BARGAIN BASEMENT
by Jeffra Hays
Copyright 2011 Jeffra Hays
Smashwords Edition
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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, Shirley, take your ticket.”
She pressed her knuckles to her lips, forbidding herself another awkward, intrusive outburst. “Yes, and thanks for reminding me. Rummage sales are my favorite. See you then.” Pulling the door open, she waved the ticket at Mr. Curtis. “Tomorrow, you said. $4.75. And be a good friend and give the pumps a shine. It only takes a minute. And throw in an extra buckle in case they break again. And I could use a pair of black laces for my walking shoes. I’ll be wearing them Saturday night.”
Four women of a certain maturity, pretending to study recipes for macaroni salad, deliberations on child rearing, and the benefits of organic cat litter, sat in padded pink plastic chairs and enjoyed Angela’s beauty charade. Fear that their smirks would be caught in the mirrors held their chins to their flaccid necks. They choked on their giggles like kindergartners.
“Mrs. Ryder,” said Angela, “I must say that you look like a prom queen, so glamorous, ten years younger and at least three inches taller. The curls on the top and sides set off your lovely green eyes.” Angela, winking and grinning at the four waiting ladies, worried that they would lose patience and she would lose business. “Don’t you agree?”
“Just one more touch of a squiggle here on the right side. Be a dear. Tonight’s special for me. It won’t take but another minute.” Shirley swiveled around, twisting her neck, inspecting her new bouffant curls in the hand mirror. “Hold the mirror for me, Angela. Let me see the back.”
“And what’s special about tonight?” Angela hoped to distract her from squiggles. “You usually come for Christmas, Easter, and your birthday.”
“And the anniversary of Momma’s death, too. But this year the rummage sale is a fundraiser for the basement, a complete renovation is what I heard so I decided to splurge. I’m a good, steady customer, here and at church.”
“That you are, Mrs. Ryder. I couldn’t count the years.”
“It’s supposed to be the biggest ever, fifty-four vendors. Even the mall posted some flyers. That’s what I’ve been hearing all week. Don’t I need another curl over the left ear?”
“Your hair is perfect, perfect. More would spoil it. One more spray and we’re done.”
“And how much is it for today, dear? You do such nice work.”
“$11. $11 and I’ll throw in a hairnet for you. I know you like those little extras.”
“$11, you said. Well that’s really a bit high but I’m very pleased. So let’s leave it at $11. You have customers waiting for you so I’ll take the hairnet with me. I’ll be back in a couple of hours for my manicure and pay you then. $11, you said.”
“Mrs. Ryder, really, you know that Saturday is my busiest day. And even on a Tuesday I couldn’t afford to do a manicure for nothing.” Angela watched in the mirrors as her audience of four, relishing the show, ready to cheer, closed their magazines and pointed their ears. They would not leave now. “Come back around four o’clock for your manicure. It’s $7.50 firm, no joking. Everyone pays $8 but I always give you a special price. And I remember your mother always got a special price too.”
“Yes, Momma always said you were a dear. So I’ll be back around four, and we can discuss it then.” She admired her gray squiggles once more. “Yes, very nice work, you’re a doll. I’ll be back in a little while. Should I bring you a cup of coffee? Only ninety cents today at the take-out.” Angela shook her head, grabbed a piece of gum, and chewed on thoughts that would have straightened curls and squiggles. Shirley dropped the hairnet into her purse, pulled its new zipper closed, and opened the door as the delighted quartet stared. “Angela does such nice work, doesn’t she? She’s worth the wait. Bye for now, ladies. Hope to see you all in church.”
Shirley locked her old sedan and walked as quickly as she could from the end of the church parking lot, regretting the extra time she had taken to dress, her foolish fussing with lipstick, her search for a convenient parking space. It was still early, barely seven o’clock, but she was frantic. The best bargains, the free coffee and homemade cupcakes, the early bird door prizes always disappeared fast. Bad business, and her own doing. She felt the perspiration on her forehead, below her nose, under her arms. Her curls would fall, her lipstick would smear, her blouse would stain. Omens, her mother had reproved her, were nothing more than silly superstitions; only prayer had real value. But as she panted up the stone steps and through the oak doors, Shirley wondered. Maybe she was being tested. Maybe, tomorrow morning, she would ask her Madonna for extra guidance, but not now. She gripped the banister with both hands, stepped cautiously as children ran up and down and parents warned them to watch for the old lady. The basement was crowded and noisy, lively and festive. Shirley caught her breath for a moment at the foot of the stairs. There was still time. Tonight was serious business.
