Cause they ain’t none of it on the shelf here, Luther called after her.
The boy came back and told them he couldn’t find any of the cereal they wanted.
Did you look everywhere pretty good? Luther said.
Yeah, I looked. If we have any it’ll be out here on the shelves.
But they ain’t none of it out here. We know that already. You got to have some of it in the back.
No. I looked. We must of sold it all.
Luther turned to Betty. He says they don’t have none, dear. Says they’re out of it.
I heard him.
What you want to do about it?
I was counting on a box of cereal to carry home.
I know. Only he says they must of sold it all.
The boy was watching them talk, his head going back and forth. You could buy a box of this other cereal, he said, and buy a box of raisins and put that in it. It’d be about the same thing.
Put raisins in the box, Luther said.
Put raisins in one of these other cereals, the boy said.
Right here, you mean?
No. When you get home. After you buy them and take them home.
Huh. Luther looked around. You want to do that, honey?
You decide, Betty said.
Well, the cereal’s here, the boy said. The raisins are over in aisle two in the middle on the right. If that’s what you want to do. It doesn’t make any difference to me. He turned and walked toward the checkout.
They studied the boxes of cereal. In the old rusted cart their cartons had begun to defrost, water condensing on the cardboard in the warm air.
I can’t see how that’d be any good, Luther said. Can you?
I don’t want none of that, Betty said.
No ma’am.
It wouldn’t taste the same.
It wouldn’t taste the same in a hundert years, Luther said.
They went on and picked up a plastic jug of milk and two dozen eggs in the next aisle and came to the bakery and took three loaves of the cheap white bread, and at last came to the front of the store and lined up behind the register, waiting for their turn. Luther pulled a magazine from the rack in front of them and looked at pictures of half-naked women in the glossy pages.
Who you looking at? Betty said. You better keep your eyes saved for me. She took the magazine out of his hands and put it back. I’m your wife.
They’s too skinny anyhow, he said. Not enough meat on them for what I like. He pinched Betty’s hip.
You better stop that too, she said, and smiled at him and looked away.
The checkout lane cleared and they began to set their groceries on the belt and Luther bent over and lifted up the cases of pop with a grunt.
The woman at the register was working briskly. How’re you folks doing today? she said.
We’re doing pretty good, Luther said. You?
I’m still above ground, the woman said. Every day above ground is a good day, isn’t it.
Yes ma’am. I believe you got that right.
We’re doing pretty good, Betty said, except for that cereal we couldn’t find.
Didn’t we have any?
No ma’am, said Luther. You’re all out.
Well. I’m sorry.
When their charges were totaled Betty took the booklets of food stamps from her purse and handed them to Luther and Luther presented them to the woman. Behind them a man with cans of beans and stew and a carton of cigarettes in his cart stood watching them. The clerk tore out the stamps and rang up and slipped the stamps under the tray in the register and made the last dollar’s change in actual coins. The boy in the green apron sacked their groceries and loaded them back in the cart.
You have a good day, Luther said, and they pushed out through the electric door onto the sidewalk.
The man behind them shook his head at the checkout woman. Would you look at that. They’re eating better than you and me and they’re on food stamps.
Oh, let them be, the woman said. Are they hurting you?
They’re eating a steak dinner and I’m eating beans. That’s hurting me.
But would you want to be them?
I’m not saying that.
What are you saying?