Two women, one black, one white, caught in a trap of violence and sorrow, just can’t escape the pain.

Chanise left the job.

That’s what cops call their work.

The job.

Gina left her husband.

Vic, whose voice she recognized when the gunman stood in the pizzeria doorway and killed Sal with one in the nostril and one in the heart.

Chanise black.

Gina white.

Both accomplished women after years of fighting inequality that targets women the way white cops regularly target black men. Women always die inside before they die outside. White cops kill them, too. Black children as well.

Millions of guns in America make death so easy.

Chanise’s little boy died from an accidental self-inflicted gunshot wound. Her husband, Jimmy, pulled the trigger on himself, on purpose, destroying his brain with a bullet he fired into his head.

Gina recently watched a murder in progress. Truth told, though, she was glad to see Sal go. But now the murder complicates her life even more since she knows who did it. Vic is so stupid. He’ll get caught. Should she say anything? Tell police? Practice omerta, the age-old Italian code of silence?

A voice startles Gina back to reality.

I’d like to order a small pizza, please.

Chanise stood in the doorway where Vic stood a few nights before. That’s the rule. Stand in the doorway, order a pizza from a social distance and look at the Blessed Mother’s image on the wall. Chanise wondered how intelligent people could really believe a hazy form represents a real sign of hope through faith. Faith is a trick. Hope offers no guarantee. Prayer only works when it works which usually is not the case.

Gina and Chanise share a lack of faith and hope. Neither believes in God. Neither prays.  Neither expects life to get better. Both are willing to fight but neither is sure anymore what exactly she is fighting for.

Any toppings?

Banana peppers, Chanise said.

You look more interested in the menu than in the Blessed Mother, Gina said.

I‘m hungry, Chanise said, but I admit I was curious.

You’re not a believer?

No.

Me, neither. You live around here?

Not far, Chanise said. I just saw the sign and remembered the story from TV.

You got here just in time, Gina said.

Why is that?

The Blessed Mother won’t be around much longer.

Are you laying her off because of the restaurant restrictions?

The women laughed.

No, Gina said, somebody’s going to turn out the light.

Chanise gave Gina a quizzical look.

You mind if I ask what that means?

You sound like a cop, Gina said.

Just a bad habit, Chanise said.

So is the tale of the Blessed Mother.

Were you here the other night?

Yes, Gina said.

You tell detectives what you saw?

Not everything, Gina said.

You plan to talk with them again.

Maybe.

Be careful, Chanise said. You can’t trust cops. Especially men cops.

Males in general, Gina said.

You got that right, sister.

I’m Gina.

I’m Chanise.

Despite the threat of infection Chanise approached the counter.

The women shook hands.

They both had been through worse.

At least they thought so.