Retirement Plan by Martha Miller Page B

wet boots. The back of the door was covered with a full-length mirror she couldn’t avoid. She stood, stepped out of her pants, and looked at her reflection. Good grief, she thought, I could lose five pounds by shaving my legs. Quickly wiggling into a promising pair of jeans, she pulled them up over her hips and tried to fasten them. The set-in waist refused to close. She tried the second pair, which was so new the tags hadn’t even been removed. She liked the boot-cut legs and the length was just right. She faced the mirror and sucked in her gut. The jeans fastened.
    A knock at the door. “How are you doing in there?”
    “Okay.”
    “Can I get you something else?”
    “I have one pair that’s a good fit.”
    A few minutes later, Morgan heard a man’s voice. She hurriedly fastened the pants she’d come in with and opened the door.
    One of the men from out front was waiting with the purple dress. “Miss Minnie,” said the woman, “wants to try on a dress.”
    “Excuse me.” Morgan brushed passed him or her. She wasn’t sure of the decorum.
    When the bathroom door was shut, the sales clerk snorted. “These queens. They love it here because we have formal wear in big sizes.”
     Morgan brushed damp hair off the back of her neck.
    “It is warm in here, isn’t it? Damn steam radiators. There’s no temperature control. They’re either on or off.”
    “It’s all right,” Morgan said. “If it were forty degrees in here, I’d still be sweating. It’s what I do.”
    The woman laughed. “Want to try another stack of jeans?”
    “No, thanks. Just this one pair.” Morgan was hungry. Ever since she couldn’t close the waistband on the first pair of jeans, she’d been craving chocolate.
    Suddenly Miss Minnie was in the room with them. She twirled and said, “What do you think? Can you see this with my red sequined pumps?” Miss Minnie had tattoos all over her shoulders and one on her hairy chest that disappeared into the bodice of the dress.
    The clerk said, “Looks like it was made for you.”
    “That’s what I tried to tell Daphne.”
    Smiling, Morgan followed the woman to the cash register, wondering if she was a lesbian. It wasn’t as easy to tell as with the baby-butch trash collector or Miss Minnie and Daphne. Of course, even if she was a lesbian, she might not be single, or if she was lesbian and single, she might not be looking. Morgan wasn’t even sure that she, herself, was looking. She didn’t have time for a relationship anyway, given her mother and the new partner at work. Best to let sleeping dogs lie.
    The young woman rang up the sale and put the jeans in a bag. She met Morgan’s eyes and said, “My name is Chelsea Brown. I usually work Friday afternoons and weekends.” When she said her name the room got warmer.
    “Morgan Holiday.”
    “Are you a friend of Sandy’s?”
    “He just waited on me last time I was here.”
    Chelsea pulled a ring of keys from the register. “Well. I hope we see you again.”
    “Thanks.”
    “I’ll lock the door behind you. We close at eight.” Chelsea held the door as Morgan went out.
    “Thanks for your help.”
    “No problem.” Chelsea’s breath turned to smoke in the cold air. Then the door was closed and locked.
    Morgan stepped off the porch. Why did she have to meet another Chelsea now? The name brought up as much pain as those jeans that wouldn’t fasten.
    Freezing light fell from the moon, making ghostly shadows on the icy crust of the snow. At home she made a large glass of chocolate milk and finished a half-empty bag of Oreos. That night sleep jumped beyond her like Alice’s rabbit.

Chapter Eight

    Celia Morning had first seen the girl at the corner house a couple of evenings after Smallwood disappeared. Days had been growing shorter, so by seven the shadows were long and night was setting in. Celia watched from her kitchen window as the girl tried the front door, then the back. After that she’d left a kitchen-sized trash bag on