Writer's Digest 92nd Annual Competition Genre Short Story First Place Winner: "Stranger"
Congratulations to Jennifer Slee, first-place winner in the Genre Short Story category of the 92nd Annual Writer's Digest Writing Competition. Here's her winning story, "Stranger."
[See the complete winner's list]
Stranger
by Jennifer Slee
The man dressed in blue told me to wait outside the store. Bits of broken glass were scattered across the sidewalk, what was left of the front window. A table pushed up against it stood empty. I could hear the whir of a standing fan through the smashed window, feel its breeze whenever it spun in my direction. The pawn shop was in an old building, and didn’t have central air.
“You need to move along, ma’am.” The man had come back outside, and waved dismissively at me. “This is a crime scene, and I need to clear the area.”
I turned to face him, careful of the glass. “But you just told me to wait right here…?” We stared at each other in mutual confusion for a moment. “Unless you didn’t. Is there a second officer inside?”
“Oh, yeah. Hey Esposito—” and he shouted into the store— “is this the witness?”
“Yes. She’s the one who saw whoever did it.” The other one, Esposito, didn’t come outside. “Do you mind getting her statement?”
“No problem.” He retrieved a slim notebook from his pocket, opened it to a clean page. “I’m Detective Bautista. Can you tell me your name?”
“It’s Olivia Ochoa.” I scratched nervously at the base of my neck, where the ends of my hair brushed the tops of my shoulders. “Listen, I’m not sure how helpful this is going to be.”
“Don’t be nervous.” He smiled. “Just tell me what you remember seeing. What happened, in your own words.”
What happened. Who I saw. Those two statements don’t often go together so neatly for me. “I go jogging down Vermont Avenue about every week,” I answered. “But after several blocks my shoelace started coming undone, so I went a few paces into the back street to re-tie it. And that’s when I noticed him.”
“What was he doing?”
“Um…he was taking off a sweatshirt, and throwing it into the dumpster.”
“Got it. Then what?”
“He saw that I was there. Made a sort of sound, like I had surprised him? Like he didn’t expect anyone to be there. Then he ran away.”
“Towards you, or away from you?”
“The alley back there stops behind the building. He had to run past me to get out.”
“So you saw his face?” Detective Bautista turned to a fresh page in his notebook, continued scribbling. “What did he look like?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“You mean his face was covered? Was he wearing sunglasses, or a face mask?”
“No. I mean…” I trailed off. I hated having to explain it. “I’m face-blind. I don’t know what he looks like. For the record, I don’t know what you look like.”
The scribbling stopped. “I see.” Bautista paused. “A minute ago, you thought I was my partner, didn’t you? Hmm. Let’s go about this a different way. Are there other details you can remember, like clothing?”
“He had a black backpack. And running shoes—Nikes.” I’ve always liked shoes. People tend to favor certain styles or brands; it helps me tell them apart. “The shirt he had on, I think it was a Lakers jersey. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.”
“If you do remember anything else, let me know.” He wrote a phone number down onto a clean page, tore it, and handed it to me. “Or if anyone tries to approach or threaten you—if you saw them, then they also got a good look at you. And I doubt you’re both, what was it, face-blind? It’s not that common, right?”
“It’s not,” I said. I only knew one other person who had it—my dad. Prosopagnosia runs in families. The stationary fan blew back across the empty table; I tried to remember what used to be there when I passed the pawn shop every week. Velvety cylinders holding rows of watches. A twisting gold chain with a pearl pendant. A PlayStation 5.
I tucked the note into my jacket pocket and promptly forgot about it for a week. It was easy to forget small things when your life was being upended. I had, just the month before, ended a serious relationship. Over the years we had knit our lives together, which meant that the breakup left me frayed, unsure which parts of myself were still there, separate from Bryce. To put it lightly, he wasn’t taking this well. Bryce only liked what he thought he could control, and the more I tried to untether myself the harder he fought to keep seeing me. I’d noticed him around my apartment several times, and blocked him on social media after he wouldn’t stop contacting me. The only reason his number was still in my phone was because I had apparently left behind a few things at his place, and we met up each time on neutral ground, at a coffee shop near The Grove, to make our exchange.
When I arrived he was already there, in a seat by the window. I knew it was him because he was wearing a shirt I’d gotten him—black, with a logo for Greenbar Distillery—and he looked up when I opened the door, like he was expecting someone.
Bryce was growing his beard out; there were crumbs in it, remnants from a half-eaten brownie on a plate in front of him. “Olivia! I’m glad you’re here. Please, sit down,” he said. “I can get you something to eat.”
