Anyhow. This little draw of mine, people I have no desire to speak to pulling right up to me, I call it a curse, because that’s what it is. True story: once, I was having coffee, minding my own business, as usual, and a woman came up, sat down across from me, and told me she was having an affair, thinking about leaving her husband, except there were kids involved, and I’m not lying—that woman asked me what I thought she should do. A total stranger, telling me her whole life story and then asking for advice. Another time, this was in the eighth grade, and I was stuck after school for detention, the only person that day. The teacher in there, Mr. Marks, he plopped down in the seat next to mine and started telling me about his troubles with his girlfriend. I was a smart aleck back then, let me tell you, and I wanted so bad to say to him, What do I look like, a priest? But I just listened and watched the clock tick away the sixty minutes of detention.
“Old-fashioned,” the woman says.
“What?”
“The oats. Get the old-fashioned ones.” Finally taking the hint that I’m not interested in a conversation, she pushes her cart away, the wheels rumbling down the laminate floor.
I grab eight canisters of oatmeal and stack them in the cart and move on.
There is something about Walmart that makes you realize all that you’ve been missing out on in life. I remember this, about halfway through the trip. Yogurt, for instance. Ice cream and the little cardboard-wafer cones on which it sits. M&Ms, pretzels, lotion, colored pencils. Thinking of Finch and the look on her face when I told her she couldn’t come in, I grab all of them. None of those items are on the list.
Halfway through, I’m out of room in the cart. I check out, take the supplies to the Bronco, whisper to Finch to sit tight: I’ll be done soon.
Back inside Walmart, I pick a pair of snow pants for Finch, a coat with a removable liner that I hope might get her through the spring and summer rain and the cool but not cold days of next fall. Both items from the boys’ department because they have to be camo. I grab her a set of camo gloves but also a pink pair, with sparkles. Before I left the cabin, I traced her foot on the back of the list, and I go to the shoe section, hold up the outline to various sets of winter boots, then pick one that seems appropriately larger than her foot.
I walk past the electronics, screens blaring and offensive, ten million pixels of color and light. The small section of books. I think of Finch, the allure of a brand-new book calling like a siren from rocks, but I glance at my watch and keep moving because she’s waiting in the truck, tucked beneath her blanket. Hopefully. The cart is packed precariously high.
I throw a box of battery-powered Christmas lights onto my heap of purchases, take one last look at the list to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything, then begin pushing the wobbly and overburdened cart toward the front of the store. The cashier, a woman with two chins and fat elbows like clubs, has no desire for small talk, doesn’t even look at me, and for this I am grateful. She works through the items, scanning quickly, adding them to a fancy platform with multiple bags that she rotates once each one is full. When I hand her six one-hundred-dollar bills, she heaves in disgust. Annoyance about the lack of a credit card, I assume. She holds each one up to the light, checking for the watermark, and then punches numbers into her register. She hands me my change and I mutter thank you, and she flips off her illuminated sign and waddles away from her post.
Outside, free from the loathsome abundance of Walmart, I find that the day has warmed, and as I push the cart, now overflowing with gray plastic bags, rumbling through the parking lot to the truck, I admit: there’s a little hop to my step. A happy and victorious sense of having accomplished something worthwhile, of having overcome a fear that nearly took me under. Or maybe it’s just the fresh air and the sense of freedom I feel in having gathered the supplies that will carry us through the year. There’s a richness in that feeling, knowing Finch will be warm and cared for and even enjoy some luxuries.
The parking lot has filled up a bit since we arrived, and when the Bronco comes into view, I see a man standing beside it, peering inside. I push the cart faster, half running, trying to maintain my cool.
“Can I help you with something?” I say. There’s an edge to my voice but at least I don’t tell him to get away from the truck, which is what first came to mind.
He’s old. Wrinkled and feeble and wearing a newspaper-boy hat and a plaid scarf and gray coat.
“What you got in there?” he asks, pointing. “It’s moving.”