Summer Snow (3 page)

“Start at the back and work your way up to the front,” Alicia instructed. She watched me push the mop bucket out into the aisle. “You know how to work that thing, don't you?” Her hand pulled an imaginary lever. “Just put the mop head in that slot and pull—”

“Yes, thank you.” I quickly nodded, though I had never used a mop before in my life.

“Okay. Have fun.” Alicia returned to rubbing her fingers.

I began to back slowly down the aisle past the fruits and vegetables and bins of nuts. The bucket was heavier than it looked, and I was so focused on maneuvering it that when the mister started over the lettuces, I jumped out of my skin and knocked a grapefruit from a mountain of Ruby Reds. It plopped right into my bucket and splashed dingy water on my shoes. Had I a foul mouth, the moment was ripe for a string of curses that may have been deemed warranted by most people. But I bit my lip instead and rolled up my sleeve to fish the grapefruit out. It was slick with brown water and probably bruised, and because I didn't want anyone to buy it, I stuck it in my apron pocket intending to pay for it later. I almost laughed in surrender when I saw the caricature of pregnant roundness protruding from my belly.

Mopping wasn't as bad as I first imagined it would be, and the monotonous motion actually felt more like a workout than a menial task. Sweep to the left, sweep to the right, swish in the bucket, squeeze. I wouldn't go so far as to say I enjoyed it, but the solitariness of such drudgery was a definite bonus. None of the other employees approached me even once. With my hand on the grip of an oversize mop and the smell of dusty water at my feet, I had a few stolen moments to ponder the what-ifs of my life. What if Dad were still alive? What if things were different between Thomas and me? What if I had stayed in college? What if I had never met Parker and gotten pregnant? The list could go on forever—past recent mistakes and on to long-ago losses—and though I wanted to indulge in a little self-pity, I didn't because Grandma expected more of me these days. I pushed those thoughts out of my mind and, with a self-deprecating smile, mopped with all the heart of a born grocery store employee.

The store itself was dead, and the occasional customers who did brave the abandoned aisles walked quickly and clutched bulging coats around them as if this was the last place they wanted to be. Often they carried just a single item—a loaf of bread, a gallon of milk. At least two people besides the man in the overcoat stopped to peruse the wine section.

When she walked past me, I only looked up because her footsteps were so heavy. Her back was toward me, and she was wearing a jean coat with faux fur at the wrists and collar. Long, dirty blonde hair hung in a ponytail, and though I couldn't see her face, there was something about her that seemed too old for such youthful hair. She glanced over her shoulder and I dropped my head, not wanting it to seem like I had been staring at her. I heard her leave then, and because the sad slant of her back tugged at something deep inside me, I watched her walk toward Alicia.

I had made it almost to the end of the aisle, and I could see and hear everything that went on between the two of them. The woman laid a half gallon of milk, a bag of pretzels, and two carefully chosen Braeburn apples on the counter. Alicia barely looked at her and didn't even bother to smile, much less flatter her the way she had wooed the man with the wine. For her part, the woman kept her head down and her hands in her pockets as if she was almost apologetic about her presence in the store.

“Four dollars and three cents,” Alicia said when the last item had been scanned. She turned to put the groceries in a plastic bag while the woman dug in her pockets.

She produced four crinkled one-dollar bills and spread them out self-consciously in front of her. Passing them to Alicia, her hands returned to her pockets to find the change. She probed and poked, and though I was supposed to be looking at the floor, I could see her fingers thrusting at the fabric and coming up empty.

“Do you have a take-a-penny jar?” the woman asked quietly.

Alicia stared at her. “No.”

My hands went to my own pockets, but the pants were brand-new and the only thing I found was lint.

“How much was it again?” Her voice was so soft I could barely make out the words.

“Four dollars and three cents,” Alicia repeated matter-of-factly.

The woman dug a bit more, and I wanted to yell at Alicia, “Just let her have it. I'll pay you later!” But instead I put my hand on the mop and looked down. I didn't want the weary woman to think that anyone was witnessing her shame.