Her agenda called for a preliminary peek. Hanging her purse on her right arm, she nudged through the lines with her elbows. A giggle and a shy “Oh, excuse me, so sorry” protected her from occasional sneers and nasty glances. As experience had taught her, these gatherings always lured a few sour, ill-mannered types. She refused to let them interfere with her fun. A display of silver and jewelry, in aisle five, caught her eye, and she planned to check the price on some stockings, and house slippers with red pom-poms in the last aisle. It was exciting, the biggest crowd she had ever seen, but the hall was stifling so she decided to risk a few minutes for refreshments.
Coffee, tea, orange soda and fruit punch, cupcakes, fig cookies, brownies, all homemade, and cotton candy for the children were offered outside the hall, in the corner near the staircase. Shirley was shocked to see Price List on the wall behind the refreshment table. More bad business.
“Mrs. Simonson, how can this be? There was never a charge for coffee or cake all the years I can remember.”
“True, but we’re raising some extra money here tonight. Things are changing. We’re hoping that a new rec hall will attract new members, young couples with children. God knows we could use them. So what would you like? Coffee, if I remember right, and I know you like my cupcakes. That’s $1.75 all together.” Mrs. Simonson watched Shirley scowl. “Would you rather have some punch? It’s so hot down here.”
“Fruit punch, a dollar it says. I guess you could spare a fig cookie for an old friend. A dollar for a cookie is really a bit high. And I was so looking forward to one of your cakes.”
“Here’s two dollars, Mrs. Simonson.” Shirley heard Mr. Curtis behind her. “Mrs. Ryder here is a good, steady customer and this is on me. And you’re right. It is too hot for coffee. I had some punch before, Shirley, good punch, good cake.”
“How kind of you, Mr. Curtis. And I’m so glad to see you here tonight. Is Mrs. Curtis here with you? Have you bought anything? Besides the punch and cake I mean.” Shirley raised her eyes in thanks as she sipped her drink.
“No, my wife is inside looking around but we’re about ready to leave. This bargain hunting isn’t for us. We just came to look around. We’re on our way to the mall for a movie.”
“But I’ll see you in church tomorrow.” Shirley took a bite of the cake, thought of hot morning coffee at home and wrapped the cake in her paper napkin. Watching Mrs. Simonson, she dropped it into her purse. “Delicious, really, but it’s too hot down here to eat. I’ll have it a little later.”
“I see that zipper is working fine,” said Mr. Curtis. “And you’re wearing your new laces tonight. Mrs. Ryder was in my shop earlier in the week, Mrs. Simonson. I think she likes my work.”
“You know I do. You do perfect work. I always say so. And it’s true. No one else comes close. What would I do without you?”
“Well, we may find out one day. Right now, who know? Good night then, Shirley, Mrs. Simonson. I’m off to rescue my wife.”
“Such a nice man.” Shirley swallowed her punch and beamed her eager, satisfied smile at Mrs. Simonson. “Maybe I’ll see you later. Now I’m off to the wars. Delicious punch. Thanks, ever so much.”
As she pushed toward the swinging doors, she wondered about Mr. Curtis. “He must feel guilty about overcharging me. But such a nice man. Just too much mall.” Her mood had lifted. “My Lady is always with me. She deserves a thank you. And I’ll ask for a nice deal tonight, a little something. She won’t forget me.”
But the shelf between the swinging doors was empty. Alarmed, she stood on her toes and stretched her neck. Her hand slid over the shelf; it was empty and she felt stupid. No one seemed to notice. “Calm down, Shirl-girl. Lots of people tonight. They took her for safekeeping, that’s it. In a closet, or a quiet room upstairs. She’ll be back tomorrow morning, safe and sound. She wouldn’t leave, of course she wouldn’t, never.” Her logic calmed her. She closed her eyes for a moment to imagine her Madonna, to thank her for the evening, to request a little bargain blessing. Strengthened by her short prayer, Shirley opened the swinging doors.
Six tables were cluttered with silver plate candlesticks, tin picture frames, verdigris cake plates, dented soup tureens, chipped china teapots, faux-pearl chokers, dusty crystal champagne glasses, endless delights for Shirley. Two unusual pieces displayed on the table in aisle five had called out to her: a garnet ring set in silver filigree and a pewter candlesnuffer. The vendor, an elderly, unfamiliar gentleman, sat polishing his eyeglasses with a handkerchief, smiled, and nodded while Shirley examined his wares and planned her strategy. She caught a monogrammed letter “S” as he folded the handkerchief into his shirt pocket. The noise in the hall made bargaining an effort.
