Читать книгу Baby Bones - Donan Ph.D. Berg - Страница 6

Jonas stared at the porch and across dewy, ready-to-be-mowed grass to the 125 North Park front door. Rounding cruiser grill, he paused, stared. The outer screen opened. An angelic creature in a flowing gown occupied the porch. Surprised, he rubbed eyes hard. Indeed, a person stood there.

With deliberate slow motion movements, he restricted stride length to match the walkway flagstone leading toward initial vision. Six short steps and he recognized Melanie Stark in a snow-white, trimmed in glittering gold, flowing gown. Golden slippers graced feet, protruding from under hem. He would’ve sworn on a courtroom Bible he’d witnessed an angelic apparition.

“Good morning,” Jonas said. A sausage smell wafted from inside the front door. He followed the sizzling, crackling sound and pork aroma past Melanie into the house. Melanie rotated the front door handle lock and motioned him forward where two kitchen table place settings and a brewed coffee bouquet intermingled with the stronger sausage aroma greeted them.

She pulled out and spun a chair, seat to face stove. He lifted belt and holster as he sat. Melanie grabbed his shoulders equidistant from the neck, twisted side-saddle style, and the white gown billowed and settled, a cloud of fabric wrapped his knees as she nestled onto his lap, right arm around neck. Left hand fingers stroked chin stubble. “I could get used to seeing your face like this every morning.”

Jonas’s between whiskers skin warmed to the touch. “You really take charge, don’t you?” No girl or woman in his memory ever so energetic. Every kiss his lips tasted stolen after long, delayed, clumsy attempts. Rapid breathing expanded Jonas’s chest against the pressure of hers. “This isn’t right. Not with the strike and all.”

“Phooey. We could be good for each other.” She wiggled hips. “I’m sure your sister wouldn’t mind you not being there all the time.”

“Against my better judgment, I accepted your breakfast offer. About St. Patrick’s Day—”

“Don’t care about any church fund-raiser. Those are part of my job, not personal.”

“You should turn off those sausages before they burn.” Jonas didn’t know how to or where to place either hand to lift her off his thighs. If he weren’t careful, they’d both tumble onto the floor. And she didn’t seem anxious to stop kneading his tense neck muscles.

“I’m so glad you decided to leave your dog at home.”

Maybe one kiss and she’d back off? Obviously a gamble, but how could he lose?

* * *

Bonnie, near the city’s park, slammed on the Toyota’s brakes. “Stupid squirrel.”

“Mommy,” daughter Cindy cried out from the rear seat.

“It’s okay, honey.” Bonnie twisted to glance back, straining against the driver’s safety belt. Jonas’s schedule gave her the day off. They’d taken a grocery trip shortcut. She slid right foot from the brake pedal. The Sheriff’s cruiser presented itself a hundred feet ahead. Why’s the car parked here? Bonnie surveyed the city park. Playground swings hung limp. No child swirled down the circular slide. Buggies didn’t hug the huge sandbox perimeter. No visible Jonas McHugh.

After a moment’s thought, she looked at wristwatch: six-thirty. Jonas relieved her for the overnight strike watch until six. She didn’t know who lived on the North Park 100 block without a city directory. She shifted car’s automatic transmission into reverse. At the intersection, she circled the long way around the park. She’d delay planned grocery trip and continue on to her parents.

Bonnie drove to Kanosh’s northern edge. When she encountered the white three-board fence, she turned into the paved horseshoe driveway to park in front of the Victorian house she grew up in. Thankful for wondrous childhood memories, she desired the same for Cindy, although as a single parent the struggle proved difficult. As a child, two cousins visited Bonnie often to play and she’d team up with older sister, Nancy, against them. Winning games lasted as glorious memories. Losing tears forgotten by summer ice cream or a winter’s fireplace and popcorn. Since then, Nancy lived married and relocated to California.

Bonnie clicked apart Cindy’s car seat. Balanced on Bonnie’s hip, Cindy’s tiny finger pushed doorbell button. Inside, Cindy would assume center stage for doting grandparents, especially Dad.

