Stop Here by Beverly Gologorsky

.”
    â€œI don’t want you going.” He’ll never budge.
    â€œ. . . It’s my life, my time to do such things.”
    He stares at his daughter, at the band of freckles crossing her forehead, the clarity of her eyes, the strong jaw, the length of her fingers, and realizes he’s memorizing her.
    â€¢ • •
    In the silence of her room the computer stands as a gateway to the rest of his life. Her messages were coming two a day, one every two days, once a three-day interval, but it’s been six days. Jesus, God, Crap! How’s he supposed to survive that? Rereading previous e-mails, which he never deletes, the information is lodged in his brain. She arrived; she’s fine; it’s too hot. She needs another couple of pairs of shorts; don’t send them, no real address. She’s bunking in a camp-like situation, electricity on and off. The beauty can feel like an insult: clay-colored dunes, sky so blue it hurts her eyes, stars so bright they light up the night. The misery, the poverty . . . the kids are killing her; hopeless, depressed by age eight. Her last e-mail bragged she could say words in Arabic, some in Hebrew. Tan, Dad, she wrote, I’m so tan, it’s amazing.
    He picks up the bottle, takes a long swig of bourbon. It’ll be a month tomorrow. Two more to go. He’s crashing in Glory’s bed now. Without the sleep pills, dreams and crawly, creepy stuff wake him every hour or two. Even now his feet feel itchy. He peels off his socks and checks for fungus. Clean.
    Then he remembers . . . begins rummaging through the desk drawer, slides a piece of paper out from under others; three names: Josh Towns, Emanuel Walker, Robert Messenger. He takes another long drink from the diminishing contents, finds himself on the faded couch in the living room punching in the first number. It rings until voicemail picks up. He leaves a message. He dials Walker’s number.
    â€œHi.” Sounds like a child.
    â€œIs your Mom or Dad there?”
    â€œWho should I say is calling?” Her little voice is prissy.
    Who indeed? “A friend of . . .” —and here he takes a chance— “your brother’s.”
    â€œI don’t have a brother.”
    â€œYour father’s Emanuel Walker?” The decibels rise.
    â€œI can’t say.”
    â€œLet me talk to your mom, now, please.” Jesus! Damn, the bourbon’s still in Glory’s room.
    â€œHello.” It’s a voice so dull he wants to hang up.
    He introduces himself. “. . . and I haven’t had an e-mail in nearly a week, so I wondered . . .”
    â€œMy husband and I . . . we’re not communicating much. If I hear anything . . . leave me your number.”
    He does, but she’ll never call.
    Staring at the third name, he decides he needs hope; he’ll try it tomorrow.
    â€¢ • •
    Two groups of noisy young people take over several diner booths. It’s the middle of the night and they’re ready to eat everything including the inventory. He works the orders nonstop. A few strays come in as well, probably because there’s nowhere else to go. The kitchen is steamy; he’s sweating. He stares at a chit but the letters scramble, so he blinks a few times, tries again, but the words still blur. He cups some cold water in his hands and splashes his face, tamps it dry with a paper towel and tries deciphering it again. Better. Except there’s a pull in his stomach even though he visited the bathroom minutes ago. “Ava,” he stage-whispers over the divider.
    She turns her perfectly shaped head to look at him and hurries into the kitchen.
    â€œHave to go home . . . need to check the machine . . . I’ve been away for hours . . . haven’t had an e-mail in days . . .” his voice trails off.
    â€œThat doesn’t mean a thing, Nick. It’s not New York. It can’t be easy to find a computer.”
    â€œAll the orders