Her Kind Of Hero. Janice Carter

for a moment longer, waiting for his vision to clear, then took his soup from the hallway table and quietly left the house. He didn’t trust himself to go back into the kitchen. When he got into his car, he lowered his head onto the steering wheel and wept.

      Much later that night, when he finally surrendered any hope of sleep, he thought of that day. Of the girl. She popped into his head, the way she had off and on over the years, as a blur of images. A scream. A figure flying. He couldn’t recall her face, but he’d never forgotten her eyes, the terror in them. Sometimes he wondered, What if? What if that day hadn’t happened? What if he hadn’t done what he did? Most of all, what if he’d turned back? Gone to her and found out her name.

      One month later

      DANA DRIED HER hands on the folded terry cloth square and dropped it into the wicker basket beneath the sink. She ran her fingertips around the waistband of her gray linen skirt, checking that her white silk blouse was tidily tucked inside, and devoted another few seconds to the mirror, turning her head from side to side. Any potential stray wisps of her naturally curly hair were firmly in place, tightly wound into the small chignon at the base of her neck. She reached into her purse on the marble vanity for her tube of concealer and applied another coating to the dark circles beneath her eyes. A touch of lipstick followed by one last study of her reflection and she was set.

      She cast one last glance at Mega Corps’s executive washroom before exiting into the hallway leading to the boardroom. As she reached the door, the CEO’s executive assistant called out, “Miss Sothern? I’m about to get the refreshments for the coffee break. What beverage can I get you?”

      Dana hesitated. Another coffee might rev her up too much. “Mineral water, if you have it, please. Tap will do otherwise.”

      “All right. The group has withdrawn to the lounge in Mr. Arnold’s suite.” The assistant tilted her head to the door adjacent to her boss’s office.

      Dana pursed her lips. This was supposed to have been a short break, not a gathering that, fueled by food and drink, would most certainly extend to lunchtime and beyond. No doubt it was a ploy by Arnold to delay the negotiations. She gave a silent oath, assumed a neutral facial expression and walked past the assistant’s desk to the lounge. A rumble of male voices greeted her as she entered the room on the fiftieth floor of the former John Hancock Center.

      Her client Harold Arnold had managed to befriend the executive officer of Addison Manufacturing, the company Mega Corps intended to buy. Addison Manufacturing had recently released a new product which so far had failed to wow the market. If shares in the company didn’t rally, Arnold’s negotiating price would change. By stalling the agreement, Dana knew he was hoping to get the lowest possible price. And since Sothern and Davis, Mega Corps’s lawyers, would also take a cut of their percentage, Dana had been instructed to nail down the terms today.

      Which wasn’t going to happen, she realized. The gathered businessmen were holding flutes of champagne. She dug her fingernails into her palms, quelling her irritation. Arnold was the most unlikable client she’d ever represented, and she just wanted to get the deal signed. Then she planned to hand Mega Corps’s file over to Ken Patel, another lawyer at her father’s firm.

      “Dana!” Harold Arnold called out from the bar, where he was filling glasses. “Come and get a glass.”

      She bit her lip and headed his way. “No coffee?”

      “This is so much more fun, isn’t it? And it’s not even noon yet.”

      “Are we reconvening after lunch?”

      “What do you think?” he laughed and held up a glass for her.

      “No, thanks, Harold. I should get back to the office.”

      His face fell. “I thought you’d join me for lunch. Just the two of us. We can go over the last few details.”

      Dana wondered if her shudder had been obvious. “I was hoping we could finish up today, Harold. Get the papers ready to be signed tomorrow.”

      “Plenty of time,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. He reluctantly set the champagne flute onto the tray.

      “Guess you decided to celebrate first?”

      His mouth twitched at the edge in her voice. “Why not? It’s a done deal, isn’t it?”

      He was right. Addison Manufacturing was in trouble and would sign, if not today then soon. Dana nodded. “Sure. Okay then. We’ll talk.” She turned on her high heel and walked toward the door, opening it as Harold’s assistant was about to enter with a tray of pastries and coffee.

      After retrieving her suit jacket and briefcase, Dana took the elevator down to the ground floor and considered her options. She did have other work to do, but she wasn’t expected back until tomorrow morning. It was a bright balmy day in mid-May and this was a rare opportunity to play hooky.

      She headed for a coffee shop on the concourse, thinking tea and a sweet treat would make her feel better about not making her deadline. Once she had a scone and herbal tea, she picked up a copy of the Tribune that someone had left behind and lazily flicked through it.

      She stopped at an article in the second section of the paper. The headline—No More $$$ for Kids—caught her eye, but it was the photograph that captured her attention. She set the mug of tea onto the table and, hands shaking, studied the picture. It must have been taken a few weeks ago—maybe mid- or late April—because the trees in the background were still in bud. The man in the photo was standing in front of a two-story building. He looked different now than he had that day. He had hair, though not much, and looked a bit bulkier than she remembered. He was a man now, not a boy. Dana wasn’t certain she could trust her memory though. For years that day had been only a jumble of sounds—shouts and screams—mixed with the grinding of metal on metal. Faces remained a blur, but she could vividly recall the strength of arms and hot frantic breath on her face. It had to be him.

      Dana read the caption beneath the photo—“Matt Rodriguez, executive director and founder of KidsFirst Place”—then skimmed through the short article. His organization, a drop-in center and outreach program for inner-city kids, had learned that a funding request was going to be halved due to municipal budget constraints. A camp for those kids was in jeopardy of not running this summer.

      “‘It’s a shame that the city doesn’t put kids first,’ Rodriguez said. ‘Surely politicians can figure out that investing money early in a kid’s life will pay off a hundredfold for them and for the city. Or can’t they?’”

      She dropped the paper onto the table. This was the moment she’d thought about many times over the past twenty years, but faced with it, she was at a loss. Every system in her body seemed to have slowed down, except for her heart, which pounded against her rib cage. Of course, she had options. She could wait for her body to calm itself, finish her tea and go home. Or she could... What? Try to find him?

       Face it, Dana. You only have two choices: ignore this or check it out.

      But instinctively she knew there was really no choice at all. She dug into her purse for her phone, looked up KidsFirst online, then gathered up her things and left the coffee shop and hailed a cab.

      “Sure this is the right address?” asked the cabbie, eyeing her.

      “Yes.”

      He sighed. “Your call,” he said and flipped down the meter, heading for the South Side. Traffic was light and the taxi pulled up in front of a beige brick building before Dana had a chance to figure out what she would say or do if he was there. Especially if it really was him.

      After paying the cabbie, she stood on the sidewalk a moment, staring at the storefront window and the name stenciled on it—KidsFirst Place. Dana took a deep breath and went inside. The interior was bigger and more welcoming than she’d expected from the outside. A large open space that continued as far into the building as Dana could see. She walked past an alcove of coat hooks and cubbyholes, a bulletin board crammed with scraps of paper and beside