Her Kind Of Hero. Carol Steward

rearview mirror as backup turned into the apartment complex. “They’re all yours, guys. I’ve done as much as I can.”

      Calli’s heart raced in an unsteady rhythm as the motor purred down the street. Four miles later, she pulled into the parking lot of Teodoro’s, the Quonset hut-turned restaurant she frequented. She clicked off the ignition and leaned her head against the seat. Darn it, Calli. You’re pushing too hard. You’ve got to stop.

      Tugging the bristly hair from her head, she stuffed the blond wig into the bag and let out a deep breath. She gazed into the rearview mirror, removed the glasses and studied herself disapprovingly. After wiping the gauche color from her lips, she applied ointment to help remove the remaining tint. The near-accident replayed in her mind as she yanked a brush through the matted mess of black curls. She had hung around too long, almost long enough to meet the cops in person. That was one complication she didn’t need.

      Stuffing the sundries and the makeup bag into her purse, she slammed the truck door, then walked to the restaurant entrance. Calli took a deep breath and tugged the glass-and-iron door open, anxious to meet friendly faces.

      “May I help you?” the young woman asked.

      Calli didn’t even consult the menu. “Barbaccoa with black beans instead of pintos, and a large diet cola.” She watched as rice and beans were piled onto the tortilla, then salsa and shredded beef. Last was the cheese and sour cream.

      Teodoro’s owner, “Teddy” Chavez, greeted her with a smile. “Your usual, eh, Calli? What are you doing out this late?”

      She let his friendly wink soothe her nerves. A member of her neighborhood watch group, he knew very well what kept her out this late. Yet he always shared her silent celebration at making it through another night safely. She glanced at the staff, and went along with the conversation. “Couldn’t wait for one of your burritos. Just thinking of them keeps me awake at night.”

      “That’s no good. Ah, well, eat and enjoy.” He turned to his employees and rattled off directions to them while Calli crossed the room and seated herself in the plywood chair. She rested her head in her hands and begged her heart to slow down.

      Eating alone beneath the dangling halogen light bulb was much too comfortable. She sliced the giant burrito into two halves and set one aside for tomorrow’s lunch. Her kid brother had always teased her about eating when she was upset If he could only see her now. Listening to alternative music in a dingy restaurant, trying to forget the goodlooking cop who’d nearly run her over.

      Calli pulled the journal from her purse and turned to today’s date.

      January 22, 11:05 p.m.

      She documented her evening’s patrolling events, descriptions and response time of the local law enforcement on the blank pages.

      Calli had started journaling in her early teens, as a way to deal with the loneliness of frequent moves, foreign languages and the other drawbacks of being an army brat. But in recent years the pages were filled with fewer emotions, and more details.

      She thought through the events of the day, then wrote.

      Has no one ever realized the guilt I feel? Surely they have. Over and again, Mom and Dad tell me it wasn’t my fault—that Mike had snuck out before, that nothing anyone had tried had helped him. Why can’t I move on?

      It was not my fault. But maybe if someone had called the cops, maybe he’d be alive today.

      She closed her eyes and whispered, “As in David’s day, I see violence and strife in our streets, on city walls. Be my shelter and my strength, Father.”

      How can I stop now? Community involvement is making a difference. The neighborhood’s crime rate has dropped. I have to keep trying.

      The media tries to convince us that gangs are losing their appeal. They say gang members are frightened off by friends getting hurt and others sent to prisons. Yet, every week, I still see them out there, luring innocent kids into believing that they’ve found a place to belong. Tempting them with the promise of easy money. Trapping them into a life without hope.

      Calli recalled the look in the youth’s eyes as he stared at her. Fear, raw and exposed, spoke to her.

      What was that kid looking back for? A way out, or someone they left behind?

      Police sirens jolted her back to the present. The cruiser sped past the front of the restaurant. The officer she’d nearly collided with reappeared in her mind. His concerned gaze lingered there, like an unwelcome guest. Reflections of light glimmered over his handsome face. She shook her head. He’s just another cop. They all have that look.

      Thankful that she took the time to don her disguise, Calli wondered if they would place her as the caller. Did they get her license number? Hopefully she’d gotten away before they had the chance.

      How can I give up now? There has to be a way to help kids like that.

      The pen stopped.

      Kids like Mike. She never believed that he wanted in to the gang. Never allowed herself to see him as needing something more in his life. Maybe she’d been wrong. About Mike, and the gangs, and thinking she could make a difference—to anybody.

      She noticed the employees wiping Formica-topped tables, wrapping stainless-steel food bins and polishing the glass block room divider.

      “Calli, we’re closing.” Teddy set a foil sheet next to her plastic basket. “For your leftovers.”

      She finished chewing and gulped her soda to wash the bite down her dry throat. After closing her journal, Calli wrapped the extra half. “Thanks, Teddy. Have a good night.”

      “You be careful out there.”

      “Always.” She left the eatery, climbed into her truck and turned west, toward her apartment. It was after midnight, and morning would come early.

      Fog rolled in from the river and a fine mist coated the streets with black ice. Even four-wheel drive wouldn’t help in conditions like this. The light ahead turned green and Calli took her foot off the gas pedal. From the side street, a truck spun out of control.

      She tried to determine a way to avoid it, but there was no escape. The truck rammed the passenger door, pushing her vehicle into another car parked along the street. Her head slammed into the driver’s side window and shattered the glass.

      Calli screamed, then covered her eyes with her hands, feeling a cold draft. She tried again to open her eyes, but they hurt too much. She pulled on the door handle, but the door didn’t move.

      “Help! Help! Someone help me.” A few minutes later, sirens wailed. Voices commanded that she not try to move. Louder and louder the noise grew, then stopped. The fireman knocked away the remaining glass from the door. After the paramedic took Calli’s vitals, he reassured Calli that they would have her out soon.

      Calli awoke to pitch black. She tried to blink and found her eyes were covered. Reaching out, she felt a hard rail to her side. Her head hurt and her left arm ached. She vaguely remembered an accident and an ambulance.

       Where am I?

      The room was silent except for beeping noises in the distance. She licked her parched lips and grimaced. She heard breathing, then footsteps, followed by a warm deep voice.

      “Calandre Giovanni? I’m Sergeant Northrup, Palmer Police Department.”

      The police? What are they doing here? Am I just imagining an accident? Or is this about the break-ins at the apartment complex? For all she knew, he may not even be a cop. “Where am I?”

      “University Hospital. You were in an accident.”

      Calli gasped, then let out a moan as she tried to move. She must have been seated, as her mind was fuzzy. “What’s wrong with me?”

      “Let me call the nurse for you.” He stepped out of the room, and was gone for a few minutes.

      His