Another Short Story

An Act of Kindness

            With only a spattering of people, it’s clearly not a busy day at the diner. An aged couple and what I guess was a grandkid sit to my right. The little boy looks to be about five or six, and is continually entertained with his grandfather’s antics. He makes a tent out of the napkins, talking about how Mr. Fork and Mrs. Spoon are going camping that weekend. The little boy plays along and the both laugh. The man’s smiling wife watches from beside him, face aglow.

In the corner booth there’s a woman sitting by herself. She’s not much to look at, but there is a sense of raw beauty about her that I can just feel; I don’t know how to put it. In the way she holds herself, just her very existence. She is calm, and yet on the brink of some kind of collapse.

As a regular customer, she takes the usual: a bacon cheeseburger without the mayo (“less fat” she tells herself). This was accompanied by a large fry and water. The waitress, Donna, a nice girl, asks her if that’ll be all? The woman says yes and is left to her thoughts.       

It’s clear that older man at the other table must have said something wrong. His wife gets up and stares out the window. The man is sobered at this, and with a word to the boy to stay quietly, goes to his wife’s side. I watch with interest. He doesn’t say much, but what he said must have made an impact.

She turns to look at him (a breakthrough in any angry girlfriend case of my knowledge) and they smile at each other. Anyone could tell that these two have weathered the years together. The smiles reflect not happiness, but joy; knowing it’s going to be all right.  They stuck with it because that’s what people did in their generation. He then politely and quietly escorts her back to the table, where the boy is amusing himself with the napkins and table settings.

            The fryers around me bubble and sizzle. The kitchen sings to me with unique noises and smells. That sounds odd (the grease and grime about the place would disgust some people) but it gives me a sense of freedom. It’s not quite home, but a place where you can be- you don’t have to think, just exist.

            I look back to the woman in the corner booth just as a man comes hurrying though the door. She doesn’t look surprised, but there in my gut I have a feeling of anticipation. I can feel the clouds gathering, and it looks like rain.

            Bobby calls to me about getting back to work, but it doesn’t register. The man is obviously excited about something. He doesn’t really greet her, but starts talking about what he just came from. I hear the phrase “new job” and the word “opportunity”. The word “travel" makes an impact on her.

            When you talk to someone, there are different levels of interest. I learned this stuff in a psychology class. If the person is interested, they’re looking at you, and they’ve got that look with the tilted head that tells you they’re not daydreaming. Then there’s the thing where, if you ask, they say ‘I’m listening’, but you know they’re not. Their eyes are roaming, their heads are up, but their eyes and thoughts are elsewhere.

            This is different. As he’s talking, her head is drooping more. At first I start wondering if she’s sick. He keeps talking, though, she started fidgeting less and less. It’s obvious that he’s thought this all through; he’s not asking her, he’s telling her. Her hands are left sitting in her lap; not clenched in anger, not twitching with anticipation, but limp with defeat.

            The minute hand on the clock has moved a couple degrees, and he finally notices something. He says something to her and reaches his hand out. She looks up with her eyes, but her head is still down. Her hands are still in her lap.

“Are you sure about this?” He tells her yes, and there’s something else. He reaches in his pocket for something. The dread in me, for whatever reason, begins to build. He stands up and walks to her side. He kneels. I don’t even have to tell you what he says next. It’s universal western body language: he’s proposing.

            Her head falls and I hear a sob. This catches the attention of the grandmother, who’s been talking with her husband. He looks, but they decide to attend to their own affairs.

            The young woman is now sobbing openly. Not knowing what to do the man just stands there. As I’m watching, a sort of loathing or disgust rises up in me. Tell her you love her, you dope! Say “It’s all right, I’m here for you.”

But then it hits me. He’s not there for her. He wants her to support him be there for his sake. As this is racing through my mind, he stumbles back. Without a further word he turns and exits the building.

            “Jeff, are you going to get back here or-” I don’t give Bobby a chance to finish. I load up a plate and step out of the kitchen.

