Aim Magazine Fiction

She heard him well before she saw him. He was singing "Amazing Grace" in a deep, resonant baritone that echoed through the powerless streets. The song grew louder as he approached. It seemed both appropriate and mocking.

Abruptly, the singing stopped. Janey turned to look over her shoulder. A huge black man was watching her intently from just outside her white picket fence. He was barefoot and bare to the waist. He was not fat, nor was he muscular. He was simply really big. He carried a nicked, rusted machete in his right hand which rested casually on the top of her gate. With his other hand, he absently traced circles in the sweat around his bellybutton.

"Need some help?" The man tilted his head at the tree limbs and drifts of leaves that littered the yard.

The man nodded at her, skeptically, and shuffled away from the fence-line. Janey barely breathed while she listened hard to make sure he moved along. She'd only been in town a few months, but even in that short time she'd managed to hear a couple of nasty stories about what happened when you made the questionable choice of staying behind rather than evacuating. Her heart beat faster against her chest, and some remote part of her registered mild surprise that there was any adrenaline still remaining in her system.

Janey could hear the man humming as he waded through the debris in the lane. The sound faded as he headed away. With no neighbors in town, no phone service and no police to respond even if there were, Janey's relief was palpable.

She went inside and dropped on to her couch, shaking. She tried calling Mack, the dog that had found her when she'd arrived in town, but he was apparently still hiding under the bed. She poured some food into his bowl in hopes of bribing him out. She could use the company. It was a no go. She wasn't the only one who'd had a really bad night.

Sitting quietly, listening to the doves coo through the screen door, her pulse slowed to normal. The man was obviously gone. She grabbed a warm can of coke from the now completely warm fridge and took a sip. It was like drinking sour foam. But at least the grinding caffeine headache she'd been nursing since sunrise started to recede.

A movement from the hallway caught her eye. Finally. It was Mack. She got off the coach onto her hands and knees and spoke in an unnaturally high, sweet voice.

"Hey there baby. Hey my sweet boy. Come here Mack." Trembling, the dog crawled towards her on his belly. As he got close, she lay down on her side. He spooned into her stomach, like a long-lost lover. She spoke softly into his ear, trying to reassure him that the worst was over. She was fairly sure she was telling the truth.

After a time, Mack was either feeling better or really hungry. Hesitantly, he walked to his food dish. The oddly normal sound of a dog crunching through breakfast ensued.

Janey climbed off the floor and wandered to the back door, staring through the screen. The power had been off for fourteen hours and showed no signs of coming back on. She was boiling hot, smelly and dead-tired. Just after midnight last night, the winds had started howling so loud it was like standing on the subway platform when the express train roared through. Then, the tree limbs had started crashing down. It went on till almost dawn. Sleep had been impossible.

During the long, dark hours of Hurricane Dennis, Janey had discovered a shameless need to reacquaint herself with the Lord. One for which she did not apologize in the morning light. She did, however, send a couple of quick promises for future relations skyward.

But as they say, that was then and this was now. And now the reality of her situation was sinking in. Somebody needed to clear the backyard. And there was nobody she could hire to help, even if she did have the money.

Grabbing several big, black plastic bags and some gardening gloves, she went back outside. The heat was worsening as the sun climbed higher. The humidity clung to her like an unwanted blanket. She turned on the transistor radio and perched it on a porch rail hoping for a news update. Instead she got Jimmy Buffet's "Margaritaville" in tin-can notes.

She squatted down with a bag beside her and filled it with two-handed bunches of twigs and leaves. Finally, in one spot, she reached dirt. Atiny victory that brought the smallest of smiles to her face. Then a quick dark movement in the leaves she was holding caught her eye. It was a fat, shiny cockroach. She dropped the handful. More black beetles than she could count scattered out. She'd been holding a nest.

She stood up quickly and the world around her went grey. She could feel and hear her heart pumping in her forehead. She felt vaguely nauseous. Fear pulled her back from the edge of passing-out. Fear of falling and not being discovered. She'd worked too long in the stifling heat. Stupid. Very stupid. When she had no room for error.

She went inside and got a big glass of water from one of her stored jugs. She didn't need the radio DJ to tell her the faucet water was no good. It smelled like shit.

