Page 7 of Living with Death

Patty lost her husband last year. It’s been a tough time for her. I’d think Sam goes out just for Patty if it weren't for her hooking up. I toss the pumpkin into the trash against the building and walk inside.

The grocery store is not big, but big enough. It keeps people from going outside of town to the chain of grocery stores. There are three registers and a customer service booth where you can buy cigarettes and money orders. We sell all the basics, and we’re known for our reasonable meat prices.

A box of sprinkles falls from the shelf as the heat clicks on in the store. Robbie sits behind the customer service area, counting our drawers even though I already counted mine, and I’m not a penny short.

Once I finish the stickers, I head back to grab my lunchbox and clock out.

I turn down aisle five. Chills crawl up my arms, causing the hairs on my neck to stand when I see two boxes on the floor and a bottle of vanilla extract. “Not as many as yesterday,” I say.

I place them back where they go as the light above me flickers. I hurry to the break room, grab my lunchbox, and type my number on the tablet. I tap clock out and walk back the way I came. I stop at aisle five, amazement clear on my face. Two more cake boxes and a bag of sugar from the bottom shelf have fallen.

Everyone learned long ago to keep the breakable items off the shelves on this aisle. No one can explain the odd things that occur, like the change in temperature, items getting knocked off continuously, or the calmness that washes over you right in the center.

Sometimes you’ll feel a brush of something against you. There are no ominous feelings. It just is. I replace the items, whispering, “That’s enough for today.”

This store isn’t old. Some rich guy with money to spend opened it, and soon after, the weird occurrences with aisle five started happening.

I reach for my plaid coat under my counter and slide my arms through, buttoning it closed.

“Good night,” I say to Robbie.

He looks up. “Night, Mabel.”

Chapter Three

The chilly air touches my skin as I walk to my bike. I place my beret on top of my head and unlock the chain. I swing my leg over, sliding my glasses up my nose before I pull my hair back into a low ponytail. I ruck my cigarette slacks up my thighs to keep them away from the chain before pushing off Main Street.

I look ahead, turn the corner, and glide on the sidewalk. Hitting the pavement again, riding through a small puddle, I lift my legs. I pedal down the road, running over fallen leaves until I turn into the store down the street from my house.

As I walk inside, I prop my bike against the store, the bell chiming above me. Cook is an older Black man who owns the store. He’s my closest friend, more like family, especially after Grandpop passed. Often, I’ll come up here and sit with him.

Over the years, he’s told me about his life growing up, how he used to have to walk miles to work at a restaurant in another town. He was the oldest of nine kids, and they had no father to help, so it was just him and his mama. But she had to stay with the kids, so he was the breadwinner.

He's also told me stories about him and his brothers. They would run barefoot down the dirt road, carrying cane poles and singing church songs. He and his sisters would walk to the blackberry bushes and sometimes saw snakes, but they wouldn’t bother them because they were good snakes, the kind that got rid of the bad.

Life was tough, he’d tell me, but times were simpler. He’s got a rocking chair outside the store and some crates for others to sit on. He can play the guitar like no one I’ve ever seen, and he smokes cigars most of the day. That was one thing he and my grandpop had in common—the love for a good cigar.

“Hey, Cook,” I call out. He walks from the back wearing a white apron, and I walk to the drinks, grabbing a bottle of water.

“Well, hey there, Mabel. How was your day at the store?”

“It was good. Leigh and Rue came in,” I say. “That little girl is something else.”

He smiles. “Growing like a weed, I suspect.”

“That she is. Told me today she was finer than a frog’s hair.”

He laughs. “Haven’t heard that in a long time.”

“I’ve never heard that,” I say, placing the water on the counter.

“What do you want tonight? I got pork chops, potato salad, and collards with fresh cornbread, or you can get the baked chicken.”

“Pork chop meal sounds good to me.”

“Chicken is better for you,”my mother’s voice rolls through my mind.

“Wait, do the chicken instead.”

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