could pay.
“We might as well go to the Bag and Save since we’re all here,” Winifred said. “We can shop for Thanksgiving dinner.”
Fiona nodded agreeably. “I need cat food.”
“There is a solution to this,” Winifred assured Fiona.
“I’ll be thinking,” Fiona agreed. “We’ll compare notes in a day or two.” And Lorna, following behind them, thought she might as well not have been there at all.
****
Bridie shoved the ten-pound sack of potatoes toward Jeremy, the bag boy, and turned her attention toward the three sisters. She usually enjoyed their weekly trip to the Bag and Save. They were so prim and proper, and they squeezed a nickel until the buffalo hollered, as her grandmother used to say. She felt a sharp pain at the thought of her grandmother but put it quickly aside. She had managed to survive by dividing her life into strict categories. The past existed only in some distant world, and she tried to give it a certain unreality, to think of it like a book she’d read or a movie she’d seen and loved long ago. Keep your mind where your behind is; that was her motto. And right now her behind was here, in check-out stand number three at the Bag and Save in Alexandria, Virginia.
She counted her blessings again. She had a little money put away. She had a home. She had a friend in Carmen. Sort of. And Jonah hadn’t come looking for her. Yet. She felt the little chill that thought always brought with it, though she could reassure herself as often as she wanted. She had sat at Carmen’s computer every day at first and now at least twice a week, visiting the Virginia Department of Corrections Web site. She clicked on the button for On-Line Inmate Locator, searched for Porter, Jonah. Each time she would check the columns. Status: Active. Custody: Security Level 2. And the one that would calm her the most: Release date, which was still far enough away that she didn’t need to worry. She would have to face that someday, she told herself. There was no telling what he had become in prison, and he’d been scary enough to begin with. Eventually she would need to put a lot more miles between herself and Jonah. But not today.
She took a deep breath and blinked her eyes to make the thought of him dissipate, then focused back on the sisters. The one in front of her, the oldest one, now she was a corker. Winifred Graham. Red hair salted with gray and a mouthpuckered up as tight as her purse strings. Married to an accountant. Three grown daughters, two married and living out of state, the youngest one gone to college just last month. In Montreal. Bridie wondered if there was a pattern there. She chided herself for her cattiness and greeted her, as usual, speaking first.
“How are you today, Mrs. Graham?” she asked.
“Very well, thank you, Bridie,” she answered back, as always. Mrs. Graham unfailingly called her by her first name, but never suggested that Bridie should call her Winifred. Bridie smiled at her and weighed the sweet potatoes, scanned the bag of mini-marshmallows, the green beans, the can of fried onion rings, the cream of mushroom soup, the two packages of brown-and-serve rolls, and the turkey—a twenty pounder.
“You planning a big Thanksgiving dinner?” Bridie asked, violating the company policy not to ask customers about their purchases.
“It ain’t none of your business, Bridie,” Winslow had told her more than once. “And don’t you go frowning and sniffing when folks buy liquor. If they got ID, that’s all that’s your concern.”
Bridie hadn’t said anything then, and she didn’t say anything when she scanned a six-pack, either. She supposed, considering her history, she was straining at a gnat and swallowing a camel. Still, she had her reasons. She’d seen firsthand the damage alcohol could do, and for a second her ribs felt sore just from remembering.
“Yes, these groceries are for Thanksgiving dinner.” Winifred—Mrs. Graham—nodded with a slight air of
“We might as well go to the Bag and Save since we’re all here,” Winifred said. “We can shop for Thanksgiving dinner.”
Fiona nodded agreeably. “I need cat food.”
“There is a solution to this,” Winifred assured Fiona.
“I’ll be thinking,” Fiona agreed. “We’ll compare notes in a day or two.” And Lorna, following behind them, thought she might as well not have been there at all.
****
Bridie shoved the ten-pound sack of potatoes toward Jeremy, the bag boy, and turned her attention toward the three sisters. She usually enjoyed their weekly trip to the Bag and Save. They were so prim and proper, and they squeezed a nickel until the buffalo hollered, as her grandmother used to say. She felt a sharp pain at the thought of her grandmother but put it quickly aside. She had managed to survive by dividing her life into strict categories. The past existed only in some distant world, and she tried to give it a certain unreality, to think of it like a book she’d read or a movie she’d seen and loved long ago. Keep your mind where your behind is; that was her motto. And right now her behind was here, in check-out stand number three at the Bag and Save in Alexandria, Virginia.
She counted her blessings again. She had a little money put away. She had a home. She had a friend in Carmen. Sort of. And Jonah hadn’t come looking for her. Yet. She felt the little chill that thought always brought with it, though she could reassure herself as often as she wanted. She had sat at Carmen’s computer every day at first and now at least twice a week, visiting the Virginia Department of Corrections Web site. She clicked on the button for On-Line Inmate Locator, searched for Porter, Jonah. Each time she would check the columns. Status: Active. Custody: Security Level 2. And the one that would calm her the most: Release date, which was still far enough away that she didn’t need to worry. She would have to face that someday, she told herself. There was no telling what he had become in prison, and he’d been scary enough to begin with. Eventually she would need to put a lot more miles between herself and Jonah. But not today.
She took a deep breath and blinked her eyes to make the thought of him dissipate, then focused back on the sisters. The one in front of her, the oldest one, now she was a corker. Winifred Graham. Red hair salted with gray and a mouthpuckered up as tight as her purse strings. Married to an accountant. Three grown daughters, two married and living out of state, the youngest one gone to college just last month. In Montreal. Bridie wondered if there was a pattern there. She chided herself for her cattiness and greeted her, as usual, speaking first.
“How are you today, Mrs. Graham?” she asked.
“Very well, thank you, Bridie,” she answered back, as always. Mrs. Graham unfailingly called her by her first name, but never suggested that Bridie should call her Winifred. Bridie smiled at her and weighed the sweet potatoes, scanned the bag of mini-marshmallows, the green beans, the can of fried onion rings, the cream of mushroom soup, the two packages of brown-and-serve rolls, and the turkey—a twenty pounder.
“You planning a big Thanksgiving dinner?” Bridie asked, violating the company policy not to ask customers about their purchases.
“It ain’t none of your business, Bridie,” Winslow had told her more than once. “And don’t you go frowning and sniffing when folks buy liquor. If they got ID, that’s all that’s your concern.”
Bridie hadn’t said anything then, and she didn’t say anything when she scanned a six-pack, either. She supposed, considering her history, she was straining at a gnat and swallowing a camel. Still, she had her reasons. She’d seen firsthand the damage alcohol could do, and for a second her ribs felt sore just from remembering.
“Yes, these groceries are for Thanksgiving dinner.” Winifred—Mrs. Graham—nodded with a slight air of
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