Wanted: Undead or Alive

Tacos and Tears

Benny insisted he couldn't meet any earlier than two o'clock. That left me with nearly two hours to kill. I dialed Chantelle.

"Did you already have lunch or can I take you for tacos?"

She made a skeptical noise. "Are you buying me lunch because you love me or because you want me to work for you?"

"Because I love you and talking through stuff helps me think. The fact that you're an expert just makes it that much better."

"You're lucky I'm half starved. I'll meet you at Bill's in twenty minutes."

Bill's Taco Shack lived up to the name in every way. Bill was both owner and cook. He made the best greasy, cheesy, flavorful tacos in the universe, and the building was truly little more than a shack. How he passed all the code inspections was beyond me. My best guess is that the inspectors understood the public outrage that would occur if they shut Bill down.

I pulled into the parking lot behind the restaurant. It might once have been paved with asphalt, but time, neglect, and the weight of the many taco-loving customers had beaten the blacktop down to rubble that resembled chunky gravel. Pity the woman who arrived in high heels. She'd have to be carried to the door.

Chantelle was already there, sitting in her police cruiser, talking on the phone. She waved hello and held up a finger for me to wait.

I climbed out and stretched with my face turned to the sun. I wasn't going to take a single moment of fifty-five degrees and sunny for granted. There were years when Michigan was still buried under half a foot of snow in early April. Heck, just because it was fifty-five and sunny at that moment didn't mean we wouldn't have half a foot of snow on the ground by morning.

After a few minutes, Chantelle got out and slammed the door shut. "Swear to God, that man doesn't need a wife. He needs a mother."

We hugged, and I felt some of the tension drain from her body as I held her.

"Seems like you've been a little miffed with Frank lately."

Chantelle pulled gently from the hug and led me by the hand toward the tiny, slightly lopsided restaurant. "Food first. What happened to your head anyway?"

"I tripped. Let's get food."

We ordered a shameful number of tacos with all the fixin's—jalapenos on the side—and carried the red plastic baskets full of greasy delight to an empty table in the corner. We both inhaled the first one before taking a moment to catch our breath.

"What's going on?" I asked.

Chantelle picked up another taco, took a bite, chewed, washed it down with a long drink of Coke.

I waited.

She sighed. "I honestly don't know. I just... I love Frank. He's a good man, a good husband, a good dad. He takes out the trash and washes the dishes without being reminded and he tells me I'm beautiful even though I've got stretch marks and my hair is a hot mess these days." She took another bite.

"But..." I prompted.

"I don't know. I really don't. I'm just so damned tired. My whole life is working and taking care of this little person and cleaning house and making sure there are groceries and he comes at me at night and I'm like, uh-uh. I got nothing left for all that nonsense. And then I'm sad because I used to be all about the nonsense, if you know what I mean. And then I'm mad at him because... I mean it's just..."

"Because it's easier to be mad at him than sad."

Her gaze locked on the tacos. She chewed with unusual vigor.