            I don’t say anything. If I did I know I’d have made an idiot out of myself and only embarrassed her more. How do you approach a hurting person? Trying to step lightly with my oversized feet, I slide into the seat across from her and set the plate in front of her. She has composed herself a little now, and looks upward to make eye contact. I smile in what I hope is a reassuring manner and give a little nod.

             I know that, at this point, words are useless. She nods a thank-you and hesitantly takes from the plate, even though she’s not really hungry. I just hope that I can help by keeping her from being alone.

Copyright Jackson Kerr, 2012

The Bloodied Knife

The Bloodied Knife

Jackson Kerr

            Mr. Pierce Richam had been sitting for several minutes now, waiting. It had been a busy day with much running about town. His patience was already growing thin as his appetite increased. He had shouted for Mrs. Dribblewitz several times, with no audible response. Getting up to investigate the matter was not an option. Of all the things he had learned as the master of his home, it was this; if you wanted any respect from servants you could not be a man adept to change.

            The grandfather clock against the wall to his left ticked away the seconds. The table was small, decorated simply, but with taste. A small vase with freshly-cut flowers acted as a centerpiece. Candles were lit, and the light through the windows faded hesitantly, drawing attention to the vase and to shadows cast about the room. It was a reverse prism, the shadows forming shapes like constellations, having any meaning that was put to them.

            Dinner was five minutes late; then ten. Mr. Richam was just about to give in when Mrs. Judy Dribblewitz entered from the kitchen, pushing through the swinging door. The man scarcely knew what to think. Due to the poor design of the house, any rubbish to be disposed of would have to be taken through the dining room out to the back door. Most of the time, the hired help would do this either before or after meals, knowing not to interrupt. But rubbish was not the subject of the matter now.

            When Mrs. Dribblewitz came in she was in obvious distress. Shocked at the sight, Mr. Richam asked her what she held in her hand. Pierce knew what it was, but he needed to hear her say it, as though to confirm what he saw. Flustered, she responded.

            “It’s a knife!”

“But what has it been used for?”

“To heavens if I know! What would a bloodied knife be doing in MY kitchen?” That, madam- Mr. Richam thought to himself- is the question. He tried to broach the matter in a different way.

“Do you mean to tell me you have absolutely no idea what it was doing there?” The red in her face spread to her neck.

“Of course I don’t!” (Mrs. Dribblewitz was no woman to be questioned if you expected silence or submission in return.) “What would I be doing with such a thing?” Mr. Richam knew exactly what someone with a bloodied knife could have done.

Mr. Welter was unhappy. A disorderly house was no house to be in. As he had been known by Mr. Richam’s family for many years, he naturally kept his position as head butler of the house when Pierce’s parents passed away. Pierce fondly referred to Mr. Welter, his trusted servant, as “Alfred”. But his name was Horace.

Horace ignored this continuality and persevered in his duties, making sure that the house was in good order. When all the displays were spotless, all the books in order, and the various other servants busy about the work to be done, Mr. Welter was a happy man.

Mr. Horace Welter was a faithful servant of the Richam family for years. The man often towered over the family at dinner, heeding the master’s every beck and call. Due to a long series of deaths and accidents, however, the family line was reduced to this closely-knit group of the senior Mr. and Mrs. Richam and Pierce, their only son and heir. Horace had been there at both of the parents’ deaths. He assured the mother, the second to pass, that he would take good care of their son and heir.

Order. The universe certainly didn’t provide enough of it, so Mr. Welter had to work harder. But it was just as well, being a sentinel of the house. All was well until disorder crept into his realm. After years of experience, Horace had found never to say “unless”. It was rampant; when you were finally rid of disorder, it crept in by other means. In any form it was always an attack, an affront on what was right and good in a well-ordered house. Disorder was not to be tolerated in any sense of the word.