“I’m not here to eat,” I said. “I just want my book back.”
When we had broken up, I was halfway through Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine, but what I secretly wanted back was the bookmark I’d left to mark the pages. He retrieved it from a messenger bag, holding it out shallowly, so I’d have to lean in to get it from him, and that was when the slip of torn paper fell out of my pocket. Before I realized what was happening, he’d already picked it up.
“What is this?”
I was certain Bryce was already inventing a story about who gave that to me and casting himself as the wounded, beleaguered victim. Anything I said now, to explain myself or correct his misunderstanding, would only confirm whatever narrative he had already decided on. “It’s a phone number, Bryce.”
“Olivia.” He looked at me, still holding my book, bringing the little piece of paper closer to his chest, and I shivered. “I’m just looking out for you.”
“Well, if you must know…” I wondered again how this man had such a kind family. “It’s from a police officer. You can call it right now, if you want. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind you wasting his time.”
There was a twitch in the roundness of his cheek. For a moment, I thought he would rip it up, and I felt a strange protectiveness over my past self—the me that had witnessed a smash-and-grab burglary, that had seen both our families change forever, that had lived through the dark tunnel of a failing relationship—that he thought these tricks could still work on me. When he refused to end things, desperate to talk it out, I finally realized what he actually meant: If I would only listen to him talk for long enough, I would understand that he was right. The only thing I learned since emerging from that tunnel was to trust what I believed rather than what I was told. “Keep your book,” Bryce said, placing the torn paper onto the cover and pressing the entire thing into my hands.
“How’s your mom?” I asked before I could stop myself.
Bryce looked startled. His mother had been recently diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, and I knew that she needed more help than his family could provide on their own. It had to hurt him when both of us had trouble recognizing him, though it was neither her fault nor mine. “She has her good days,” he answered after a moment. “Ben’s looking after her, though we’ve been discussing memory care for her.”
Ben was his brother—two years older, though they looked identical to me. “I’m sorry.” It was all I could say. How could I offer anything, when I was trying to distance myself from this family? I shouldn’t want to know about her progress, if they needed help, if I could visit her in memory care, if it would make a difference. My fingers curled around the spine of the book, knowing this surely wasn’t the last relic he was keeping from our time together.
The next weekend, I went jogging to clear my mind. I took my usual route down Vermont, towards Hollywood Boulevard, with my phone strapped to my shoulder and a water bottle in one hand. I was hoping a little fresh air would give me some perspective, or at least tire me out so I wouldn’t steep in my thoughts at night instead of sleeping. I first noticed the man when I was waiting at a red light. He was on the other side of the road, and didn’t cross when the light turned green, only waited. A block later, I saw him again, across the street.
I wasn’t a very experienced runner, but I knew to be careful of hazards: cars, bikes, dogs. Tourists on scooters. It was crowded enough he could have simply been going along his own way, one that had nothing to do with me. So I turned around and started jogging back, the way I’d come. If that man was following me, he’d have to turn around, too.
I glanced over my shoulder and didn’t see him across the street. Good. I kept jogging, the sound of airplanes overhead the only interruption to my routine. It was only when I stopped to take a sip of water that I looked over my shoulder and saw him there, keeping pace behind me.
This felt entirely different to finding Bryce outside my home at night. He would talk to me, so I could recognize his voice. I always knew what he wanted. And most importantly, when I refused to let him inside and threatened to call his brother, he left.
The Detective—what was his name, Bautista? —said the perpetrator of the burglary might attempt to find me. The problem was, I had no way of knowing who that man behind me was, as long as he kept his distance and didn’t speak. I thought about calling Bautista, or my dad, who was a professor at UCLA, but immediately decided it was foolish. I imagined Bautista’s calm, pleasant voice in my mind, asking questions about the man. He's wearing gray sweats, I answered him, and he definitely has hair. Two eyes, and ears too. Did you know, my dad and I once lost each other at the airport? I was supposed to be picking him up, and we each found strangers we thought were each other. I don’t know what you were thinking, Bautista, depending on me for anything. My ex-boyfriend is stalking me, and I can’t tell you for sure how often he’s done it. I can’t move far away, and abandon my family. I’m all he has left.
The minutes went by. My father’s voice in my mind now, raspy, sensible, reminding me of what I do have. I have a phone, I have knowledge of the city, I have endurance. I took my cell out of its shoulder-strap and pretended to answer a call, faking a loud conversation with one of my friends, as if we had made plans to meet up in West Hollywood. I stopped and swiveled, my hand to my forehead in mock-disbelief. “You’re where? Ugh, fine. I’ll be right there.” And, turning, I started speed-walking resolutely back, passing the man without a second glance, and once I had turned the corner, I ran.