“Boo.” Cindy giggled as Grandpa covered deeply crowed eyes, and then spread apart sinewy fingers. Dad condensed the game, originally peek-a-boo for her. Bonnie didn’t object. Cindy needed a male role model. Dad at the moment represented the best available.

“Candy ... cookie,” Cindy said.

“Not now,” Bonnie’s mother said, appearing behind Dad.

“How’ve you been?” Mother asked. Her gaze traveled beyond Cindy.

“Fine, Mother.” Bonnie couldn’t escape noticing Mother decked out in a favorite bluebird apron. She swore Mother sewed triplicates to avoid an image interruption. “Breakfast smells good.”

“Come help in the kitchen. Let your father enjoy entertaining Cindy.”

In the kitchen with Dad out of earshot, Bonnie asked, “How’s Dad?” She lifted a lid to peek into one of two pots on red electric stove burners. Hardboiled eggs. While physically healthy, both parents battled daily to stay in touch with reality. The implement business Dad built from scratch operated by a hired general manager. The emotional uncertainties gnawed at Bonnie. Last year she baked their joint fifty-second birthday party cake. “He any better?”

“No,” Mother said. “New medication provides stability with occasional glimpses of hope. He won’t run for re-election to the county board next year.”

Mother repeated what Dad blurted out last month before swearing Bonnie to secrecy.

“It takes all his strength,” Mother continued, “to finish the required monthly reading. He’s playing with Cindy, but he sometimes gives me the impression his mind thinks it’s you.”

Bonnie’s rising emotion gathered to well up behind both eyes. Cooking steam diffused on shut tight chilled north windowpanes and a glossy painted kitchen ceiling, a slowly descending imprisoning mist, which accentuated a creeping forlorn feeling. Silent, she crossed fingers for happier news.

“Only yesterday, before he swallowed morning medication, he talked to me as if on our honeymoon. The endearments bittersweet.” Mother dialed burner to warm. “I’ve reconciled myself to the fact he’ll never be the strong man I married. That’s life. What can I say?”

Bonnie hugged Mother. “There’ll be a medical breakthrough.” Bonnie released encircled arms. “Science discovers new cures every day.”

“I pray to God every night you’re right.” From a kitchen cabinet, Mother counted four plates. “I’m happy he remembers leading you down St. John’s aisle to wed Matthew.”

“I am too.” Bonnie reached for the plates Mother held, pivoted, and centered them on four maple table placemats. She counted flatware from a drawer, and watched Mother in a dreamy countenance pause to wipe jittery hands on appliquéd bluebirds before she spoke.

“He’ll often hold the brown Botany 500 suit he wore at your wedding, and gaze at it for minutes at a time. You made him and me so happy.” Mother reached for a wooden spoon to stir oatmeal in a front burner pot. “Í wish countries could exist without war.”

“So do I,” Bonnie murmured. “All of us could live without the nagging pain.”

“I understand love’s heartache never disappears, however, Matthew’s gone.”

Bonnie proudly thought of the American flag that draped Matthew’s coffin. Tri-folded within a glass display case, it rested on an apartment living room lamp table. Bonnie steeled herself.

“You need to love another,” Mother continued. “I’m not saying to forget Matthew. Life, as your father and I have lived, is better shared.” Bonnie hung head unwilling to interrupt what Mother would say next. “And, Cindy deserves a living father, not a framed picture or a flag.”

Bonnie bit lower lip and sighed. “I know. Really do.”

“You dating anyone I would know.” A pot’s bubbling foam distracted Mother.

Thankful for the extra time to think of an appropriately vague, yet plausible, disarming answer, Bonnie instead decided the truth offered less pitfalls and a quicker topic conclusion. “No.” Facial muscles tightened, pressure concentrated around temples. “I’ve had a lot to do at work.”

Mother, with an oven mitt, slid the pot off the burner and faced her. “Don’t know that I approve of a woman working in law enforcement. Too dangerous if you ask me. I worry every day.”

Bonnie separated spoons and the last tinkled against a knife. “Let’s not rehash my decision. I never play the lottery. If I do well, there’s a good chance for advancement.” She heard Cindy run and laugh in the next room as Mother clicked off all burners.

