The Sisters from Hardscrabble Bay

by Beverly Jensen

  Idella had seen the strange young man—boy, really—enter the store and disappear behind the racks. He’d sort of skulked in. She’d never seen him before. She had been busy with the deliveryman and had lost track of him out of the corner of her eye. He had been crouched down beside the chips, she didn’t know for how long. Something about him was queer, and now she knew why.

  She didn’t know whether she should get a really good look at him for the police or try not to see him so that she couldn’t identify him. She’d read about that being safer for the victim. Her heart was beating very fast, and her cheeks felt hot from inside. Her high blood pressure was kicking up, no doubt about that.

  “Now, this won’t solve anything.” Her belt buckle pressed into her belly as she leaned against the counter. She didn’t dare step back and release it.

  “I just want the money,” he said, nodding toward the closed register, “and a couple of cartons of Camels—no, Winstons. Gimme all your Winstons.” He made a little jab toward the cigarettes with his gun, for emphasis. He was holding it low in front of his waist.

  “Well, there’s not much here right now,” she said, careful not to move even a finger. “I just paid the cigarette man most of the cash drawer. It’s not enough to risk going to jail for.”

  “Who said anything about jail? I’m talking money here, not jail. And cigarettes. Get me those Winstons—and a couple of cold six-packs.”

  “Now, how are you going to carry all that?”

  “Just let me worry about that, lady.” He jabbed his gun into the air again for emphasis. It startled him, and he pulled it in close.

  “Well, you can go pick out the beer—but if you want it cold, you’ll have to put some more in the case. I spent all morning filling that case, and I’m just about to drop.”

  She could see he was ill at ease, a scared and skinny kid. His teeth were bad. Nobody took him to the dentist. “Don’t tell anyone I sold it to you. I’ll lose my license. You’re too young to buy beer, and I don’t want to have anything to do with it.” No way was he eighteen. She had a good eye for it. Kids were always coming in trying to buy beer, and if they got away with it, you paid the price.

  “Jesus, lady, don’t worry. I’m stealing it, not buying it, so don’t worry, okay?”

  “You don’t have to swear. Just because you have a gun, it don’t mean you have to swear.”

  “What are you, my mother? I got two mothers all of a sudden? One’s plenty.”

  “You don’t know how lucky you are to have a mother.”

  “Yeah, well, you’ve never met mine.”

  Idella took a step back from the counter and let her belt buckle fall away from her belly. He was just a skinny kid, and she wasn’t going to let him make her sick. She was too old for this.

  “Listen, I’ll get the beer, and you fix me up a bag of food. Don’t try anything but what I tell you. I’ve got the gun right here, and I’m fast and you’re old.”

  “It don’t matter that much to me. A few six-packs and a little money. I’m not stupid.” She looked right at him. “What do you want in the bag? I’m going to reach under the counter now and get a brown paper bag and open it. I just want you to know what I’m going to do so you don’t get excited.”

  “Who’s excited?” His shoulders started rising. “I just want to get the hell out of here. Give me some of those cream rolls there.” He nodded toward the pastry shelf below the potato chips. “And a couple of Devil Dogs, some Twinkies, and a couple of those beef jerkies up there by the cigarettes.”

  “Is this all you want? Cream rolls and Devil Dogs?” No wonder his teeth were bad. She’d like to tell him that, but it was none of her business. She didn’t want to get him any more excited than he was. It’s his mother that should have told him. It might even be too late for him. He won’t have much of a life.

  The boy’s eyes darted around the overhead shelves. This was neat. He could have anything. He eyed a shelf of SpaghettiOs and pizza sauces, laundry soaps, and toilet paper. He should probably help himself to a roll of that. Buses never had anything. Just taking a whiz on a bus could make you puke.

  “You should have something besides sweets. What about a sandwich? You want me to make you an Italian sandwich?”

  His mouth watered at the thought. “That’d be great.”

  “I have to go in the back to make it. Will you watch the store?”

  “What?”

  “If anyone comes in, just ask them to wait.”

