by Beth Goobie
Panic swept Shir and she glanced quickly down the baking aisle. Would Wade notice her, she wondered, if he walked past the back end? Chances were he hadn’t come in for baking supplies, but why hadn’t he done the after-school usual—buy a chocolate bar and a pop up front, then head for the exit?
“Okay, bonehead,” said the other laughing voice. “Mom said it had to be red maraschino cherries—red to match my hair. Last time I screwed up and bought green ones, so before I left today, she made me get down on my knees and repeat five times, ‘I love my mother and I will buy red maraschino cherries.’ If I screw up this time, she’s going to dye my hair green to match.”
Shir’s heart plummeted. In Bill’s Grocer, maraschino cherries were stored in one place and one place only—the baking aisle. A quick glance revealed the small plastic tubs that contained them stacked on a shelf one meter to her right.
“Don’t sweat it, Ben,” Wade said cheerfully. “Green looks good on you. But don’t you think buying cherries for your mom is kind of perverted?”
“You’re perverted,” said Ben as they reached the end of the produce section. “Really perverted for even thinking something like that.”
“Hey,” said Wade. “A cherry’s a cherry and I’m blind, right?”
An agreeable guffaw greeted this comment, and then, as Shir watched, riveted, a red-haired, nerdish-looking guy she vaguely recognized as one of Collier High’s top math students entered the baking aisle, followed by tall, blond, good-looking, grinning Wade Sullivan. Frozen in front of the spice rack, her knees almost melting into her calves, Shir swallowed and swallowed her panic. For two days now, she had been keeping her eyes peeled for Wade, had even developed an extra set in the back of her head so she could maintain a constant 360-degree watch. More than once, she had reversed tracks when she had spotted him coming down a hall, and she had been strenuously avoiding the cafeteria and anywhere else he was known to hang out. But here in the store, she was trapped. She couldn’t take off and hide in the storage room; she had a job to do. To make matters worse, in this store, Wade Sullivan was a customer, and Mr. Anderson would expect her to serve him with a smile.
The moment they entered the aisle, both guys fixed on her. Immediate glee leapt onto Ben’s face. “Hey, bud,” he said, slapping Wade’s arm. “Talk about cherries. And she’s your type exactly.”
The glee in Wade’s face wasn’t as swift. For a second he seemed almost as frozen as Shir, his eyes narrowing, the grin fading from his face. But he recovered quickly.
“Hey, Ben,” he said, getting a grip on his grin. “Got a toonie?”
“The only toonies I’ve got are for maraschino cherries,” Ben said firmly. “Red maraschino cherries. Anyway, bonehead, you pay for your own love life.”
“Cheapskate,” said Wade. Fishing in his pocket, he pulled out a handful of change. “All’s I’ve got is a quarter, a dime, and three pennies.”
“So invest,” grinned Ben. “You know—the layaway plan.”
“Lay-away?” said Wade, cracking up.
Blood pounding in her face, Shir stood, gripping a bottle of curry. Not here in the store, she pleaded silently as the two smirking guys approached. You can’t do this to me in the store. Because if anyone overheard their comments, if Mr. Anderson or any of the store personnel saw her being treated this way, Shir knew without a doubt that it would change things. They would know then how the rest of the world saw her, how she really was. And from that moment on, everyone at Bill’s Grocer would deal with her differently. She wouldn’t be part of the store team anymore but separate—someone embarrassing, something to feel sorry for.
“Look,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I’m at work, okay? Like, this is my job. So could you please just—”
“Hey,” said Wade, holding up the quarter. “You allergic to people talking to you? Look, this is from me to you.” Still grinning, he placed the quarter on the trolley. “For our future. Lay-away, like Ben—”
“Excuse me,” said a voice behind Shir, and she turned, startled, to see a tiny elderly woman standing beside the trolley and peering up at Wade through her bifocals. It was Mrs. Duran, and from the way she was observing Wade, she seemed to think he was a kind of curious insect, something she didn’t quite understand.
“I don’t mean to interrupt your conversation, young man,” she said in her ancient quavery voice, “but I need some assistance from this young lady, if you don’t mind.”