“Of all the indignities, being questioned as a common criminal-” The maid stopped short at the sudden appearance of Mr. Welter stepping into the room. The man’s large frame filled the doorway. All action halted. Mr. Richam and Mrs. Dribblewitz stared at him. He cleared his throat.

“Is there a problem, sir?” Suddenly Pierce was nervous. Confused, his eyes went to the woman in front of him before returning to the towering butler.

“No, Alfred, there is nothing wrong.” The butler stood hesitating for a moment. It was apparent, though, that he was determined to do something.

“Is the knife troubling you?” His voice was calm and firm, as always. But there seemed to be something else in an undertone of his voice, something beneath the surface. Mr. Richam shook his head, suddenly feeling surrounded by enemies.

“No, but thank you Alfred. I was just waiting for dinner to be served.”  Mr. Richam lowered himself into his seat with dignity, remaining in charge of the situation. “Now Mrs. Dribblewitz, tell me exactly what happened before you… found the knife.” She stood stiffly, glancing occasionally at Mr. Richam. But her attention was directed at Mr. Welter.

It was plain to Horace that Mr. Richam was upset about something. The knife in Mrs. Dribblewitz’s hand was of interest. He pitied the woman, both for her situation and her name. The fact that the blade was tainted a deep red had not escaped his attention; it simply was not a priority. Restoring peace was always a priority.

Seeing that whatever argument happening at the moment would not lead anywhere productive, Mr. Richam nodded at the knife in Judy’s possession, begging an explanation. Mr. Welter made a slight yet unexpected movement toward the woman.

“Mrs. Dribblewitz, I would suggest you continue with your duties.” Glancing between the two men, the cook-maid began to retreat from the room, muttering to herself.

“Wait a minute!” Mr. Richam was on his feet. “Whatever happened to explaining what the thing is about?” he said, gesturing at the woman holding the knife. “We can’t let the matter alone; we don’t know how it came to be this way.” He motioned to a chair. “Have a seat, if you please.”

It would be a terrible waste of words and space to say that the tension could be cut with a knife. Mrs. Dribblewitz shifted uncomfortably, apparently unsure whether to keep her eye on her employer or the butler.

“Sir, I honestly don’t see what this has to do with anything!” Horace’s voice rose in pitch and volume. Both Pierce and the maid were taken aback by this. “Finding out how she found the knife will not help with restoring order to this place. Now Mrs. Dribblewitz, just run along and take care of things! Mr. Richam still has not had his supper yet, as you well know!” Both turned to stare at the butler’s outburst.

“What do you mean Alfred?” The butler regained his nerve and continued.

“I simply mean, sir, that I know you’ve had a long day. I didn’t want any more trouble for you.” After this inexcusable outburst, Mr. Richam watched the man retreat back into a sense of calm. “There should have been nothing to trouble you tonight. Now, m’am if you will please see to dinner, and be sure that the knife is taken care of.” Pierce looked at the man carefully.

“Why does it matter to you so much what is done with the thing? If it is of no consequence, then why do you insist that is should be disposed of?” Mr. Richam’s eyes shifted back to the maid. “Unless he knows that you have murdered someone.” Now all of his attention was on Mrs. Dribblewitz. The woman’s eyes began darting back and forth more quickly now.

“Well, who would I murder? And why?”

“Yes, what motive would she have to commit such a crime? And who would it be against?” The butler’s questioning caught Mr. Richam by surprise. What startled him more were his thoughts; the idea of being surrounded by those who were out to harm him. It was ridiculous, he knew, but he could not control the rampaging emotions and thoughts in his head.

“Enough!”  Pierce wasn’t sure whether he was commanding his thoughts or the butler. “I will hear all that she has to say about the matter. Let nothing further interrupt her.” The butler’s hands flew up.

“But she has nothing to say!”

“She does!” Mr. Richam turned abruptly to the maid. “Let us hear it, ma’m; your account of this evening’s activities, from the start.”

She sighed (whether out of exhaust or defeat, it could not be told) and put her head in her hand for a moment, before beginning.

