by Jeffra Hays
BARGAIN BASEMENT
by Jeffra Hays
Copyright 2011 Jeffra Hays
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
BARGAIN BASEMENT
Mrs. Shirley Ryder’s knees of a certain age ached. She closed her eyes to force one more prayer. A chronic joke stole its place. “Pew burn, Momma.” She smiled at the memory of her mother, fourteen years dead, and their stupid jokes. Why did Shirl-girl cross the road? She opened her eyes as the congregation rose for the final hymn of the morning. To buy the cheapest chicken. Number six hundred eighty-six, “Come, thou fount of every blessing.” No bargains there but don’t despair. The familiar faithful, hymnals raised, sang the first stanza as she hummed, swayed and wiggled her knobby fingers, but Sunday was serious business. Pulling herself up from her knees and leaning back in her accustomed pew, she listened to the singing and began her Sunday census. “Mr. Curtis may be sick with asthma today, Momma. And Ann-Marie isn’t here either, third Sunday in a row.”
Shirley turned to the wrought iron candle stand, directly across the aisle, to count the votive flames in their dark red glasses. Each flame merited, first, a nod of her head, then the firm pressure of two fingers on her wrist. She had decided, despite her mother’s death, to continue their weekly attendance surveys, and to add a personal analysis by taking her church’s pulse with her own. “Only eleven lit today, Momma. Down, down, down.” She stared at the rows of candles, imagining her mother’s face as she chose to remember it, before her illness and decay.
The Amen cadence was her signal. Shirley gathered her sweater and purse and crossed the aisle to the candle stand. The candle she lit every week, fourth row, fourth from the left, was waiting. She drew a thin wooden stick from its sand tray and lit her mother’s memory. Twirling the burnt lighter in the sand, she glanced right and left, opened the zipper of her purse and patted the wallet inside. Then she closed the zipper and rested her fingertips on the slot of the wooden box, beside the candle stand, marked Deposit Offerings Here. “I’m going down now, Momma.” Shirley walked toward the imposing oak doors, shaking her head and whispering, “Like all of downtown. Bad business, worse every Sunday. God’s losing out to the mall.”
The congregation was leaving, chatting in the foyer and outside on the stone steps. Shirley spotted Angela, owner of a small beauty shop on County Boulevard. And where was Ann-Marie? – whose dressmaker shop was next door. “You know dressmakers,” she muttered, raised her hand to greet Angela, then shook a finger in hesitation. Avoiding anything more than a smile or nod, she pushed her way through the foyer to a staircase. Dim yellow light from two brass sconces threw shadows; peeling paint had collected in the corners of the steep stairs. She listened and waited. Alone, she bent over to tug at her stockings, to smooth the pew bubble over her knees. Momma hated senile sloppiness.
Her sweater settled around her shoulders, the top button secure, she hung her purse comfortably on her left arm, and reached for the wooden banister to begin her ritual descent. Sore knees made her wince. The banister jiggled under her weight. Facing the wall, she lowered her left foot, brought the right down next to it, and counted down twenty-three steps.
Opposite the stairs, two sets of double swinging doors led to the recreation hall where Shirley had attended five tiring dances in twelve years, attempted one bake sale and too many evenings of bingo. But she had never missed a rummage sale, even during the six years she had nursed her invalid mother. “The value of prayer and the value of a bargain; Shirl-girl, that’s heaven in the basement.”
The basement Madonna stood on a narrow wooden shelf, between the doors leading to the hall. Barely a foot high, she was carved of wood and dressed in traditional blue painted drapery. Tiny, slender fingers reached below the flare of her sleeves. Shirley approached to touch the hem where, she guessed, miniature feet must be hidden. Above her, a bronze plaque read Recreation. Hall was there too, behind her Madonna’s head. A small metal box, labeled Poor Soul Envelopes, shared the shelf with her. In a lifetime of Sundays, Shirley had never seen an envelope, or anyone drop anything into the box, which puzzled her. Taught in childhood that the basement Madonna offered the best deal available, Shirley remained her steady, devoted customer.