  “Right. Okay. Hurry up.”

  “I’m going to walk out from behind the counter now and go back to make the sandwich. You’ll hear the door to the cooler back there open and close. And I’ll have to use a knife to slice things.”

  “Enough with the blow-by-blow.”

  “Do you like olives? Some people don’t care much for them.”

  “Yeah, sure.” He was about to keel over with hunger. He grabbed a big bag of potato chips from the rack and yanked at the top. His hands were slippery with sweat, and he couldn’t get a good grip with the gun in one hand. The bag wouldn’t open. Idella stood watching him.

  “Do you want me to do it?”

  “No.” He grabbed the side of the bag with his teeth and tore into it. Chips spewed everywhere. They flew up onto his arms and shoulders and stuck there like oily feathers. Idella stood watching as he cradled the gaping bag against his belly with the arm holding the gun and stuffed the chips into his mouth with his free hand. He eats like a mangy animal, she thought.

  “Well, what are you looking at? Go make that sandwich.”

  Idella wasn’t sure what to do with her arms and hands. She held them straight in front of her and walked from behind the counter. Potato chips crunched beneath her step, but she didn’t stoop to pick them up. She walked, zombielike, into the back of the store, behind the big meat counter full of hot dogs and torpedoes of bologna and salami.

  “I’m hearing everything!” he called through a wad of ground chips.

  He needed a beer. He looked through the glass doors of the case. Miller High Life, “The Champagne of Bottled Beers.” He slid the case open and pulled out a six-pack. “I’m watchin’ you!” he called out.

  “I’m just now slicing the tomato,” she called. He could hear the thump, thump, thump of her slicing, even and efficient. “I’m using the knife now, and in a minute I’m going to be using the slicer. I won’t be able to hear the door then, so keep an eye out.”

  He reached in and grabbed a second six-pack, then slid the door closed with his foot.

  “Did you put warm ones back in?” she called. Jesus, he thought, she must be listening to every sound I make. “Take the cold ones from the back and move them up front and put warm ones in the back.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m doing it.”

  “Do you want two sandwiches? I might as well make two while I’m at it.”

  “Sure.” He was sliding two warm six-packs into the back of the case. He had to put his gun in his pocket and get down on his hands and knees. It felt good in the cool beer case with only the purr of the motor and the cold bottles rubbing against his arms. He closed his eyes. Sometime today he’d be on a Greyhound heading south, where they had air-conditioning all over. Every room would feel as good as this beer cooler.

  Idella laid strips of American cheese down the length of sliced rolls. This will make the Prescott Mills Observer, she thought. Certainly it’ll be in the Police Blotter section, maybe even the front page. They might want a picture. It’d be good to get a picture in—might pick up business a little. People going by will want to stop in and ask about it, and then they’d feel obliged to buy something. She sighed—maybe the publicity would help make up for the money he’d take. There was always something. Last week one of the beer coolers broke down. Yesterday a Coke bottle exploded out back. Someone could have been killed. At least they weren’t losing the beer license again—like when Edward sold that beer on Sunday. Jesus, she could have killed him. She was pushing the large torpedo of
salami through the electric slicer. You work so hard to build up a business, try to make a little profit, day after day coming over here morning and night—and then he goes and pulls a stunt like that. Trying to be a big shot, selling beer to a group of Sunday hunters. Undercover men, every one. She sighed again and wrapped up the extra slices. There was always something. Now this.

  The boy eased himself out of the cooler and slid the door closed. The meat slicer started, high-pitched and whining. It made him grind his teeth. It was like those damn paper machines at the mill. His mother had stood at them so long she didn’t even hear them. He wasn’t going to spend his life standing there listening to those machines and smelling cabbages. It’s the smell of money in this town, his mother said. But it was somebody else’s money, and it smelled like rotten cabbages. “About time you started workin’ in the mill, boy. Don’t you think it’s time to start carrying your load?” It was bad enough the old man had to barge back into his life and make things worse for everyone. He wasn’t gonna start running things. “You live in this town, you work at the mill.” That’s all he’d ever heard. No thanks.

