Unlike in major grocery stores, the selection was limited, but that didn’t matter, because her list was limited. Into the cart she piled apples and milk and bread and another box of cereal. She found more hamburger and chicken, but this time nothing was marked down. Despite her worries about money, she splurged on carrots and cauliflower, knowing that Tommie needed vegetables. She could steam the cauliflower, add milk and butter, and serve it like mashed potatoes or simply roast it. With every item added to the cart, she mentally subtracted the cash she knew she had. She didn’t want to have to ask the cashier to take something away that had already been rung up. She didn’t want any unnecessary attention.
There was one woman in line at the checkout, and Beverly could already tell that the cashier was the chatty sort. Next to the checkout stands was a rack of magazines; Beverly picked one up. When it was her turn, the cashier pulled the cart forward and began unloading items, already beginning to talk. Beverly stood in profile—exposing more of her back than her front to the cashier—her gaze buried in the magazine to keep the woman from speaking with her. From the corner of her eye, she watched the cashier ringing up items. The woman’s name tag read peg. Beverly set the magazine aside as the last item was loaded and reached for the bills she’d stashed in her pocket, suddenly remembering there was something she needed to know.
“Is there a bulletin board with job listings anywhere? Like cleaning or babysitting?”
“There’s a board near the exit, but I don’t have any idea what’s up there,” Peg said with a shrug. She loaded the items into plastic bags. “Did you find everything?”
“Yes,” Beverly said. She reached for the first of the bags, looping one of the plastic handles around her arm.
Peg glanced up, then seemed to peer even closer.
“Excuse me, but don’t I know you? You look sort of familiar.”
“I don’t think so,” Beverly mumbled. She reached for the other bags and began walking toward the exit, feeling Peg’s eyes on her, wondering if Peg was in the store the last time she’d shopped, feeling a growing sense of dread. Why else would Peg think she seemed familiar? What else could it be?
Unless…
For a moment, she felt almost as though she was about to drop the bags; questions began to tumble and spin through her mind like clothes in the dryer.
What if Peg’s husband worked for law enforcement?
What if Peg’s husband had seen a bulletin about her and brought it home?
What if Peg’s husband had asked Peg to stay on the lookout?
What if…?
She stopped and closed her eyes, trying to remain steady on her feet, trying to slow her mind.
“No,” she said aloud, opening her eyes. That couldn’t have happened. There was no doubt Gary had already instituted a nationwide manhunt—Kidnapper on the loose!—but would Peg’s husband have brought home the report? To have his wife study it, so she could watch for random wanted strangers, in case they wandered into the store? In a town like this? She wasn’t even sure if Peg’s husband was in law enforcement; in fact, she wasn’t even certain that Peg was married at all.
It was just her mind playing tricks again. The very idea bordered on the impossible, and besides, even if the impossible had happened, Beverly reminded herself that she now looked nothing like any of her recent photographs. Peg must have seen her on her previous shopping trip, that’s all. For all Beverly knew, Peg said the same thing to every stranger who walked into the store, an opener for a chatty conversation.
Taking a long breath, she decided that Peg hadn’t recognized her.
She decided she was just being paranoid.
At the bulletin board near the exit, there weren’t any listings for the kinds of work Beverly needed, which meant she’d probably have to venture farther into town. Maybe she should talk to the waitress at the diner again; perhaps she knew of someone personally who might need some cooking or cleaning or babysitting. But that meant walking in the opposite direction—with groceries—so it would have to wait.
Instead, on the walk home, she thought about the clothes Tommie needed, if only because she hoped it would keep her arms from aching. But they ached anyway, and she wished she had a car or even a bicycle with a basket.
Back at the house, Beverly put the groceries away and headed to the bathroom. As she had earlier, she washed the shirt she’d been wearing with shampoo, since it was practically soaked through. The heat of the day was already atrocious, like invisible steam, sticky and thick. She thought about putting on the earlier shirt, but it was still damp, and what was the point? Tommie wasn’t home, and knowing she had more cleaning to do, she took off her disguise and unwrapped the Ace bandage. Then—thinking, Why not?—she took off her jeans, as well. She might as well be comfortable. In her bra and panties, she returned to the kitchen to finish the oven.