“If you say so.” Mother stepped toward Bonnie. “My impression of Sheriff McHugh is that he never wanted a woman deputy. That’s what church circle friend said he told her husband.”

“M-o-t-h-e-r!” Bonnie let outburst settle. “If breakfast’s ready, let’s eat?”

Assembled at the kitchen table, Cindy, Bonnie, and parents bowed heads in prayer. Cindy, palms together, fingers extended upward, billowed Bonnie’s pride as teacher. Dad rose to wave the door to the porch twice to chase excess heat outside. After the meal, Grandpa guided Cindy outside to swing under a giant oak’s emerging canopy. Rope threaded through two holes in a six-by-eighteen inch oak board created a seat with ends securely tied to a hefty, horizontal limb. Bonnie told the seat board a scrap saved from the wood Dad used to build her cradle more than two decades ago. A cradle heirloom Bonnie rocked infant Cindy in. The out-grown cradle, at the foot of Bonnie’s bed, filled with a collected doll and stuffed animal menagerie.

Bonnie carried dishes to Mother at the dishwasher before they both ambled to the screened-in back porch. Bonnie, from the exterior screen door, waved as Cindy, behind a tree, hid from Grandpa. She guessed hide-and-seek and loved the hours playing that childhood game with Dad.

She gazed at Mother use both hands to sit. “Ethyl says son stopped plans to build a new house now that there’s a strike at Jove Foods.” Mother rocked back and forth, eight-inch knitting needles stuck in yarn tucked at left side.

“Didn’t know he worked there. You’re talking William, right?”

“Uh-huh. Really a shame.”

Bonnie squirmed hips and then gave up trying to fool Mother the wooden yellow-painted Adirondack chair was comfortable and switched to sway back and forth on the cushioned suspended porch swing. “What’s the shame?”

“William’s house. Ethyl said vandals broke in while the lawyers squabbled in probate. Tub overflowed. Rabbits from the nearby old cemetery dirtied the whole house.”

“Sounds awful.” Bonnie called out to daughter, “Cindy, look harder.” Grandpa kept shifting position around a towering sycamore twenty feet distant.

“William’s wife, even with disinfectant spray and heavy scrubbing, wouldn’t sleep in any room. They moved rented trailer out there as a temporary living solution.”

“That’s nice.” Bonnie watched Cindy through window screen more than listen to Mother.

“You see William much?” Mother began to knit a newborn’s bootie.

“No. Why?”

“William’s cousin, Ethyl’s nephew, is coming from Omaha next month to help William clear additional acres. Says they’re going to blast tree stumps with dynamite.”

“And, I suppose this nephew is single, employed, age appropriate, and good-looking?”

“How’d you guess?” An impish, coy smile unlocked Mother’s lips.

“M-o-t-h-e-r!” Bonnie’s irritation blast lasted but a few seconds. Mother had been instrumental in Bonnie’s introduction to Matthew. Bonnie adored him and wouldn’t let the memories fade. An Iraqi insurgent road bomb killed him and two platoon buddies. Every morning Bonnie strapped on a service 9-millimeter a fear twinge radiated chest to toes. Fortunately, all rounds fired merely ripped pistol practice range paper targets. Bonnie hastened to change subject. “Could you and Dad watch Cindy if I get hair appointment with Crystal around lunch time?”

“Of course, you never ask enough.” Mother’s rocker clicked in four/four time.

Bonnie, from the kitchen, telephoned Crystal and snapped up a one o’clock cancellation. Three hours later at noon, she hugged Cindy and drove off to add grocery and hardware store errand stops. At both places the strike ensnared every conversation. Relief arrived at the hair salon where soap operas and romance gossip dominated.

Bonnie, on a green vinyl visitor’s bench, rested forearms on tubular chrome, pressed lips closed, and allowed roving eyes, which caught the oversized red purse at Violet Strum’s feet before the woman’s mouth twitched, dryer hood obscuring higher facial features.