She opened a can of pork and beans and ate them unheated from the can. They were delicious. She'd had no idea how hungry she'd become. The radio let her know that some people around the island had gotten power back. The idea of air-conditioning and a cold beer was obsessive. But her lane was blocked by a downed tree and there was no way out but to walk. The people rumored to have power were a good three miles away, and even if she thought she could make it, she couldn't very well leave Mack in an overheated house while she went on a search for AC and refreshments.

She went back outside. She worked for hours, but it was amazing how little progress was made. She filled bags and lined them up outside her fence - shiny, fat and black, just like the cockroaches. And while inside the gate nothing seemed to change, outside, the bags multiplied as if they were mating every time she turned her back.

She took frequent breaks afraid of what could happen if she didn't. The sun finally sank below her immediate tree-line. It was good and bad. The release from the heat was sweet and immediate. But night was coming, not for a while yet, but it was coming with no power.

She hefted a big tree limb over her shoulder and tried to pull it towards the gate. It wouldn't budge. She turned and walked backwards, tugging the branch towards her with every step. Her weight against its. She figured they were just about even - like a WWF match. The small twigs tore at her wrists. Mosquitos swarmed. She reconsidered: the tree limb had a definite advantage.

Through the back screen door, she heard the absurd, happy jingle of her cell phone. Relief flooded through her. Service in at least one arena had been restored. She dropped the branch and half-jogged, half-limped inside with all of the energy she could muster.

"What did I tell you about moving down there alone. I hate to say I told you so, but if the shoe fits ... "

" Mom, every place has its problems. We talked about this." She couldn't believe that at nearly thirty, she still needed to defend her decisions to her mother. That she still felt the need.

"Well, it must have been a horrible experience. It must make you want to reconsider."

"I can't imagine facing that. It must make a person feel like absolutely nothing."

"Or, maybe it makes you feel really big and strong, standing up against all of that power."

"Don't romanticize this Janey. You just got lucky. And I thank God that my prayers were heard."

"Maybe it's just two different ways of looking at the same thing, Mom. You're either real insignificant or real significant. Hard to say which."

" Oh for heaven's sake, Janey. Don't be ridiculous. Be smart. Rethink this whole Key West thing."

"Okay Mom. I will. Listen, I really have a lot to do before sunset. So I better go."

" Are you safe there tonight?"

"Do you need me to come down? I could get on a plane and be there in a couple of hours."

Janey refrained from laughing. The offer was empty, and she was fairly sure that her mother knew that.

" Thanks Mom, but we're under an evacuation order. They wouldn't let you in the city."

"I would. But 1 don't see why. Just a little clean-up to do." She found the lies came easily.

Anything to end the conversation. How could she explain this to her mother? How could she explain that leaving wasn't as easy as getting in a car and driving away? Simpler just to make it all okay.

With slightly more relief than she'd felt when she heard it ringing, Janey ended the conversation and hung up the phone. She poured herself a glass of warm rum and sagged on to the couch. It occurred to her that every last leaf would still be out there tomorrow. It didn't have to be done tonight. And quite honestly, there was no way in hell it would be. Mack jumped up next to her and planted his small square head on her leg. She scratched his ears. She was hungry and needed to eat something. But she felt too weary to even contemplate getting up.

Way off in the distance, she heard a horribly familiar voice. He was singing "This Little Light of Mine." Her heart pounded as the song grew closer. Mack's ears flicked forward as if he, too, was wary.

Just like that morning, the song stopped in front of her house. She jumped off the couch and quietly shut the back door, locking it. She grabbed the bottle of rum as a weapon. Then she crept to the front door and put her eye to the peephole. The man was on her porch. He knocked, and then looked casually around. He knocked again.

Janey realized she wasn't breathing. She inhaled sharply, absurdly afraid that he could hear her breath through the closed door. She saw him set something square and white on the porch floor. Then he turned and walked away.

She waited ten minutes, staring through the small warped hole the entire time. When he didn't return, she opened the door.

She opened the container. It was a hamburger. With tomatoes, lettuce, swiss cheese, onions, pickles, mayonnaise, mustard and ketchup. And french fries. She sat down on the porch and stuffed huge, greedy bites into her mouth with dirty fingers while she stared across the lane at a brilliant yellow flower whose name she promised herself to learn and silent tears rolled down.

