She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be - J.D. Barker Page 0,8

Is that what you want to hear?”

I shrugged. “If it’s the truth.”

“It is.”

“Okay.”

She fidgeted with the corner of one of her gloves, tugged at it.

“Why do you wear those?”

“It’s cold.”

“Not that cold. It wasn’t cold last time, and you wore them then, too.”

“Maybe I like them.” She slipped a finger inside the one on the right and pulled it off. Her fingers were long and slender.

“Stella.” The woman with the white hair glared, stepping closer.

Stella quickly put the glove back on. “I like them, is all.” She slipped her hands under her thighs.

“Why today? Why this bench?”

“So many questions…”

“I’ve been here a bunch of times, and you weren’t. Now today, you’re back. One year from the last time. August 8. Why?”

A smile edged her lips. “Were you looking for me?”

“No. I was…I live close by. I visit my parents a lot. That’s all.”

“You sound nervous, Jack. Do I make you nervous?”

“No,” I said, hoping the redness had left my face.

She looked up, her deep brown eyes meeting mine. “Your parents died on August 8?”

I nodded.

She leaned back into the bench, her eyes on the heavens. “Strange, the coincidences of the world.”

“My Auntie Jo says there are no coincidences.”

“Is she here with you, your Auntie Jo?”

Again, I nodded. “Back at my parents’ graves. We come every year.”

“Then maybe I’ll see you again.”

“You’re leaving? But you just—”

“Stella.” The woman with the white hair again.

Stella narrowed her eyes and settled deeper into the bench. “Not yet. I have one hour.” I got the impression she said this not for my benefit but for the two women, because she said it much louder than necessary, if only speaking to me.

I saw something then, movement in the backseat of the SUV.

A man. No, a boy. “Who’s that?”

Stella followed my gaze, then frowned. “That is David Pickford.”

“Who is he?”

“He’s nobody.”

“How old is he?”

“Why would that matter?”

“Just wondering.”

She shrugged. “Nine or ten, I suppose. Our age.”

“Is he wearing a mask?”

Her gloved hand went to my comic book, and she flipped the pages. “Forget him. Tell me about your turtles.”

I smiled and did just that. This boy watching us from the SUV, the women in white, too.

I wouldn’t see him again for thirteen years, and even that proved too soon.

2

“This is not an All-American Slam,” I said, staring at the plate Mr. Krendal set in front of me. Thanksgiving was ten days away, and Auntie Jo had been picking up as many double shifts as possible, hoping to scrape enough money together for a full turkey dinner. That meant no pizza for a while. She suspended my allowance, too. I was okay with that. I had saved up one hundred forty-one dollars. Since Auntie Jo wouldn’t take any of my money, I gave it to Mr. Triano, the building’s super, to buy a turkey and surprise her.

Elden Krendal, the owner and sole cook at Krendal’s Diner, had a policy. He allowed his employees to eat for free, provided they didn’t order off the menu but instead ate whatever was in surplus before the food expired.

A few weeks back, when Auntie Jo asked if she could share her free meal with me, Krendal wiped his thick sausage hands on his once-white apron and knelt down in front of me. “This guy is little, too little for what did you say? Eight years old?”

He wasn’t very tall, only about an inch taller than Auntie Jo, but Mr. Krendal was a big man. I imagined he nibbled away all day back in that kitchen just to maintain such a size. He probably weighed at least three hundred pounds and reminded me of a flabby Mr. Clean, the guy from those commercials, twenty years past his prime. The top of his head didn’t contain a single hair. I once overheard him say he got tired of hairnets and shaved it all off. Auntie Jo said his hair got tired of him and left on its own accord. He had an infectious smile. I couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t smiling. Even when he shouted out from back in the kitchen, he did so from behind a grin.

“Nine,” I corrected him.

He shook his head. “You’re skin and bones. You’re not going to grow up to be a big strong man sharing plates with your aunt. You need a plate of your own.”

“I can’t afford—” Auntie Jo started.

Mr. Krendal waved a hand at her. “We will feed this boy until it’s coming out his ears. Maybe someday he’ll come work for me.”

“I’m going