“Say, Bonnie, you dent Jonas McHugh’s aversion to dating women? My grandson craves the muscles the Sheriff has.” Adjacent female patron’s head bobbed. Crystal exhibited knack for blunting unwanted conversation by running hands up behind Violet’s ears ostensively to check hair dryness. Bonnie strained to hear Crystal’s comment about Melanie Stark, but couldn’t.

“How else you think she became vice president at thirty-three?” Violet replied, loud.

“Brother-in-law saw her yesterday at the picket line chatting with the Sheriff,” Crystal said.

“You woulda thought he’d be married by now,” Violet said. “Must be mid-thirties.”

“Why? Sister cooks, launders, and likely doesn’t charge rent.”

“Melanie spent all night looking for him at the church social.” Crystal pointed a black fine-tooth comb at Bonnie. “Isn’t that right, Bonnie?”

All conversation stopped. A plastic hair roller bounced on the floor to accent a heater’s exhaust fan hum. “Don’t know,” Bonnie replied, twisting into vacated salon chair. Topic switched to Dancing With The Stars eliminations when Crystal produced scissors to snip near Bonnie’s ears.

Returning to parents’ home by two thirty, Bonnie hugged and thanked both profusely. Dad buckled Cindy in. No sooner had Bonnie finished waving goodbye then a backseat peek revealed the closed eyes of a tuckered out Cindy. Life should always remain so peaceful, thought Bonnie.

Parking Toyota in assigned complex space, Bonnie lifted a napping Cindy and bypassed the four-story building elevator to carry Cindy up one flight to 209, their second floor unit. Bonnie undressed Cindy, gently laid daughter into a youth bed, and tucked white sheet to chin. She kissed Cindy’s forehead, whispered, “Love you,” and tiptoed from the bedroom.

Afternoon sunbeams cast welcome rays as she hurriedly unloaded the car in two trips. Stretching out on the sofa, she finished last chapter of mystery novel, A Body To Bones. Fresh air playing extended Cindy’s nap. Bonnie, taking advantage, lifted back her bed’s top sheet, slipped Mother’s knit sweater off, and, after a button twist and zip, allowed jeans to fall to bedroom floor.

Recalling Mother’s oft-repeated words, Bonnie didn’t curse the chilly bedclothes warmed solely by her body. Neighborhood dog barked. Cindy didn’t cry. Bonnie buried head in a pillow.

* * *

Incoming call vibrations clacked Jonas’s portable police radio against nightstand walnut laminate. Only minutes before, after closing the bedroom blinds to block the mid-morning sun, his nose nestled into the down pillow. He missed Webster’s weight pin coverlet to both feet. Right hand reached out from beneath the blue-and-white checkered top sheet to press the speaker-on button.

Paul’s crackling voice urged hustle to the Jove Foods main gate, pronto.

Within twelve minutes, Jonas drove past a semi-truck convoy assembled in a parking lot three blocks from the Jove truck entrance. The company hadn’t lied. They’d plow through the picket line in broad daylight, not slink in under the cover of darkness. He muttered, “All fools.”

He parked behind Paul. Two men, one of whom he recognized worked at Jove Foods, ran past front bumper toward a growing throng with and without picket signs. Men without signs brandished a walking stick or baseball bat. Jonas assumed the taped wooden Louisville Sluggers from pickup baseball pepper games organized to block street traffic and amuse bored strikers.

He honked once to gain Paul’s attention. The two met in the middle of the street, twenty to thirty yards from union picketers stomping dirt to obliterate the entrance gate’s painted white line.

“What’s happening?” Jonas desired complete intelligence beyond trucks gathering.

“Nothing so far.” Paul’s voice high-pitched, eyes darting hither and yon.

Jonas subdued irritation. “Saw six trucks at Kanosh Electric. White, no markings.”

“Strikers half hour ago alerted by truck rumor.” Paul’s oblique step kept focus on picketers and back from being exposed to striker majority. “Cell phones created a beehive of shouts and running excitement. Picket Captain Bob Hunter dispatched two men to nearby intersections.”

A faint diesel engine blast sailed through the motionless air, repeated, growing into an approaching roar. In front of the Jove gate, nine picketers locked arms.

