The Cupboard Bare

Every time she saw that elderly couple come into the store, she smiled broadly, cleared away whatever she was doing behind the cash register and made her way over. To one or the other. Each of them carried a small dog in a carrying case under their shoulder. Which they speedily deposited on the child seat of one of the store’s shopping carts, on entry.

They looked for different things, so she would find the woman peering about at the clothing, and the man looking through the stacks of books. They were nice people, but it wasn’t exactly they she was interested in, but the dogs. Small-breed dogs, though she preferred, herself, large breeds. It was the size of the dogs, inconspicuous, settled into their little bags, that allowed them entry.

She loved animals, she really did. Didn’t matter, dogs or cats, she loved them all. Wished she could have one of her own. It would mean a lot to her, she said to herself. She said that actually, to anyone who would listen, including the public housing authority, but they simply reminded her that if they permitted everyone to have a domestic animal in an apartment the place would soon be overrun with them. Was that what she wanted? They asked. No, she agreed, that wouldn’t work very well.

In her younger days she had known how improvident a decision that was, when other accommodations had permitted them, and the residents would be awakened at odd hours by dogs barking, and they'd discover excrement left in the hallways.

So she had resigned herself to her solitary residence in her cramped, but sufficient little apartment. And thought often and fondly of the two large Labrador retrievers her aunt had kept. But of course that was in a house, a house outside the city, with a huge backyard where the dogs could be left out all the time, and be of no concern to anyone outside the family.

That was during that period when she lived with her aunt. Her mother’s older sister. Who in fact, bore no physical resemblance whatever to her mother. Where her mother had been blond and pale-skinned, her aunt had red hair and a freckled countenance. Where her mother had a timid, nervous disposition her aunt was harsh and authoritative.

What they had in common was that they were half-sisters. And that each, as it happened, was single, each with one child. When her mother died, it was her aunt who took her in. She was not yet in high school, her cousin a grade ahead of her. It was nice, living with her aunt, having all that room to move about in a large house, in comparison to the miserable hovel she had shared with her mother.

Her shame at living in poverty, never having intact and clean clothing to wear to school, always hungry, becoming an object of pity, had taught her how cruel life could be.

All that changed when she went to live with her aunt. Why, her aunt, she was convinced, was rich. Though why that should be so when her mother was poor was always a mystery to her. She daren’t ask her aunt; she was not a person to whom one posed questions. She was restricted to answering questions, to responding when she was spoken to. She was not encouraged to ask anything.

She did develop a close tie with her cousin, though and became fond of him. It was special, having someone to share thoughts with, to forge a friendship with, without worrying that they’d be critical of her, because he never was. And for the first few years they had a casual and warm relationship. He entered high school before her, and she had two years of high school before her life with them fell apart.

He’s been long dead. By that time she didn’t care. Their relationship had long since been sundered. He had become increasingly hostile, school authorities warned her aunt that he was getting out of control, resistant to authority, belligerent with the other students. And that was when he also turned against her. That puzzled her; she was always nice to him, felt comfort in his presence, and trusted him. He seemed to reciprocate, then suddenly, the relaxed comfort dissipated. He began taunting her, saying she was ugly, no one would ever want to be with her. He was doing her a favour, he said, when he raped her, said it would be the only time she would have the pleasure of sexual congress with a man.

Her aunt is now in a hospice, being cared for, an end-of-life situation. She visited her occasionally. But her aunt really was beyond recognizing her, or anyone else. It likely wouldn’t be long, she told herself, when she’d be given notice to come for a last visit, to say goodbye to the woman who had given her shelter and a brief hope that the warmth of a family would be hers. If she hadn’t been such a cold woman … even her son feared her anger, her frigid denunciation, her angry despair at her lonely life. How could a child of that household develop into an empathetic, decent adult?

She was past fifty herself now, a large pleasant-faced woman with short-cropped hair, dyed a brassy red. When she smiled her eyes narrowed, her teeth glinted through a slender crack between her lips, and onlookers thought she looked happily comfortable with herself. Well, that is precisely how she felt. Yes, she had high blood pressure, and a heart condition, and her doctor was always sending her off for more tests, told her she was a good candidate for diabetes and scolding her when she admitted she hadn’t followed his prescriptive orders. She had a few hospital stays, but she felt good about life, and enjoyed herself. She loved being with people.

