his hair in little gel twists. A cold chill invades my gut. I feel a strong urge to scream. I know I’m not alone. I drive out to see Mom. “They caught ‘em.” “You’re telling me something I don’t know?” Mom asks. “Yeah, I know you know. They were working out at the Y.” “So were you,” Mom says. “What’re you saying?” “What did I tell you? Hide things in plain sight. Whoever’s gonna look at the Y?” says Mom. “How’d you know?” “My father,” Mom says. “I always find him where I least expect to.” “Ginger and I leave for Paris tonight.” “Fuck a duck,” Mom says. “What’d you say?” “Lucky duck,” she says. “Why’d you say that?” “Way better than a duck in a noose, wouldn’t you say?” “You surprise me sometimes.” “I’m disappointed I don’t surprise you all the time,” Mom says. “We’ll be back in a week. You expect to be here?” “Unless my father decides to take me on a trip. I’ll send you a postcard to keep you updated,” Mom says. Ginger and I take a quick neighborhood walk before heading to the airport. People and dogs everywhere. Celebratory atmosphere. No matter what people say, it sounds like, “The war’s over! We can go outside again.” You can hear Roman candles go off in their voices. Dogs do their circle dances with abandon. Dobermans! Dobermans! 6:00 p.m.: Ginger and I board our flight. Once aloft, our respiration rates slow, inhalations deepen. “You see, I was right all along. I was safe because the Y was their sanctuary.” “You win on a technicality,” Ginger says. “I was still right: The Y was the most dangerous place on earth.” “What if I’d called the police the first time I saw them and my skin crawled?” Ginger says, “Police can’t make arrests because someone’s skin crawls. And the Y people fell in love with them. They loved giving the snipers a place to park their bodies by day if not by night.” “What if I’d walked up and talked to them?” Ginger says, “You’d probably’ve hired them and sent them into schools, where they would’ve killed hundreds of children. Overnight, you would’ve been world famous. And dead. And if you weren’t, you’d’ve wished you were.”
A Journal of Creative Nonfiction
44