The Whisky Blot
Journal of Literature, Poetry, and Haiku
Claudine could manage to give up red meat, egg yolks, dairy. She could even go without alcohol. But she could not fathom a life without coffee. “At your age and with your heart history, you should really switch to herbal tea,” the doctor advised. Claudine nodded perfunctorily, knowing full well that the next morning, she would cozy up next to her cat and sip the steaming, bitter liquid from a mug once emblazoned with some ironic quote, now so faded by years in the dishwasher that she could not remember what it once said. It was nearing the end of the week, so she needed groceries, coffee included. Hell, maybe she would even try some of that herbal tea the doctor had suggested. After a trip to the commode, necessitated by the coffee, Claudine shuffled to the closet and donned a striped shirt and a pair of elastic-waisted navy slacks. Her cane was waiting by the door, and though her pride balked at having to use such an aid, she knew she would not be able to make it down the three steps of her front porch without it. Claudine marveled at how a simple outing to the grocery had become simultaneously such a chore and the biggest thrill her week was likely to hold. Heave, one, heave, two, heave, three she said to herself on the way down the stairs. Out of breath, she paused at the edge of the driveway, wondering how these legs were the same set that once scrambled up mountains in her youth, the ones that took her up the stairs, in heels no less, to her job at the bank for thirty years. How were these the same legs that attracted two husbands, both now long dead, and stooped to pick up three children, all now grown and flown from the little town where she had raised them? Once she finally lowered herself into the driver’s seat of her silver Grand Marquis, Claudine could barely find the energy to crank up the car. She saw a fleeting image of herself, slack-mouthed and limp in the spring heat, being hoisted out of the car by some unfortunate men from the coroner’s office. They would note the coffee on her breath and announce, “That last cup o’ joe, that’s what did her heart in.” The neighbors would gather round to stare, not that any of them had ever so much as knocked on her door. Her kids would have to use their precious time off to fly in for a funeral where they would play a slideshow of old pictures, set to a song that would have made her cringe if she weren’t reduced to a pile of ashes in a brass urn, too far gone to be reached by a CD recording of “The Wind Beneath My Wings.” Done feeling sorry for herself and now slick with perspiration, Claudine started the car. She felt the sweet relief of air conditioning blasting in her face, the calming sounds of public radio journalism. As she drove past the familiar landscape of her town, she noted all the things that had changed. Downtown, the store where she once bought her daughter’s smock dresses and Mary Janes was closed, as was the bookstore next to it. Barkley’s Grocery was boarded up, covered with no-trespassing signs. Further down the road, the new fast-food restaurants started popping up, their signs promising crunchy burritos, crispy fried chicken, creamy milkshakes. Claudine rounded the corner past the auto shop and at last came to her destination. The new super store loomed large and blue in front of her, its sign boasting a one-stop-shop where she could get gas and groceries, gifts and guns. Claudine parked in a blue-lined space and prepared to step out, but an open car door to her left blocked her exit. Through the window, she could hear a mother pleading with her child, “Sweetheart, just let me get you out of the car! You can’t unbuckle the clip, and it’s too high to get down from there on your own.” The child’s emphatic reply, “No! I do it myself!” The mother noticed Claudine’s vain attempt to open her door. “See what you’re doing?” she admonished the little girl struggling in the car seat “We are blocking this woman in!” Realizing her pleas were making no difference, the mother pushed the car door nearly closed and edged toward the trunk, murmuring apologies to Claudine, who subsequently hoisted herself out with the aid of her cane. “That’s alright dear,” Claudine assured the woman as she sidled past. “She’ll give in eventually. Always do.” Claudine continued shuffling toward the door, noting every foot toward the entrance in her mind as if it were a marathon mile marker. As she passed the outdoor plant section, she pretended not to hear the man in the tattered t-shirt asking for change. “You are on a fixed income, after all,” she silently reminded herself. Entering through the automatic doors, she passed the gumball machine and another machine designed to tempt children into begging