The Night Visitors(5)

“It’s Persian, sir. Here are your lottery tickets. Good luck to you and have a good night.”

But the hunter isn’t done. He turns to his friend. “Hey, Wayne, getta hold of this! Her name is Atefeh. Hey, why aren’t you wearing your kebab doohickey?” He pokes his finger at Atefeh’s head. I can see her flinch. Her shoulders have risen beneath her striped uniform as if she is bracing for a blow and fighting off the urge to flee at the same time.

Stand by the victim, I hear Doreen say. Don’t confront the attacker. I move closer to the counter. “Is everything okay, Atefeh?” I ask, keeping my eyes on her.

Her eyes flick toward me and her shoulders lower a fraction. “Did you get everything you need, Ms. Lane?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say, edging past the hunter.

“Hey,” he says, “who said I was done?”

“Will there be anything else, sir?” Atefeh says with unfailing politeness.

“Yeah, I’ll take a . . .” His eyes rove around the counter and then settle with undisguised glee on a baseball cap with an American flag on it. “I’ll take one of those.”

“Of course, sir,” Atefeh says, removing the cap from the stand and ringing it up.

“No, wait . . .” He spins the stand and sticks his finger in at random. “I changed my mind. I’m not sure. Which one do you like?”

Atefeh stares at him wide-eyed. I move as close to her as I can with the counter between us so she knows I’m here for her. Why aren’t we supposed to confront the attacker? I’d asked Doreen. Because it will escalate the conflict and ultimately make things worse for the victim, she’d replied. Doreen’s always right about this stuff, but I feel like a pathetic wimp as Atefeh holds out a cap with a shaking hand.

“Oh, shoot,” he says, looking straight at Atefeh and not the patriotic slogan on the cap. “I left my reading glasses at home. Could you read it for me?”

I’ve seen men like this before, men who have to make someone else feel small so that they don’t. When he finally chooses one with a MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN slogan on it, and pays in crumpled bills and a handful of linty change, Atefeh puts the cap in a bag.

“Uh-uh,” Camo says, wagging his head with what can only be described as a shit-eating grin on his face, “I bought it for you!” He looks back to see if his friend, who’s paging through a Field & Stream magazine, gets the joke. “It’s a present for Atefeh! Go ahead, put it on!”

Atefeh is looking down at the ugly polyester hat, her cheeks blotched red. I reach across the counter to touch her hand, but before I touch her she raises her eyes and meets the gaze of the hunter.

“Thank you very much for the present, sir, but I am not allowed to wear a hat at work. I will give it to my son, though, who loves American history and plays Little League.”

It’s a perfect response. Atefeh does not need me to fight her battles for her. Doreen was right—

“What’s your son’s name? Jihad?”

Afterward I will tell Doreen that I knew the coffee had cooled enough to make it perfectly safe, but the truth is that when I tip the cup toward Camo’s groin I hope it will scald the grin right off his face and leave him sterile.

“Leave her alone!” I shout, as he howls at the pain. “And get the fuck out of here.”

He glares at me, one fist curled protectively over his groin, and one cocked at his side. I put the pastry bag on the counter, slide my hand into my coat pocket, and curl my hand around my car keys, sliding the keys, teeth out, between my fingers.

I’m about to take my hand out of the pocket when the other hunter grabs his friend by the shoulders. “I think it’s time we go, Jason. That stag on the roof isn’t getting any sweeter while we stand here jawing.”

“That bitch threw her coffee at me!” Jason complains, struggling—but not very hard—to get out of his friend’s grasp.

“Yeah, well, that’s what you get for being an asshole.” The other hunter looks at me. There’s a hint of a smile—and recognition—in his eyes; I’ve definitely met him before. “C’mon before the nice ladies call the cops on you.”

“Well shit,” Jason says, “I was just trying to be nice. Let’s get out of here.” He shrugs his friend’s hands off and makes an exaggerated show of straightening his camo jacket as if it were an expensive suit, then manages to knock over the magazine rack on his way out.

His friend—Wayne—stops to pick up the magazines, but I hiss under my breath, “Just get your friend out of here.”

He looks up at me. “He’s not my friend; he’s my dumbass brother-in-law.” Then he looks back at Atefeh. “I apologize for my family, ma’am. Have a good night.”

As soon as the door closes I turn back to Atefeh. She’s shaking like a leaf. I move around the counter and put my arms around her. Ask the victim if she’s okay, Doreen told us.

What a stupid question, I’d told her, as if anyone is okay after being bullied and abused!

“What an asshole!” I say now. I let loose a blue streak of curses that has Atefeh blushing through her tears. Then I help her clean up the coffee I “spilled.”

“I’m so clumsy,” I say, making Atefeh laugh.

By the time Atefeh’s poured me a new cup of coffee the bus is pulling into the parking lot. “I’d better go,” I say. “These two might not want anyone to see them.”