her head, the small amount of time left before lunch and Dan’s soothing presence.

“Teresa,” she heard Candy call out. “There’s someone here to see you.”

She stood on the ladder, waiting for Candy to round the aisle and find her directly, but Candy wasn’t budging. Her voice came from the front of the storeroom, edged with jealousy.

“Teresa?”

“Coming,” she replied. She shuffled down the ladder and walked toward the beige curtain, where Candy stood waiting.

“You should probably tell him,” Candy whispered, “that Mr. Carson would prefer visitors to wait outside.”

Teresa pulled aside the curtain, and there he stood with his hat respectfully in his hands, Dan Watson in a pair of dark jeans and a plaid shirt he must have just purchased, the creases still evident where it had been folded. She could not hide the smile on her face, the previous evening’s dreaming and the morning’s long walk now wiped away, Dan Watson just as handsome as she remembered him from yesterday, his brown hair wet and freshly combed. The hat, she realized, was a measure of respect — he hadn’t actually worn it, judging by his hair — and when she recognized the gesture, she found herself catching her breath.

But Mr. Carson looked over to her and held her gaze long enough to bring her back to her senses. He stared at her as if she should have known better, though there were no customers in the store.

“Are you ready for lunch?” Dan asked.

“Yes, but at noon sharp,” she answered, almost swallowing her words. “Mr. Carson?” She approached the sales counter, putting her hand on it when Mr. Carson did not look up from his work. “Mr. Carson, this is Dan Watson.”

“He’s introduced himself,” Mr. Carson answered, not looking up. “I knew his father.”

“Yes, sir,” Dan said, a little uncertainly.

“You can go at noon on the dot,” Mr. Carson said, not looking up. He finally raised his head and, without a trace of hesitation, said to Dan, “I don’t like my employees to be picked up at the front door, especially in front of customers. There’s a door in the alleyway.”

“Yes, sir.”

“She gets an hour lunch and cannot be late.”

“Yes, sir,” said Dan. He backed away toward the door, Mr. Carson’s fingers back on his ledger, and Teresa watched him exit.

She was about to turn to the storeroom when Mr. Carson spoke.

“Never again,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” she said, and pulled aside the curtain. Her meekness gripped itself into a flush of anger at Mr. Carson’s behavior, the embarrassment at being ordered to be picked up from the back alley when she’d seen Candy leave from the front many times at the end of the day, her sweet boyfriend picking her up.

“Don’t be late coming back,” Candy said as Teresa gathered her purse. “I can’t go to lunch until you return, you know.”

“Of course,” she replied, and headed for the back door, wanting to turn back to see if Candy was eyeing her, relieved that Dan had not yet driven up the one-way alley, a skinny passage of broken pavement and splintering utility poles, trash cans, and yellowing weeds. Her Carson’s Shoes bag sat exactly where she’d put it, pristine, and without a second thought, she took it up by its looped handles.

“What you got there?” Dan asked her when she climbed in.

“I’ve been saving for something special,” she said, one hand still on the loops of the bag. The lie slithered out too easily, and she turned to look at him as if he suspected her. She took a peek at the side mirror, half expecting to catch a glimpse of Candy bursting out the back of the store, her deed discovered.

“We can get a burger,” he said, “since you don’t have a lot of time.”

“That sounds wonderful,” she answered. He flicked the signal to turn left. “But could you take me home first?” she asked. “To leave my package?”

“It’ll be safe in the truck.”

“I’m sure it will. But I don’t want to have to carry it home later. And I don’t want to bother you with keeping it for me.”

“It’s not a bother,” he said.

“No, really …,” she said, and already she could feel the heat of her own protest, as if he would immediately suspect what she had done, what she was willing to do.

“Sure thing,” he said, flicking the signal to turn right instead.

Dan drove along the streets at a comfortable pace, Teresa nervously clutching the bag. I know you. I know about you. People went about their business the way they did every day. She looked out at them as the truck eased on by. She couldn’t get to the apartment fast enough. It would be one thing to get inside her room with the package from Carson’s, but this panic was going to be much harder to shake.

“I hope this isn’t going to be a quiet lunch,” Dan said. “You’re like a mouse.”

She clutched the bag handles one more time, took a deep breath, and then eased her hands, letting go. “It’s been a long morning,” she said.

The truck stopped at an intersection, and into the crosswalk came a woman in a brilliant yellow blouse and fitted gray skirt, elegant and unhurried. She was escorted by a tall man in a crisp white shirt, though he wasn’t holding her arm. They crossed in front of the truck, the woman turning to acknowledge Dan’s patience, and Teresa saw him give the woman the slightest nod. Teresa watched them go. How easy it was for a woman like that: the lack of complication in her life was almost an air around her. Someday, Teresa thought, the beauty of a marriage like that would come to her as well, like opening a window, and there would never be a feeling of being watched or judged, stared at in envy or suspicion or even desire. If anyone looked at her, it would be from admiration.

Such a grand plan to dream like this. Why wouldn’t love come easily? They eased onto her street. The Mexican men on the corner spotted her in the truck, though Cheno was nowhere in sight. Something inside her stirred at the thought of him, the inevitable moment when she would have to tell Cheno how things had changed.