“Good evening!” she shouted. “Sir!” She leaned toward him. “You have some lovely things. Nicer than the others I’ve seen here tonight. Would you tell me how much this candlesnuffer is, and the garnet ring over here, next to the opal brooch? I’m sure that we can make a nice deal. Your name begins with S, I noticed, and that must be for sweet, smart, sincere, sympathetic.”
“Must be for Sam Sanders, and for Shirley, too, Mrs. Ryder.” He put on his glasses to enjoy every detail of her confusion. “And for sharp, and sometimes silly, and sensitive.” His shoulders jerked up and down as he laughed. “And I heard about you. You’re pretty sharp yourself, so they say.”
“They say? Who’s they? And how do you know my name?” Shirley was shrieking, sweating again.
“And for sweat, and surprise. And sorry. Really Mrs. Ryder, I’m sorry, but a stunt like this, hey, there’s another good one, comes along only so often.” He grinned up at her and pulled out the handkerchief to blow his nose. “Mrs. Hanlon here can answer all your questions. Can’t you, Mrs. Hanlon?” Sam Sanders leaned to his left to pat Mrs. Ann-Marie Hanlon on her back. “That was a great idea, Ann-Marie. Haven’t had a laugh like that in quite a while, quite a while.”
Shirley felt a drop of sweat hanging from the point of her nose. She squeezed it between two fingers and wiped it on her skirt. Ann-Marie sat at the next table, behind a pile of floral print cottons, trays of satin ribbon, threads and notions. “Ann-Marie, what are you doing here? And where have you been? Not in church for a while. What’s this all about? When did you get here? You weren’t here a few minutes ago.”
“I was here. You even looked me in the eye. You must have been in a big hurry because I shouted and waved at you. You stopped to look at Sam’s goodies and disappeared so fast. Sam and I just got to chatting and I told him a little about you. And then you showed up and Sam had his little joke.”
“Then you two are old friends. And you played your joke on poor little Shirley.”
“No, Mrs. Ryder, Ann-Marie and I were just sitting here talking. There’s a big crowd but nobody’s buying much. We were just making the time go. When you started your little speech, you know, I couldn’t resist.”
“So you haven’t been selling much?” Shirley changed to a new strategy. She lifted the candlesnuffer, judging its weight, calculating how much she would offer.
“Not that it matters much any more,” said Ann-Marie, and dragged her chair closer to Sam. “At this point a few dollars up or down won’t make any difference. My lease is up in nine weeks. And I’m closing after all these years. I was just telling Sam. Business is gone. No one needs alterations on cocktail dresses. They go to the mall and buy an outfit. For those prices who cares if it fits or what it looks like?”
“But what will I do without you?” Shirley asked. “I have a jacket at home, and two skirts that need some fixing. I meant to bring them in this week.”
“I can’t live on that, Shirley.”
Shirley kept her thoughts to herself. She hadn’t seen Ann-Marie in church for weeks, but the rebuke from Mr. Curtis still gnawed at her. Determined not to go home without the ring and snuffer, she placed them side by side and tapped Sam’s table with ten fingers. “You never did give me a price for these two, Mr. Sanders. The S could be for still sell something tonight.”
Sam nodded at Ann-Marie, who shrugged, and stood up to refold her fabrics.
“You’re a shopper, Mrs. Ryder. I see you really are anxious. Let’s say $6 for the ring, $4 for the candlesnuffer.”
“$6 and $4 you said. $10, that’s a little high for just two items. Make it an even $4 and $4. I still have things to buy in the last aisle.”
“Why buy something from someone else? No one has such lovely things. You said so yourself. And you want the ring and the snuffer, don’t you? Well then, let’s stay with $10 and call it a good deal for both of us.”
Shirley thought of Momma’s techniques. She could walk away and come back later but she worried that someone else might buy her treasures. She could complain that they were dirty or poor quality, but he was too experienced for that. “Agreed, Mr. Sanders. Let’s make it $10, you said, for the garnet ring and the snuffer.” She unzipped her purse.
“Good, Mrs. Ryder. I’m so pleased. The ring is a fine copy of an heirloom piece.”
Shirley held her wallet. “An heirloom? $10, you said. And how about throwing in a little something for Shirley?”
“What little something, for example, would Shirley like? What about throwing in a little me?”