She unbuttoned her sweater, folded it in half twice and dropped it on the floor between her feet. Grasping the shelf for support, she knelt down on her sweater and hugged her purse to her chest. The old zipper was stubborn, but she yanked hard and opened it, pulled out her wallet and removed a folded bill of secret denomination.
“My Lady, here I am.” Every Saturday night, before bedtime, Shirley prepared a crisp dollar bill for her Lady. The young man at New State Bank, where she cashed Ted’s pension check, sometimes seemed irritated by her insistence on brand new, immaculate singles, but she was patient with everyone, ignored occasional eruptions of rudeness, and always returned home with precisely what she needed. Although choosing the best bill among 362 singles required time and attention, Shirley believed it was appreciated and even enjoyed the task. She always marked the center by creasing it with the handle of her hairbrush, then brought the two short ends to the center, creased both sides, and folded it once more, lengthwise. Her method hid the denomination of the bill and made it compact enough to slip easily through the slot of her Madonna’s box.
“You know me, the usual.” Purse and wallet beside her, Shirley looked up from her knees with clasped hands as her Madonna listened. “The upstairs candle for Momma, and something for poor souls, and this week maybe an extra little prayer for my Ted. I know I’m neglectful but he’ll never be forgotten. So many years now, I’ll always be sorry. You know. I’m sorry for what I did.” She reached for the shelf with her right hand, dragged her left foot in front of her, and leaned her left wrist on her knee. Pulling on her right and pushing on her left, she stood, lowered her head before the statue and dropped her donation into the box. “There you are, my Lady.” Shirley smoothed her stockings, picked up her sweater and shook it, and placed her wallet back in her purse. The zipper caught again. Forcing it did nothing. “I’ll take it in to Mr. Curtis tomorrow.” She turned, wobbling toward the dreaded stairs, and peeked at the statue for a moment. “Don’t forget to throw in a little something for little Shirl-girl.” She reached for the banister, pulling herself up a step at a time, counting back from twenty-three.
Mr. Curtis, owner of the last shoe repair shop on County Boulevard, grinned at Shirley and chewed his lip in frustration at her old tricks. He needed work, and they both knew it, but mother had trained daughter. They both knew that, too. Trapped, he sipped his coffee and bit into his muffin as she recited her groveling lament.
“I know you can fix it, Mr. Curtis, but what you don’t know is how old it is and how much it means to me, how my beloved Ted bought it for me for our fifth anniversary. With him dead thirteen years already it’s my treasure. I’m heartbroken. How much will it be? Have pity on an old customer, a widow, alone with nobody to care for her.”
“Please, please, Mrs. Ryder, you know that I always gave your mother a special price. I do the same for you. It’s $2.50 to fix the zipper. You can pick it up tomorrow.”
Shirley checked the zipper once more. “Well, you do nice work but that’s a little high. An even $2. $2 even.”
“An
even $2.50, Shirley. My best and final offer.”
“$2.50? Ready tomorrow?” She rested the purse on the counter and dug into her tote. “And these plastic sandals need a new buckle and these brown pumps need new lifts. $2.50 you said.”
“$4.75 with the buckle and the lifts. Just for you, ready tomorrow with the purse. Yes or no.”
“$4.75 you said. And where were you yesterday? I missed you at church. Asthma again?”
Mr. Curtis took the shoes from her and tore off a ticket stub for the three items. “No, my asthma’s not too bad. Babysitting. We took my daughter’s three kids to the mall for breakfast. No sitting through a service for them. Easier on us, too. We bought some tee shirts and sneakers, and the morning goes before you know it.”
“But what about church, Mr. Curtis, what about prayer, what about God?”
Leaning close to her, his hands folded on the counter, he squinted with frustration and impatience. “We do the best we can, my family, just like you. Or maybe you have a suggestion.” He stood up, vaguely contrite, and slapped a hand on the counter. “But I should be back next Sunday. And I guess I’ll see you Saturday night at the rummage sale. Heard it’s a big one. Here,