I didn't realize I was holding my breath until I heard the woman say, “I guess I'll have to leave one of the apples.” When I exhaled, I felt them both look up. Fortunately I was half turned away from them, and the splat of my mop on the floor disguised the tail end of my wheeze.

“Whatever,” Alicia intoned.

Buttons were pushed and cash register tape whirred and within moments the woman was gone.

“Sheesh,” Alicia said, catching my eye. “Seriously, it was like three cents. Can you believe some people?”

“No, I can't,” I said, but she didn't catch the arrows in my look.

I finished the floor with an almost vicious energy, but by the time the front doors were locked and we were ready to start restocking shelves, I had all but forgotten about the woman. Though she nibbled at the corners of my mind, it was easier not to focus on her. And even downright soothing to allow myself the thought that at least one person had it far worse than me.

Different

B
ECAUSE
I
LOVED
Thomas Walker and he did not love me back, it was very awkward at first to maintain a relationship with the Walker family. Though Thomas and I had managed to patch things up with all the inelegant grace of junior high dance partners, I continued to have a bit of a problem looking him in the eye or even being in the same room as him without feeling every ounce of the rejection he so thoughtlessly threw at my feet. But since our friendship spanned years and heartaches that hardened like cement between the inconsistencies of our lives, maintain is exactly what I did.

Of course, everyone knew that something catastrophic had happened, though I hoped that only Mrs. Walker was perceptive enough to string together the details. Thankfully, the deflation of my friendship with Thomas took a backseat to the news that I was expecting a baby, and the rest of the family more likely than not buried any indication of turmoil between Thomas and me beneath this much weightier, more significant discovery.

When Mr. Walker saw me for the first time after learning the news, I could see the tightrope his conscience and emotions had to walk and how difficult he was finding it to balance the two. There was disappointment, and I understood that completely because I felt it acutely myself. But there was also a defensiveness behind his eyes, a fatherly need to shore me up against the onslaught of what was to come, to pull me in and protect me from the world and the consequences of my actions.

I watched the two sides battle across his face, and then unexpectedly he softened and drew me into his arms with all the aching tenderness of someone who loved me far more deeply than I had ever realized. When my head was buried on his broad shoulder and I was lost for words, he confirmed it by saying, “We love ya, Julia.” And though he had shaved off the edges by using
we
instead of
I
and
ya
instead of
you
, I knew exactly what he meant. For a moment I wanted to ask him to say it again the proper way, so I could close my eyes and pretend he was my father.

If anything, the disquiet surrounding my mortifying fallout with Thomas and the subsequent news of my pregnancy drew me closer to the Walkers. Thomas was busy with his college courses and avoided home whenever his mother tactfully warned him that I would be around. I was free to luxuriate in the normalcy of laughter in the kitchen and easy conversations that rambled on about nothing more important than whether or not brown sugar was actually healthier for you than white. It was a quiet time for me, a time to sit and slowly unravel the boundaries of our expanding relationship, a skein of delicate yarn that I slipped between my fingers and held fast in my palm—a softness, an unexpected treasure.

At least once a week the Walker women invited me over for some distinctly feminine rite: crafting homemade cards, painting our toenails bubble-gum pink, or baking endless goodies that we slowly devoured one row at a time, cutting little bites and nibbling until the pan was nearly gone. It was rather out of the ordinary for me, the pure girliness of it, but I loved it all the same and found myself observing Mrs. Walker and her daughters as if they were curious creatures on Animal Planet: beautiful, extraordinary, spellbinding, but
curious
creatures. I did not understand them even as I longed to be a part of them.

Our girls' nights in usually happened later in the week, but after my less than wonderful experience at work on Monday night, Mrs. Walker called me to see if I would be up for making cookies on Tuesday evening. I worked during the day on Tuesday, and although the thought of putting my feet up and indulging in a little mindless television was enticing, I couldn't bring myself to say no. Even Grandma, who usually declined Mrs. Walker's invitations so I could have a little room to breathe, conceded to come along.

