At the corner across from the hotel is a small all-night store. They have good hot chocolate, and tonight, I convince myself to get warm and buy a cup. Besides, I notice two men hanging around. I have not seen them around before, and they shift their gazes everywhere, as if they’re nervous about something. They huddle together, casting furtive glances toward the hotel’s rich patrons. I cannot place the warning emanating from them, but I do not like their look. They could be here for me; who knows? They could be police, which puts me on high alert. But a burst of frigid wind distracts me, and my thoughts switch back to the store’s heater and hot chocolate to warm me.
The bell tinkles when I enter the store. I shake the water off, surveying the room. The overhead light gives off a bluish-white hue, and the store is practically empty, save the clerk behind the counter. He doesn’t care much for me.
He barely looks up from his tabloid, saying in clipped French, “Make it quick.”
I walk the aisles. My stomach growls, reminding me I have not eaten in hours, wanting the rows of tightly wrapped food. But money is low. Papa said stealing was dishonorable, but I have done many dishonorable things in the name of survival. I think he would understand.
Up and down the rows, I walk, passing a woman dressed in fur and heels. My fingers graze all the incredible merchandise. I slow in the health-and-beauty aisle when a familiar bottle on the shelf catches my eye—Olay written in black script.
I know it immediately. I grab the bottle labeled Tester and open the cap, bringing the bottle to my nose. I inhale deeply, suddenly transported to a time when I knew nothing but happiness.
Memories flood me with my mother’s scent, filling me with the sensation Mama is around the corner, sautéing chili spices and onions in grease for the shito pepper sauce she cooks to accompany the kenkey. The generous portions of fresh fish are dusted with flour and salt, ready to be fried. My tears are so thick they blur my vision.
I must have it. It is Mama.
I cap the bottle and slip it into my rucksack. There is not enough money for it, but I do not care.
An idea dawns. If I found Mama’s scent, then perhaps this store has Papa’s too. Seconds later, I am staring at it in the fragrances section. I grab the heavy glass bottle, spray it into the air, and step beneath the mist. Tiny droplets shower my skin as if enveloping me in Papa’s deep embrace. He is all around me. Overcome, I let out a small cry, then clamp my hand over my mouth to stifle it.
It has been so long since I was near him, since I felt his warmth. His smell made me feel protected. Mama’s scent made me feel loved, the feeling you get when all is right. I put Hugo in my sack too.
“He’s seen you, darling,” a melodious voice says from behind. I turn, facing the fur-clad woman from earlier. I must look like a caged animal. Still in my bag, my fingers release the cologne and reach for the scissors. I will kill again before giving up these items.
She points to the ceiling. I follow her gloved hand, noticing the sizable cylindrical mirror in the corner. In it, I see the clerk, rigid as a board, glaring at me from behind the counter. I weigh my options. I doubt this woman can take me, and if I am fast enough, I can run past him and never be seen again.
That is, unless he locked the door.
“It’s locked.”
I draw back. How could she possibly know my thoughts?
We are at what my brother Josiah would have called a stalemate. The woman is regal like an African queen. She smiles, seeming kind enough; however, I will not be fooled.
“Where are your parents, child?”
I look between the mirror and her.
“Okay,” she says, also checking for the clerk, who has now moved from the counter. “Ces articles, la lotion et l’eau de Cologne. Tu en as besoin? Ils signifient quelque chose de spécial pour toi, non?”
Yes, I need them, the lotion and cologne. They are very special to me. They are my mother and my father. I need them more than I need to breathe. But I refuse to say any of it aloud.
Her French is like musical bells. Mine sounds more like garbled marbles.
“I’m calling the police for this vagrant.” The clerk slows to a stop beside the woman. “I’ve seen her before coming in and out of my store, always scheming things to steal!”
They face me. Two sentinels against one. My hand remains on my scissors. I do not want any trouble. I wish to harm no one. But I am leaving with these items in my rucksack, and no one will stop me. My understanding of the stalemate is clear. Only one of us will be victorious, and I mean that one to be me.