When I first moved into my apartment, I asked for a pair of my dad’s old shoes. Instead of throwing them out, let me leave them on the mat, I said. I wanted it to look like a man was occasionally around, that as a single woman living alone, I didn’t want a hypothetical burglar to mark me out as a potential target. I sat alone inside my apartment and made a list of everything I could remember about the pawn shop. I sketched the backpack, the basketball jersey. I wrote down PS5 and necklace with a pearl on it and underlined them to make my notes look more significant. I doodled at the bottom of the page, trying to remember anything. The outline of a pendant on a chain took shape, followed by two interlocking Cs. That’s right, I remembered. It was a designer necklace. Chanel.
I drew Nike swooshes all over the next page, trying to invoke another useful memory. The man’s face eluded me, even as the moment we saw each other replayed endlessly in my mind. The quiet, surprised gasp he made, like he was trying to stop himself from speaking. Oh—!
My phone buzzed. Another text from Bryce. I want to see you. I groaned, realizing there were several near-identical messages sent over the last hour, differentiated only by an increasing aura of desperation and quantity of typos. I wondered if he had been drinking.
More texts, threatening to come over unless I responded, that he needed to know that I was ok. If he wasn’t sober, I couldn’t live with myself if he got into a car and drove across town to see me. I replied, asking how much he’d had to drink.
The response came almost immediately. Idk.
I got up from the chair, rubbing my temples. Angry that he could do this to himself and to me. Another flurry of messages, wanting to meet. I replied back, asking if he was at his home. When he said yes, I told him not to leave, that I would come over to see him. He sent me a heart. I called Ben.
I think the time I kissed Ben was when Bryce first truly believed I was face-blind. He’d made a couple of disbelieving remarks about it when we first started dating, times when I’d fail to recognize friends from college, and once a neighbor on the street where I grew up. Maybe he thought I was doing it for attention? It made him act cagey and possessive, when we were in a group of people that he didn’t know well. Like he had a greater claim to me than they did, and wanted them to know it.
We were all at Manhattan Beach, and they had left to get frozen lemonade. I saw him coming back across the sand holding two drinks, and without thinking I grabbed one out of his hand and kissed him to say thank you. It was only when I felt him tense and pull away that I realized what I had done. How could you not recognize me? Bryce had asked later as we sat side-by-side, staring at the Pacific. Your own boyfriend.
I can’t recognize myself, was what I told him. It doesn’t matter how close we are, or how long I’ve known you. I know my parents by their red lipstick and plaid sweaters, their glasses and perfume. Their posture, the way that they laugh. I didn’t mean to kiss him, I said. I thought he was you.
“I don’t know what to do.” Ben picked up on the first ring, and I explained everything to him. “Can you stay with Bryce? Or swing by and steal his keys so he can’t drive?”
Ben’s voice was deeper than his brother’s, gentler, like he was always glad to see you and you could hear it in his voice. “Mom is asleep so I could step out, but it couldn’t be for long. I’m worried to leave her alone, if she wakes up in a bad spot. I don’t think I can sit with Bryce all night, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“What if I stayed with her? I’ll watch the house, and if she wakes up I’ll call you.”
“Yeah, okay.” Ben sounded relieved, like it was the first time someone had offered him a reprieve of his elder care responsibilities. “You remember how to get here? White bungalow, blue shutters. I’ll be waiting. Thanks, Olivia.”
I hadn’t seen Ben in a while, not since their mother’s birthday dinner last year. He met me at the front door, giving me a quick run-down of what to expect if I saw her, some changes he’d made to the house—he didn’t cook much anymore, not since he’d gotten rid of the kitchen knives, but there were microwave dinners if I was hungry—and I assured him I’d be fine. From the living room I watched him drive away, and when I could no longer see the taillights of his car I sank into the cushions of the old sofa and tried to stop myself imagining Ben sitting here, night after night.
In the house it was peaceful and silent, and I sat with my thoughts until Ben messaged me. He made it to Bryce’s, his brother was way too drunk, and I’d made the right call, asking him to intervene. I was about to send him a reply when the frog-ribbit creak of bare feet on old wood cut through the quiet house, and I texted a quick brb mom check and went to investigate.
I found her trying to ease her bedroom door closed. She was wearing her nightgown, and when she saw me, her demeanor fortunately wasn’t confused but surprised. “Olivia! What are you doing here?”