She rewound the curl over her left ear, patted the back of her wet neck, dabbed her forehead with her sleeve. By now the heat had spoiled her hair, her lipstick had faded. He was a joker, but this joke hurt. She held her eyes on the ring, on her purse, on her wallet as she pulled out ten singles. Ten bony fingers, ten passionate pink lacquered fingernails spread the bills on the table. “$10 you said. There’s your money, Mr. Sanders. Now I’ll take my things.”
“But you didn’t answer my question. What about a little me?”
“I admit I always like a little something extra but I don’t understand what you mean. I had my eye on that opal brooch.” She tapped on the smooth stone.
“I think you do understand what I mean, Shirley, and I can throw in the brooch, too, if you take me with it. Just give it a try, one night out for dinner this week. Is that a fair bargain?”
“A fair bargain? What kind of bargain is it for you?” She patted the curls over the right ear.
“I’m old enough to know a good deal when I see one, Shirley. And so are you. Well?”
She watched as he raised a bushy gray eyebrow and awaited her answer. “Then it’s not a joke? Old as I am, and stubborn and foolish, I thought you were teasing me. Just giving me some of my own medicine.”
“That sounds like a deal to me, Shirley. And take the brooch with you now. You’ll get me later.”
“No. You hold on to it for now. I like a bargain, but I don’t ask for charity.”
“And do you give it?”
She was softening, thinking of Ted. “Momma always taught me to be careful.” She put the candlesnuffer in her purse. The ring, she knew, would never slip past her swollen joints; it would hang around her neck on an old silver chain her mother had worn. Sam would call for her at seven on Wednesday evening. He would treat her to an elegant dinner and they would talk. Shirley wished him a successful good night, forgot Ann-Marie, forgot other bargains, could not remember climbing the stairs. The oak doors were open and the cool night air quieted her excitement. She walked down two stone steps and changed her mind.
Sitting for a moment in her pew, watching the flames of the candles, she opened her purse. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning, Momma. But this one’s a little something extra.” She lit a candle, fourth row, fifth from the left. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten, Ted. You know me. You know better.” As she pulled a dollar out of her wallet, she realized she had been holding the ring only when she heard it drop. It gleamed in the candlelight. She picked it up; the garnet matched the glasses. She creased the bill with the ring, and folded it again. Holding the dollar above the slot, hesitating, Shirley watched Ted’s flame. “Poor old flame. Sam might like that old joke. Momma would too.” She tossed the ring into her purse, bowed her head, and walked toward the oak doors with the folded dollar in her hand.
The old shops on County Boulevard were one customer busier than usual on Monday morning. Shirley ran errands in preparation for her dinner engagement with Sam. Ann-Marie would hem her black silk skirt, Mr. Curtis would polish her black pumps, Angela guaranteed a Wednesday morning appointment. Both Angela and Mr. Curtis remarked that they had looked for Shirley at church on Sunday. She had not slept well, she explained: too crowded, hot, noisy, and exciting for her years. With her perfect record it was shameful to miss a service, but it was all she could do to make a little coffee. Next Sunday life would be back to normal.
“Clever of you to put the ring on a chain. Next time I’ll give you one. How about another glass of wine? On me, Shirley.”
“This chain was my mother’s. It makes me feel that she’s here with us. She would scold me for drinking too much already. But this place is just what you said it was, so elegant.”
“You make it more elegant.” Sam tapped her glass with his spoon and refilled it. “The food is good, it’s quiet, and I like to walk around the mall after dinner. Lily loved it here. She loved it, even the last couple of months.” He paused to clear his throat and take a drink. “I’m surprised you’ve never been here before.”
“I never come to the mall any more, not for years. I’d heard about this Grande Affair place at church. Members come here after services. Some come instead, I think.”
Sam sipped his wine and leaned back. “Sounds like me. You’re the opposite, Shirley. Every Sunday for years, but you don’t come to the mall. What you must think of me.” He watched Shirley finish her third glass. She was quiet, tugging on the garnet ring, wiping the perspiration from her face with her linen napkin, sweeping breadcrumbs aside with her knife. He poured the remaining wine for her; she picked up her glass.
“What you’d think of me if you knew. I had a good husband, my Ted, Theodore. And I killed him. That’s why I’m alone. That’s why I don’t go to the mall.”
Sam leaned forward. Shirley was wiping tears and sweat from her face. He liked a joke, but her acting abilities, after four glasses, astonished him. “Too much wine, Shirley. You’re funny, but maybe it’s time for some coffee.” He grinned to one side. “Come on lady, you never killed anyone. Drove them crazy maybe, but that’s all.”