Most of the engulfing snow that fell throughout the holidays had melted in a warm snap around Valentine's Day. There was a week of winter flooding, the kind of warmth and wet that turns everything to a gooey slush and hinders any attempt at cleanliness or even free movement outside the confines of any building. Customers picked their way through the Value Foods parking lot, stepping high like prized Lipizzaner stallions so as not to soil the cuffs of their jeans with gray snowy sludge. An utter waste of time. It was a wild world for a few days while the sun shone exuberantly, and though it wasn't quite fifty degrees, people braved the outdoors minus a coat or the hat, scarf, and glove paraphernalia that they wouldn't have been caught dead without only days before.

When temperatures suddenly dipped back to zero and then beyond, everything froze solid. It was as if a witch had cast a spell over Mason, unleashing a frost so severe it almost frighteningly arrested any springlike movement of the earth below. The hope of a warming world was so carefully preserved it seemed like a cruel snub. Brown grasses that had been slick with melt were now stiff and bent, lifeless fingers pointing heavenward in blame. Mr. Walker's deep footprints in the grove were perfect impressions cast in silvery granite. Tire tracks along every road became indestructible wells that made driving a treacherous experience. It was an eerily snowless but nonetheless bitterly icy world. It felt wrong.

Grandma and I bundled up as if we were about to summit Everest and headed through the darkness to the Walkers' baking night. I walked behind Grandma, reaching slightly around her to train a flashlight beam on the path before us. It was slippery and uneven, hard to maneuver, and I wished more than once that I had pressed Grandma more earnestly to take the car.

She had been insistent: the Walkers lived next door—only a four-minute walk through the grove—and it wasn't worth the gas it would take to drive there when we had perfectly sound and capable legs. Though at first it had been a matter of preference, as we walked I began to question the validity of her words—particularly when her foot slid in a deep rut and I had to thrust out an arm to catch her. She was light against my embrace, and we stayed there for a moment, the flashlight, forgotten in my grasping hand, illuminating the hostile tree branches above our heads. Grandma breathed heavily once or twice, leaned into me, and then laughed to let me know it was nothing. But as I watched her continue on in front of my own wavering pace, the slight hunch of her shoulders, the slow shuffle of her feet, reminded me: seventy-seven. She was seventy-seven years old. The perspective made me shiver.

I talked then, to scare off the ghosts that cackled in the frigid grove, and when we mounted the steps of the Walkers' front porch, Grandma's cheeks were flushed with gratefulness and maybe even a little pain. She favored her left ankle the tiniest bit. I was about to ask her if she was okay when the front door flung open.

“You
walked
?” Mrs. Walker asked. If I didn't know her I would have mistaken her concern for anger. “It's awful out there! Why on earth did you walk? I could have sent Jonathan to get you!” She rambled on without waiting for a reply and ushered us in with all the doting concern of a mother hen. I even heard her cluck once when she saw Grandma limp a little as she went to sit on the bench beneath the coat hook. “Tell me you didn't hurt yourself!” She sucked in quickly, studying Grandma's face for the truth.

“Not at all, not at all,” Grandma hurried to clarify. “A little twist; that's all.”

I turned my face to my shoes, concentrating on untying the laces and hiding a smile when Mrs. Walker tsked and bent to pull off Grandma's boots.

“We'll get you some ice. Or heat.” She whipped around to regard me. “Which one do you do first? I can never remember.”

“Beats me.” I shrugged.

“Come on!” Mrs. Walker challenged. “You're the smart one!”

I laughed a little too self-consciously and carefully moved past them into the kitchen. Maggie, the youngest Walker, was already setting out mixing bowls on the counter, and when she saw me, she gave a delighted squeal and mimed a long-distance hug. “Hey, Maggie,” I called, saluting her handiwork. “Got peas in your freezer?”

“Maybe California mixed veggies,” she offered. “Simon hates peas so much he says they can't be in the same freezer as his peanut butter cup ice cream.”

I slid open the deep drawer beneath the fridge, and sure enough, there was a king-size bag of frostbitten vegetables—and they were only half gone. By the time Mrs. Walker and Grandma ambled into the kitchen, two stools were pulled up to the counter—one for sitting, one for the injured leg—and the lumpy bag was wrapped in a yellow gingham tea towel. I noted with some alarm that Grandma was indeed limping visibly.