The historic meeting room was nearly empty; a few conferees were clearing their things from the huge circular table; others in small groups, talking. Carlos, a relatively new member of staff, busied himself arranging agenda revisions for tomorrow's session. He ambled over to an older man sitting at a small desk in an alcove.

"Today's session went quite well, don't you think?" he said, smiling at the man.

"Yes, that's what I thought, too, and I must admit that this morning I worried the whole thing was going backwards."

The seated man nodded. "I know what you mean. There are many outspoken representatives. Let's hope tomorrow goes as well."

"I'm sure it will, sir." He stepped back and asked, "Is there anything else, sir? I mean before I leave?"

"No, I don't think so. But I do wish you didn't feel it necessary to call me sir. We need not be so formal, Carlos."

"That won't do, either. Please just call me Antonio. I can see you enjoy your work, and you wish to do it well, but it's time to go. It's been a long day and tomorrow won't be any easier."

Carlos nodded again, and with an armful of conference materials he walked away reflecting that he enjoyed the work, and he felt fortunate to have this position with the World Trade Organization. It was exciting to be part of a judicial body whose goal was to improve world trading agreements.

Minutes later outside the conference center's glass doors Carlos gazed disconcertedly up and down the vacant block. A muted surge, like the sound of rolling surf echoed from afar. The source of the unsettling sound, he knew, emanated from protestors, where the police had erected barriers to restrain them. He braced and continued his march toward the increasing din where he presumed by this time the crowd would be much diminished. He hoped to avoid trouble.

The street of the European city angled, and near an intersection barricades were set in place. Carlos took in the scene. It was made up of noisy youths, angry leaders and tense crowd-control police. He gritted his teeth and marched closer.

He tapped the shoulder of a policeman and asked, "Is it safe for me to pass by?"

The officer viewed the crowd and nodded. "Yes, I think it is safe. They're all tired out, not likely to get rowdy now that the TV cameras have gone. I'll keep an eye on you."

Carlos edged closer and trying to appear confident he stepped around the barrier and walked on toward his hotel a block away. No one seemed to notice or care, but then about midway in the thinning crowd someone bumped him. Carlos stumbled to his knees and reflexively folded his arms over his head.

A woman laughed. Carlos turned toward the voice and saw a carelessly-dressed woman. She was young, Scandinavian, perhaps, and her short blond hair squirted out from beneath a dark blue mariner's cap.

"Who are you? You can't be one of us, dressed up like that," she said. "Are you a reporter or what?"

" Uh, no, no. I'm just trying to get to the next block. But when you said 'one of us,' did you mean part of this demonstration against The WTO?"

He pushed to his feet, brushed off his pants and said, "I am curious, really, and a thought just occurred to me, I was wondering if you would take some time to talk to me, share your thoughts concerning the WTO? I'd like to hear specifically, what your group thinks is wrong with it."

"You're kidding, right? Look, there isn't enough time in this century to tell you what's wrong, and unless you've been hibernating under a rock, you would know-. Or, or unless you're connected with it. Yeah, that's it, isn't it? You work there?"

"Ah ha, sure, of course, now I see it. You're some dumb idealist, or maybe, as I look at you, you're one of those hot shot thieving lawyers."

Carlos curled his upper lip and studied the surly woman closer. She was plain, used no cosmetics, and she held onto a severe expression. He thought a second and then said, "No, I'm not a lawyer, but yes, I do work there, but I've only been attached with it for a few months, and I really would like to better understand the views of someone like you. Could we go someplace and talk about it?"

She gawked at him and assumed an incredulous posture. "I hardly think so, dreamer."

He nodded, not surprised. "I just thought it might have been worth while. I'm willing to listen and learn."

"Yeah, right, and all's well with the world. Who are you kidding? I don't believe that for an instant," she said, having lost interest in discussing the matter further.

Carlos shrugged, taking in the paradox before him; an apparently intelligent young woman content to parade around in torn dungarees and a sweat shirt and shout slogans all day. "Too bad," he said again.

A half minute later, after he walked away she shouted from behind.