Wade’s grin vanished. Expression suddenly ultra-polite, he stepped back, raised both hands and said, “Of course, ma’am. No problem. Just kidding around a bit, that’s all.”
Giving her a wide berth, he started down the aisle after Ben. But as he was walking past, Mrs. Duran reached out and picked up the quarter he had left on the trolley.
“Do you want this quarter, dear?” she asked, glancing intently at Shir.
“No,” Shir managed, her voice hoarse. “I don’t.”
“Then I think, young man,” said Mrs. Duran, taking hold of Wade’s hand and pressing the quarter firmly into his palm, “that this belongs to you.” For a moment, she remained like that, holding his hand and staring up at him as he stared back at her. Then, with a small shake of her head, she dropped his hand and turned to Shir.
“Now, Shirley,” she said with a smile, “I’ve run out of nutmeg, and it was such a lovely day, I thought I’d walk over to the store. Have you got some for me?”
Beside her, Wade seemed temporarily frozen, standing stockstill and staring at the quarter in his hand. Abruptly, his head came up and he strode quickly down the aisle.
“Hey, what’s with you?” called Ben, looking up from the label on a tub of maraschino cherries. “I’ve got to get red—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Wade called back. “I’ll meet you up front.”
With a shrug, Ben headed after him, leaving Shir swamped by relief so dense she almost sagged under its weight. Finally, the buggers were gone, she thought, taking their kiss-my-ass attitude with them. And leaving her standing, she realized suddenly, locked into position with a bottle of curry half-tilted into the spice rack. Letting it slide into place, she slowly stretched her cramped hand. She had been gripping the bottle so tightly, her knuckles were cracking.
“Goodness,” said Mrs. Duran. “Your arthritis is worse than mine.”
Another brief wave of panic swept Shir, and her eyes flitted uncertainly across the spice rack’s gleaming rows of bottles. She had been so relieved to see the butt ends of Wade and Ben that she had completely forgotten about the old lady. What in the world was she supposed to say to Mrs. Duran now, after what she had just seen?
Turning reluctantly, she met the elderly woman’s gaze. Tiny dark eyes peered back at her, bright with knowing, warm with it. A gulping sensation took over Shir’s throat and she looked away.
“Now, dear,” said Mrs. Duran, and Shir felt a small withered hand take her own. “What I need is some nutmeg. I’m about to make banana bread, and that’s what my recipe calls for.”
Quickly, Shir got a grip. “Nutmeg,” she blustered, extra loud to give herself something to focus on. “Sure, Mrs. Duran, we’ve got lots of nutmeg, and it comes in different sizes. D’you want a bottle or a tin? The tins are bigger.”
“A bottle, dear. That’ll be fine,” said Mrs. Duran, letting go of Shir’s hand and accepting the bottle she was handed. But instead of heading down the aisle with it, she stood staring at the label as if she had never seen one before. Finally, her eyes still on the bottle, she sighed. Reaching out, she gently patted Shir’s hand.
“Thank you, dear,” she said quietly. “It was lovely of you to take the time to help out an old lady.” Without meeting Shir’s eyes, she started off down the aisle, walking her careful, creaky steps.
“Any time, Mrs. Duran,” Shir called after her, the words overly loud, almost harsh in her throat. “Any time, you know it.”
“Yes, dear,” quavered Mrs. Duran without looking back. “I do.” And she con
tinued her ancient, creaking way down the aisle.
It was 8:30, the store empty of customers, the second cashier off-shift, and only Cathy left on till. In the far aisle, next to the diapers and toilet paper, Shir was maneuvering a wheeled bucket along the floor while she swished a steaming mop carefully across the linoleum. It had been a busy shift. After she had finished filling up the spice rack, Mr. Anderson had sent her out on several deliveries, one of which had been, once again, halfway across town. It had taken her forty minutes to get back to the store but he hadn’t complained, simply pocketed the van keys and asked her to mop the floor. And now, she thought with satisfaction, there was only a half-hour until closing time when she would be paid, then head over to the alley behind the liquor store to pick up a few overpriced beers. If she restricted herself to two and zipped them into her jacket pockets, it would be easy to sneak them into the apartment. After 9 PM, Mom was usually heavy into a TV drama and oblivious to the world. You could practically scream into her ear and she would just wave you off like a buzzing fly. Someone could die in front of her, not on the TV screen but in actual real life, and she wouldn’t pick up on it until the next commercial. Maybe not even then.
