by Maira Dawn
The entire front of the store was glass with near floor to ceiling windows, each containing large posters announcing the deals of the week. Skye's gaze drifted across them as she walked in, determining if she needed any of the special items.
Skye passed below the white sign declaring the store's name, Anderson's Market, in large, block lettering. She wondered, not for the first time, about the family. She had yet to meet one Anderson in this township, and she knew without a doubt, Smith’s owned this store.
As the automatic glass door swung shut behind her, Skye came to an abrupt standstill. The store was wall-to-wall people. Over-excited voices reverberated off the walls loud enough to drown out the sound of the canned country music that played in the background. Wide-eyed neighbors and friends grabbed food off shelves faster than it was going back on. Lines at the checkout snaked to the back of the store.
Skye’s mouth dropped open. I expected crazy, but not this crazy. The rumbling screech of buggies needing oil alerted her to the fact that one lone cart with a bent wheel was all that stood waiting for use. The good ones were long gone. When Skye felt the air stir behind her as the automatic door opened again with new customers, she moved toward it. Better a bad buggy than none at all.
She pushed her cart through the aisles and shook her head while people piled one, or more, buggies with several boxes of the same item. It was just as out of control as Tom had warned it would be.
When Skye found herself adding rice mix after rice mix to her cart, she stopped and moved on. When she took a third peanut butter off the shelf, she caught the sad-eyed gaze of a little girl sitting in the cart next to hers. She handed it to the girl instead, then eyed the few remaining on the shelf. Skye threw out her hand and grabbed one, feeling a sense of security when her hand came around the smooth plastic jar. She shoved her buggy on down the aisle and rolled her eyes at herself. I have to stop this. I’m just getting caught up in the chaos, it's not like they’re going to stop making food.
Skye rounded the end-cap and entered the medical aisle, threading her cart around a few others. She added a few boxes of band-aids and medications to her increasing pile. Then stopped short before running into an old woman standing in the aisle and staring at the shelves.
It was Mrs. McCleary. Skye’s neighbor stood there, distress written all over her body. Her white hair in a bun, and as immaculate as always, the woman turned her wide gaze to Skye, her trembling, blue-veined hands covering her mouth.
"Mrs. McCleary," Skye asked as she rushed to her, "what is wrong? Can I help you?"
“Oh, my dear,” her voice sounded more shaky than usual, “There is not a single tube of Bengay left on the shelf! I can’t sleep without first putting it on my shoulders. I have such trouble with them, you know.”
Skye did know. Mrs. McCleary loved to bake, often sharing it with Skye and the rest of her neighbors, but when bad weather came, so did the woman’s arthritis. Delicious baked goods never made their way to Skye on those days.
Skye checked the shelf where the product should have sat, then the racks surrounding it and behind the few items still scattered on the shelf. There was no Bengay. Skye nibbled the inside of her cheek as she looked over the products to see if there was anything similar. There was nothing.
She reached into her own buggy and picked up a box of Tylenol and Motrin. “Here take these. They will help, won’t they?”
“Yes, they do, dear. Thank you. But I still need my Bengay.”
Skye turned to a harried-looking employee racing through the aisle full of customers as fast as they allowed him. She raised her arm to flag him down. “Excuse me. Excuse me!”
“Yeah?” Arms full of product, he pivoted, irritated by the interruption. He had fallen behind in his work long ago.
Skye kept it short and sweet given his exasperated manner. “Bengay. Do you have any in the back?”
“No, lady. We brought out all the meds this morning. All we got is what you see.”
Mrs. McCleary gasped at the news. "I'll never sleep now! I only have one super-size Ultra Strength left!"
The stock boy took in her obvious distress, and his eye's filled with pity. He grunted, then aid in a somewhat reluctant voice, "I have a grandma too." He nodded his head at a customer further up the row, he said, "That guy grabbed the last ones. Like a lot of ‘em. See if he’ll give you one."
"Thank you," Skye said to the young man as he scurried off.