"I changed my mind," she yelled. "I'll do it. There's a cafe down a couple blocks. It's one of those basement clubs. Be there in an hour."

He nodded and waved without trying to shout over the noise. He was pleased, an opportunity to discuss different perceptions of the WTO.

Carlos bent down under the low door. He paused, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light of the basement cafe and then saw the blond at a table near the far wall. While he weaved a path toward her she spoke, "Is that you, Business Suit? What happened to the fancy threads?"

He splayed his arms from his sides, presenting his new image, faded denims and a turtle neck. "Aren't these okay?"

She shook her head; a derisive smile obvious. "See, this is what really ticks me off with your type. You dress down to come to a place like this, and I dress up, but we end up looking the same." She gestured at her plain blue tank top and clean jeans.

"Actually, this is my preferred outfit," Carlos said. " But, please, let's not start with an argument over our clothes." He sat down. "You know I just realized I don't know your name. I'm Carlos."

"Just call me Rita. If our conversation manages to weather more than twenty minutes of debate I may reveal my last name."

Carlos ordered an ale and then edged into the pleasantries.

" Never mind the social graces; just get on with your questions."

Carlos sighed a little sigh and said, "It's plain to see you're not comfortable sitting with the opposition, but I am willing to listen. And even though I believe in the WTO, I won't push its merits or those of the IMF. And I am interested in learning more about opposing views.
Then, if you say something I know to be untrue I'll do my best to delicately correct you."

Rita sipped from her tankard. "Spoken like a barrister, but we shall see-."

"Out of curiosity, are you American? You speak like one," she said. "You're obviously of Hispanic heritage, and your name-, Carlos what?"

"De Castilla. Ah, my schooling betrays me. I'm a citizen of Costa Rica but American-educated."

"I'm a joumalist working in Europe, but I'm not on assignment now-." She cut the sentence short. "But I didn't come here to socialize-; let's get on with the dialectic, you and your monetarism."

Carlos blinked, taken aback, sighed again and restarted, "Rita, I don't think of the WTO in those terms, but I am here primarily to listen to your points. But as I look at that determined face I suspect there is precious little I will be able to say to alter your opinion. So, please, go ahead, state the problem as you see it."

"That's easy," she said quickly. "The WTO is a nondemocratic institution that dictates a multitude of rules that favor rich nations at any political or environmental cost to poor nations."

"Aai-yi-yi," Carlos said. "Could you be more specific?"

Rita scowled. "Absolutely! First, they allow products into the world market that have been produced by child labor. Two: these so-called democratic leaders effuse to take into consideration that some companies continue to do business with vicious dictatorships."

Carlos waved a hand and interrupted. "Hold it, please, Rita. Let's not take on too many issues at once. There are, in fact, some half-truths in what you say, but, I think you need to better understand a few points."

First, it may appear that the Trade Organization dictates regulations, but that's not the case. The member nations modify them, and that's where problems can arise. And I suppose some of the rules seem driven by unrealistic men, but, on the whole, they're held in check--."

"Phhttt! What about your mislabeled Free Trade Act?" she said, waving an accusing finger. "You should know as well as I that it favors a few rich nations at the expense of the rest of the world."

Carlos tipped his head and nodded. "Hmm, I suppose it might appear that way. And yes, the powerful countries often are successful in pressing their interests, but-,"

Rita sneered and cut him off again. "And what about the tariffs, the injustice of their application, and how do you rationalize the subsidies to American businesses? And, oh yes, let us not forget your magnificent environmental rulings."

"Oh my, yes, please do, cast your spell on the unwary, the poor, the downtrodden-," she said, her voice ringing with defiant sarcasm.

He sighed. "Where to begin? First, perhaps, regarding trade barriers; I concede, there are some inequities, but remember it's the member countries who do that bargaining; not the WTO."

"But!" Rita said, her voice notching up, "It's these so-called member nations that are the WTO. That's precisely my point, Senor-."

Carlos nodded again, "Well, yes, but don't you see- . Let me try again. It is true some dictators have kept their trade barriers high. But it has always been thus, Rita." He saw her resolve hardening. "You must know it was worse before the WTO."

He rolled his eyes and slumped. "Please, try to understand; there are over 120 wildly different nations. Surely you can see it's inevitable there'll be some lessthan- satisfactory compromises."

