Still Life with Plums: Short Stories

Get Ready

160 Get Ready Chloe and her mother huddled inside Foodland’s bus shelter fending off pelting autumn rain. Wet grocery bags smelled like worms, so Chloe burrowed her nose into her mother’s side. Sarah’s foot tapped fiercely as she willed the bus to arrive: “Come on, come on, come on.” She balanced a wilting sack against her angular hip until the bottom split and out spilled cans of Spam and tamales, grape soda and 3/$1.00 pork ‘n beans. Eggs broke, the jelly jar cracked, and Sarah yowled: “Shit!” Scrambling to collect the rolling goods, Chloe reached over the curb for the soggy lettuce when a Dodge Ram drove by splashing her with a muddy wave. Sarah glowered at the truck. “Asshole!” she yelled, pulling Chloe up by the elbow to swipe off loose grass and dead leaves. “Son of a bitch ought to look where he’s driving.” They heard heavy footsteps and turned to see a bearded man tromping toward them. Behind him the offending truck sat cockeyed in the parking lot. “I’m sorry!” he said, brows furrowed, eyes taking in the mess that he made. “I didn’t see her.” He immediately bent to scoop up groceries, tucking cans inside his pockets and zipped jacket. 161 get ready “Can I give you a ride home?” Chloe's and her mother’s eyes met. “Please. Your girl’s soaking.” Sarah appraised the man’s face, his intentions. “All right,” she said. They followed him to the truck where he opened the passenger door. Sarah slid in first, pulling Chloe up beside her. The man got in and started the truck. “I really am sorry.” Chloe rested her cheek against the foggy window while Sarah shifted toward the driver, her foot madly twitching. At a red light, she looked at him full-faced, tucking a blade of sopping hair behind her ear to expose the swollen cheek. “My name’s Sarah.” “Jack,” he said, looking over. Chloe and Sarah were both surprised when he cupped Sarah’s face in his hand to inspect the green bruise. “What happened here?” Sarah pulled away. “Nothing. It’s just . . . nothing.” “What. Somebody hit you?” She crossed her legs. “It’s just that he gets so angry sometimes.” Chloe recognized the tone of her mother’s lies. The bruise was from a drunken stumble. “Your husband?” “No. A friend. We’re staying with him until we get back on our feet.” She pressed her face into Chloe’s kinky red hair. “He do this a lot? This—friend?” “Only lately,” she said. “He’s not used to a child in the house.” Chloe started to protest, but Sarah squeezed her daughter’s knee. Jack gritted his teeth as Sarah gave him directions. The truck squeaked to a stop and Chloe popped open the door to jump down. Jack pulled food from his pockets to pile in Sarah’s cradled arms. “Look,” he said, “if things get bad here you give me a call.” He pulled a pencil from the dash board and scratched his 162 get ready number on a bean can. “I could put you up for a night or two.” “You better check with your woman before you make offers like that.” “I don’t, uh, have—” “We’ll be fine,” she said, edging down the seat. “Thanks anyway.” Inside the apartment, Sarah parted the curtains and watched Jack’s taillights recede. “Alleluia,” she sang. “God does provide.” “Are we leaving now?” Chloe asked. Sarah rubbed her arms to scale off the perpetual chill that encased her. “No, baby. Just a couple more days, though, so get ready.” Get ready meant start looking for treasure so when Sarah said, “Go!” Chloe could scavenge through whatever man’s apartment, pocketing silver lighters and pens, gold rings and tie clips, anything shiny she could palm and tuck. At the new place, when they were alone, she’d lift her arms while Sarah dug into pockets and hoods, under shirts and in cuffs, pulling out surprises like Christmas. She’d hug her daughter tight and say, “Good girl, Chloe. That’s my good-good girl. Best thing I ever did in my life was have you.” And she meant it so much that the first years of Chloe’s life Sarah planted herself in front of her husband’s open palm when he went after the baby for crying. When the open palm clenched to a fist, Sarah scooped up...