I was so glad she remembered me that I nearly began to cry. “Ben asked me to come over, Mrs. Fletcher,” I managed to answer. “He had to step out, but he’ll be back soon.”
“That’s good,” she said. “That’s good. My son is so good to me. Both my sons are. How is your mother doing? Your father? We all should get together sometime.”
I turned away in the dark hallway, tipping my chin back towards the ceiling—like stopping a nosebleed, keeping the tears where they were, gathering at the corners of my eyes instead of rolling down my face where she could see them. I couldn’t tell her that my mother died when a drunk driver ran a light and hit her coming home from work. I couldn’t tell her that I was no longer in a relationship with her son, a son she loved so much, that she believed was faultless. I would only upset her, this blameless woman, who looked at me like I had always been a part of her family. “That sounds great.”
“I’ll cook,” she continued, sounding pleased. “And you can bring dessert!”
When she announced her intention to get a glass of water I suggested we get some water together, and afterwards, yawning, she returned to bed without further prompting. “Have you seen my cardigan?” she asked as she climbed into bed. “With the pearl buttons. I’ve been searching everywhere for it.”
I promised I’d look for it, and after I closed her door and updated Ben, for something to do I began to look through the house for the aforementioned cardigan. I found it in the dining room, in her credenza. It was folded over a stack of China plates and an acrylic jewelry case, which contained a single item—a golden chain with a pearl pendant. A Chanel necklace.
I was almost afraid to touch it, but I had to be sure. He’d taken off the tag but it was still in the drawer—a clear label, with an astronomical price. I found a heavy, golden watch in a different drawer. I wasn’t about to go into his room, but I bet if I did I would have discovered a Lakers jersey and running shoes.
“Oh, Ben,” I murmured, staring at the treasure. I wondered if that gasp I heard—that oh! —wasn’t a gasp at all, but the beginning of my name, Olivia. Ben knew the only way I’d ever be able to recognize him was if he revealed that he recognized me first. I never asked him or Bryce how much memory care for their mother would cost. Ben must have felt like he had no other choice.
The necklace was slippery in my hands. I considered my options. I could put it back, and forget I discovered anything. I could take it, return it to the pawnshop, maybe tell them I found it in the alley behind the store. Maybe the shop would be more willing to drop their investigation if even one piece was returned. Or I could call Detective Bautista, and give it to him.
The third option, the honorable one, was impossible. Bryce would not care for his mother if Ben went to jail. They might have to sell the house, so full of happy memories, to fund her treatment. And without Ben, Bryce would have no tempering influence. There would be no barrier between us if he threatened to push back into the life I was trying to build without him.
I had the necklace in my hands. I carefully wiped it free of fingerprints and hid it inside my purse. I said nothing when Ben came home, too exhausted to notice how I clutched the purse to my chest, as if I was holding much more than just a necklace, but the heavy, shared hopes of two families.
Several days passed—long enough for Bryce to recover from his hangover and for any lingering sheepishness his stunt had caused to fade away, replaced by the vampiric, insatiable desire to see me again. He called me four times in one afternoon, resorting to text messages when I wouldn’t pick up. He found something important of mine, and wanted to give it back. A plastic box with two flash drives, labeled vacation pictures and holiday pictures. There were apologies, insistences he would never do this again, and as I stared at the list of messages asking to meet just one more time it felt like I was treading water with one hand around my ankle. I suppose I had believed, at some point, that Bryce would stop eventually. Now I knew he wouldn’t.
I had to get those pictures back. We set a time to meet, and when I entered the coffee shop I saw him there, in the same seat with a view of the front door. He’d shaved, and there were dark circles underneath his eyes.
“You have to know,” Bryce said, sounding insufficiently penitent, “that I would never have gotten behind the wheel that night. I’d never do that to you.”
“I know,” I mumbled, to pacify him. He sat back in his chair, temporarily assured. “Now where are my family photos?”
“They’re in my bag,” answered Bryce, motioning to the messenger bag slung over his chair. “I thought we could talk first. Maybe get something to eat, my treat.”
He made no move to retrieve my property, and after a moment, I gave a tiny nod.
“I knew you’d say yes!” He rose from his chair. “I’ll be right back.”
I watched him wander towards the counter to place his order. The bag he’d left behind was a practical accessory, with seemingly dozens of flaps and zippered pockets. He’d never notice that I put the pearl necklace inside one of them. Detective Bautista was only a phone call away; Bryce could be out of our lives for years. Would we recognize each other, the next time we met? Or perhaps this was who we were all along, three people whose consciences could be set aside in the face of something we wanted more. Could I look myself in the mirror, he would ask, after the choices I had made? I think I could do that.