Blind Spot by Terri Persons Page A

booths had remained empty, three men in jeans and flannel had just taken stools lining the counter. All three were soaked to the skin. The waitress was busy pouring the trio coffee while they dried their heads and faces with paper napkins.
    The big man peeled the white rectangle off the table, set it on his lap, and peeked inside. The envelope was stuffed with large bills. He tucked the top flap closed.
    “It’s my money.” She worried that sounded snotty, and quickly added in her meekest voice: “I’ve been saving. My husband won’t miss it.” She took a sip of coffee and glanced through the diner windows. The rain had kept pedestrians off the sidewalks, but the streets were jammed with traffic. A row of cars and trucks were stopped at the lights on West Seventh Street. The lights turned green, and the cars rolled forward, kicking up waves of water. She set down the cup and returned her attention to the man sitting across the table.
    Fingering the envelope, he said, “I’m still not sure what you expect me to do with this.”
    “Use it for the expenses for your…” She searched for the right phrase, and remembered what Anna had called them. “Righteous missions.”
    “What do you know about my expenses? My missions? What did Anna tell you?”
    Now I’ve done it, she thought. He was angry Anna had told her so much. She skipped over his question. “Put the money in the collection plate, then. Do some good with it. Anna said you do good things.”
    That seemed to appease him, and he tucked the envelope into the inside pocket of his blazer. He picked up his fork and poked at the last corner of his pie. “Why am I here exactly? Not to serve as a charity drop box.”
    She bit down on her top lip and looked off to the side, at the jukebox. Orbison was over. The Eagles were singing “Hotel California.” She undid the top two buttons of her smock and pulled back on the material so he could see the purple on the right side of her chest, below the collarbone. A bruise, like a dead violet pressed into her paper-white skin. “He’s smart about it. Beats me where it doesn’t show. Avoids the face. Never hits me hard enough to break anything.” She pulled her eyes off the jukebox and looked at him. “This isn’t the worst of it. I can’t show you the worst of it. My back. Breasts.”
    He dropped his fork and held up his hands. “Stop.”
    “Afterward, Noah makes me take an ice-water bath. For the swelling. And to punish me for crying. Then he sends me to bed so he can leave the house. He’s seeing someone else, I don’t even know who. He hasn’t slept with me for months, and he’s definitely the kind of man who needs it on a regular basis.” She buttoned up her blouse. “He hasn’t hit our daughter. At least not yet.”
    “The police?”
    “They’d never believe me. Even if they did, he’d get no time. He doesn’t have a record. Not even a parking ticket. He said if he ever got nailed he’d take me down with him. Make sure I never see our daughter again. And he could do it. He’s got money. The lawyers.” She looked up at him. “Anna told you who he is?”
    “All she gave me was your name,” he said evenly. “You know more about me than I do about you.”
    “Not true. I don’t even know your name.” She paused, hoping he’d offer it up.
    He retrieved his fork, stabbed the chunk of pie. “Your husband…” He popped the morsel in his mouth and chewed.
    “He’s a pharmacist with a serious drug problem. It’s become my problem. And it’s become other people’s problem, even if they don’t know it.”
    His brows furrowed. He set down his fork and pushed his empty plate off to one side. “What do you mean?”
    She took a breath and launched into it. “Noah started up by stealing from the inventory. Stealing from the customers. Shorting people their pills. They didn’t bother checking. The old people can’t see well enough to check. They trusted him. Trusted him with their lives. And