The City Still Breathing by Matthew Heiti Page A

eye contact with her, focusing on her left shoulder, her forehead, something past her. Wiry – too skinny to be a cop, she thinks.
    â€˜Did you see … ?’
    He nods, a rapid-fire jiggle of his chin that seems to go on and on. ‘I brought him in – me and my partner.’
    â€˜Can you take me to see him?’
    Clears his throat, then clears it again. ‘No.’
    â€˜Please, I have to – please.’
    â€˜Look, it’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just … ’ He looks back down the hall. ‘Okay, you can’t say anything about this – they don’t want it getting out yet, but … ’ His voice lowering to a hiss. ‘The body’s gone.’
    â€˜Gone … ’
    â€˜Yeah.’
    â€˜Where did it go?’
    â€˜Uh, we’re not sure. Somebody may have stolen it. Or … ’
    â€˜Or what?’
    â€˜They’ve got people on it – it’s only a matter of time.’
    â€˜So I should just wait?’
    â€˜Uh, yeah … yeah.’
    â€˜Thanks.’ And she goes quickly this time, a quick break to the doors, back home to get ready for work, waiting tables, waiting for the shift to end, waiting in bed for the sound of the door opening, waiting to hear her son come in, or waiting not to hear anything.
    â€˜Wait.’
    She turns. The short cop jabs behind him with his thumb. ‘I just gotta grab my keys.’
    The screech of metal and the back doors of the van come open. The cop steps back for Martha, but there’s nothing for her to see. He points. ‘He was right there.’
    â€˜Show me.’
    He looks around the lot nervously, like he’s forgotten he’s a police officer. ‘Look, I’m in a lotta shit as it is.’
    â€˜Please.’
    He sighs and grunts his way into the back of the van. He offers a hand, but Martha’s ditched her cigarette and is already scrabbling in after him. He goes to the small slot that looks into the cab and picks at it, checking something, then comes back. He crouches and puts his hand on the floor, looks up at Martha.
    â€˜Go on.’
    He plops on his ass and then slowly lies back, stretching out, squirming a little to one side to make sure he’s in the right place. With him all laid out like that, Martha can see a dark stain underneath his head. And they don’t move and they don’t say anything for a while.
    So she’s there staring down at the cop’s face, his eyes fixed past her on the ceiling, her trying to picture this being Van, lying there, naked and dead. His ears sticking out with that goofy grin he took to the grave and all that hair, like some kind of big monkey, the monkey on the placemat. Year of the monkey. The year she was born, the year Slim was born, the year Van left. These markers in her life, divided by a rhythm, every tick bringing some new disaster. The next tick the end of the world maybe, and her waiting around for it. Van’ll come back kickin through the screen door, I got that milk , and they’ll laugh and they’ll all go back to the way it was, exactly the way it was, without the yelling and the name calling and the door slamming and the rest of it. Just the good stuff. Just the roses.
    It’s the flash of a squad car on its way out that brings Martha around, quickly slipping out of the van, pulling out her pack for her second-last cigarette to find it empty.
    â€˜Man, it’s really coming down now, eh?’ The doors slam closed. They both lean against the side of the van. ‘Never would’ve found him in this. He’d be out there till spring maybe.’
    â€˜He never could sit still.’
    He does the clearing-his-throat thing again, like the words are hard to bring up. ‘What made you think it was him?’
    She shrugs because no one really knows anything, least of all about themselves. ‘I’ve gotta get ready for work.’
    â€˜Where