A moment of doubt hit Shir and her mop slowed. What if, she thought, for some unforeseen reason, Mom took a night off from Hollywood? What if, horror of horrors, she temporarily decided to take motherhood seriously and check out her elder daughter upon her return from work? There wouldn’t be anything yet to smell on Shir’s breath, but Mom could always go through her jacket pockets. If she found the beer, she would kick out Shir for sure. After what she had said last night, there would be no backing down.
Stockstill, Shir stood staring down at the mop. Without warning, it had once again descended upon her—the sucking, sinking sensation of fear that had been with her, now and again, since the first time her father had taken off. The knowing: Mommy doesn’t love me; she says I have to sleep on the floor tonight. And then a brief blurred memory of Janice Rutz, hissing, “I could get rid of you, kid. I could put you in a plastic bag and set you out for the garbageman. I could tie the bag real tight.”
But for all that, Shir thought, trying to shake herself out of it, her mother had never followed through on any of her threats. Last night’s talk would doubtless end up like all the others—part of a long pattern of warnings and ultimatums that never went anywhere. As usual, Janice Rutz hadn’t been serious; she had simply been letting off steam. Tonight, when Shir got in, her mother probably wouldn’t even remember their blowup.
And anyway, Shir could practically hear it—the first can of beer calling her name. All she had to do was let her thoughts drift, and she could feel the tab popping under her fingers and the smooth slide of liquid over her tongue. Inspired, she refocused on the mop and began swishing it up the aisle. If she got this done quickly and Mr. Anderson let her off ear—
“Shirley, there you are,” said her boss, poking his head around the end of the aisle.
Instantly, Shir stiffened, almost coming to attention. “Yes, sir,” she said. “I’m mopping the floor like you asked, before I go home.”
“Yes, and you’re doing a great job,” said Mr. Anderson, starting down the aisle toward her. “You’re my best floor-washer, you know.”
“I am?” said Shir. For a moment her mind blanked and she stood, just staring at him.
“Oh, yeah,” assured Mr. Anderson. “Everyone else just swipes at the floor, but you pay real attention to the dirt. And I wanted to tell you—today, one of the customers stopped me as she was going out, and told me what a help you’d been to her. Told me several times before she left, to make sure I got the message.”
A flush swept Shir’s face and she ducked her head. Mrs. Duran, she thought nervously. It had to be. Who else would have gone to the trouble of stopping Mr. Anderson and telling him something like that? But what she really had to find out now was whether the elderly woman had said anything more. Mr. Anderson had been outside the store, greeting Mr. Hrizi’s terrier when the incident with Wade had occurred, and the cashiers too busy at their tills to notice. Would Mrs. Duran have mentioned it?
“I gotta tell ya,” said Mr. Anderson, beaming warmly at her. “That lady is a very good judge of character, too.”
He seemed about to say more when the front-entrance bell jangled, turning him on his heel. As her boss started back up the aisle, Shir stood, mop in hand, watching him go. That hadn’t been too bad, she thought in relief. From what Mr. Anderson had said, it didn’t sound as if Mrs. Duran had complained about Wade and Ben. If she had, the evidence would have been all over his face; there would have been a kind of knowing in the way he looked at her. But he had been his usual beaming, grandfatherly self.
With a sigh, she got back to mopping the floor. So, she thought wryly, she was Bill’s Grocer’s premium floor-mopper. Well, that was fine with her. Here in the store, she didn’t mind doing that kind of thing. As long as it wasn’t Stella’s feet walking across the linoleum, and as long as she was being paid for it, she could mop floors all day. Especially if it was for Mr. Anderson. He was, simply put, the best kind of boss to have. Right now, she could hear him up front, talking cheerfully to a customer who had just come in. And the voice that replied was also familiar, a husky, edgy girl’s voice Shir was certain she had heard cutting loose at Collier High.