“We need to hustle to the gate,” Jonas said. Paul jogged. Jonas gripped baton and marched forward in double-time. “Okay, fellas.” Jonas scanned faces to target friends and neighbors. “Need your help.” He gazed at darkened driveway divisional line. “Staying calm will protect everyone.”

“Go home,” an unidentified voice shouted behind Hunter’s organizing efforts.

“Can’t do that. Sgt. Anderson and I need you to follow the rules.”

“Yeah,” Paul said. He pointed a rounded baton end at Bill McNamar.

McNamar slapped the baton sideways. “Don’t you threaten me?”

“Easy, Bill,” Jonas said. Slow-wave arm motion alerted Paul not to let strikers surround him as McNamar attempted smirking-stare distraction. “If you’re picketing, that’s fine. Let’s me see feet move.” Jonas personally didn’t want to try and force the strikers to unlock arms although they really had to. The law gave the company a right to use the gate for deliveries. He couldn’t take sides.

He surveyed the Jove Foods docks until interrupted by a west intersection air horn blast and the lead truck signaling a right turn. A man in a dark blue jump suit half-collapsed on the sidewalk. From the burn barrel a striker, with two others racing after him, ran toward the slumped man who clutched stomach. Jonas didn’t witness any truck or person hit the man laying in a fetal position.

The lead truck exited the intersection and continued its tortoise advance toward the Jove Foods gate. Jonas pressed the 9-1-1 portable radio emergency button sequence. “Kathy, Jove Foods, need ambulance, intersection Galway and Fourth. Put Walsh and Cannon on alert.”

One-by-one the truck convoy activated left turn signals. Within twenty feet of the gate, the lead truck’s front tires angled for the gate’s center. Convoy air horns blasted in sequence.

No striker at the gate twitched a muscle; shuffled a boot sole.

White cabs and trailers obliterated Jonas’s view of the fallen man near the intersection. A siren blared; turret lights flashed. The fire department ambulance screeched to a stop in an intersection’s crosswalk, blocked short of the fallen man by the turning eighteen-wheelers. Convoy truck grills nearly glued to tailgate bumpers, no adult skinny enough to squeeze from one headlight to the opposite side. Trucks didn’t break ranks; the ambulance detoured around.

“C’mon, guys,” Jonas pleaded. “Give the trucks a path. Don’t want to see anyone hurt.”

Chants of “scabs, scabs, scabs” and “turn back, turn back, turn back” overlapped to fill the late morning air. Hoisted bats, sticks, and picket signs waved menacingly. Three uniformed security guards jogged from a warehouse door across the parking lot and halted, grouped together. While the Sheriff’s Department displayed batons as their sole weapon, the rent-a-cops un-holstered stun guns.

Jonas feared the worse, an out-of-control riot. The air horn must’ve been a signal. The Jove Foods steel wire gate rumbled noisily as it retracted from its closed position. The security guards spread out, equally spaced in a line ten feet inside the opening gate facing the strikers.

“Keep together,” McNamar shouted.

“Solidarity forever,” Hunter echoed.

Two eggs splattered on the lead truck’s windshield. Wiper blades never arced. Jonas missed identifying the thrower. Eighteen wheels of each truck rotated to inch forward, grills protected by gleaming stainless steel bars, three across, curved around each fender to shield the headlights. Black electrical tape covered each headlight lens. Fifty-three-foot box trailers unmarked, two with reefers.

A dark ski mask, similar to the earlier Econoline guards, hid each trucker’s identity.

“Sgt. Anderson,” Jonas yelled. “Take the left fender. We’ll walk this truck in.” Paul complied, his back centered on the headlight to Jonas’s left. To the strikers, Jonas shouted, “Move, get out of the way, this truck’s coming through.”

No striker moved; the official plea ignored. Jonas raised baton to parallel across squared chest. A left eye glimpse confirmed Paul positioned himself likewise. The truck’s grill bars bumped Jonas’s buttocks. Three short paces separated him and four strikers. “Join your friends, guys. I’m ready to arrest anyone who interferes. Touch either Sgt. Anderson or me and the charges will be assault on a law enforcement officer.”