“I went as I always do to prepare dinner. I had finished a salad, and was ready to take care of the Foie Gras, when I discovered the knife lying on the counter.”

“Did you find anything lying on the counter near it?” She shook her head.

“No, the knife was the only thing out of place.”

“Do you have any thoughts as to where it came from?” The questions came quickly, as a reflex.

“If you’re asking whether it came from here, it’s quite possible.” The knife in her hand was suddenly being handled by an expert at of a craft rather than a victim of accusations. “I use only the best knives in the business. This one is just the same quality as…” She stopped, before she could continue digging her own grave. Mr. Richam studied her, judging her words. She was eyeing him now, as a trapped hare might eye the hounds that have cornered him.

He finished the sentence for her. “…the same as any of the knives in this house.” Pale and suddenly trembling, the maid nodded at his response. “Mrs. Dribblewitz, I’m afraid I don’t know what to say. I’ve trusted you all of these years- to go and do something like this is unthinkable. Who was the victim?” The woman let out what may have been either a squeal or a small shriek.

“What? You can’t still possibly think that I- that I killed someone?” It seemed the idea had never occurred to her.

“But what else can I assume? Unless, of course, you have evidence to the contrary?” Mr. Richam’s face showed no signs of jesting. A movement to his right stopped any further conversation. Another servant stood in the doorway. The servants were trained to have poise and elegance. This was the closest thing to awkwardness Mr. Richam had ever seen in one of them before.

            “Well? What is it?” His sharp tone caught the man off guard. There was a flash, the slightest hint of a flinch that could be read on his face.

“A guest, sir.”

“Well, what are you standing around here for, then? Bring him in!” The man bowed silently, turning away. He scurried, more than anything, out of the room. He returned in a moment with slightly more composure, letting pass-

“Why Archibald!” Mr. Dribblewitz was greeted by his wife with both joy and uncertainty. “What on earth are you doing here?” The plump man shrugged.

“Is there a reason not to be here?” His jovial face showed no signs of knowing the current social atmosphere of the room.

“But I’m working! I’ve told you about this several times now-”

“Oh dear, don’t make a fuss about it!” She continued blathering about how this was not acceptable, and how he would have to leave, but Pierce had another idea. He offered the man a seat, and the man obliged. His girth adjusted itself as he sat. Sitting, for him, seemed more a release than an action. In any case it was obviously something that he was very used to.

“Mr. Dribblewitz, do you have any idea what your wife would be doing with a large knife, roaming about my house?” The woman looked shocked at the audacity to ask such a direct question. She sat across the table from her husband, staring, silently pleading. Mr. Dribblewitz, his joviality unchanged, turned to his wife.

“Dear, don’t you remember? You asked me to get that favorite knife of yours back from Bromley, the butcher.”

Pierce blinked, as the unexpected idea hit his mind.

“You mean to say you took this knife directly from the butcher’s shop?”

“Well, not exactly. He called up, asking whether it would be all right to borrow it. He has a new young man working for him, you know. He says that the lad is supposed to bring his knife with him or leave it at the shop. Unfortunately he didn’t do either, and Bromley called up asking if he might borrow a butcher’s knife from my wife. I pitied him, as he said they were expecting a rush, and sent it to him. When he was finished he must have sent it here, knowing as you work here. So you see, I was not the one to drop the knife off here. It was probably the butcher’s apprentice.”

“But how would it get here without my noticing, unless…” Pierce then remembered the busy day that he had been through and getting back for dinner less than half an hour ago. With that question out of the way there was just one left. “Mr. Dribblewitz, do you have any idea why, exactly, your wife would roam about the house with a butcher knife in the first place?”

“Well,” he said, “no, I don’t. I do know, though, that she has a habit of roaming about, especially when thinking hard or when upset over something.” Judy nodded as did Pierce, seeing that it was a fair assessment.

