Free The Cotton Queen by Pamela Morsi

grateful when he left.
    I didn’t take up any of his advice. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to. I thought it was a good idea. I wanted to take up “a more traditional living situation.” But other, more immediate and frightening concerns took precedence.
    A few days after Acee’s visit I was sitting on the dispatcher’s stool giving directions to a driver over the radio. I don’t know what caught my attention, but I happened to glance out the window. On the street in front of me an automobile, same make, model and color as Burl’s, was driving by.
    With a sharp intake of breath, my heart was in my throat. My whole body was rigid with fear and nausea churned inside me. I watched the car slowly inch down the street, visibly hesitating at the corner where my Ford was parked.
    I convinced myself that it was not him. There were hundreds of cars exactly like his in a big city like Dallas. He wouldn’t seek me out. He wouldn’t want to see me any more than I wanted to see him. He’d got what he wanted. He’d humiliated me, dominated me, terrorized me. He’d left his filthy stain on my body. He was done. What more could he do?
    I comforted myself with that conclusion for several days.
    I’d just been to the bank to make the payroll deposit. Mr. Donohoe waved me over to his desk.
    “You just missed your boyfriend,” he said. “Now, what you do on your own time is your business. But I’d just as soon you didn’t run your love life out of Big D Cement.”
    I was embarrassed and quickly corrected what I thought was his misapprehension.
    “I don’t have a boyfriend. Mr. Clifton is my lawyer,” I explained. “However, I will ask him not to interrupt me during business hours.”
    “Clifton’s the short guy, right?” Mr. Donohoe said. “I didn’t mean him. I know he’s not your boyfriend. This guy was tall, blond, good-looking. He told me that he was your boyfriend.”
    My heart caught in my throat. Burl had been there. He had stood in the building where I work and he’d asked about me. The level of my fear went into high gear.
    It became harder and harder for me to concentrate on my job. I was making mistakes, a lot of mistakes. At first, I just apologized and Mr. Donohoe was forgiving. But as the days went on and I messed up more and more often, he became less and less patient. So I began to try to hide the worst of my errors. That took up what little was left of my concentration. I fouled up deliveries. I fouled up payroll. Some suppliers were paid twice and some not at all. I couldn’t get a handle on what I was doing. I was watching out the window all the time.
    I was in the middle of a very serious reprimand when I finally saw Burl pull up and park in front of the building. My emotions were an unblendable mix of panic and relief. No more waiting. Burl was going to do whatever he was going to do to me and then it would be over. But I was terrified at the remembrance of what he could do to me.
    “This business competes on its reputation,” Mr. Donohoe was saying. “If you hurt that reputation, we lose business.”
    Burl was stepping out of his car.
    “Big D is always on the job when we say we’ll be there,” Donohoe continued.
    Burl was on the sidewalk reaching for the door handle.
    “That’s our standard, our minimum. I won’t...”
    “Excuse me,” I interrupted. “I’ve got to...I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”
    I briefly glanced toward my boss. His jaw had dropped open in shock. I didn’t have time to explain.
    “Don’t you walk away when I’m talking to you,” he called out to me angrily.
    I wasn’t walking. I was running, running toward the back of the building. The restroom was one dark, windowless closet about five feet square. I rushed inside and jerked the bolt across the door. Immediately I looked around for a weapon. There was nothing. The room was empty except for the sink and toilet and a roll of paper hanging from a length of wire attached to a nail. There was nothing