She lived alone in an income-assisted apartment and travelled by public transit - an hour each way - to reach her place of employment. The store sat, actually, on the edge of a public housing authority project for new immigrants. She could write a book, she often said to herself, about all the different kinds of people who came into the store. She'd been told she had to be 'sensitive' to them, because their culture was different. She needed no lecture, she was always empathetic, aware and kind to others.

She was regarded as a capable employee, trustworthy and friendly to the clients, most of them repeat customers who would come in regular cycles, missing a week, two weeks, then turning up to look around at the offerings. Especially when they’d acquired too much inventory, and planned a sale. That’s when everyone showed up, eager to take advantage of those giveaway sale prices.

Seniors came on Tuesdays, when purchases were 20% off for them. That helped the working poor, the elderly retired on very fixed incomes, the welfare recipients, and those on the pogey. It helped that there were no taxes charged since the Sally Ann’s thrift shop was a recognized charitable institution. She knew, though, that it wasn’t only those who hadn’t money to spare who shopped there. Those were the ones who did so grudgingly, because they couldn’t afford to go anywhere else. And they parted with what they had sparingly, an item or two here or there.

It was different with the other crowd, and they’d begun to represent at least half of their clientele now. Those were the people with money to spend, the people who came in well dressed. Well dressed, even though what they wore was what they bought at the Sally Ann. In a spirit of waste-not-want-not, as her aunt always used to say. When she stood over her at the table, if there was any hint of a suggestion that she might leave something over on her plate. As though that was likely.

Living with her aunt, grim as the woman was, she never went without, never felt hungry. Never had a meal that wasn’t cooked from scratch there. Her aunt had pride in that, what she did, how she looked after her charges, so conscientiously. She knew the woman meant well, she was simply incapable of expressing warmth and compassion. She'd patterned herself after what she had herself been exposed to, as a child.

She meant to get off her bus two stops early on her way home tonight. She groaned just thinking about it. Two stops earlier than she had to, but she had to. It would mean a long walk the rest of the way home, a walk she would never become accustomed to, because her feet would hurt, her flat feet that couldn’t stand up to too much walking. She could stand around all right, but not walk all that much. That’s all right, she told herself, she’d bathe them afterward in warm, salty water. That would help.

If she’d remembered yesterday to stop by the little grocery store she wouldn’t have to do it tonight. If she forgets to stop by tonight she’ll have nothing to eat. That should spur her memory, she thought glumly to herself. She meant to pick up a few boxes of macaroni and cheese. That would do her. With a nice cup of tea. Some soft fruit too, if there was anything reasonable enough; something that had been discounted, bananas, maybe. A few bruises never hurt anyone. They tasted better really ripe, sweeter. No apples; too hard on her teeth.

It had been a slow day, not that many people coming in. But what a succession of people she normally saw. Whom she was always delighted to see, fulfilling her gregarious need to be around people, speak with them in a tone of familiarity all the regulars were accustomed to. Didn’t matter, she knew, if they were poor or had money, they all regarded her with a certain air of trust, regard. For they’d had a long relationship, she there to smile widely, greet them effusively, then let them go about their picky-picking over the garments, kitchen wares, linens, footwear, old CDs, videos and books. Plenty of bargains to be had. People coming in with their little kids could afford the toys there. If they couldn't, she had the discretion to just give the kids a toy.

She knew, as they did, that a nice proportion of what they were donated had hardly been worn, some items not at all. People with money to spare - and even those without nowadays - were given to impulse buying, to stave off boredom, to apply themselves to their aspirations of looking right up to date with fashion, then realizing afterward they’d got the wrong size, the garment wasn’t comfortable, or simply that it looked awful on them. Out with it!