Wide-eyed, Mrs. McCleary looked from Skye to the boy and back. Skye thought of all the times her neighbor had checked on her and brought her goodies. This was the least she could do, the woman was in real distress.
“Can you watch my buggy?” Skye asked Mrs. McCleary.
Mrs. McCleary beamed at Skye. “I sure can. Thank you, Skye. I knew I could count on you.”
Skye gave Mrs. McCleary a weak smile. A knot formed in her stomach over any possible confrontation, and she hoped this went well as she wound her way through customers and carts. With careful steps, she wiggled past two well-built men in worn jeans and t-shirts. She didn't want to stumble into them as she avoided the rest of the crowd. She mumbled “Sorry” as she stepped on the foot of one when she sidled past with her back to them. Skye scanned the items in their buggy as she did, but did not see a single Bengay tube among them.
The short, thin man in front of them, however, had at least thirty tubes, let alone patches and gel. Skye stopped and glanced from his cart to him and back with a look that said, “Really?”
The man scowled. “What?”
Skye rearranged her facial expression. Her current one wouldn’t get her anywhere with him. She forced a neighborly smile and introduced herself, pointing out Mrs. McCleary.
“Yeah, so.”
“Mrs. McCleary is an old, arthritic lady and a regular Bengay user. There are no tubes of the medicine left, and she is very distressed.”
“Sorry to hear that,” the man said and turned away, making no moves to offer her one of the many that littered his basket.
Skye took a step closer to him. “Would you be willing to give her a tube of yours?”
“No.”
Skye pressed her lips together and stared at the ground before looking back at him. “She is an old woman. She is almost crying out of her concern that she won't be able to sleep at night.”
“Sorry, I have old people too.”
“One tube, that’s all I’m asking. Surely, we can come to some kind of arrangement.”
The man stilled as greed lit up his eyes. “How much are we talkin?”
Skye pointed to a large tube and made an offer she felt was exceedingly generous. “Twenty bucks.”
He uttered a low sound of indecision as he looked Skye over. Deciding she could afford more, he said, “Fifty.”
“Fifty?” Skye squeaked. “That is crazy.”
“If you don’t want it.” The man nudged his cart away.
Skye grabbed hold of the cool metal. “Wait! Wait. Thirty.”
“Nope.”
Skye smacked her hand down on the side of his buggy as she looked back at Mrs. McCleary. The old woman's face was fierce as she defended Skye’s items from someone trying to poach her band-aids. She closed her eyes. How can I not get this medicine for her?
Skye opened her eyes and flicked a glance at the physique of the two brawny men behind her. At least, I’m not dealing with them.
She plunged a hand into her purse and pulled out the money. “Here. Fifty.”
A neighboring customer yelled, “Hey lady, do I got anything you want?”
Oh, great! What have I started?
Apparently feeling fifty was too easy for her, the small man with the Bengay said, “Changed my mind. It’s sixty now.”
Skye steamed as she reached toward her purse to pull another ten before he demanded more money. Before she could, a large hand blocked the line of sight to her bag.
“Stop.” A deep voice rumbled from the t-shirt clad chest a few inches from her face. Before her
eyes made it to his face, one box of Bengay came flying at her, then another. She fumbled, then caught them.
When the little man protested, her defender stated, “That ain't how we do things here. Never has been, never will be.”
As some of the customers applauded them, Skye’s protector and his sidekick pushed their way past the hoarder of topical pain relief before she could thank them. Skye watched the back of the dark-haired one as he walked away and wondered why his muscled body looked familiar.
"Thank you!" Skye yelled after them.
She sighed as she took the medicine to Mrs. McCleary. After seeing the size of Skye's rescuers, the woman trying to steal the Band-Aids from her cart dropped them back in and stepped away.
Mrs. McCleary's eyes were alight. “Good to have friends like that at times like these.”
“Oh, they aren’t my friends. I don’t know them.”
“That's interesting because they know you.”
Skye looked back at them. “I don’t think so.”
