“What did you take me to this slaughterhouse for again?” she says.
“Me?”
“I just wanted to drive by, not see chunks of the guy’s head everywhere.”
“There are no chunks,” I say, watching a man in a long coat pick up an oatmeal box. Does he even know about this afternoon? “What do you want to get?” I say. “Frozen waffles? Lean Cuisine?”
“That’s the problem,” she says. “Excuse me for thinking this would bother you.” Any minute she’ll tell me again about her dad, whose traffic accident death two winters ago was much more ordinary, sliding on ice into a guardrail on I-25. I think they found his body frozen against the wheel but intact, even peaceful.
“It does bother me,” I say but am not sure how much.
I bet that second victim had kids will be her next line. I wait for it, but we’re interrupted. Mr. Blue Apron walks by the top of the aisle and edges slowly towards us. Delia stares at me as though it’s my fault. Which it probably is.
“You guys okay?” he says.
I nod. He pulls two cans of Coke from his apron pockets. “I stole you Coke,” he says. We don’t tell him Delia swore off soft drinks at the start of cross-country season. She sips primly. I gulp, even if it’s warm.
“His name was Romero,” he says, lowering his voice. “Worked in the back, has a German shepherd.” He taps his foot, remembering. “I think he liked Star Wars. Drove a Pontiac that’s still out there.” He motions towards the parking lot. “A blue one. That’s about all I can tell you.”
We’re waiting for Delia to say something, but it’s like she’s given up.
“Nice guy,” he says. It’s what anyone would say.
I give Mr. Blue Apron a sympathetic smile, the kind that’s really not a smile at all. “I’m sure he’ll be missed,” I tell him.
Delia snorts, then pretends to cough on her soda. “Who doesn’t like Star Wars?” she says.
Mr. Blue Apron looks at me and changes the subject. “If it were up to me, we’d put all these vegetables into a big vat and scrub them clean and give them to shelters.”
“Do you think people would actually eat that?” I say, wondering if it’s that easy to erase human traces.
“Maybe not.” Mr. Blue Apron frowns at the floor.
Delia stands abruptly, saying, “Where’s the bathroom?” –ridiculous because she’s been here a hundred thousand times; we both have, since early childhood.
“Sorry,” Mr. Blue Apron says, “Police won’t let anyone back there.”
“Then what do people do?” she says.
I think of holding my Coke can up but decide it’s a dumb joke. I say, “Your mom’s waiting for us, isn’t she?”
Delia says, “We can get fast food or something. I’ll wait in the car.” She walks down the aisle and turns the corner before I can stop her.
“Sorry, did I upset her?” Mr. Blue Apron says.
I laugh. “All of it’s your fault,” I say, then correct myself quickly when his face darkens. “She’s in a mood.”
“The thing is—” Mr. Blue Apron says, and stops. Awkwardness rolls over my shoulders, separate from the somber hush of the store itself. “First,” he says. “I didn’t make my mom cry. She wasn’t even home from work yet when I came in.”
He searches for my expression, spiking my self-consciousness; I never know what weird look my face has come up with. “That’s fine,” I say.
“Second,” he says. “I didn’t steal the Cokes. They’re taking it out of my paycheck. I don’t steal.”
Delia shuffles back up the aisle in her unzipped coat, holding out her hand. “Keys?”
“I’ll be right there,” I say, unearthing them from my purse.
“If you want to stay in this tomb, it’s your business.”
Mr. Blue Apron and I watch Delia turn again out of sight. He smiles at me, and the awkwardness holds there like a humid cloud. I picture it as orange. I’m not completely against talking to him, but he just isn’t Ernie. Ernie with his dumb self-deprecating jokes, his refusal to be wooed by his new stepdad’s gifts, his dogged loyalty to his father no matter what his mother tells him—and what if some of it is true? Ernie who feels so familiar. Whose eyes teared up last night on his dad’s foldout couch. I’d told Delia he was sneaking me into a movie, a long one so don’t stay up. I felt sore and he fed me warm milk (though normally I hate warm milk), said don’t go yet, said anything I needed. I want to be the kind of person who’s there for people, you know? Ernie probably left his phone at home today, or ran down its batteries talking to his grown sister who got herself out of the house before the divorce. There’s always another explanation, isn’t there? My lawyer uncle told us that. Still, tiny invisible sharks gnaw at my stomach. Does he want me to dissolve from his life? That wouldn’t make any sense. But you can feel when something’s wrong, the heavy lead ball of it. Maybe I don’t know him at all.
“We’re closing early tonight,” Mr. Blue Apron says, not looking at me. He pockets his hands in his apron, reminding me of a mother kangaroo. His smile is tentative but warm. I know it’s coming. Usually we girls do, though sometimes we play dumb to silence the guy or sidestep his clumsy hints—unless we like him, of course. He starts to say, “Do you—”
“What about your dad?” I jump in.
“My dad?”
I’m not good at stalling. “You mentioned your mom but not your dad,” I say, sure he’ll pick up his thread again soon. “Are they together?”
“He’s a pilot, so he’s gone a lot of the time.”
I tell him it’s exciting. His dad could be in Central Asia or Spain, someplace I haven’t been.
“Chicago,” he says. Then he smiles again, his face brightening but unsure. “So…do you want to go someplace after this?”