And into the Sally Ann. She had customers who would come in bi-weekly, mosey about for an hour and walk out with fifty dollars’ worth of acquisitions. They certainly weren’t representative of the working poor, the welfare types, and the Sally Ann depended on them. That too was reciprocated. Those people were involved in a kind of feeling that nothing needed to be wasted, that recycling of goods was a fine idea. Best of all, they felt good about contributing to the Salvation Army good deeds in their own way. At least that was her impression.

Her aunt was so tetchily focused on manners. It was “yes’m”, or “thank you, Auntie” and remembering to keep her elbows off the table, using the napkins set so carefully at each place setting. Learning to set the table properly, aligning all the cutlery, knives and spoons on the right, forks on the left. She had watched her aunt dust furniture, mop floors, get down on her hands and knees and scrub the bathroom and kitchen floors, like it was nothing.

Stern as her aunt was, she never, ever, demanded that she too, apply herself to chasing dust and dirt. No one was permitted to wear outside footwear in the house; unshod at the door. No exceptions, not even guests. Not even the Reverend Munroe, who visited on occasion. Nor did he mind, far as she could recall.

Last time she saw him was because her aunt had rung him up, asked him to come along. To speak with her, because she was explaining - or trying to - why it was that her conformation had altered. Not her fault, she said, imploringly.

She wasn’t entirely ignorant. She knew that she was pregnant, but didn’t know what to do about it, so she just ignored that reality. Until it became impossible to shield herself from notice any longer. A discreet note from her grade ten teacher. She watched her aunt read it, and look at her in astonishment, a black mood settling over her sharp features. And then the questioning began.

No, she had never, ever had sex with any boy, she hardly knew any of them, even the ones in her class. There was only her cousin, he was the only one she knew. Intimately. Thunder shot from her aunt’s eyes, turning into piercing lightning that throbbed right through into her own and gave her an instant, mind-crippling headache. Aunt, she cried, believe me, it’s true. I didn’t do anything, I was just there, he did it.

Later, the Reverend Munroe questioned her, in isolation from anyone else. He probed her mind gently, not blaming her, pitying her. He believed her, where her aunt hadn’t. There was nothing she could do to restore herself in her aunt’s good graces. She believed what she had to.

Reverend Munroe spoke quietly afterward to her aunt, turned to her, told her to pack some of her things and he’d be by in an hour to pick her up. He had some arrangements to make, beforehand.

She’d been upset yesterday, after work. That’s why she’d forgotten to get off at the earlier stop, to get some food for herself. Good thing she had some leftover pizza from the week-end, saved, actually just in case something like that happened. Wouldn’t be the first time.

Upset because some new people came into the store. She knew them all, the cool young things looking for vintage clothing, which they’d never find there. The elderly women, their husbands sitting impatiently in the car, parked out in front, waiting for them to get on with it and depart. The work-worn women with too many children in tow. The well-off older people who came along regularly, to pick up things for themselves, and for their children, their grandchildren. What, she always wondered, did they tell their children, let alone their grandchildren, about where it was these gifts had come from? The dark-skinned Middle-Eastern women with their head coverings, and their surly-looking men folk.

Yesterday, though, it was two young women who came in together, nicely dressed, very attractive, lots of make-up. They were black. She had no feelings against people of colour. She had her own colour-thing, she grinned to herself, tossing back her hair, cut perkily just to the edge of her ears, the sides flipping up, her only true conceit.

Those two had snapped their fingers at her. To gain her attention. She’d been busy serving other customers. She pretended she hadn‘t seen nor heard them. Completely ignored them. They, in turn became increasingly annoyed, began to speak loudly between themselves about the “ignorance of some people”. Good thing her supervisor clued in on what was happening, and smoothly took over, brought the two over to another cash, and served them.

She’d worked there a long time. Her supervisor would never want to chastise her for anything. They were friends, and more than friends. Everyone who worked there regarded one another as family. That was it, they were family. They were her family. She treasured that thought. Beamed a smile at her supervisor, who tipped her head at her with a small smile playing about her lips.

Still, she’d been that upset at the women’s behaviour that she’d grumped her way home, brooding. Very unlike herself. Angry enough to forget she needed to stock up on some food. She hoped nothing like that would happen today. It shouldn’t; it rarely did. She had faith in human nature.