"Ah, spoken like a true idealist bureaucrat," she said, finishing her drink, letting the beaker bang hard on the table. "Look, never mind. It's clear we're not finding any common ground."

He swallowed more of his brew and then put in, "Very possible, but can we still be friends in spite of this one little hurdle?"

"One little hurdle? You call a behemoth like the WTO a little hurdle? It's more like a rocky mountain with you mired on one side and me trying to climb up the other in my bare feet." She then said with surprising softness, "But, yeah, maybe we could be friends."

"I'd like that," Carlos said, studying her face, a face that he realized for the first time was pleasing, perhaps not beautiful, but noble. "The sad thing is, though, I'll be leaving the day after tomorrow-; what about you?"

She shrugged. "Haven't decided." Then, pushing her empty glass away, she said, "Let's have one more drink and talk about something else. I think if I really tried and blocked out what I know about you I could like you, Business Suit, in spite of your oligarchic leanings."
She reached across the table, patted his hand. "And I'll see you tomorrow when you pass by our demonstration."

He nodded. "It's interesting, isn't it, that in spite of all that seems wrong, it's still a pretty great world when two people from dissimilar cultures, different backgrounds and with diverse goals can overcome it all and become friends."

She laughed. "You're a dopey romantic as well as a bureaucrat. We'd never make it as a couple."

The smile on Carlos's face drained away. He had almost forgotten about world affairs for a moment. He reached over and cupped her hand between his. "That's it, then. So let's have a drink to the romantics."

During the following day Carlos tended to conference business as usual, but things were different; at times seeming like a bad "B" movie before screen editing, and his usual sense of urgency with the deluge of documentation had evaporated.

The conference dragged, forcing Carlos to stay late, and when the day's proceedings finally ended he hurried to his room and then on to the cafe. Rita was already there with two others. She glanced sideways and waved. "These are two of my compatriots," she said. "Joyce and Zack. They've been protesting the WTO for years." She swiveled her head between them and Carlos. "This is Carlos. He and I have been dissecting the WTO, but we haven't agreed on anything."

Zack nodded, his grim face pushing closer. "So you get to see and hear how it all goes down, eh? Must be real satisfying watching them screw half the world."

Carlos flinched, but before he replied Rita inserted herself. "Zack, knock it off. He's here to find the light. I made some real progress last night, so why don't you guys meander off and let me work on him."

"That's alright with me, but I want to tell you about something that happened today," Carlos said. "I was doing my usual running around like a wild man, but in between assignments, I kept noticing things, like I was watching bullies scheming instead of diplomats negotiating.
It was odd; I think some of your arguments of last night stuck."

"Really?" Rita said, raising her voice. "So there're may be hope for you yet. But as I recall, we didn't pro ceed very far. We broke it off before we had a fist fight."

Rita tilted her head. "No, but, Carlos, before we resume wherever it was, is there anything else about the WTO that I can help you with?"

"Rita," Carlos said with a chuckle, "it now seems you could tell me the moon is made of cheese and I'd believe you. You've planted this nasty little gnawing bug inside me that seems to be chewing away at me forcing me to question some precepts that I have been hearing on a daily basis."

"Oh Carlos, now you've done it. I think I love you," she said with a laugh while patting his hand playfully.

" Ah, yes-; what is it the Americans say? 'Don't I wish' or something like that. But sadly, it does seem we are destined to carry on in different spheres. But during this one shining moment, however, we can still enjoy a couple tankards together."

Carlos had a new bounce in his step as he walked the three city blocks to the conference center next morning. It was curious because he had spent a restless night, but when he awoke he felt strangely renewed. He now hurried to find and tell Rita he had decided to resign from the WTO. He couldn't quite explain how the revelation came about, but suddenly there it was like a flashing sign. He had to tell her.

When he turned the comer he was stunned by the size of the throng and the ear splitting noise. The crowd had grown to twice its original size, and they chanted and were more agitated. About twenty policemen with truncheons in hand kept the crowd behind the barricades.

Carlos hesitated, pondering his options. He scanned the mass of humanity searching for Rita, but it was useless. He'd tell her later. He edged to the conduit that led to the convention building. But then a handful of youths noticed him. They bolted toward the metal side rail. It toppled like a bamboo fence under rampaging elephants.