Glancing around the end of the aisle, Shir saw a tall, dark-haired girl standing beside the drinks cooler. Yup, she thought, frowning slightly. The kid was from Collier, all right. In her grad year, this girl could usually be seen hanging around the edge of school property with the smoking crowd. Shir had never spoken to her, but, all things considered, that wasn’t unusual. Leaning on her mop, she racked her brains, trying to recall the girl’s name. Ellenore? Evelyn? No, she mused, it was something weird. Like … Eunice, but shorter. Eunie—that was it. The girl’s name was Eunie Jahenny.
“And your mom?” Mr. Anderson was saying, as he propped himself against the counter. “How is she? Found a job yet?”
“Not yet,” said Eunie, the look on her face almost professionally bored. “Still working on it, I guess.”
“And you?” smiled Mr. Anderson. “How are you?”
“Oh … thirsty,” said Eunie, her eyes flitting across his face. “Real thirsty. So I thought I’d come in for a Coke.”
At her response, Mr. Anderson’s expression changed slightly, as if a bell had gone off deep inside his brain. “Ah, yes,” he said casually. “A Coke.” Reaching into the cooler, he took out a can of Coke and handed it to Eunie. “While you’re drinking this,” he added, “why don’t you come to the back with me? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”
“No prob,” shrugged Eunie, displaying not even a flicker of surprise, and they moved off down the produce aisle, speaking in lowered voices. Still leaning on her mop, Shir stood staring after them, then caught herself as she realized Cathy was watching her. Quickly she raised a hand and saluted, then started back down the diaper aisle. Weird, she thought, jabbing the mop into the bucket of water. What would Mr. Anderson have to talk about with Eunie Jahenny, of all people? And in the storage room, to boot? Had one of the cashiers quit? Was Mr. Anderson thinking—
Sudden fear swarmed Shir and she swallowed hard. Had Mr. Anderson finally realized he’d had enough of her, she wondered, and decided to hire a different delivery person? Heart pounding, she stared in the direction of the storage room, willing herself to see through the intervening shelves of canned and packaged goods. But no third eye opened up in her forehead, no mysterious vision revealed what was going on behind the Employees Only door. Nervously, she twisted the mop in the bucket’s wringer, lifted it out, and swished her way up the rest of the aisle. Then, dumping the mop into the bucket, she started wheeling the entire contraption toward the till, en route to the storage room.
“What—done already?” asked Cathy. Leaning against the till, she was reading the blurb on the back of a video box. In her early twenties and
a Brad Pitt addict, she was Mr. Anderson’s only full-time staff.
“Yeah,” said Shir, pausing beside the till. “I just have to dump this water.”
“Oh,” said Cathy. Absent-mindedly, she tapped a burgundy fingernail against an upper tooth. “Well, that’s good. Real good.”
With a nod, Shir once again started to wheel the bucket toward the storage room. But as she did, Cathy came abruptly alert and turned to her with a startled expression. “Wait a minute, Shirley,” she said, glancing toward the rear of the store. “Um … uh …”
For a moment, she fell silent, as if lost for words, then pivoted to face the front window. “What d’you think of the spring display I put up?” she asked brightly, pointing to several large cutouts that had been affixed to the glass.
“Nice,” said Shir, nodding agreeably. “I like the daffodils.”
“Good, that’s good,” Cathy said breathily, glancing again toward the rear of the store. “Look, could you do me a favor and straighten those chocolate bars over there?” Leaning forward, she pointed to the candy rack at the empty till.
Confused, Shir scanned the candy. From what she could see, the chocolate bars were already neatly arranged. “Sure,” she shrugged. “I’ll just wash my hands. Let me take the mop to the storage room, then I’ll come back and—”
“Um … well,” Cathy said emphatically, stepping out from behind the till. “Maybe we—” Abruptly her head snapped to the right, and an expression of relief crossed her face as the storage-room door opened and footsteps started down the produce aisle. “Never mind about the chocolate bars,” she said dismissively. “They look fine. Sometimes I get freaky about neatness.”
Before Shir could reply, Mr. Anderson appeared at the end of the produce aisle. “There you are, Shirley,” he said briskly. “All done, then?”
“Yes, sir,” said Shir, scanning his face for clues. Was she right? she wondered shakily. Had he decided to fire her and give her job to Eunie? Was that what Cathy hadn’t wanted her to overhear? “I just have to dump this water,” she added carefully.