  He pulled out a beer, popped it open at the soda cooler, and took a long drink. It was so cold it burned his throat.

  “You’re not supposed to drink that here.”

  Two little boys stood staring up at him. He hadn’t heard them enter the store.

  “You work here?” the older boy asked. He was about nine. His fist was clenched into a grimy swirl.

  “Yeah, what of it?” He put his beer on the cookie rack behind him.

  “We got nickels!” The smaller boy opened his hand. “Can you wait on us?”

  He looked toward the sound of the slicer. She was taking forever.

  “Come on, mister!” The boys were already in front of the candy case.

  Stepping back behind the counter, he pushed the gun down further into his front pocket. If the old man found it missing, he was in big trouble.

  “Mister!”

  “Okay, okay!” He bent down and reached into the large glass-fronted counter. The candy lay splendidly before him—penny stuff on the bottom and whole boxes of candy bars filling the top shelf. He grabbed a malted milk ball and popped it into his mouth.

  “Do you have to pay for that?” The older boy eyed him suspiciously.

  “It’s part of my job. I get to take whatever I want.” He popped in another. “Now, what do you kids want? Hurry up. Who’s first?”

  “Pete, what do you want?” The older boy gave his little brother a nudge.

  “How much are those?”

  “A penny. Everything down there is a penny.” He’d heard the store lady answering the same question while he had crouched behind the potato chips.

  “How many can I get with a nickel?”

  “Five.” He scooched down to look into the case. The little boy was staring through the smeared glass at him. “Hurry up and decide, or I’ll decide for you.”

  “Get a Popsicle like me, Pete. You’ll want one when you see mine. Come on.” He led Pete to the ice-cream freezer, slid open the glass door, and peered in. “Do you want orange or cherry?”

  “Orange.”

  “Here.” He handed a Popsicle to his brother. “Hold on to it by the sticks.”

  He reached in and pulled one out for himself. “I never seen you in here before.” He closed the freezer and stood looking up at the man behind the counter.

  “Yeah? You live here or something? You know everything that happens?”

  “Where’s Mrs. Jensen?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  “Here I am. Hello, Wayne.” Idella emerged from the back of the store carrying a stack of Italian sandwiches, each tightly wrapped in wax paper and secured with tape. “You kids got what you need?” She placed the sandwiches on the end of the counter in a neat pyramid. One was a little away from the others.

  “Hi, Mrs. Jensen. I’m supposed to get a loaf of bread, too.” Wayne placed a wadded dollar bill on the counter. He reached into the bread rack and grabbed a bag of bread.

  Idella stepped behind the register. The young man stood close to her. “Get those kids outta here.” She nodded and pushed the register buttons. The money drawer opened with a ping. “Don’t close that thing,” he whispered as she unwadded the boy’s bill and placed it in the drawer.

  “Here’s your change. You don’t need a bag for that, do you?”

  “Nope.” Wayne took the bread with one hand and pushed Pete through the door with an outstretched finger. Pete’s gummy Popsicle wrapper dropped to the floor as the screen door banged behind them.

  “Those kids,” she said, shaking her head. She resisted her impulse to go pick it up.

  “I want all the money in your drawer. All of it. I gotta get out of here. I’ve got this gun in my pocket, and I know how to use it if I have to.” He was glad not to be holding it anymore. He figured she was plenty scared already.

  She wanted to tell him to hold his horses, she was doing the best she could, but she thought she’d better go along with him and keep calm. Still, there was something pathetic. She collected the bills from the register, automatically counting them out as she dealt them, like giving change. “Seventy-nine, eighty, eighty-one. Eighty-one dollars.”

  “That’s all? That’s it?” He stuffed them into his front pocket.

  “Do you want the change, too?”

  “Everything!” He held his front pocket open. She gathered the change and poured it in.

  “Gimme those rolls of nickels, too!”

  “It’s going to be so heavy.”

  “I’ll worry about that. Clear it out.”

  “You want all those pennies?”

