the way business was picking up lately, one couldn’t be too quick to frown at new ideas.
Mack’s was a family business, begun by Jack’s father back when misspelling Super was still clever. It wasn’t a large place, but Jack worked hard to keep pace with the big-town supermarkets while maintaining a neighborhood grocery attitude. The store had four checkout counters with one designated “Ten Items or Less,” but the laser bar-code readers were still something he’d only read about. The automatic doors were still activated by pressure pads instead of motion detectors, but Jack saw no need to upgrade them as long as they worked and the customers didn’t mind waiting a little. He kept a magazine rack at each checkout with a fresh rotation of Cosmopolitan , People , and The National Enquirer , but drew the line at any magazine that had to have its cover concealed. He’d finally put in a video rack, but only at Lindy’s insistence. At heart, Jack was a grocery man, the kind of guy who did his own meat cutting, bought produce from local farmers, and always provided floor space for church bake sales.
“And that will be . . .” He scanned the register’s display. “Forty-nine eighty-two.” He got the money, gave the customer the receipt, Ronny the box boy took over, and Jack was free for a moment. “Hey Nevin, the widow called. She’s wondering where you are.”
Nevin Sorrel, a gaunt-looking, blue-jeaned ranch worker in his thirties, had been waiting by the Rent-a-Vac carpet cleaners, fidgeting and fretting. He hurried forward and spoke in quick, low tones, “Jack, I can’t find those groceries nowhere.”
“Those four sacks you bought?”
“Yeah, they were the ones.”
“Ronny took them out to your truck. I saw that much.”
“But they ain’t there!”
“I saw Ronny put ’em in.”
It upset Nevin to have to repeat himself. “They ain’t there!”
Jack stared at him a moment. “So . . . what am I supposed to do?”
“Have you seen ’em?”
Now Jack was getting impatient. “Yeah! I saw Ronny put ’em in the back of your truck and that was the last time I saw ’em. Mrs. Macon is wondering where you are. She sent you down here two hours ago and she wants her strawberries.”
That was no comfort to Nevin whatsoever. He started reliving the past two hours. “I got in the truck, drove out toward the Macon place, I got sleepy . . .”
“Wait. You got sleepy?”
“Yeah. I pulled over and fell asleep, and when I woke up the groceries were gone.”
Jack was amused even as he realized it was rude. “Well, there you are. You got ripped off.” Nevin stared at him blankly, so Jack expounded. “Somebody stole the groceries while you were sawing logs.”
Nevin had a hard time getting that to sink in. “What am I gonna tell Mrs. Macon?”
IT WAS BECOMING a fruitful day for sightings. As the number of pilgrims in town increased, so did the sightings of Jesus; and as more Catholics arrived, so did the Virgin Mary. It reminded me of a large scale, grown-up Easter-egg hunt. Everywhere you looked, folks were scouring the town—searching the sky, the potholes in the roads, the bark of trees, the water stains in ceiling tiles—hoping to see the Savior or his mother looking back. Both Jesus and his earthly mother appeared on the back of the highway sign denoting how many more miles it was to Coulee City and the junction with Highway 174. Mary did a solo appearance in the growth ring pattern where a tree trimmer sawed a rotting limb off the big willow tree next to Sawyer Memorial Playground. The pavement stones on the front steps of the library drew attention, but Catholics and Protestants were divided as to whether it was Jesus or Mary. The most unusual sighting I heard of was the face of Jesus beckoning from the mildew on the shower tiles in Room Five at the Wheatland Motel. Norman didn’t know what to do about that one—whether to clean a dirty shower or desecrate a holy shrine.
As for me, I
Mack’s was a family business, begun by Jack’s father back when misspelling Super was still clever. It wasn’t a large place, but Jack worked hard to keep pace with the big-town supermarkets while maintaining a neighborhood grocery attitude. The store had four checkout counters with one designated “Ten Items or Less,” but the laser bar-code readers were still something he’d only read about. The automatic doors were still activated by pressure pads instead of motion detectors, but Jack saw no need to upgrade them as long as they worked and the customers didn’t mind waiting a little. He kept a magazine rack at each checkout with a fresh rotation of Cosmopolitan , People , and The National Enquirer , but drew the line at any magazine that had to have its cover concealed. He’d finally put in a video rack, but only at Lindy’s insistence. At heart, Jack was a grocery man, the kind of guy who did his own meat cutting, bought produce from local farmers, and always provided floor space for church bake sales.
“And that will be . . .” He scanned the register’s display. “Forty-nine eighty-two.” He got the money, gave the customer the receipt, Ronny the box boy took over, and Jack was free for a moment. “Hey Nevin, the widow called. She’s wondering where you are.”
Nevin Sorrel, a gaunt-looking, blue-jeaned ranch worker in his thirties, had been waiting by the Rent-a-Vac carpet cleaners, fidgeting and fretting. He hurried forward and spoke in quick, low tones, “Jack, I can’t find those groceries nowhere.”
“Those four sacks you bought?”
“Yeah, they were the ones.”
“Ronny took them out to your truck. I saw that much.”
“But they ain’t there!”
“I saw Ronny put ’em in.”
It upset Nevin to have to repeat himself. “They ain’t there!”
Jack stared at him a moment. “So . . . what am I supposed to do?”
“Have you seen ’em?”
Now Jack was getting impatient. “Yeah! I saw Ronny put ’em in the back of your truck and that was the last time I saw ’em. Mrs. Macon is wondering where you are. She sent you down here two hours ago and she wants her strawberries.”
That was no comfort to Nevin whatsoever. He started reliving the past two hours. “I got in the truck, drove out toward the Macon place, I got sleepy . . .”
“Wait. You got sleepy?”
“Yeah. I pulled over and fell asleep, and when I woke up the groceries were gone.”
Jack was amused even as he realized it was rude. “Well, there you are. You got ripped off.” Nevin stared at him blankly, so Jack expounded. “Somebody stole the groceries while you were sawing logs.”
Nevin had a hard time getting that to sink in. “What am I gonna tell Mrs. Macon?”
IT WAS BECOMING a fruitful day for sightings. As the number of pilgrims in town increased, so did the sightings of Jesus; and as more Catholics arrived, so did the Virgin Mary. It reminded me of a large scale, grown-up Easter-egg hunt. Everywhere you looked, folks were scouring the town—searching the sky, the potholes in the roads, the bark of trees, the water stains in ceiling tiles—hoping to see the Savior or his mother looking back. Both Jesus and his earthly mother appeared on the back of the highway sign denoting how many more miles it was to Coulee City and the junction with Highway 174. Mary did a solo appearance in the growth ring pattern where a tree trimmer sawed a rotting limb off the big willow tree next to Sawyer Memorial Playground. The pavement stones on the front steps of the library drew attention, but Catholics and Protestants were divided as to whether it was Jesus or Mary. The most unusual sighting I heard of was the face of Jesus beckoning from the mildew on the shower tiles in Room Five at the Wheatland Motel. Norman didn’t know what to do about that one—whether to clean a dirty shower or desecrate a holy shrine.
As for me, I
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