their parents for quarters with the slim possibility of grasping a stuffed lion with a mechanical claw. Finally, she arrived at the endless rows of carts. Time to make a choice. Claudine paused to assess the carts. She could continue trudging along, leaning over the blue-handled buggy as she passed through the store, or she could sit down on one of the three worn beige scooters and accept her infirmity. After a brief consideration, Claudine decided she could not bear the thought of strangers’ pitying eyes on her as she wheeled through each aisle, announcing herself with a loud beep each time she began backing up. She dropped her purse in the cart, leaning over it as she moved past walls of stuffed animals and pyramids of sugary cereal. Just as she entered the sparsely stocked produce section, Claudine realized she had left her list in the car. Cursing internally, she tried to remember its contents, but could only get so far as bread, those tasteless imitation eggs, hogwash herbal tea, and of course, a new bag of coffee. She resolved to walk through the aisles, trying to let the sights jog her memory. By the time she got to the final food aisle, she stood panting over a cart filled with overripe bananas, cream-of-wheat, canned vegetables, and a pound of chicken, the price of which nearly gave her a second heart attack right there in the meat department. Claudine began making her way toward the front of the store, each step a great effort. She glanced to her right and saw a display at the end of one aisle announcing a discount on her favorite brand of coffee. As she approached it, she saw that the caffeinated object of her desire was on the highest shelf, just out of reach. “Can I help you, ma’am?” said a young man wearing a blue employee vest. “No, thank you, uh…Trevor,” she retorted, glancing at his name tag, “I can do this myself.” Claudine let go of the cart, elevated herself on tiptoe and reached for the top shelf. As she did, she felt her legs give way beneath her, and she heard an involuntary scream emerge from her lips. This is it, she thought as she began to descend. Broken hip and a few months until they’re blubbering over me in some poorly decorated funeral parlor. Claudine’s fall, however, was stopped by the arms of the young man who had so recently offered her help. With some effort, he lifted her to an upright position, and she gripped the cart’s handle, her heart beating wildly. She felt eyes on her and looked up to see the crowd that had formed. Alarmed associates. Snickering teenagers. A haggard-looking mother pushing a cart, while her daughter sat in the front basket, eating a cookie and pointing at Claudine. “Mama! Dat old lady from car!” the child announced emphatically. “Honey, stop it! Don’t be rude!” the mother admonished, swiping down the child’s pointing finger and turning her cart in the opposite direction. As they walked away, Claudine caught the child’s gaze, seeing in her eyes a sadness, not of pity, but of recognition. Then, emerging from her shocked reverie, she called out laughingly, “What are y’all staring at? I’m just fine. Nothing to see here.” Leaning onto the cart, she trudged purposefully toward the front of the store, determined to complete her shopping trip as if nothing had changed. As she walked past the motorized carts in the lobby, however, Claudine knew that, indeed, everything had changed. The evidence of it surrounded her, even as she longed to hold onto a bygone existence. Recalling the words she had flippantly spoken to the mother in the parking lot, she realized they were true not only of the toddler’s inevitable capitulation, but also of her own. As she journeyed home, Claudine saw herself in all the shuttered buildings she passed on the drive. Dignity, vitality, all that once held her identity, were now boarded up shop windows, replaced by a woman who would acquiesce to riding in a motorized shopping cart, and to passing by the bags of coffee. After the Herculean effort of getting in the door, Claudine unloaded her plastic grocery bags. Tired from the day's events, she wanted nothing more than to sit down with a warm mug in her hand. She had purchased a few bags of herbal tea and knew she should start a kettle to brew this lackluster lemon beverage. Instead, she reached for the bag of coffee that had miraculously made it into her cart after her ordeal. Tomorrow, she decided, she could suffer through tasteless tea, but for now, she would savor one last cup of coffee. Sam Rafferty (she/her) is a Georgia native whose writing often explores the experiences of women, particularly women in the South. Her short stories are forthcoming in Avalon Literary Review and The Sunlight Press. Comments are closed.
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