Flock

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?

“He’s partially deaf too,” Sean says as my eyes sting and tears threaten. When Selma steps out of the van, the man hugs her, shame and guilt in his eyes. He pulls back from her embrace, evident worry etched all over his features as he studies her and glances back at the restaurant. It’s obvious he doesn’t want her to do it.

“She steals for her son and her grandson?”

“Son-in-law. Her daughter gave birth and then left him to raise him alone. He gets a check, but it’s not enough. Selma has severe arthritis, but every single day she pounds that dough for her boys, and it makes her happy. The saddest part is that she’s a staple at that restaurant. It wouldn’t be the same without her. And the assholes that own it haven’t given her a raise in eight years.”

I swallow. “I couldn’t wait to tell you she was stealing. I didn’t think you would believe me. I almost didn’t believe it myself until I saw it happen.” He lifts a tear from my cheek and I turn to look at him. From the look he’s giving me I gather the rest. “You knew, you knew I would see this.”

“How did that feel?”

“It stung a lot worse than the watch.” Something close to satisfaction shines in his eyes before he gazes past me as the man drives his son away. In minutes, Selma is back behind her counter, pounding out tortillas with a smile on her face. I turn back to Sean and scrutinize him.

“Who in the hell are you?”

What twenty-five-year-old man does his friends’ laundry, genuinely cares about Selma’s cash flow problem and disabled grandson, hates money, hates time, has zero regard for status, and lives without a single worry for the future?

Alfred Sean Roberts.

That’s who.

It’s then I give myself permission to trust him a little more. But it’s also then that the budding feelings give me pause. He’s made it far too easy to like him. This man who bats away rules and boundaries, he may be dangerous for me. Sensing my fear, he leans in to kiss me for endless seconds. When he pulls away, I feel myself sinking further, more drawn in, and even more conflicted about it.

“Seriously, Sean, who are you?”

“I’m a man with clean laundry, and I’m starving. In the mood for Mexican?”

All I can do is nod.