“The question, then, is why would she be roaming about with this knife rather than working?” There was surprise on Mr. Dribblewitz’s face at the young man’s lack of consideration of the matter.

“Well, what would you do? Decide that you were some sort of detective and track down the murderer that weren’t there?” The stupidity of Mr. Richam’s question was suddenly a slap in his own face. Apparently no one else could argue with that, either, as there was silence for half a minute. Suddenly he broke it all off with a “thank you, that will be all” and sat down to wait for his dinner. Nobody needed to be told to leave.

            “That was close.” Mrs. Dribblewitz now sat in her own quarters. The room was tidy, though had a feeling of being unlived in. There was dust here and there, attesting to little time to herself the woman had. Mr. Welter sat in a chair beside her. Both chairs faced a small fireplace, their backs to the bed and bureau. Horace sighed, leaving his head in his hand as it had been for the last several minutes.

“How could you let that happen?” Looking up, his face glowered with resentment. Her defenses went up.

“How was I to know it would happen?”

“But walking about the house with a knife?” He threw his hands up in frustration. Here and now all sense of professionalism was lost. “And a bloodied one, at that.”

“In any case, there’s no way he could know.”

“But after something like this, don’t you think that it would occur to him?”

“He thinks it was an honest mistake, which it was. Besides, he wouldn’t even think about the inheritance.”

“Well, it shouldn’t occur to him to tell himself the obvious, having no heirs. He could change his will, though, and then where would we be?” There was a lull in the conversation. She crossed to him, and put her hand on his shoulder reassuringly.

“Well, I suppose that we will have to move quickly then.” She stood behind him as he sat and they both remained, staring into the candlelight. They were not preparing, as much as waiting for what was to come. The inevitable would hopefully be in their favor the next time.

© Jackson Kerr, 2012

My Latest Short Story

     For some who are already following my blog, thank you! I am appreciative that some people have already shown interest. If you just feel obligated or aren't actually following, don't feel bad. That's my problem. Either I have expectations that are too high for the general populous or I'm delusional. Either way, I'm all right with it. (And I do not mean to beat the general populous. I'm sure that they're generally fine.)
     I'm writing to announce that I'm almost finished with another short story. The idea is a farce or spoof (I'm not sure which) of the classic murder mystery. It should be up soon, I just have to proofread it again and get a bit more input from my advisor before putting it up. (For those of you wondering, my advisor is, yes, my mother. But she gives good, objective feedback.)
     In any case, check back soon!

P.S. There's not really much point to the post, so I may end up deleting it later. Communication is important, though, and I'd like to think I do a good job at that. Communicating.

A Trip to the Supermarket

A Trip to the Supermarket

 The little old woman craned her neck to read the sign. Ed’s Emporium was a large superstore which sold anything and everything that you could think of. From milk to muskrats, couches to convertibles, you could find it all here. Taking up four city blocks, it was probably one of the largest superstores in the country and definitely the biggest of its kind in the city of Overton.  

  Mrs. Gwin stood just outside of the building. It was almost ridiculous, the contrast between the giant store and the old widow. Eunice was about five feet in height with a slightly bent upper back and curly white hair to boot. She was at this monstrosity of a store because she needed some flour for her special, homemade, Pumpernickel Sweet Bread.  It was a tradition of hers to make it every year at about Christmas time. She tried to think back to that special day so many years ago…

 

  On her thirteenth birthday, after many a slice of cake had been consumed and presents unwrapped, Eunice’s mother told her that they needed to talk privately. She led Eunice to the master bedroom, making sure no one followed, and proceeded to close and lock the door. Mrs. Gwin then told her daughter that, turning thirteen, she was old enough to be trusted with their family’s most closely-kept secret, the recipe for Great-Grandma Beatrice Gwin’s famous Pumpernickel Sweet Bread. This amazingly popular bread had won countless contests and received praise for its consistency, perfect moistness, and its undeniably good taste. There had been many attempts to copy and even steal this recipe. But Great-Grandma Beatrice, being prepared as she was, had made her thirteen year-old daughter memorize the recipe.

