She shuffles in front of the stall next to us. Empty. I scoot to put my back to the toilet. Her shadow shows her bending to look for my feet. She’ll see them, but not Dario’s. I look up at him, a hawk on the roof’s edge. He smirks at me.
The third door swings and clicks against the wall.
“Take your monthly constitutional,” Aunt Clara says with the hint of jokey commiseration. “But don’t take your time. I’ll be outside to make sure there are no unwanted visitors.” She makes the banal description sound vile and frightening.
Denise chirps gratitude and locks the door. Her aunt Clara goes outside with the kids.
Dario’s nod is more than a sign to begin. He’s telling me I can do this. He’s with me the whole way.
I take a damp, folded note from my pocket. Its corners are darkened from half an hour in my hand. I’m supposed to hand her the tiny square under the stall, but in this last minute, I realize that’s not the best way to do this.
I unfold it while Denise pulls down her pants. On one side is a phone number Dario set up to forward to him. On the other is a greeting.
HI, STINKPANTS. IT’S SARAH.
When her second baby was so big she got a fistula, I helped her with her chores and called her stinkpants. I was a casually unkind, nasty bitch. I don’t like using the name now, but it’s a way for her to know it’s me before she sees me.
Dario watches as I read it. Does he approve of the cruelty? Does he even see it?
While Denise pees, he folds one hand over the other and knots his brow. A question or confirmation about unfolding the note. I nod. It’s fine. It’s better. I’ve decided. And in response, he nods and folds his arms, accepting my decision without further inquiry.
Good. I don’t want to be told what to do right now.
The pee noises stop. Denise snorts. There’s no rustle of clothing. No rattle of toilet paper. She’s staying in the quiet to think. I look to Dario for strength, and with a simple, confident nod, he gives it to me.
Reaching down, I pass the note under the stall, insult up.
Nothing happens.
Time passes. Too much time. Maybe three seconds with Mississippis in between. Then I feel the paper slip from my fingertips. I don’t expect silence, but that’s what I get. My attention on the space under the stall, I reach for Dario and catch the hardness of his forearm. He puts his hand over mine, and I finally breathe enough to use half my voice.
“Denise?”
“You’re dead.”
Is that what they’re telling everyone? Jesus. Was there a funeral? What did Daddy and Massimo say over the closed casket?
Or maybe she means I’m dead to her.
“I’m here.” I rub my palms on my pants again. I’m going to need a stain remover to get the sweat out of them. “Remember when Marco Junior was a baby? And you gave him rice cereal for the first time? And he went crazy? Grabbing for the bowl with these little arms he didn’t know how to use?”
Her response is to pull up her pants and flush. I expect her to say something, ask a question, express excitement. I don’t expect the stall’s wall to rattle, then hear her gasp from above me. She looks over the top, pressing the note in a triangle halfway over the edge.
“Hi,” I say. Even wide-eyed, staring at the man wedged between the toilet and the opposite wall, her face is like a letter from home. “He’s okay.”
She tears her attention from Dario and puts it on me. “Is this him? The one who did it?”
“Yes.” I put my fingers on the wall, ready to climb to her. She looks back at Dario, grinding her jaw. I realize too late what she’s about to do. “He’s okay. He didn’t harm me. I promise he won’t hurt you.”
With a sharp kkst from her throat, a glob of spit flies across the space and lands on Dario’s chin and chest. I suck in a breath, but in those first moments, he doesn’t move.
“Good thing we checked for toilet paper.” He gets down with fluid, catlike grace and reaches for the paper.
“You animal.”
He wipes his face and shirt. She can insult him all day long and he won’t react. This next part is mine.
“Denise.” I get up on the toilet to talk to her face to face over the stall’s rickety wall. “Listen to me.”
“Why should I?”
“Please.” Something about my plea breaks her, and her rage turns to despair.
“Oh, Sarah, I miss you so much.”
“I miss you too.”
“Come home. Please. Kick him in the balls and come home.”
I’m not coming home. Not today. Not ever.
“Denise. You haven’t screamed for your aunt. You haven’t run away. Why not?”
“Maybe I will.”
“A part of you trusts me… and that part of you, it’s the part that always knew Marco was bad for you.”
Her eyes narrow. Years of defending him for her own peace of mind won’t let the slight meet the truth. I’ve overplayed my hand.
“We’ll leave you alone,” I say. “But we want to know… has Aunt Clara mentioned seeing Dafne Tamberi? Our teacher from the lower grades?”
“Why are you asking?”
This is as good as a yes, and I’m formulating my next question when Dario cuts in.
“Where? What floor?”
She shoots him a look. “What’s it to you?” Her attention turns back to me. “And you should be ashamed, standing here with him while she’s barely alive from what he did.”
She spits out the last syllable. Of course, her aunt told her Dario was the one who hurt Dafne, because that’s what she would have been told. The important thing is that Clara was told something, which confirms the clinic has her.
An instant of amplified sound forces us both to turn toward Dario standing beneath us, phone in hand. The noise is gone too quickly to identify, but I can still see—and I’ll never forget the video he just muted.
“Dario,” I say. “Don’t.”
He’s not going to listen to me. She accused him of what the Colonia did, and he’s not going to leave this bathroom without countering it.
“Denise.” I shift close enough to her to block out Dario. “What floor does Aunt Clara work on? Just tell us that.”
Her eyes scan mine, left to right. She snorts, then her gaze moves over my shoulder.
Dario’s holding up his phone, and Denise can’t take her eyes off the screen.
“Denise.” I put my hand on her arm.
She lets go of the sweat-stained note, letting it drift to the floor.
“This is who did it,” Dario hisses. “Now where is she?”
Denise’s lips go slack, as if watching this monstrosity is taking up the energy her body needs to breathe, to swallow, to answer his question.
“Dario,” I whisper. “Turn it off.”
He doesn’t move it away or stop it.
“You need to tell us or find out.”
She’ll need the number on the note. I get down to retrieve it, but as I stand back up, Denise reaches for the phone’s glass. It seems like she’s going to touch it. Maybe play the video again. That’s how she gets close enough to grab it right out of his hand.