“Pig.” A saliva wad struck the asphalt at Jonas’s feet.

“Move aside, Bill,” Paul called out.

The last four strikers in unison executed one backward step. The security officers, stun guns braced in extended hands, marched one left and one right pace closer to the gate opening. “Hold on, guys,” Jonas barked to ready-to-advance security guards. “These strikers are still on public right-of-way.” The center security officer’s laser stun gun barrel threatened McNamar.

Jonas’s eyes rotated to bore deep into Hunter’s eyeballs. Neither blinked. McNamar squared body in front of Paul as he and Hunter remained after two buddies scrambled sideways. Jonas shuffled feet to maintain balance feeling the truck nudge him.

“Unless you two want to burn from a stun gun’s jolt, step aside.”

McNamar’s hurried rear glance and jutting jaw indicated four feet weren’t moving. Jonas released one hand from baton, grabbed Hunter by the shoulders, and shoved him aside. The pony-tailed striker stumbled to one knee, left hand fingers grabbing the wire fence to prevent fall.

Paul followed his boss’s lead to toss McNamar forcibility out of the way. Jonas and Paul dived in opposite directions to avoid being run over and crushed by the lead truck. When Jonas scrambled to his feet, four trucks had passed the gate, warehouse security guard line, and fanned out to separate Jove Foods loading docks. Jonas swatted pants to shake off dirt covering knees.

Vision temporarily blocked by the last two semis, Jonas couldn’t see Paul although he heard shouts: “Pig. Company whore.” Wood clashed against wood. The Jove Foods gate clanked closed. Strikers, more than the original nine who blocked the gate, formed what Jonas interpreted to be a fight ring. He squinted and couldn’t see Paul.

A voice cried out, “Hit’em again.” A louder voice, “Kick’em in the balls.”

* * *

Melanie Stark expanded the storage room metallic window slats for a better warehouse delivery gate view. She’d signed the contract with “No Name Trucking” for three weekly deliveries. They claimed special strike outfitted equipment and highly trained drivers. She could’ve sworn the brutish man she met at the state park lodge to receive the company’s cash deposit had no neck, an overlarge forehead stacked on a jaw squatting on broad muscular shoulders.

To alleviate a stuffy feeling, Melanie unlatched and extended the upper glass inward an inch. Alerted by a distant air horn, she watched the lead truck grind relentless toward the gate. Stupid picketers. Get squashed. Serves you right.

Was Jonas leading the truck? She screwed up eyes to be sure. Who else? Oh, Sgt. Anderson. Startled by storage door squeak, she inhaled Barry Chesterton’s musky cologne before she twisted, heard footfalls behind stacked file boxes, and heard him speak. “Thought I might find you here.”

“Our first deliveries almost docked for unloading,” Melanie said proudly.

She felt his arms encircle her waist, and then a teasing squeeze. Around them file boxes with employee records and order invoices, old steel desks, a crank adding machine, and broken chairs piled high and random in a spider’s delight, except for one corner. Cleared floor space permitted one dorm-sized metal spring bed with a six-inch mattress for the night security guard.

“I see.” Chesterton’s right hand fingers widened a slat row while left arm cradled her shoulders. “He and that other guy present a commanding presence. You call the sheriff?”

“No.” Melanie still hadn’t relaxed from the reluctant Sheriff’s kitchen visit early that morning. Surprised a tad Jonas showed up, his total unwillingness to devour what she offered irritating and pork link sausages represented the last thing on her mind’s menu. Regrets didn’t outlive the passage of hours nor blot out the reality Chesterton would shortly command her body, if never her soul. She understood what he craved. His lowered left hand rubbed in a circle, and a dropped right hand’s pressing fingertip teased bellybutton protrusion signaling he’d lost interest in parading strikers and slow-moving trucks maneuvering on the asphalt below.

