By Alicia Ameur
Three-to-close is my least favorite shift. The streets are too dark and empty to walk home alone. I look at the clock and see it is almost closing time. Mr. Small was in the store for my entire six-hour shift. I caught glimpses of him, wandering from aisle to aisle, carrying a shopping basket filled hours earlier with a few loaves of white bread and jars of peanut butter and jelly. He never checks out at my register and, thankfully, tonight was no different. I watched as he timidly stepped into Tracy’s line to pay for his groceries.
After punching out I search the window along the front of the store and don’t see him standing in his normal spot between the shopping carts and glass. Usually I can keep tabs on him while he watches me work at the register but lose him while I’m in the office closing out my drawer at the end of my shift.
I edge close to the storefront window, trying to see further out into the parking lot. It is too dark beyond the row of cars parked directly along the entry walk to the store. I press my forehead against the cool window, cup both hands above my eyes to block the reflection of light for a better look, expecting to see Mr. Small on the other side of the glass, watching.
He is not.
I scan the parking lot, carefully considering whether a shadow is behind a tree or if it’s just my heightened fear causing an illusion.
The hair on the back of my neck stands up as the automatic door swings open to the chilly night. I glance around as I walk out the door and still don’t see him. I scurry across the lot to the sidewalk, keeping a careful eye on the tree and its shadow.
Once I reach the crosswalk I consider which route to take. The quickest is straight up Winthrop, a well-lit, frequently trafficked street. I would have good visibility of the sidewalk ahead, but there are many nooks for Mr. Small to hide. There are also homes on either side and I could knock on a door to get help, or even flag down a passing car.
The longer route would involve a half mile walk on Revere Beach Parkway, and another half mile to Short Beach. Not only is that an inefficient way to get home, there is a section where I would walk alone between the seawall and street with only a flood barrier on the opposite side. But there would be nowhere for Mr. Small to hide other than on the rock armour beyond the seawall. There aren’t any houses for me to run to for help and the cars drive too fast for me to flag down.
I chose the faster, better-lit route. Only now I must decide whether to walk through the front or back parking lot of Dimino’s Subs. I am grateful to see that it is still open and the lights pool on the front lot, showing no Mr. Small in sight. There is only a sliver of streetlight shining into the back parking lot and I decide to stay at the front. My only concern is that I might be blindsided if he is waiting in the back lot on the other side of the building.
I walk as quietly as possible, peering beyond the wall, hoping I don’t see him. Once I pass the sandwich shop, I have a clear line of vision all the way to the train station. I stay close to the chain link fence between the sidewalk and train station parking lot. There are a few cars still in the lot, but not a person in sight.
My eyes dart in all directions. Ears conscious of every sound, listening for the rhythm of steady footsteps. All I hear is the rustling of dead leaves and litter in the light breeze. These sounds startle me into thinking he is nearby, then give me a fleeting, false sense of safety when I realize it is not Mr. Small.
I think empty ‘positive’ thoughts to keep my panic at bay. There’s nothing to be nervous about, Alicia. He’s never hurt you before, he’s harmless. . . It’s not even a mile, you’ll be fine.
I reach Beachmont Station, and see him standing behind the bank of pay phones. My heart races and my throat constricts. I come to a full stop, frozen in fear.
I take deep breaths and calm down enough to continue walking. I cross the street and walk past the bakery, hear the crinkle of his shopping bag and the thud of his boots on the pavement. He is walking about twenty steps behind me, his usual stalking distance.
I’m not sure if he understands what he’s doing, following me, a fourteen-year-old girl to work, dance class, and almost everywhere else I walk. Maybe he’s trying to protect me, I think, telling myself lies to tamp my fear.
I think back to ‘the incident’ almost two years ago. On that night, the neighborhood boys thought it would be funny to pull a prank on Mr. Small and tell him I was in love with him. I was home alone with my younger sister. We were watching a rented VHS from June’s Video Hut when we heard loud banging on the front door. As I approached the front hall, I heard Jay, Scott, Anthony, Brian, and T.J. laughing hysterically across the street.
The pounding reverberated louder and louder with each step I took. I yelled out, “Guys, it’s not funny!” The culprit furiously jiggled the doorknob while pushing and pulling the door in its frame, and I heard my sister whimper behind me.
I saw movement outside in the dark. Then Mr. Small’s face peering through the porch window, his hand cupped over his brow to get a better look inside. I stood frozen as his head turned in my direction and we locked eyes. He smiled.
I ran to the kitchen, feeling him watch me as I searched through the junk drawer for the list of emergency phone numbers. I remembered my parents added Natalie’s Restaurant.
