It would be awkward to gallivant around the store without a buggy or a basket. No one comes in here to browse, and I don’t know if I’ve met a woman who has left this store with less than a handful of items. “You’re overreacting, Audrey. As you can see, I’m fine now.”
Audrey sets her gloved palm on my cheek. “Dear, you are still white as a ghost. I insist you allow me to help. You know, it’s all right to take a hand when offered sometimes.”
“Well, I know better than to argue with you, so I appreciate your kindness. Thank you. I won’t put much in my basket,” I assure her.
While strolling through the aisles, the memory of why we came here in the first place nearly slips my mind. Though by the sight of Audrey’s basket, she hasn’t forgotten a thing. Soup. That’s right. She has more than enough ingredients to boil a pot of soup.
“Oh, just one more thing that will fix you up. You can’t have soup without crackers when you’re sick. Then we’ll be ready to check out,” Audrey says, holding up a finger and pivoting on her heels. I drag my tired legs behind her but stop when I hear a hushed conversation from the next aisle over.
“Shirley, did you notice who is here?” a woman asks.
I peer over to Audrey, curious if she caught wind of the nearby chatter. The crease between her eyebrows confirms she heard the same whisper, so we lean our ears in toward the stacked shelves, hoping to catch more of what might be juicy gossip.
“Who on earth are you talking about, Greta?” The discussion becomes harder to hear but continues from just a few feet and a wall of coffee grounds away. If only I could get another foot closer, I could find out what they’re saying. But if I lean in any further, I may become one with the shelves of tin canisters.
“Evidently, Everett Anderson is relocating to this base.”
Everett Anderson.The mention of this name is so startling that I lose my balance. No matter what I try to reach for, it falls with me. Even though Audrey lunges for my arm as a last attempt to prevent what’s about to happen, I only end up pulling her down too.
A round of crashes, clangs, and shrieks blare through the store as the shelves moan and croak, tilting into the next aisle. I thank the heavens above when the display shelves catch on the surrounding ones, keeping the racks from falling to the ground. Only the shelf-lined products fell, but they landed right on top of the poor ladies who were having a private chat.
Once I’m able to right myself, I rush to the next aisle with my hands cupped over my mouth. “I am so deeply sorry for falling into the shelves. Ladies, is everyone all right?”
I reach over to the shoulder of the woman closest to me. Her right palm is on her chest and the other hand is against the shelf that was about to crash down. The second woman is already frantic about working to tidy up the mess of cereal boxes.
“Goodness, gracious. I am terribly sorry. You see, I had become ill earlier and my dear friend Audrey was trying to collect items to make me a pot of soup. I must have fallen dizzy again. How embarrassing,” I continue gabbing, hoping one of the two will say something, anything at all.
“You scared me silly.” The woman isn’t much older than me, but by the wedding band outline beneath her brown fitted gloves, I assume she’s a housewife shopping during an off hour. “Gerta,” she says, introducing herself as she removes her hand from her chest.
“Gerta, again, I apologize for frightening you. I’m Elizabeth.”
“Oh sure, now I know why you look familiar. I’ve seen you around,” the other woman, who I suspect to be Shirley, states. “You are Commander Salzberg’s daughter, yes?”
My instinct is to shush her, so no one else in this store hears our conversation. Though, it would serve me right after eavesdropping.
“Yes, I am—his daughter,” I reply as if insulted by the question.
“I’m Shirley. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Elizabeth,” she says.
Audrey scurries around the corner, eyeballing me as if she lost a small child two aisles away. “There you are. I thought you might have gotten sick again.” At least her words place extra merit on my tall tale. “You see …” Audrey chuckles while catching her breath, “Elizabeth, here, got wind—”
My interruption is abrupt, keeping Audrey from completing her sentence.
“Of a fleeting smell that knocked me off my feet,” I say. “Thank goodness Audrey caught me before I went down.”
“A smell?” Shirley repeats. “What in the world could smell so awful?”
“I—uh, there was an open can of sardines—”
Audrey gives me a hard side-glance with yet another motherly glare.
“Anyway,” I snicker, while corralling as many items into my arms as I can hold. “I’ll take care of this. You ladies have a lovely afternoon now.”
“Oh dear, don’t be a fool. We’re all okay, and if there’s one thing we’re efficient at, it’s cleaning up messes,” Greta says with what sounds like forced laughter.
Does anyone want to begoodat cleaning? It doesn’t seem like much of an accomplishment, but this is the stuff women say to one another as a testament to their achievement of being an outstanding homemaker. Being proficient in tidying up disarray makes me extra sure that marriage is not something I want to rush into.
“Ladies, ladies, is everyone good here? I was searching every aisle for where the racket came from.”
