Flock (The Ravenhood)

“It’s what she does. There are a ton of people out there with jobs just like it.”

“I know, I work one.”

“Yeah,” he exhales a cloud of smoke, “but she doesn’t begrudge her work.”

“Got me there. She hasn’t stopped smiling.”

We sit for endless minutes, just watching her. “I can’t imagine why she’s so happy.”

“It’s a decision,” he says easily.

“A decision.” I consider his statement and see he’s watching her just as intently. “Do you know her?”

“Her name is Selma. She brings her van into the shop sometimes.”

“Does she pay with imaginary money?” I joke.

“You could say that. We don’t charge her. The clothes are ready.”

“I’ll help.”

He opens his car door and jerks his head. “Sit tight.”

“Sean, I’ve been watching this woman make tortillas for like two hours.”

“So, keep watching,” he shuts his door.

I slump in my seat, annoyed with his orders but nonetheless stay put. In minutes I’m lost in thought, mulling a little over our earlier exchange in the laundromat.

“You’re a man who lives without a single thought of the future.”

“I’m pressing that in more ways than one.”

Dominic. It’s the only conclusion I can draw. He’s been a total prick since I showed up at his house. He’s going to be a problem, I can tell, just by his hostile stare and blatant disposition. I decide to ask Sean about it later while I watch Selma finish turning a fresh batch of tortillas with her fingers over the flame. When she’s done, she scoops a fair amount of them up and places them in a bag before gathering the few bills in her tip jar. She makes her way toward the cash register on the other side of her counter, carefully counting each dollar before exchanging it for what I assume are the bigger bills on the far side of the drawer. My jaw drops when I see her scope out the immediate area around her and take more before she furtively shoves the money into the tortilla bag. It’s then she begins to tend the few customers coming up to pay. Fixated, I watch as she keeps the drawer open, making change before tucking their tickets in her apron. She’s covering her tracks. Once she’s left alone at the drawer, she takes a few more bills, makes some change, and I know the numbers will add up at the end of the night.

Smiling Selma is a tortilla making thief.

And this ain’t her first rodeo.

I’ve spent hours of my day watching this woman, admiring her for her ability to find joy in her solitude only to find out she’s a thief.

Well, ain’t that some shit?

Sean won’t believe it, and I find myself itching to tell him as a van pulls up beside me. A guy who looks to be in his thirties exits before opening the back door. Attached to it sits an electric chair making it wheelchair accessible. My attention locked on the van, I don’t notice Selma until she too is peering in the van, the bag in hand, her soft voice crooning out hurried Spanish just as the back seat is turned and a young boy comes into view. He’s severely disabled, his legs and arms shriveled at his sides, his eyes searching and searching, darting left and right. He’s blind. Selma steps up into the van, showering him with kisses and tosses the bag of tortillas and cash onto the seat next to him. My heart sinks.

She does it for him.

She steals for him.

My eyes drift back to the boy, who looks to be eleven or twelve. Her grandchild, maybe?

For a minute or two, I wish I’d taken Spanish instead of French so I could understand the conversation between her and the man who stands behind her, watching her shower the boy with affection. It’s so painfully clear she lives for him. The man speaks to her softly as if she’s breakable, so much gratitude shining in his eyes as she rains kisses on the boy’s forehead, nose, and cheeks.

Guilt gnaws me when I think of all

the assumptions I made in those few seconds after I’m fairly sure I saw her steal the money.

Sean’s car door opens and closes, but I keep my eyes on the boy. What type of life does he live, confined that way, unable to see, unable to move his arms and legs, his body a prison?