  “Everything.” He crammed the rolls of change into his back pocket. They were hard little sausages that pushed into his behind.

  “You sure you want all these beer bottles?” Idella had opened up two large paper bags with a whoosh and pushed one inside the other.

  “Do like I say.” He had to be tough. He was getting so hot his shirt was sticking to his back like wallpaper. That long swig of beer was the only thing in his stomach. He could puke. “Put the sandwiches in on top. Gimme a bunch, since you made up so damn many.”

  He looked over at the pile of sandwiches. The one apart from the others was marked “NO” with black crayon.

  “What are those marks for?” he asked.

  Idella looked at him. “That’s ‘no onions.’ Some people don’t like onions. They give some people gas.”

  The boy looked at the sandwich for a long moment. “Maybe I shouldn’t have any onions. I don’t want to get gas on the bus.”

  “You never had any trouble before, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then, it’s not likely. I wouldn’t worry about it if I was you.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re not me.”

  “You are awfully touchy.” She placed three unmarked sandwiches into his bag.

  The young man shifted his weight uncomfortably. The lady was right about all the change. He was going to have to tighten his belt. His pants were dragging down off his waist. Jesus, this was going from bad to worse.

  “Hello, Mrs. Jensen!” The front door opened with a clang, and a hearty voice called out.

  “Well, hello there, Rickie! What can I do for you today?”

  “Them sandwiches is a sight for sore eyes! Been on the road for thirteen hours.” A burly customer walked past the candy and coolers and stood in front of Idella. His muscular arms were bare, displaying a large green anchor with a blue snake coiled around it above one elbow. “I could eat my truck, I think.”

  “Oh, now, don’t go eating your truck.” Idella was nodding and smiling. “You’d regret it in the morning.”

  “Ya,” he chortled. “I guess I would. Better stick to beer.” He walked heavily over to the beer case and yanked one of the sliding doors. “Nice ’n’ cold, Mrs. Jensen.”

  “I try.”

  “Why, hello
, young fella! Didn’t see you had someone else back there. You finally got yourself some help, Mrs. Jensen?” He stood grinning at the young man.

  “Why . . . yes, yes, I guess you could say that. For today anyway.” Idella and the young man were staring at one another. “This is . . . Dalton . . . my brother’s boy from down in Canada. He’s just passing through for the day, helping me out a little.”

  “She could use you every day of the year, I bet. Mrs. Jensen works too hard.”

  “Oh, wouldn’t that be nice!” Mrs. Jensen said, smiling at the young man. “But kids have a mind of their own.”

  “You don’t have to tell my kids that. They know it.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a rolled wad of bills. “Gimme . . . ahhh, hell, gimme three of them sandwiches!” Idella grabbed two from the pile. Her hand hovered over the one marked “NO.”

  “Loaded! I hope they’re loaded to the top. Everything you’ve got.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, pulling the third from the pile.

  “Dalton, huh? What kinda name is that?”

  “Oh, it’s a family name. It was my brother’s name.”

  “Is that so? Unusual. Well, nice to meet ya, Dalton.” The boy nodded. “He’s the quiet type, I can tell that. My kids are always talking.”

  “He talks when he wants to, don’t you, Dalton?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Polite, too. I like ’im. You oughta try to keep him on! Now, what do I owe ya?”

  “That’ll be three dollars and twelve cents with tax,” she said, calculating in her head.

  “Well, all I got is a ten.” He slapped it on the counter. “Gimme some extra quarters, too, if you can. They’re good for those damn toll machines.”

  Idella looked over at the boy and opened her eyes wide, as if to signal him. She coughed a little dry cough. He looked back at her blankly. She nodded her head toward the empty register and raised her eyebrows.

  “Hold on there. Gimme a carton of those Camels. And a carton of Winstons for the old woman. That’ll keep her from complainin’. Gotta keep ’em happy if you wanna keep ’em!” Rickie slapped the counter with the palm of his hand. Dalton’s shoulders rose an inch. “Well, Mrs. Jensen, I bet I owe you something else now. Gimme the word.”