She’d indulge Chesterton in a farewell encore after she determined the name of the plaid-shirted striker tossed to the ground to the right of the gate? The uniformed officer was Sgt. Anderson. Ouch. Anderson’s shoulder swatted with a picket sign. A tightening ring of maybe twenty men surrounded the two fighters. Knocked to one knee by the picket sign’s second blow, Anderson swayed; rose to both feet. With two hands squeezing the baton’s rubber grip he thrust its blunt end into the striker’s stomach. The blow catapulted the man’s shoulders forward, and hips backward.

“That’s got to hurt,” Chesterton said. His right hand tried to separate Melanie’s thighs.

“No. I’m okay.” Melanie laughed when Chesterton’s contorted expression told her he’d spoken about the fight, not her comfort. Before Anderson could thrust baton a second time, two strikers grabbed the officer’s arms and wrestled it away. The plaid-shirted striker, given new life, swung a right fist, missed. A left may have connected. Melanie’s view obstructed as the two combatants circled each other. Anderson struck a right-left fist volley to the striker’s head. She thought she saw blood splatter above and below the man’s mouth, but couldn’t be sure.

Oooh. A bent knee landed in or near Anderson’s groin and shoulders collapsed. The striker pounced forward pounding two fists to the crown of Anderson’s bowed head. Anderson’s left arm flashed upward to deflect a third blow. He dived straight into the striker’s midsection with observable force although distance didn’t allow Melanie to hear any uttered groan.

Both twisted and crashed to the ground, the striker prone with his face eating dirt. Anderson rose first and stomped. His swinging boot toe struck above the striker’s belt near a kidney.

Six fanned-out semi-trailer rear bumpers thudding into loading docks momentarily distracted Melanie. She steeled abdominal muscles to Chesterton’s tickling fingers to glimpse Jonas sprint across the gate entrance. With flying elbows he burst between two men; the ring expanded. Jonas responded to Anderson’s extended arm point. The Sheriff lifted striker by grabbing plaid shirt collar at the neck’s nape, forced striker’s nose into the link security fence, and, with a knee to the small of the back, clamped on wrist handcuffs, spun man around, and with baton pinned neck to the fence.

Anderson picked up his baton and preceded Jonas and prisoner to Paul’s squad car. The sergeant’s strength and resilience impressed Melanie. He’d bought her a drink or two at community fund-raisers, but she concluded by the lack of follow-up he acted polite to create goodwill for a run against Jonas in the upcoming election. She hoped the knee that landed hadn’t damaged his fatherhood future. If Jonas proved uncooperative, a lawman alternative existed.

Chesterton nuzzled her neck. With the strike, normal business office attire abandoned in favor of sweats or blue jeans. Who knew when executives would be required to unload trucks? Her prior forklift joy ride stained a pantsuit with black grease smeared into a cushioned cloth seat. His fingers on skin under Melanie’s sweatshirt tickled above and below an “outee” belly button.

“It’s been a long time,” Chesterton’s coarse guttural voice whispered into Melanie’s right ear.

“It’ll be even longer once you’re transferred.”

“Between you and me, it’s not going to happen.”

Melanie gulped. She counted on the transfer to succeed him as president. If not transferred, he’d have to be fired, a convoluted process. He’d get credit for all her hard work in humiliating the union. She couldn’t rely on profit loss because of the strike. The investors would surely credit him if Local No. 1 decertified. The long-term priceless value of devised efficient scheme to hire minimum wage non-union replacement workers nullified. “But your plans? A bigger operation.”

“On hold. But let’s not discuss that.”

Her left hand clasp halted his stomach tapping. “What about someone at the door?” Neck pores absorbed his hot, panting breaths. While the clerical bargaining unit honored the picket line, staff still roamed the three floors, especially computer technicians manning the large IT center at corridor end. A creaking elevator door jolt probably meant one or two in the hall this very moment.

“Fixed that. New deadbolt installed. Only keys are in my pocket.” His hand slipped from her stomach, and warm fingers cupped Melanie’s chin. Her sneakers squeaked as he rotated head and body towards him before joining lips. He kissed long and hard until elongated tongue parted her moist lips to slide in. His knee nudged Melanie to the security guard’s bed.

