Here, she said. Give me something to write on. That paper will do. Hand me that newspaper. It was the morning’s Denver News, still rolled in the rubber band the boys had put on it early that morning at the depot. She unrolled it and from the front page tore off a ragged piece and began to write along the white margin, listing the ingredients—oatmeal, eggs, brown sugar—writing in the old school-taught Palmer script in the fluid style, but shaky now as though she were shivering from cold or fever. There, she said. I gave you the money. She looked at Ike. I’m giving you the shopping list, she said to Bobby. She handed him the scrap of newspaper. Go ahead now. Go on. I’ll be waiting.
But where should we get these, Mrs. Stearns? Ike said.
At Johnson’s. You know the grocery store.
Yes. We know it.
That’s where.
They turned and started out.
Wait, she said. How are you going to get back in here? I don’t want to have to get up and answer the door again. She took a key from the purse and handed it to them.
They left her apartment and went down the stairs to the sidewalk and into the sharp winter air on Main Street and on to Johnson’s at the corner of Second. When they were inside the store it was a good deal more complicated than they had thought it would be. On the ranks of shelves were two brands of brown sugar. Also, there were quick oats and regular oats and two measures of the cardboard barrels they came in. And with eggs, three sizes and two colors. They debated the matter between themselves, standing in the aisles of the store while around them the other shoppers, middle-aged women and young mothers, looked at them curiously and went on pushing their full carts.
We settled on the cheap brown sugar, Ike said.
Yes, Bobby said.
And the big one of regular oats.
Yes.
So now with eggs we take the medium ones.
Why?
Because they’re in the middle.
So?
It makes a difference, Ike said. The one between the other two ones. It makes it even.
Bobby looked at him, considering. All right, he said. Which color?
Which color?
Brown or white.
They turned toward the refrigerated case once more and regarded the tiers of cardboard egg cartons. Mother bought white ones, Ike said.
She’s not our mother, Bobby said. Maybe she wants brown ones.
Why would she want brown ones?
She had us get brown sugar.
So?
Because it comes in white too, Bobby said. Only she said brown.
All right, Ike said. Brown eggs.
All right, Bobby said.
Medium sized.
All right then.
They carried the eggs and oats and sugar up to the front of the store to the cash register and paid the checkout woman. She smiled at them. You boys making something good? she said. They didn’t answer but took the change from her hand and went back outside and up the stairs to the old woman’s dark and overheated rooms above the alley. They used the key and went in without knocking and discovered her asleep in the chair they’d left her in. She was breathing faintly, a quiet sigh and recover, her head lapsed forward onto the yoke of her blue housedress. They approached and stood before her, hesitant, and seeing how faint the movement was in her chest, watching the meager rise and collapse of the housedress, they felt a little frightened. Ike leaned forward and said, Mrs. Stearns. We’re back. They stood before her, waiting. They watched her. Mrs. Stearns, he said. He leaned forward again. We’re here. He touched her arm.
Abruptly she stopped breathing. She choked a little. Her eyes fluttered open behind the glasses and she raised her head to look about. Well. Are you back?
We just came in, Ike said. Just now.
What trouble did you have at the grocery store?
None. We got everything.
Good, she said.