“I do. Mrs. Jones said they asked about you.” A woman behind Mrs. McCleary vigorously nodded her head.
“About me? Mrs. McCleary, I think you're confused, I’ve never seen those men before in my life.”
“I’m not confused, young lady. And let me just say, if things get half as bad as the news claims, you might want to cozy up to one of them boys.”
“Mrs. McCleary! Saying such things after I was so nice to you.”
"Um, well. I'm old enough to know a good, bad boy when I see one." The old woman folded her arms. "You’ll see."
Skye skimmed the crowded front end of the store and found the two men. She watched their backs as they loaded their items on the conveyor belt but neither one turned around so she could get a glimpse of their faces. When she looked at Mrs. McCleary, the woman’s light-blue eyes were twinkling.
Skye humphed. “I don’t like bad boys, even good ones.”
Mrs. McCleary let out a short bark of a laugh. “That’s what we all tell ourselves, dear.”
Nine
Mighta Coulda
Dylan stood at the edge of the mountain overlook, his arms crossed as he gazed on the town of Colton far below him. Where he stood the ground was a bare, rocky piece of land that was a sharp contrast to the thick woods beside it.
Scraggly bunches of green weeds pushed their way up through the hard dirt, bowing their heads when the wind kicked up as it often did this time of day. The trail to the cliff started near the cabin he shared with his brother and ran through the forest to where he stood.
Dylan raised his face to the breeze, enjoying the feel as it raced across his bare skin. The gust buffeted the back of his old t-shirt before calming down. To him, the wind was the only thing that seemed to have true freedom, rushing at will from the valleys to the hills, stirring grasses and clouds alike.
But it comes up empty, like me.
Dylan looked down at Colton. It was something he now often did. He didn’t know why--not for sure--but the town drew him. He wished he belonged there, or somewhere, but he'd burnt a lot of bridges. For so long, he'd chased freedom. Now he wanted more. He scoffed at himself.
More of what? More like today? What are people thinkin?
He wondered how many times he'd had the same thought. Dylan's friends believed he had an amazing ability to read others, but not Dylan. He often felt people were a mystery to him, which struck him as odd, being as he was one. One ought to know one's own kind.
Dylan crouched, sitting on his heels and picked up a stone, weighed it in his hand and threw it down the side of the mountain. It made a couple sharp ticks on the rock below as it fell, then nothing. The thought he'd been shoving down all day worked its way to his mind.
I saw her today.
Stop. Think about something else, anything else. Wade knows what he’s talking about. She ain't for me. Yeah, think of Wade, Wade going off on his tangent.
After being closed up in that store with all those people, Wade had been downright irritable.
When his brother got riled up, one was never sure what kind of crazy would come out. Dylan chuckled. Wade got worked up most days. And if Wade was in trouble, it was often his words that got him there.
They’d gone down the mountain for a few supplies and to see what all the hubbub was about. That’s what old man Larson called it. Hubbub.
The old guy had seen people raiding stores in Fenton on TV, and he wanted to know how bad it was here in Colton. It seemed things were falling apart as this disease spread.
Larson was a curious man. To satisfy that curiosity, he’d walked, cane and all, the good mile or so to the Cole’s cabin and asked the brothers if they’d mind seeing what all the fuss was about. Dylan and Wade agreed to go and get him some groceries too.
How a man like himself got roped into these situations baffled Dylan, but Larson had hobbled all the way over. And though the Coles weren’t sure exactly how old the man was, they both agreed he looked at least a hundred and one. So, they had to go.
The brothers scrounged up enough money for each of them to have a hamburger at McDonald’s. They later slumped in a booth biting into hot, greasy burgers while entertained by a drunken Frankie Bailey trying to cross the busy street. They'd snorted and scoffed. Wade had even let out a few loud hoots. The comedy ended when a kid ran up and tried to help him.
“You think that’s Frankie’s boy? I heard he had a couple kids,” Wade said as he chomped on his sandwich.