This is what Mrs. Gwin did with her own daughter. Each woman was to have her offspring memorize it (at the risk of being slightly obsessive) and the recipe was passed, in this way, down through the generations so that it would always be in the family, safe from harm.

  Eunice would usually have the ingredients delivered from Mr. McMillan’s store a block from her house, but it was closed for renovations, the first time in over thirty years. She didn’t know why the man suddenly decided to remodel his little store. The only people who shopped there were friends and neighbors who had shopped there for years. These people agreed that a small, family-owned business was better than a store where employees referred to each other as “that guy over there.”

   Hearing of this, one of Eunice’s friends, Muriel, had recommended that she shop at this the new superstore in town.

 “Besides, you could stand to get out of the house once in a while.” Seeing no alternative shopping opportunities, Eunice supposed, at the time, that she should at least see the inside of the store.

 

   Sighing, and wondering what she had gotten herself into, Eunice stumped towards the entrance, and the doors started to slide open. But then they stopped. There was about a three-inch gap between the two sliding glass doors.  

   Then the gap closed. The old woman stood and watched, somewhat flustered, as the doors opened again, this time leaving about a five-inch gap. Noticing the malfunctioning doors, one of the employees inside the building came to her aid. With much advising such as “Pull harder!”, “That’s it!”, and “Just a little more!” he had her pull the doors open. Slipping between the two doors, Eunice gave the employee a dirty look as he stared at the doors, talking about how “Someone really should get that fixed.” As Eunice passed him, she noticed the word Maintenance on his name tag.

   Eunice entered the lobby of the store and looked around. “My goodness!” she exclaimed. The store was huge. The ceiling seemed to be ten stories above her head. She looked towards what she assumed to be the back of the store. All she could see were the large metal shelves that housed every item imaginable. The aisles seemed to continue as far back as the eye could see.

  As she stood gaping at the cavernous warehouse inadequately labeled a store, she spotted a clerk. The gangly, teenage, sales clerk, obviously new to the job, was being lectured by his aging, ever-widening boss. The tall one, seeing an elderly woman needing assistance (and an opportunity to get a raise) rushed to her service, completely ignoring the protests of his vertically challenged supervisor.

  “Can I help you M’am?” Eunice smiled.

“Yes, could you tell me where-” but she was interrupted by the teenager who was reading a short sales pitch that he had copied down on the palm of his right hand.

“Might I interest you in our new, designer-” at this point he flipped his hand over to read the back of it- “series mega-wreath version 2.2 for this Christmas?” Eunice stopped and, with a confused look on her face, responded.

  “What was wrong with it?” The young man swallowed.

“What do you mean?”

“What was wrong with the first one that was made?” the young man glanced around nervously.

“Well there were several things wrong with the wiring of the lights, besides the fact that, to be able to offer something before our competition, we bought from some… questionable characters.” Glancing over the young man’s shoulder, Eunice saw that the older man had his head in his hand, probably wondering why employment standards had sunk so low. Realizing his boss’ impatience was increasing, the young man nervously cleared his throat and tried again. “Would you like to buy a wreath?” he tried.

“Oh, no thank you. I’m just here to buy flour-” Here he indiscreetly referred to his other hand.

“We also offer, at this fine establishment, our home-grown, pre-packaged, poinsettias in our conditioned greenhouse. That would be…”

He paused, thinking for a moment, “sector 3 in aisle 61 I believe.” The elderly woman stared at him for a minute and tried a third time, her exasperation evident.

“No, I need baking flour, not flowers.” The young man stared at her for a few seconds.

“Oh… well…” she watched as he grabbed his right leg, lifted it, and pulled up his pant leg to read something that he had scribbled along the inside of his leg, all the while, trying to keep his balance; “…are you sure you don’t need a new 72’, ultra-thin television set complete with a DVD player and Blu-ray capabilities?”

