boy, he believed that if he sprinted full speed, he would disappear, become invisible, or
turn to butter like in “Little Black Sambo’. It wasn’t so. Brazil was a sculpture on his
bench, watching Chief Judy Hammer step closer. A part of him wanted her to know he
was there, so he could get it over with, confess his intensity, have her blow him off,
laugh, dismiss him from her police department, and be done with him, as he deserved.
“I’m going to ask one more time,” she warned.
It occurred to him that she might have a gun on her person, perhaps in a pocket. Jesus
Christ, how could any of this happen? He had meant no harm driving here after work.
All he’d wanted was to sit, think, and contemplate his raison d’etre and how he felt about
it.
“Don’t shoot,” he said, slowly bringing himself to his feet, and holding his hands up in surrender.
Hammer knew for a fact she had a wacko in her midst. Don’t shoot? What the hell was
this? Clearly, this was someone who knew who she was. Why else would the person
assume she might be armed and wouldn’t hesitate to shoot? Hammer had always nurtured
the unspoken fear that in the end, she would be taken out by a loony tune with a mission.
Assassinated. Go ahead and try, was her motto. She followed the brick walk through
more pachysandra as Brazil’s panic level crested. He cast his eyes toward his car on the
street, realizing that by the time he raced to it, got in, and drove off, she would have his
plate number. He decided to relax and feign innocence. He sat back down as she, in her
white robe, floated closer.
“Why are you here?” she asked, hovering mere feet from him now.
“I didn’t mean to be disturbing anyone,” he apologized.
Hammer hesitated, not getting quite what she had expected.
“It’s almost two o’clock in the morning,” she repeated.
“Actually, it’s a little later than that,” Brazil said, chin in hand, face in shadows.
“Love this place, don’t you? So peaceful, great for thinking, meditating, getting into your spiritual space.”
Hammer was entertaining second thoughts about this one. She sat down on the bench,
next to him.
“Who are you?” she asked, and the indirect light was an artist lovingly painting her face as she studied him.
“Nobody special,” Brazil said.
Oh yes he was. She thought of her own horrible life, of the husband in there, where she
lived. This one on the bench next to her understood.
He appreciated her for who and what she was. He respected her power and wanted her as
a woman at the same time. He was deeply interested in her thoughts, her ideas, her
memories of childhood. Brazil traced her neck deep down into her plush white terry-
cloth robe, slowing down, taking his time. He kissed her, tentatively until he was sure she
was kissing him back, then he worked on her lower lip until their tongues became
acquainted and were friends.
When he woke up inside his locked bedroom, he wasn’t finished yet and in agony. It was
awful. Please Lord, why couldn’t it be true? But it decidedly was not. It was a fact that
he had sat in the tiny park staring at Hammer’s house and she had come out to drift on her
swing.
It was not a fact that any of the rest of it had occurred, except in fractured dreams. She did not know that he was there in the dark, hearing her North Carolina flag snap in the
wind, over her porch. She did not care. He had never touched his lips to hers, he had
never caressed soft skin, and never would. He was terribly ashamed. He was frustrated
and confused. She was probably thirty years older than Brazil. This was sick.
Something must be terribly wrong with him.
Brazil played the messages on his answering machine when he came home at quarter of
three in the morning. There were four, all of them hang-ups. This only worsened his
mood. He could not help but think that the pervert was after him because he, too, was