The police, not anticipating the shift, were too late to stay the breakthrough, and could only watch as the barrier folded under the human avalanche.

Carlos broke into a run, but the pack overtook him, tearing at his suit and yanking him down to the pavement. They pummeled and kicked him.

The police waded into the crowd, beating and yanking them away, but the melee continued.

A motorized riot control team moved in, bringing added manpower, but frenzied minutes passed before the water cannons dispersed the protestors.

A drenched and littered street gradually opened as the crowd dispersed, leaving a drenched young blonde woman in a sweat shirt and dungarees sitting on the wet pavement, holding and caressing a crumpled bleeding man in a business suit.

Reversible Damage

by Jenny Lentz page

Christina was six years old when she first touched a black person. Her first grade class contained five black boys, and one of them was named William. The black kids came in on a different bus from everyone else, a bus from someplace across town. They wore the same clothes multiple times a week, perfectly ironed but ratty at the edges, with small holes and patches.

William was quiet, and Christina loved how his white teeth sparkled when he smiled, contrasted against his dark skin. His pink palms fascinated her; his hands were like a topsy-turvy doll, dark on one side, and a surprising pink on the inside. Christina's hands were all one color. She liked the variety of the black boys' hands. And she loved their hair. Quincy's was in tight braids all across his head, and William's was thick, curly, and frizzy. Christina longed to touch it, to feel what it was like, so different from her own flat, straight hair.

Christina and William didn't talk much, but they liked each other. They smiled often. At some point, before Christmas break, they began holding hands as they walked to and from the cafeteria. William's hands felt just like anyone else's, even though they looked so different. Soft and warm. Christina and William would smile and hold hands, and Christina felt safe and happy.

But people started to notice. "Is William your boyfriend?" asked A.J., a freckled kid whose initials were much cooler than his real name. He asked this with a sneer, not at all politely.

"I don't know," said Christina, confused. "He's my friend. "

A tall boy named Peter began to chant, "William and Christina, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g," and a few of the other white boys chimed in.

"He's just my friend!" shouted Christina.

Annie whispered, "You're not supposed to be with their kind," trying to pass on advice.

"You'll have brown and white striped babies!" said Julia. "Like chocolate-vanilla swirled ice cream!"

Soon, classmates started to whisper "chocolate-vanilla swirl" when they saw William and Christina together, just loud enough so that they would hear but so that Mrs. Arns, their teacher, would not. One day during spelling lessons, a note circulated the classroom, each person opening it, giggling, and passing it along. Peter passed it to Christina. On the scrap of paper were the words, "Christina is a black lover!"

That afternoon, on the way to the cafeteria, Christina refused William's hand when he held it out to her. Without looking at him, Christina marched over to Annie and Julia. Christina never spoke to William again. Sometimes he would stare at her across the row of desks that separated them, and she thought she could see tears forming in his eyes. He didn't smile anymore.

The next year, in second grade, Christina was relieved that there was only one black boy in her class. She avoided him.

Christina transferred to a small private school the following year, because her parents felt she would get a better education there. In this private school, there were no black children at all, and Christina stayed there until she graduated from high school. Her only encounters with black people were at the shopping mall, or the homeless men on park benches downtown. There were no black people in her neighborhood or church. There weren't even any black employees at the grocery store. When Christina saw a black family in Belk's or J.C. Penney, or accidentally met the cavernous eyes of a black beggar with a blanket-filled, rusting shopping cart, she glanced downward and walked away.

Christina's parents had always taught her to embrace people of different colors and cultures, and she did. They taught her that all people were equal, and Christina believed that. She even donated part of her allowance to sponsor a starving African child in Malawi.

Christina went to a small college where there were no black students. After college, she got a job in a city, where there were many black people, all the time, everywhere. Whenever Christina saw a black person, especially a black man, she clutched her purse more tightly, looked down, and quickened her step.

The only black people at her job were the maids and janitors who cleaned after 5 p.m., and two young black women in Customer Service, but Christina rarely interacted with the Customer Service Department, and when she did, she never spoke with the black women.