I steadied my hands enough to dial the number. The hostess answered after several rings, and the sound of an adult’s voice suppressed my fear. I gave a hurried description of my parents.
Since they were regulars, the hostess knew who I was looking for. When she put the phone down to get them, full terror returned; I was alone in the kitchen with Mr. Small watching my every move. I could no longer stay strong and contain my tears. My shoulders shuddered as I quietly sobbed with my back to the window.
I waited for one of my parents to come to the phone. I focused on the background noise of the busy restaurant coming through the line: plates and silverware clinking, people talking and laughing, live music from the dance floor. People who were comfortable and safe, and at that very moment, I couldn’t remember how that felt.
After what seemed like an impossibly long time, I heard my mother’s irritated, slightly slurred voice on the other end. Through jagged breaths and sobs, I explained what was happening and begged her and dad to come home. With the same casual tone she used to deny me a ride to a friend’s house, she said that their dinner had just been served.
Dinner had just been served? There was a man trying to get in the house and she was more concerned with food. I composed myself enough to convince her that this was an actual emergency. She reluctantly told me she would request doggie bags for their dinner and head straight home.
After I hung up the phone, a rush of relief flooded my body, interrupted by a worry: assuming this Saturday night was no different from all the other Saturday nights, it was very likely that my parents had been drinking heavily. If my dad was too drunk to drive, they might die in a tragic car accident, all because I called them to come home early over a situation my twelve-year-old self couldn’t manage.
Even though I feared my parents would get in trouble for driving while intoxicated, I decided to call the police in hopes that they would arrive sooner than my parents. I explained the situation to the dispatch officer and she advised me to take my sister to a spot where Mr. Small wouldn’t be able to see us. She assured me a patrol car would arrive as soon as possible. I hung up before she could say anything else and slowly turned to see if Mr. Small was still watching through the window.
He was.
I could still hear the boys laughing across the street. I focused long enough to decide that the safest place to hide would be in the living room, which spanned the back of the house. If we crouched behind the sofa, we would be close enough to the front door to hear if he got in, but far enough away to be safely hidden. We held each other tight, crying quietly while we waited for the police or our parents to help us.
The police arrived about an hour later, shortly before our parents. I saw the flash of blue and white lights illuminating the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. I told my sister to stay hidden and went to the dining room window. A couple of police officers stood below the streetlight in the grass triangle across the street. Mr. Small was hiding behind a bush with no leaves. After a minute or so the police got him to stand and walked him to the police cruiser. He wobbled back and forth trying to balance, clearly drunk.
My parents pulled up as Mr. Small was being placed into the backseat of the cruiser. They approached the police officers, walking deliberately enough to mask their unsteady gait. After a quick discussion, the officers drove away. I heard my parents’ laughter as they came up the front walk. I unlocked the deadbolt, my hands still shaking.
I asked my dad what the officers said, and he calmly told me they were going to keep Mr. Small in jail overnight to sober up and let him go home in the morning. They couldn’t keep him because he technically didn’t commit a crime. I wanted to scream at them. They were so unconcerned about what transpired; didn’t even ask me if I was okay. I was too exhausted to talk about it further. My body felt numb and I could barely stand. I knew any protest would be futile until they sobered up. So I walked upstairs, brushed my teeth and got into bed. As upset as I felt, I was grateful there were adults in the house.
The memory of that night causes tears to well up. I remind myself that thinking about the past won’t help and shift my focus to my surroundings and the whereabouts of Mr. Small.
I realize I have reached the shortcut next to St. Paul’s Church – stairs leading to a path that crosses over from Winthrop to Bradstreet. If I take the shortcut, I will be home in less than a minute. As desperate as I am to get home, I’m afraid to take the shortcut because the passageway is very narrow with fences on either side.
I walk the full block around, knowing we will soon pass the house where Mr. Small lives with his mother. I wonder if he will continue following me home or stop at his front door. The closer I get to home, the faster I walk. As I pass his house, I pray he will stop there. My house finally comes into view and I increase my speed to pass the ten or so houses that stand between me and safety.
I risk a quick glance behind me and see Mr. Small outside his front door, watching me walk away. I break into a sprint, fumbling my keys as I rush to get inside, panicking until I finally deadbolt the door behind me.
I walk into the cold, dark, empty house, sit on the stairs and cry.
ALICIA C. AMEUR is an aspiring writer, knitter, avid reader and baker, as well as a mother to two adult children, Josef and Amina. Born in Boston, MA, raised in the Beachmont section of Revere, MA, a suburb of Boston, she currently resides in Worcester, MA with her three black cats, Edgar, Allan and Poe. She is currently writing a creative non-fiction book to share her and her family’s story with the world.
