Adult Short Story - Second Place - Betty Tomlinson Anderson Award for Literary Excellence

Animal lovers can't be trusted. Not my cranky mother-in-law, who sleeps with her Husky, and certainly not the three who picked a Saturday in June to protest outside my Good Foods. These three wanted to save the lobsters, clearly a stance against saving the rest of us. I'm sure there are people out east who eat lobsters to survive.
I didn't mention survival though, not in front of a grocery store on Belmont Avenue. I tilted my head, opened my palms and pretended to care. I didn't let them see that I was pissed to be called in on my day off, my day to take Dylan. I gave them thirty more minutes and told my assistant manager, Carlos to hand out vegan bars and water. Then, I felt good. Felt like maybe I even owed the animal lovers something. They'd given me a sticky situation to manage, a place to practice "active empathy." I'd nailed it, simply by cocking my head and splaying my palms.
In the back while I dismantled the seafood tank, I composed a glowing email to send up to Head Office. If I made Regional Manager, Sarah'd have a reason to let me move home.
Carlos banged through the swinging doors. "'scuse Wayne, where's Emily at?"
"I sent her home. Are they bothering customers?"
Carlos shook his head no. "Ate the free snacks and left. The one in the lobster costume was frying."
"They love animals, and they rent Red Lobster's all-you-can-eat" costume?" I laughed while I peeled off the yellow gloves. "Do lobsters even need saving? I've seen one lose a claw and keep going."
Carlos didn't smile, he wasn't listening to me. Peppa Pig giggled from the TV in the breakroom. He strode past me and looked in. "Where'd Dylan go?"
"Emily's watching him for me. I told Sarah not to bring him in." I rolled down my shirt cuffs.
"Boss. I, um..." he leaned on the window ledge, looked out toward the shipping door. Carlos was my right hand. He never called me boss. "Are they, like, in the back lot with sidewalk chalk?"
"No. I sent them to my new place. Till close." I fished my phone from my back pocket. It hadn't buzzed since they left. Damn, did I miss Emily's text?
"But, you know, right? About the fire, about what she did?"
"I know she's burned, sure. What else?"
He pushed aside a white stacking chair and it shrieked. Dylan had been sitting there when Sarah said she'd take him.
"She did that," he said, then held his mouth closed a second. "In Halifax. Her and her ex. Grow-op overloaded circuits, set the whole place on fire, a pet store, the apartment above. Ten years ago, in Halifax." He didn't look at me, he was redialing.
"What, so what, so she smoked pot? It's legal now." My hands clenched. "So, she had a hard time. Years ago. Maybe he was the deadbeat. Emily's solid."
Carlos shook his head. "Numb, I'd say. Firemen pulled her out, but the kids, two little boys, they died." He punched the power button and Peppa disappeared. "Emily was saving kittens, stuffing them into a carry cage. Siamese cats. Worth about eight hundred bucks, the papers said."
I willed my phone to buzz. "You gave her a five-star review."
"Not for babysitting, I didn't." He sounded like Sarah, mad at me.
"Damnit Carlos. She has my Jeep."
When he handed me his keys, he held my hand for a moment and squeezed. Looked me
right in the face. Not a technique, just Carlos' way. His voice was sad. "I'm sorry I didn't say anything. She's okay on cash. But...watching Dylan, though?"
I pulled back. I didn't tell Carlos that I'd almost stopped Emily from leaving, that I'd stepped off the curb and frantically waved at the back of the Jeep. But she hadn't noticed, and I'd let her go. I thought of Sarah humiliating me at work. Only the lobsterman, sweating in the shade of the overhang, heard me say, "I do so trust my employees. One hundred percent."

When Dylan was a baby, I wouldn't lay him in the crib till I heard a loud burp. I kept feeding him mush even when he got his teeth. Once, Sarah was taking him to the park and Facetimed me. I'd asked her where his hat was.

"I'm his fucking mother, for god's sake. If he needs a hat, I'll put one on him."
"It's windy, Sarah, the carts are rolling across the lot."
"Well go take care of your carts."

When I got home, we'd had a blow up. I lacked empathy, she said, but worse, I didn't trust her. Didn't trust anyone. Didn't let Carlos run the store. Never took a vacation with her and Dylan. "You might as well tattoo that Manager badge to your fucking chest."
Sarah said I had to see a counsellor. Had to learn to share power, to trust others. Today, I thought I'd done a decent job of that, until Carlos set me straight.
Emily an animal lover? Besides Carlos, I liked Emily the best on my team. She was consistent. I'd hired her six months ago because she didn't try to impress me in the interview.
She had listened to each of my workplace-scenarios and, without a wrinkle on her brow, gave solid answers. "Nothing seems to faze you, Emily," I said, and she nodded. I couldn't tell if she was pleased or unhappy. She held her cards to her chest.
By then, Sarah had already called me "callous" and moved her mother and the Husky into the house. They forgot that my cool headedness is what got me promoted to manager. In therapy, I was working on my empathy. So, I kept Emily out of hot deli, though she said she'd work anywhere. I didn't know she was vegan; I was thinking more of how the heat blasting from the pizza oven would feel on her ropey wrists, the wormy scars that snaked up her neck. Now I wondered if her tattoos were from after the burn, to hide the damage. You can't ask about stuff like that.