When he faced her, bulging manhood strained against denim fabric. She knew he invigorated a six foot, one inch lean body by three morning jogs a week. She reached forward, undid belt, pulled snap apart, and separated zipper teeth. Like a warehouse pallet jack, his handle sprang free with tension for the task ahead. “You want a ride bareback?”

“Why no condom? You always insisted.”

“Got an after pill.” Melanie lied. “Will allow me to give you a hotter ride.”

Previously she insisted upon a condom to collect his sperm, never fearing pregnancy. Puberty for her lasted until the day the cold stainless steel of the operating table joined with the glaring lights that branded fear into ever-present memory. In the dim shadows beyond an open surgical room door a masked nurse handed her mother a paper to sign for she’d been but fourteen.

“Here, let me help you.” Chesterton lifted sweatshirt high above her head. “What, no bra?” His raised bellybutton-toying fingers lowered to two grapefruit-sized former playmates.

At fourteen, soft teenage nipples were centered in undeveloped breasts as she lay in a hospital gown on the operating table. Knees separated; two steel rings compressed goose-bumped skin to elevated anklebones. A mask suffocated normal breathing. Her whole world dissolved into black. Not until two days later, with entire abdomen hurting, did Melanie overhear her mother telling mother’s latest boyfriend Melanie’s ovarian cancer required surgery. Not until high school did she realize the hysterectomy’s sterilizing consequences. Not until adult years did Melanie suspect her mother overreacted to the unwed pregnancy births of her and brother Zachary. He died at age seventeen, his scooter struck by a drunken male driver. Melanie shunted the memories to the mind’s recesses and unbuttoned Chesterton’s shirt. Undid jeans, zipper, and wiggled hips to have faded denim she wore pool at bare ankles.

Chesterton couldn’t remind Melanie of a picture-less father never known. Mother wouldn’t speak of him; slapped Melanie’s face when she tried to ask. Nor would mother speak of the man who’d impregnated her with Melanie’s brother. Both men, mother said, unverified by Melanie, skipped town once pregnancy visible. Melanie’s mother habitually cursed all men until early death.

Chesterton stretched naked on the bed, chest up, and ramrod straight in both directions.

Melanie diverted fingers from following cot gaze and a repeated delightful tease to stretch the elastic Victoria’s Secret waistband, crumple the cotton, and slip the powder-blue panties to jeans, and then both past blue painted toes. Casual business wear didn’t require nylons or folding. She fully understood no domestic future unfurled with Chesterton.

Not one drop of concern would be sweat for his wife. He reached for right hand. While she might not be able to leap into the air and click heels, she’d physically absorb and pulsate his virility before she crushed his ambitions.

* * *

Noel stretched out on apartment futon after effortless double shift picket duty. He endured Hunter’s jabs and Dino’s flak for not answering union’s cell phone alert two days earlier. McNamar visited the picket line that morning sporting black eye and facial bruises. By Bill’s account, he won.

Noel munched lukewarm fries, a half-eaten fast food hamburger in coagulated grease on the floor. Boring six p.m. news broadcast encouraged him to channel surf halfway through. The cell phone in front jeans pocket buzzed and he answered with an unenthusiastic hello.

“Please don’t hang up. It’s Melanie.” Noel pressed phone to left ear. “I want to apologize for I obviously angered you at my house.”

He’d been simultaneously aroused and uncomfortable when Melanie’s fingers touched him, not upset, as he would define it. Too complicated to explain, he could only say, “I’m not angry.”

“Maybe you don’t like spaghetti. There’s two steaks in the refrigerator we can grill outdoors if you’ll visit tonight. Say, eight o’clock.”

Noel heard a commotion behind Melanie’s voice. Dino told everyone at pre-strike meetings to be on guard. Unsure if prior visit remained a secret, he said, “I can’t.”

“If you’re worried about job.” She coughed. “Don’t be. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”

He hesitated. How would she impact his college dream? He needed job, now and after the strike. No others in the county paid as well. “Okay, but if I’m not there at eight, don’t expect me.”

Before he wrestled with Melanie’s invite, Noel prayed the strike to end. He knew it wouldn’t before eight leaving him unsure if he exercised any control of his own future. What could he do?