The term “baby killer” wasn’t only used to abuse Vietnam veterans who returned from the war in Southeast Asia, it was once fired at me by a former employer who was angry with me after I put in a two weeks notice. For ten years I carried anger toward that woman and her husband, often fantasizing about burning down their restaurant and watching them wail outside or sneaking into their house in back to kill them in bed. I never followed through with these daydreams, instead, I tried to think of them as sick people with horrible lives who took it out on their innocent employee.

Until the day I saw her working as a cashier at the local Fred Meyer in Soldotna.

I hesitated to approach the cash register at Fred Meyer because I recognized the old lady behind the counter, but I could not place from where. Since it was the only aisle open besides the robots, I went forth. As I placed the items from my register onto the treadmill, I realized who she was and when she looked up at me I could see fear in her old eyes as her mind remembered.

My breath and body tensed as we stared at each other for a moment.

“I remember you,” I said.
“I recognize you as well,” she muttered. “What’s your name?”
“Robert Stark,” I said.

Her body tensed and she looked down to continue scanning the groceries. We were silent during the entire transaction as a line formed. My mind reeled through mean words to say, violent actions to perform, an awful memory of how she treated me.

“That will be one-hundred and seventy-three dollars,” she said.

I dug in my wallet with a flushed face. I was shaky to the point of barely being able to grab my wallet from my back pocket.

“Do you remember when you called me a baby killer?” I asked, with a trembling voice.
Her eyes widened and she leaned back.
“No,” she said, shaking her head and placing her hand on her chest.
“Never in my life have I been treated as poorly as when I worked for you and your husband.”
“By my ex-husband?”
“By you and your ex-husband.”

I removed the debit card out of my wallet with shaky hands. An older Native lady behind me in line leaned closer to overhear the conversation.

“I don’t remember,” said the cashier.
“I quit working for you guys after finding a better job,” I said, holding the card with both hands as I slid it into the card reader. “When I went to collect my last paycheck, your husband was in the kitchen alone. He said, “Oh, it’s the douche,” and then he walked to the back where you guys lived.”

She shook her head, “Ross is an asshole.”

“And then you came out and got in my face and pointed at me. You called me a ‘baby killer’ and told me that I should go back to the middle-east to murder more babies.”

She stared blankly as the Native woman stepped closer. The card reader completed the transaction and I slid the card into my wallet and moved toward the paper bags full of groceries.

“Well, I am sorry,” she said. “I was in a bad place at the time.”

I looked into her dry eyes with watery eyes as sweat formed on my back and I thought about strangling her.

“For the past ten years I have thought about you and your husband every time I drove by the restaurant in Ninilchik,” I said. “And now I don’t have to think about it anymore. I hope you found peace.”

I left with my arms full of groceries and a lighter load on my back. I sat on a stool near Starbucks looking out the window at the cars and people while doing the breathing exercises my counselor taught me. I watched the old woman who once called me a baby killer slowly leave the store in a flowery, loose shirt and walk toward the parking lot. My anger left with her.