He’s got it, Roberta Clemmons hissed.
Her sister felt cold but it was June and she didn’t know what it was.
Roberta made a tunnel between her mouth and her sister’s ear. Down there, she said.
How do you know? the sister said.
I overheard some women talking at church. After Sunday School. By the cold cuts. About how they know Frank’s got it. They didn’t see me because I was behind the pass-through window looking for mustard. The signs haven’t appeared yet, but I’ve got to be careful. What will happen to our children?
The men were talking too. He heard them in the walk-in freezer last week. Frank Clemmons.
I smelled it on him when we were closing yesterday, one of the children said. Maybe that was part of it, not being able to smell your own illness.
That night he went home and confessed to his wife.
Sweety, he said. But Frank didn’t have to say anything because they both knew and they both started shaking. And then Roberta said, Frank, just fuck me.
But what about the children, Frank said, his eyes puddles.
Roberta bit into Frank’s ear, chomping down until they both came.
How about I fix us something to eat? She said after.
Saturday mornings Frank opened the butcher shop at six to prep the meat. They specialized in whole pigs, the color of flesh.
He unwrapped one to hang in the window. An unexpected nausea boiled up from his loins.
He decided not to open the shop that day.
N. Michelle AuBuchon is an MFA candidate at Sarah Lawrence College and lives in Brooklyn.
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