Volume 1, Issue 3 & 4 - Diverse Voices Quarterly

took comfort in knowing that hardly anyone shopped these small Mom & Pop stores.
“Take chances,” Dr. Lowenstein had suggested. This was Ruth’s next step. Risk-taking
with anonymity. She bent down and reached under the rack at the agreed upon drop
point. The book was within her grasp. If only she could stretch her fingertips, her
hand, her arm, her shoulder, just a little bit farther. She almost had it, her fingernails
scraping the book jacket. Then she heard it again, that damn bell on the
door…Quivering.
“If you’re here for the Wii Fit or Dance Dance Revolution, try Target.”
Ruth stiffened and held her breath. She channeled all her energy into listening.
Is it man, woman, or child? Then she heard HIS VOICE for the very first time; it’s
velvety sound, smooth and graceful.
“Actually, I’m interested in purchasing a particular children’s book for my
nephew. He’s four.”
Ruth’s heart palpitated uncontrollably. She should’ve known better. Although
both confessed in their last instant messages to phony pics, Ruth had felt a genuine
trust developing. Did he break it? Did he drive eighty-three miles from Kettering
Heights to Bainesburg? Does he even live in Kettering Heights? And how did he know
the exact day she’d chosen to pick up the book? His monetary commitment spawned
by the real color of his eyes (he had told her they had flecks of green); her willingness
to go along (under certain conditions, of course); their fury of instant messages
regarding her favorite children’s book—all morphed into a negotiated trust, developed
one, cautious, step, at, a, time. A choreographed treasure hunt, a concerted effort
toward faith and commitment, played out in a small toy store, in the safest way
possible.
“Back wall,” the old man said.
“Who’s winning?”
“Damn Yankees. Back wall.”
Ruth grew angry with herself. Why did she choose under the rack? Why not
above? All those years with all that extra weight and now her knees were failing her.
The man approached. “Miss, are you all right?”
Ruth froze. She had nowhere to hide. She looked up, saw that he wasn’t exactly
Fabio, more along the lineage of Ichabod Crane; still, she found him appealing. “I
dropped a book and must have kicked it. It slid under this rack, out of my reach.” She
knew her lie would give him a way to back out, if he so chose.
“Let me help you up first.”
“No, no, no,” she said. “I can make it.”
He offered his slender hand. She had no other choice. She took it and studied
Diverse Voices Quarterly, Vol. 1, Issue 3 & 4 63