The expressway ramp was closed, so I drove toward the downtown, struggling to secure my phone into Carlos' phone holder.
"Hey Siri...Search the news for Halifax fire, Siamese kittens..." I almost said dead boys, but my throat locked. "...fatal fire."
Siri didn't flinch, chirped in her cheeky voice "I found this, check it out." I steered and scrolled. A headline in the Chronicle Herald: Parents On Trial for Deadly Fire. Subhead: Save animals, leave kids to burn.
Behind me, a car horn blasted, and I looked up. I saw my Jeep then, parallel parked on Queen Street in front of a brownstone. Inside the unlocked glass door, no Emily Slim was listed on the buzzer. Management in 102.
A bearded guy in greasy, ripped jeans and Kurt Cobain t-shirt opened the door when I knocked. I smelt the stink of weed, but I didn't flinch. I opened my hands. "No 4 vacancies," he said. Behind him was a scuffed hallway scattered with yellow and red toys. Sliders led to a sunny balcony.
I smiled like my heart wasn't hammering and pulled out my wallet.
"Sorry to bother you. I'm Wayne, the manager at Good Foods, over in Westheights?" I kept the panic below my throat line while he looked at my business card. I lied.
"I came to check on one of my employees. Didn't show up for work and she's never, ever, even late."
My therapist had said to stop saying "I" and to use "we" instead. He meant with Sarah, but it had worked with the protesters. "Wonder if we can do a wellness check, that's all."
The super looked down at my chinos and up to my clean-shaved chin.
"Get her family to check."
"There's no one. I mean, we are her family, right? Maybe she's just got the flu, but we'd feel better if we knew for sure."
He began to shut the door, so I lied again. "Her supervisor says she's been a little down lately."
"Who's she?"
"Emily Slim, about this high, black and grey hair. Lots of tattoos."
"The one got the burns?"
I nodded and stopped bouncing on my toes.
"I gotta give 24 hours notice to enter," he said, but he was stepping into untied steel-toed boots and coming into the hall. A ring of keys jingled on his belt, same as Carlos wears. "We can knock."
He took the stairs two at a time. Outside Emily's door my nose wrinkled. Mr. Management didn't flinch, just knocked his knuckles once on the door. "Super," he said. "You home?"
My panic broke. I pushed forward and rattled the doorknob. "Emily? Let me in."
"What the fuck?" The Super shoved me back from the door, but I pushed forward again.
"Dylan!" I screamed. "Dylan!"
My legs crumpled and my cheek hit the spongey carpet. I wrapped my hands around the shin where his boot had connected.
Emily's door opened a crack, then all the way. "You know this guy? He your boss?"
"Yes, yes. Wayne. Oh, no. Are you, okay?"
"Dylan," I said.
"He's here. We just stopped off..."
I tried to get up but crumpled forward and began to crawl down her narrow hallway, to the big room with the sliders. My eyes and nose stung. Smoking weed I thought, before I noticed glass cages and tanks lined the walls.
"What the fuck," said the Super above me. "No fucking pets. In your lease."
The tail of a lizard, an iguana, flickered as I crawled past. A huge snake was curled up like a scaly rock. Across the room a ferret ran in circles. Near the ceiling a parrot swung on a trapeze, picked its foot, watched me. One of the lobsters I'd given to Emily at the store scuddled past, like a huge black cockroach.
My ears filled with buzzing, like I was listening to Emily and the Super from under water.
I saw Dylan then, outside, standing in the center of the balcony. The edges of my eyes were clouded with black so he was lit up, as through under a spotlight. When he saw me, he backed up, with speedy little steps.
"Dylan," I shouted, "buddy..." but he kept scooting backwards. Behind him, I saw the ancient cast-iron railings. I saw that they were wider than his little body, too widely spaced to cage him in.
"Stop, Dylan. Stop." I roared and banged the floor with my fist, but he danced back faster. Then his heels were at the edge and a breeze was ruffling his hair.
Emily stepped over me onto the balcony. She moved slowly, then crouched and blocked my view of Dylan. She set something wiggly on the concrete between her feet. It was a sleek cream and black-faced cat. A fucking Siamese cat.
I rolled over to see Dylan. My son looked at the cat, looked up at Emily. He took two steps forward and then stopped and stared at me. The cat meowed and flicked its tail. Nausea made me close my eyes.
"Heh, Dylan. See the kitty?" said Emily. "It's scared too. Kitty needs you to take care of it. Wanna take care of it, Dylan? Wanna give kitty a treat?"
The floor shook as the apartment door slammed. When I raised my head Dylan was sitting in a woman's lap. Safe and secure. A cat licked his fingers with affection. The woman's face overflowed with joy, and pain, and love.
In my relief, I saw it was Emily holding Dylan. Her bare arms glowed with a pearly shine, and the welts that crisscrossed her collar bone had flattened and faded away. Her face was full.
Emily loves animals. She loves my son. I trust her completely.