Transparent Umbrella

Gemma set a brisk pace for her final, 15-minute walk from work to the parking lot. It was the cheapest lot in town and she liked the exercise. She would miss her job, her coworkers, and Miguel, the parking attendant. He was retiring too.

From the beginning, Miguel called her mama mia, she asked him why. "Because you look like a dark Meryl Streep." She liked it. Through the years they discussed his children and her divorce. Gemma gave him a potted rosebush when his mother, Rose, died. He fixed her flat tire. Every day for a year, she arrived 30 minutes early to teach him to read and write. Miguel's wife made her tamales for Christmas. Lord, she would miss those!

Miguel was a meek man, she'd thought, until one rainy night 14 years ago: she was walking to her car, heard footsteps, glanced back and spotted two figures in hoodies. She sped up, so did they.

"Hey what's the hurry!" The taller one sniggered, grabbing her arm.

She jerked away but the heavier one pressed in tight, face so close she could smell onions and something rancid, like decay—or bad intentions. Gemma's kicks didn't connect, shouts weren't heard. She promised them she'd leave marks, own an eyeball, hinder reproduction. She refused to move her feet but they dragged her with ease toward a grey van with no windows.

"Mama Mia, it's raining!" Miguel bellowed rushing in hard and fast, his umbrella snapped open with a sharp "Thwack!" and he pressed its pointed end against the tall one's throat.

Gemma could see Miguel's face through the transparent umbrella. Not the kind, humorous one she'd known. This face was sinister and sure of its capacity to inflict harm in skillful ways. He barked something in Spanish and the men slunk back into their darkness. Miguel positioned the umbrella over her head and guided her through the streets. They sat in his shed silently sipping tequila from plastic cups while waiting for the police. 

"You've been watching over me?"

"Yeah."

Exhaling her memories, Gemma stepped into the parking lot hoping retirement wouldn't mean goodbye. Miguel didn't greet her. "Hello?" She walked to his shed and peeked in. It was empty except for a Styrofoam cooler with a note sitting like a tepee on the lid. She opened it and read:

Thirty-one years ago, I married my love and became a better man. I had a family to support but my skills were not legal. I knew of the parking problems in this area and decided to reform the ways I had been using this vacant lot. I don't know the owners. I'm sorry, Mama Mia, I must be a coward and leave you without goodbyes.

Gemma sat on the floor and stared until her eyes burned. Finally, she opened the cooler, another note lay atop two dozen tamales.

She read it aloud, "When you run out, come for more. "The address was in Texas. She unwrapped a tamale and took an enormous bite, they wouldn't last long.