She’d imagined she’d be weary from the trip to the store and back, but she actually felt…good. Like she had energy to burn. I escaped, she told herself. Tommie is safe, and now we have a home, and there’s no way that Peg recognized me. The realizations made her almost giddy with possibility, and she laughed aloud. On the kitchen counter was an old radio, and she turned it on, adjusting the dial until she found the music she wanted. Beyond the window, people worked in the distant fields, but they were so far away she wasn’t worried she’d be seen half naked.
Besides, she reasoned, it’s my house and I have things to do.
First up was to get rid of all the old food. Cleansers, she could keep. Who would poison cleansers? She remembered seeing trash bags under the sink and, pulling a couple from the box, she shook them open and set them near the refrigerator. There was no reason to check the dates; just toss everything, except for what she’d purchased recently. Into the garbage bag went cheese, condiments, pickles, jelly, olives, salad dressings, and something no doubt disgusting that had been wrapped in foil and forgotten. Even an old pizza box with a couple of pieces that could have been used as a substitute for concrete. She did the same thing with the freezer, which meant trashing everything except the chicken and hamburger. It took all of ten minutes, and she lugged the now-full trash bag to the huge green garbage can she’d spotted behind the house, the one that would be picked up by the road. She should have asked the owner when the garbage truck came by, but she assumed that she’d figure it out eventually.
Next she emptied the cupboards, tossing that garbage bag as well. Afterward, she stood before the refrigerator and cupboards, opening the doors one after the other, seeing their emptiness, except the food she needed for Tommie and herself, and suddenly feeling even better.
I am finally and truly moving forward.
She turned her efforts back to the oven. The cleanser had done its work, and the grime came off easier than she expected. It didn’t appear new when she finished—there were still scorch marks on both sides, impossible to remove—but she suspected it was cleaner than it had been in years. Once that was done, she got the beans soaking in water from the tap.
The sight of the beans reminded her that she should probably eat—she hadn’t had anything all day—but she didn’t want to break her rhythm. Instead, she wiped the counters, paying special attention to the corners, and scrubbed at the lime stain in the sink.
Climbing onto the counter to wipe down the upper cabinets, she again noticed minor grease stains on the wall and ceiling. Dragging out the stepladder, she started in on the ceiling, spraying cleanser with one hand and scrubbing with the other. When her arms got tired—which they did a lot—she shook them, then went back to work. The walls came next. Neither the ceiling nor the walls had to be perfect, of course—just clean enough for the primer and paint to stick—but it still took almost three hours to finish.
Afterward, she put the cleansers and stepladder away, set the rags on top of the washer, and finally made her way to the shower. She luxuriated in the spray of hot water and her own sense of accomplishment.
In front of the mirror, she dressed and, after towel-drying her hair, brushed out the tangles. Tommie would be home from school soon.
She waited on the stump out front, idly watching the fieldworkers in the distance, until she heard the low-throated rumble of the bus resonating in the oppressive heat. As Tommie rose from his seat at the rear of the bus, she stood. Watching him through the bus window, she wished that he’d been in the midst of a conversation with one of the other kids and would linger at the door while saying goodbye. But he didn’t; he simply stepped off and trudged toward her as though his backpack, and life, were weighing him down. She reached for the backpack, offering a quick wave to the driver, who waved in return.
“How was school?” she asked as the bus pulled away.
Tommie shrugged, but this time she smiled, knowing it had been a dumb question. Her mom used to ask her the same thing, but school was always just…school.
She ran her hand through his hair. “How about an apple when we get inside? I went to the store today.”
“Did you buy Oreos?”
“Not this time.”
He nodded. “Then I guess an apple will be okay.”
She squeezed his shoulder and the two of them walked into the house together.