After Midnight

pack onto my back and slipped my arms through its straps.

On my way out, I wondered if I needed anything else before leaving the mall.

How about supper?

Wong’s Kitchen in the food court had great orange chicken, barbecued pork, fried wonton, etc. I was tempted. But on the other hand, remaining at the mall would increase my chances of running into someone who knew me.

Get out now.

Go home.

I went straight to the nearest exit and walked out into the heat and glare of late afternoon. My sunglasses helped against the glare. After putting them on, I paused long enough to stuff my purse into the backpack.

Then I was off.

I started with a brisk pace, but couldn’t keep it up for long. Though a breeze sometimes stirred against me, the day was too hot for hurrying. And I was in lousy shape from too little sleep, too many injuries, too much prolonged stress, and the ungodly amount of stenuous physical activity I’d gone through since the start of my problems last night.

Soon, I was short of breath, my heart was racing, and sweat was pouring out of me.

I slowed down.

Slow and steady gets the job done.

Before long, I was feeling a lot better.

I knew from my many trips to the mall, however, that it was six miles from home. At my usual pace, I could walk more than four miles per hour. This was probably half that speed.

Six miles at two miles per hour.

I did some tricky math.

A three-hour hike?

Dismayed by the idea of not making it home until about eight o’clock, I decided to pick up my pace as much as possible.

I must’ve been an interesting sight for the motorists as I hurried down the sidewalk. Even without the wig, I was conspicuous in my bright yellow blouse and flowing green skirt. Not to mention, as we all know, I’m built like a brick shithouse. Plus, my bra hadn’t exactly been designed for maximum support, so my quick and bouncy strides made for a lot of bust action—which was exaggerated still more by the backpack. The pack’s weight thrust my chest forward, while its straps drew my shoulders back and pulled at the front of my blouse as if trying to rip it open. If that weren’t enough, every stride sent my bare leg swinging out through the slit in my skirt.

Every now and then, guys in passing cars tooted at me, whistled at me, or called out. Because of traffic noise, I couldn’t really hear what they were yelling. Probably a combination of compliments, critical remarks, suggestions and offers—all crude.

When guys shout at you from car windows, they never say anything that isn’t crude.

Before too long, the inevitable happened.

A car passed me, then slowed down, pulled over to the side of the road and stopped.

I felt only a slight sinking sensation. This was no cause for alarm—just a nuisance. Probably some jerk hoping to get lucky.

I kept walking, but picked up my speed as I neared the car.

When I came up alongside it, the passenger door swung open. Not even glancing in, I started to step around the door.

“Alice?”

A man, and he knew my name.

Instead of my name, it might’ve been the squeak and crackle of ice beginning to break under my feet—if I were standing on a frozen lake a mile from any shore.

This can’t be good!

I lurched to a halt, ducked, and peered in through the open door. Nobody in the passenger seat.

The driver looked familiar, but…I suddenly recognized him, and the ice froze solid again.

I felt so relieved that I was almost glad to see him.

“Elroy?” I asked.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

The same old Elroy.

“I’ve got room for two in my buggy,” he said.

“Are you offering me a ride?”

“Hop right in.”

So I took off my pack. Holding it in front of me with both hands, I climbed into Elroy’s car. Then I leaned out and pulled the door shut. “This is really nice of you,” I said.

“Just call me Mr. Nice Guy.”

In the past, I had generally called him Dork-head, but not to his face.

A couple of years earlier, he and I had worked in the same law office for about six months. We were both employed as secretaries. I couldn’t stand him, but I’d always treated him okay, and he’d apparently liked me quite a lot.

“Buckle up for safety,” he said.

Realizing that he probably wouldn’t start driving until I’d complied with the rules, I brought the seatbelt down across my chest and latched it.

“I just couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw it was you,” he said, and checked the side mirror. “I said to myself, ‘Elroy, that woman bears a striking resemblance to our Alice. Is it possible?’Well, then I kept watching you and saw that it was not only possible, but factual.” He found an opening in the traffic and steered us onto the road. “I’m so glad to see you again. You’re looking utterly splendid.”

“Thanks,” I said. “You’re looking great, yourself.”

So I’m a liar.

The one way Elroy did not look, and never would, was “great.” A skinny little guy with slicked-down black hair, big ears and a pointy nose, he looked mostly like a rat. A dapper rat, he nearly always wore a white shirt and blue bow-tie. He didn’t seem to have changed much—including his outfit—since I’d last seen him.

“I must say,” he said, “we’ve missed you at the office.”

“They can’t be missing me much. Hell, they fired me.”

“I miss you.”

“Well, thanks.”

“You always…cheered the place up.”

“My manic charm.”

“The other girls…they’re all such snotty bitches. You were always nice to me.”

“Well…thanks.”

“It’s so good to see you again. I just can’t believe we’ve run

into each other this way. I thought you’d left town.”

“No such luck,” I said.

“I’m sure someone told me you’d moved to El Paso.”

“Someone’s wishful thinking,” I said.

“Are you still living above that garage?”

“Still there. But you don’t need to spread the word around at the office.”

Giving me a sly glance, he said, “Mum’s the word.”

“Thanks. Let them keep on thinking I’m in El Paso.”

“It’ll be our little secret.”

“How is my old friend, Mr. Heflin, by the way?”

“Oh, Mr. Heflin. Polite. He is very polite to all the ladies. And he keeps his hands entirely to himself.”

“Glad to hear it. And how is he around stairways?”

“Careful. Very careful.”