   After ten minutes of convincing the acne-covered teenager that she did not want a new garden hose or an inflatable reindeer he was dragged off by his older, now very angry associate, leaving Eunice Gwin to find the flour on her own. Seeing no particular aisle that would necessarily have flour in it, Mrs. Gwin set out for the aisle directly ahead. There were no signs to indicate what was housed in each aisle, but after seeing how the store was staffed, this didn’t surprise her.

   As she entered the first aisle, she saw that it had nothing in it but plates! Eunice was completely surrounded by plates. Plastic plates, glass plates, paper plates, square plates, round plates, there were more plates than you could count! But Mrs. Gwin didn’t need plates. So she trudged through to the end of the aisle and tried the next one on her left. As she approached it her vision was filled with books of fiction. They were everywhere; books by any author that you could think of, and many that you couldn’t. There was probably a collection there comparable to the library of congress. But Mrs. Gwin didn’t need books.

   Eunice sighed to herself. “This is going to be a long day.”

  Finding the few employees that she saw to be of no help, Eunice spent the next few hours scouting out about half of the store. Tired, bedraggled, and wondering whether it was worth it, she rounded the end of an aisle and started into the next. Suddenly her eyes lit up, she perked up, and her mouth opened in a smile. She was surrounded by flour. There was flour in all sizes. From crates to bags to boxes you could find it all here. She scanned over the shelves. There was rye flour, buckwheat flour, even flour made out of almonds! But Mrs. Gwin didn’t need any of those. All she wanted was some plain, white, baking flour. She walked down the aisle, looking for anything that looked familiar. Suddenly she saw it. There were rows of white flour made by all the major brand names that you could think of. Eunice quickly grabbed the first standard size bag that she saw and headed for the front.

   After another hour finding her way, Mrs. Gwin stood at the front of the building looking for a checkout lane. Finding one open, she made her way toward it. Placing her flour on the small conveyor belt, the small woman fished around in her purse for a five-dollar bill. Without looking up, the senior citizen decided to make small talk with the cashier.

   “So, have you worked here long?” The cashier pressed the button for the conveyer and responded.

“No not very long. Actually I was hired just a few days ago.”

“Oh, that’s nice.” Suddenly Eunice froze. Recognizing the familiar voice, she slowly turned her gaze upon the cashier’s face. It was the sales clerk whom she had met shortly upon arriving at the store. A wave of frustration rose up in Mrs. Gwin with the realization that with this guy even something as simple as checking out would be a hassle. But she decided that she should be friendly and make small talk. So, after having over two hours to wonder about it, she asked the question that had been at the back of her mind since she had first met the teenager.

“What is your name anyways young man?” The newly-dubbed cashier stared at her for a second and responded quietly, with a grimace in his voice; “Marlin.” Eunice almost winced at this (not finding taste in being named after a fish) but nodded instead.

  “I see.” Marlin scanned her item, punched a few buttons on the keyboard, and announced; “That’ll be $3.65.” Mrs. Gwin found a five-dollar bill and handed it to Marlin. He cleared his throat. “Well, seeing as that I owe $1.35 in change, would you prefer 135 pennies, 1 dollar bill and 35 pennies, 27 nickels-2 half-dollars-3 dimes and 5 pennies-” Eunice, being already impatient from wasting three hours buying flour, turned and stormed out of the store. Marlin shouted to her “Wait ma’m! What about the change?”

 “Keep it!” she called to him without looking back. As she exited the building, and headed for the bus stop, Eunice Gwin sighed to herself. When the bus arrived, she climbed on, found a seat, and rode to her small house.   

   When she arrived at her house, she unlocked the door, went inside, hung her coat up in the hall, and collapsed into her overstuffed armchair. As she sat trying to forget the events of the day, she decided that she should start making her Pumpernickel Sweet Bread. Only after she had entered the kitchen and prepared all the ingredients that she needed did she realize. She had forgotten the flour.  

copyright Jackson Kerr, 2012