Page 7 of These Godly Lies
She hooks Loki to a post outside the convenience store, petting the donkey on the nose and feeding him a carrot from her pocket before heading in. Above her, a bell chimes as she opens the door.
“Ah, Miss Anna! Haven’t seen you for a while. Was starting to worry the storms got ya.”
Anna offers the balding man a smile. “I’m well enough. Loki has been getting older, poor thing. It’s getting harder for him to make the journey.” A lie. The donkey is just as stubborn and prone to trouble as the first day she brought him home. Still, it’s a better excuse than the truth—that she has no need to make the trip when Khiran brings her whatever she wishes. She changes the topic before he can inquire further. “How is Susan doing? And the kids?”
Carl catches her up—Susan is obsessing over the quilt she’s working on (she shows one at the county fair every year, you know) and he’s certain his girls are solely to blame for all his hair loss. Anna nods and hums in interest when the conversation calls for it, all while plucking goods off the shelf and into her hand basket.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into kids these days,” he grumbles, as she sets her purchases on the counter. He rings up the items, his gold watch winking up at her with every twist of his wrist. “Gayle’s got it in her mind that she wants to go to college, of all things. Can you believe it?” He scoffs, shaking his head and repeats the word as if it’s personally wronged him. “College. I tell you, Anna. The world is changing something awful. What’s a girl going to do with a college education? Waste of money is what it is.”
Good for her, Anna thinks. What she says is, “The world is always changing. Could you kindly add today’s paper to the order? You know how out of touch I get up there.”
“Eh? Oh, yeah. Of course.” He ducks below the counter, grabbing a paper from the top and handing it to her. “Not a whole lot of folks buying them these days. What with television and all. You know, I got a cousin who’s a rancher that’d be willing to buy that old place up from ya.”
Anna tries to smother her smile. He’s brought it up multipletimes. Nearly as often as his insistence that she should retire her cart and get a car. “Yes, I believe you’ve mentioned.”
Carl has the decency to look embarrassed, scratching at the graying stubble of his jaw sheepishly. “It’s just not right, is all. Little lady like you living all the way up there by yourself.”
She could ask why his cousin would be any different, but she knows a tired conversation when she sees one. “How much do I owe you, Carl?”
“Oh, that’d be, uh—” He squints at the numbers on the register. “A dollar twenty-eight.”
She rests her bag on the counter, fishing for her coin purse. Behind her, she hears the bell of the shop door chime.
Carl’s face darkens. “You again?! You got some nerve, kid!”
Anna turns, curious. The person in the doorway is, in fact, a kid. He’s scrawny, beanpole thin, and can’t be older than sixteen. His eyes, so dark they’re nearly as black as his chin length hair, narrow in rebellion. “I have money!”
“Yeah? You got enough to cover that loaf of bread you stole from me last week?”
“I didn’t—”
“I’ll pay for him,” Anna says, severing the argument before it can escalate. Carl’s face has turned a curious shade of violet. “The loaf of bread, too.”
“Miss Anna, that’s—you shouldn’t—”
“He can grab what he needs while you bag up my things. We’ll do it all in one transaction. It’ll hardly take you any extra time at all.” The boy is staring at her from the doorway, unsure. Anna holds out her now empty shopping basket with a smile. “Go on and fill it up, but let’s try not to keep Mr. Robinson waiting.”
Tentatively, he takes the offered basket, giving her one last assessing look before turning toward the aisles. Anna doesn’t miss the way he continues to look back over his shoulder, as if waiting for her to change her mind.
Carl is already leaning over the counter. “You got a good heart, a real good heart, but I’m telling you he’s wasting it.” Despite the hiss in his voice, every word rings with a volume that matches his angryflush. “Kid has been a right nuisance ever since he showed up here. Picking pockets, lifting goods, the works.”
Anna looks from Carl to the boy, watching the way his shoulders hunch and his hand shakes as they grip a jar of peanut butter. “Yes, you mentioned he stole… what was it? A loaf of bread? Please make sure to add that to my bill.”
He must notice the edge of judgement in her voice. “Well, it’s not about—”
Anna knows exactly what it’s about. Knows it the same way she knows Carl wouldn’t have questioned her kindness if the boy had been white. “Are you turning down my money, Carl?”
As suspected, his stream of protests abruptly cease. Anna can see him chewing on the words, though. They must be tougher than leather for how the muscle in his jaw spasms as he finishes bagging the rest of her items. When the boy comes back, Carl grudgingly punches in the additional items on the till and places them in a separate bag.
Bread, peanut butter, and two cans of beans.
Anna has to force a fragile smile just to hide the depths of her worry. “Are you sure that’s all?”
He doesn’t meet her eyes. His gaze settles lower, near her chin, when he nods. “Yes ma’am. Thank you.”
On the other side of the counter, Carl scoffs under his breath. If she wasn’t already biting her tongue, Anna may have given into the temptation to insist the boy grab more. As it is, she can’t trust that she won’t have a few extra words for the grocer as well. So, with her lips pursed, she silently pays the total.
On her way out, she hesitates, her hand lingering on the door-frame as she waits for the boy to be out of earshot. She offers Carl some final, parting words in the hopes that they’ll sink in when he finds himself alone. “Of all the things he could have taken. Did you even once ask yourself what kind of teenager steals bread?” she asks, suddenly tired. He doesn’t answer. Anna hopes it’s because he feels embarrassed. Shame is a powerful motivator for change. Yet, she has the distinct sense that Carl will fail to learn or grow from any of it.