“Might could be.” Dylan's eyes stayed glued to the youngster, watching as the boy did his best to aid his father despite his old man’s efforts to swat him off.
“Wonder if Frankie whales on him, the way Frankie's dad used to—” Wade stopped as Frankie backhanded the young man in the face.
Both men automatically grunted their disapproval, each remembering the harsh smack of a man's hand on their own young faces. Wade shook his head. “I reckon so.”
Dylan's head jerked back as if he had been the one slapped. He looked at the ground, across the street, at the coffee shop—anywhere to ignore what was happening in front of him, to ignore the stone gathering weight in his stomach and the flame igniting in his chest.
But without permission, Dylan's troubled gaze strayed back to Frankie and his son. The young man pulled at his father, trying to get him away from the rushing vehicles. Frankie teetered on the edge of the sidewalk, ready to fall into the oncoming traffic.
A few horns blared startling the drunk man. Frankie jerked his arm from the boy’s grasp and pushed him hard, hard enough the boy fell and came back up holding a bleeding head.
Dylan bolted to his feet.
“Sit down, Brother,” Wade said, “you can’t do nothing about that, and you know it.”
Dylan threw out his arm toward the scene playing out in front of them. “That’s the problem. No one ever does anything about that.”
Wade compressed his lips and sucked the bottom one in. “It is what it is. Ain’t nothin we haven’t been through.”
“I’m gonna talk to him.”
“Frankie?”
Dylan scraped his foot against the floor and gathered his hands into fists. “Yeah.”
“I know what you're fixing to do, and it ain't talking. Since when have you and Frankie ever talked about anything. Fight more likely. That’s gonna get you a few days in jail again, and nothin’ll change. It ain’t even worth the walk across the street.”
Dylan disagreed. The boy was worth the walk. Letting the boy see someone willing to stand up for him—that alone was worth it.
Dylan took a step toward the door just as a police car pulled up alongside Frankie and his son. The officer waved the young man into the front of the vehicle, put Frankie in the back, then drove off.
Dylan dropped into his seat and ripped another chunk off his hamburger.
Wade glanced at him. “See, all taken care of and you didn’t have to lift a finger.”
Dylan grunted. He wouldn’t have minded a little
jail time if he’d gotten to smash Frankie in the face.
There had been an ongoing fight between Dylan and Frankie since their kindergarten days. Frankie was an idiot then, he was an idiot now. Dylan couldn't abide idiots.
It was then Wade’s mouth got him into trouble. The TV blared the latest on the virus. The good citizens of Colton, children and all, hung breathlessly onto every word. Wade chose that time to blurt out, “This flu may do us all a favor. Clean this world out. It could lose a good portion of people and still do just fine.”
If Wade had a normal voice, it would have only reached Dylan, especially given the excessive volume of the TV, and the fact that no customers were sitting at the tables near them. But Wade often used what people called their outside voice when he was inside. His words boomed to every corner of the restaurant.
Dylan could almost hear the whip of every head as it turned toward them. He groaned. If they didn’t leave now, they’d ask them to go.
Dylan picked up the final bit of his hamburger and walked to the door. He held it open for his brother, he said, “Wade, do you think just once I could finish my meal before you go riling up the townsfolk?”
Wade looked around the dining area and took in the scowls facing him. He mumbled, "I ain't saying nothin but the truth." When Wade turned toward his audience to say more, Dylan shoved him out the door.
The fact was, it was easy enough for the Coles to rile people up. The Cole family, in most of the town's opinion, had been one long line of trouble for generations now. Virgil, their father, had lived a dark life, and as far as most of the folks were concerned, Wade and Dylan weren’t much better. Those that didn’t look down on them usually feared them. Some people did both.
After leaving McDonald’s, the Cole brothers headed to Smith's, or Anderson's, if you trusted the sign. They didn’t.
As they walked out of the market, Dylan knew if he was being honest with himself, he had to admit that Wade just might be right. Frankie and a few others could go. Trouble was the disease wasn’t letting them pick, and more often than not, the good people were the ones lost.