After Christina had worked there for a number of years, the office hired a new marketing manager, who would work closely with Christina. Christina had seen his resume, and his name was Philip, with two graduate degrees from Ivy League schools, and a very impressive work history, including volunteer work, which pleased Christina, because she herself volunteered at church, at a nursing home, and read books to the blind twice a week. Christina liked people who helped others and who tried, like she did, to make the world a better place. She looked forward to meeting this man named Philip.

When Philip showed up on his first day of work, dressed in a nice gray suit and burgundy tie, Christina nearly fell over. Philip was black. "This can't be Philip," she said to herself. But her boss introduced Philip to her, and Philip held out his hand for Christina to shake. She had no choice but to shake it. It was the first time since she was six years old that Christina had touched the hand of a black person. She removed her hand quickly from the handshake.

Philip was polite, friendly, and smiled often. And he was smart. He led business meetings with great ideas and a sense of humor. Christina wondered if perhaps he'd been raised by a white family, and that would explain it. But a few weeks into his job, Philip brought his parents, wife, and three children in to show them the office. They were all black. Not even light-skinned, but coal black, just like Philip.

Christina and Philip had to work together on an important project. She was always quieter than usual around him, and skittish. She felt awkward and was glad when their time together each day was over and she could relax and be herself, things having returned to normal. She couldn't understand why she felt this way; Philip was very nice and incredibly bright, calm and pleasant. But she didn't like being around him, and she didn't know why.

After a couple months on this project, Philip turned to Christina and asked, "Do you have a problem with me?"

Christina stared into her lap. "No, of course not."

"Christina," he said gently, not confrontationally, "I get the impression that you're uncomfortable around me."

"That's nonsense," she said, tapping her left foot on the carpet. "Let's get back to work."

"Christina, look at me. "

She glanced upward slowly. His eyes, deep brown, seemed so caring and kind. Sincere.

"Why do you feel so awkward with me, Christina?"

"I don't know."

"So you do feel awkward?"

"Yes."

"Well now we're getting somewhere, at least." He smiled, with nice white teeth.

"Do you really do volunteer work?" Christina asked.

"Yes, at the soup kitchen." Philip frowned. "Is that your problem with me?"

"No, no. I volunteer, too. At a nursing home. And reading to the blind. I like helping people."

"So do I."

There was a long silence, and Christina resumed tapping her foot. After a few minutes, she said softly, "I'm sorry. I just-I'm not used to-maybe I just need to get to know you better, that's all."

Philip smiled. "Would you like to join me at the soup kitchen on Saturday?" Christina looked down again, thinking, What have I trapped myself into now?

"It will only be for a couple hours," said Philip. "It's really fulfilling to give food to the hungry, to see the gratitude in their eyes. "

"OK," said Christina.

On Saturday, she, Philip, and a few other volunteers prepared food trays in a cramped and stuffy kitchen. Christina scooped instant mashed potatoes onto tray after tray and passed each to Philip, who gave them to the eager faces at the window. "Thanks, Philip," said a white man with a tattered scarf as he took his tray.

"Hi, Ralph, good to see you," said Philip. "How's Veronica?"

"Staying outta trouble for the time being," said the man. "Thanks for the advice that day."

"No problem, Ralph. Take care."

A black man with a dirty Yankees cap was next at the window. "Hey, Philip, man, how's it going?"

"No complaints, Cyril," said Philip with a smile.

An elderly white woman with patchy gray hair took her tray with trembling hands.

"Thank you, Philip," she said.

"Peach cobbler today, Marie. Your favorite."

The woman smiled, revealing gaps of missing teeth. Philip knew them all by name, and they all knew him. He seemed the kind of man whom Christina would be proud to know. Agood, honest man. And from her work experience, she knew he was dedicated, intelligent, clever. She knew it couldn't be an act. It couldn't be faked.

After they'd cleaned up the kitchen, Philip approached Christina as she swept the comer.

"Well?" he asked. "Did you enjoy it?"

"Yes, very much. Thank you. "

"I'm glad you came. "

"Me, too. Thanks, Philip." She stuck out her hand.
Philip shook it and smiled. "See you on Monday," he said.

"Yes, see you then," said Christina, smiling. She was looking forward to it.

Jenny Lentz resides in Philadelphia, PA.