Surely
MJ Iuppa
After the poetry reading, the crowd milled about: cheeks were kissed; fingertips touched fingertips– the close whispered good-byes– lovely, so lovely. And, in an eye blink three hundred people, like a net of starlings, disappeared into thin air.
I headed towards my lone car in the side lot of the art gallery; relieved that I’d soon be out of these new dress shoes and in my slippers. What a perfect event, I thought as I stepped off the broken sidewalk to the lot.
“You.”
The voice poked me in the back. I turned to look over my shoulder to see a young woman in denim coveralls and a pink jacket come from behind the trunk of a large pin oak. Her eyes were wide, her hands fidgeted with her jacket’s zipper.
“You got to help me. I’m trying to get to the St. Joseph Motherhouse. I got a job there; pays eight dollars and fifty cents, good money, but I don’t have a car. It’s broke down, and no gas; I’m tired, tired, and I need the money real bad. To get to the Motherhouse. I’m suppose to take care of them old women there. You got to help me. I need a ride– home.”
Her hand clamped onto my car door. I stood there for a moment.
Alone.
With her.
“Okay, I said, “get in.”
“This your car? Sure is clean.” She slid into the seat with ease, and sat ready.
“Yeah,” I answered, trying not to have second thoughts as I got in on my side,“my mom named her Pretty Woman.” She snorted inward, chin to chest. I slipped my purse under my legs and started my car
“I’m Shirley.”
“So where do you live, Shirley?”
“North Goodman. Not far from here. Turn left up there.”
I rolled out of the parking lot toward the neighborhood that is just behind the Public Market where narrow side streets are packed with rundown houses. It was hard to see in the snare of darkness. Shirley, on the other hand, grew brighter.
“What do you do? You got a man and kids?”
“Yeah, I do… . where are we going?”
“Not far. Down a piece. You got twenty dollars? That would set me right. Get me some gas and something to eat. You got twenty?”
”I have some money. Not twenty, maybe twelve dollars. But I need two dollars for my son’s school lunch. Ten, Okay?”
Shirley looked hard at me, like she was making a decision.
“Over there.” She pointed left. “ Three houses in.”
I turned and pulled to a stop when she said here. It was pitch black. No streetlights. No porch lights. Just the shadows loomed over us. I reached inside my purse and pulled out my wallet. Shirley watched as I opened it and counted out the bills.
“One, two, three. Twelve’s all you got.” She picked the ten and wadded it in her fist as she began to open the car door. She stopped and leaned back in. Her eyes, calm and steady.
“Lock your doors, you hear. This ain’t a great neighborhood. Lock’em now.”
Shirley swung her legs out to the curb and shut the door behind her, tapping the metal good-bye.
I stayed a few seconds more, keeping my eyes on her, watching her steps quicken as she vanished into the margin of the night.
M.J. Iuppa lives near the shores of Lake Ontario where she writes poetry and prose and is Writer-In-Residence at St. John Fisher College. Her MFA is from Pacific Lutheran University, and she has many publications and books, the latest is Within Reach; check out more of her work here.