“No, Sam, I killed him. For a bottle of wine. Just like tonight.” She scraped crumbs with her knife, gathering them into a mound next to her empty glass. “Almost to the day, a year after Momma died, and he was so kind to me, to both of us, all those years she was sick. Our anniversary, and we liked our wine. So he said he’d drive down to County for a couple of bottles. But no, I made him drive to the mall while I made dinner. I remember it was only chicken and spaghetti, just what he liked. They were having a sale at the mall, you know, half price, and he never came home. Killed in the parking lot, hit and run. He always did whatever I wanted.” She flattened the mound of crumbs with the wine glass.
Sam ordered two coffees and the check. She stared at her cup. “The coffee will help, Shirley, guaranteed. Come on.” He pushed the cup toward her. She leaned forward to circle it with two hands. “We had a deal, Mrs. Ryder. No one ever called me a deadbeat.” Sam placed a small yellow box, tied with a gold bow, beside her cup. “I’m not asking for charity. Go ahead and open it.”
“There’s really no need for this,” she said. “No need for any of this. Let’s say we’re even, and take back the brooch.”
“Open it. A bargain’s a bargain.”
She untied the bow and removed the cardboard cover. A cameo brooch rested on a pillow of white cotton. Her fingers traced the outline of the tiny forehead, the fragile nose and chin; she saw a replica of her Lady. “You have some lovely things. But I don’t think I can take this. It wasn’t part of our deal.”
“You have time to worry later. How about walking around the mall for a while?”
“No, no, I can’t. I’m too tired.”
“Maybe another time. Come on, Shirley, I’ll take you home.”
Mr. Curtis helped Shirley stand with the rest of the congregation for the final hymn. Her knees, so stiff and sore that she feared they would crack, had spoiled her concentration all morning. She listened to the singing, amused by Mr. Curtis’s enthusiastic attempts at high notes, and wondered if a second hot shower would bring any relief. He closed his hymnal at the “Amen” and leaned toward her.
“Not such bad news this morning,” he said. “Looks like the fund-raising was a flop. Never enough coffee and cupcakes. But the rumor is that the anonymous donor is none other than Mr. Mall himself. He gets a political bonus, and we get a new basement.”
“When will that be? I haven’t been paying much attention this morning, my joints ache so bad.”
“They’re predicting six months to a year. Work is supposed to start next month.”
“I’ll never see any new basement. I won’t live that long.”
“You know better than to talk like that. Especially lately. I heard about your romance at the mall last week. Mrs. Simonson came in with a pair of sandals and told me someone saw you with a fine gentleman.”
Shirley touched her left shoulder. Her sweater hid the cameo, pinned to her blouse. “We had a good dinner, but I’m too old for that sort of thing.”
“You know better than to talk like that, too.”
“Do I? I suppose. Then I’ll see you here next Sunday. I enjoy listening to your singing.”
“Maybe it’s my singing that keeps people away.”
“Now you know better. Your singing is a gift.”
“Thanks. And it’s free,” he smiled, “I’ll see you next week.” He patted her gently on the arm and left the pew.
Shirley waited for the last few worshippers to leave. “Stragglers, Momma. Struggling stragglers, all of us.” She crossed the aisle, lit two candles, unzipped her purse, and peeked at her wallet. “I’m going down now, Momma and Ted.”
She stood and clasped her hands on the edge of the shelf. Kneeling was impossible. “Two weeks. Sorry I had to miss you but I’m getting too old for all sorts of things. I was scared when I didn’t see you. Then I knew you wouldn’t leave. And when I leave, I leave it all to you because you wouldn’t leave me. Did you hear that one, Momma? I wouldn’t know where else to go. No bargains upstairs, at least not for me. Even with Momma, she said you’d listen, she said that prayers of the poor are heard first. Tell me my Lady, is that true? I ask if you don’t listen to them upstairs more than to me. They don’t have to watch every penny. I’m no charity case, but at least down here I know my prayers count. At least down here I know you pay some attention. That night you were missing I thought, I won’t find you again and my time is going.” She walked to the statue, opened her wallet and dropped two folded bills through the slot. “There you are, my Lady. That’s two, for two Sundays, or make it last week’s candles for Momma and Ted, plus today’s.”
Shirley turned toward the stairs and held the banister. With one foot on the first step, she changed her mind and walked back, removed her sweater, touched the cameo, then touched the wooden hem. “You made him give me this, didn’t you? I think it looks a lot like you. It really does. Then tell me, my Lady, is Sam my something extra?” She returned to the stairs and lifted her left foot to the first step. “Twenty-two to a hot shower and you, Momma. I’ll be home before you know it.”
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