was how it was going to be. Everyone was going to act like she had typhoid or yellow fever. She forced a smile and gave Charlotte’s wrist a friendly squeeze, pressing her fingers into the exposed skin between her sleeve and white glove. The blood drained from Charlotte’s cheeks, and Sally made a small gasping sound, like a dying mouse.
“It was lovely to see you again,” Emma said. “Perhaps we can get together for tea and girl talk soon. You too, Mrs. Gable.” She let go and went around them, brushing a hand along Sally’s arm as she passed. Then she hurried through the store entrance, humiliation burning like a fever in her cheeks.
The bell over the door jingled, and the screen slammed shut behind her. She stood on the other side of the threshold for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the murky interior. The dark-chocolate aroma of coffee mixed with the underlying tang of aged cheese and old wood reminded her of the corner bakery in Manhattan where she and her father used to buy bread every Saturday morning. Along with the bread, her father always bought two petits fours, one for her and one for her mother, a special treat for the women he loved. Thinking about it now, a gnawing ache filled Emma’s chest. She thought about turning around and waiting in the wagon, but she’d have to pass those dim-witted women. Besides, Aunt Ida had brought her here to help.
Percy looked up from behind the cash register on the far side of the store. He wore a white apron over a dark suit and a sleeve garter on his right bicep, like the barber who used to cut Emma’s father’s hair. A spindle of twine hung from the ceiling above his head, and a stack of wrapping paper sat beside the register, along with a wheel of cheese under a glass lid, and a coffee mill. On this side of the counter, a woman stood with her back to Emma, a mewling baby on one hip, a little girl with bare feet and dirty legs at her side. The hem of the woman’s floor-length skirt was threadbare and worn, her mutton-sleeved blouse stained and wrinkled. Her short hair was dirty and matted, making it hard to discern the color. The girl turned to look at Emma, her wide eyes like miniature oceans in her pale face, her blond hair stringy beneath a muslin bonnet turned gray with age. Her dress was two sizes too big, its waist held up by a soiled rope. Just looking at her, Emma could feel the girl’s misery—year after year of doing without, month after month spent shivering in the winter cold, night after night of trying to sleep with a stomach filled with nothing but hunger pains.
On the other side of the room, three boys in patched knickers and dog-eared caps stood in front of the candy counter, counting their coins and eyeing the glass jars filled with horehound drops, licorice, peppermint sticks, and Necco Wafers. Soot blacked their faces, and their hands were the color of mottled stone. The oldest boy looked to be seven or eight. He reached over to remove one of the candy jar lids.
“You boys, wait until I’m finished here!” Percy shouted.
The boy replaced the lid and turned his back to the register, putting his hands in his pockets and mumbling to his friends. He scuffed his boot on the floor and eyed Percy over his shoulder.
Emma wandered down the first aisle, the oiled floor groaning and creaking with every step. She remembered coming here as a girl and wishing for more time to look at the plethora of goods, but her aunt had always warned her not to dawdle. Now it seemed as though the store’s inventory had doubled.
General merchandise and household goods filled this side of the room: clothespins, floor wax, buckets, brooms, ironing boards, mixing bowls, wooden spoons, coffee mills. The other side held groceries: bins of flour, sugar, salt, dried beans, spices, and canned goods. The center of the store was lined with counters and racks of men’s work shirts and trousers, women’s stockings and blouses, children’s jumpers and underwear. Near
“It was lovely to see you again,” Emma said. “Perhaps we can get together for tea and girl talk soon. You too, Mrs. Gable.” She let go and went around them, brushing a hand along Sally’s arm as she passed. Then she hurried through the store entrance, humiliation burning like a fever in her cheeks.
The bell over the door jingled, and the screen slammed shut behind her. She stood on the other side of the threshold for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the murky interior. The dark-chocolate aroma of coffee mixed with the underlying tang of aged cheese and old wood reminded her of the corner bakery in Manhattan where she and her father used to buy bread every Saturday morning. Along with the bread, her father always bought two petits fours, one for her and one for her mother, a special treat for the women he loved. Thinking about it now, a gnawing ache filled Emma’s chest. She thought about turning around and waiting in the wagon, but she’d have to pass those dim-witted women. Besides, Aunt Ida had brought her here to help.
Percy looked up from behind the cash register on the far side of the store. He wore a white apron over a dark suit and a sleeve garter on his right bicep, like the barber who used to cut Emma’s father’s hair. A spindle of twine hung from the ceiling above his head, and a stack of wrapping paper sat beside the register, along with a wheel of cheese under a glass lid, and a coffee mill. On this side of the counter, a woman stood with her back to Emma, a mewling baby on one hip, a little girl with bare feet and dirty legs at her side. The hem of the woman’s floor-length skirt was threadbare and worn, her mutton-sleeved blouse stained and wrinkled. Her short hair was dirty and matted, making it hard to discern the color. The girl turned to look at Emma, her wide eyes like miniature oceans in her pale face, her blond hair stringy beneath a muslin bonnet turned gray with age. Her dress was two sizes too big, its waist held up by a soiled rope. Just looking at her, Emma could feel the girl’s misery—year after year of doing without, month after month spent shivering in the winter cold, night after night of trying to sleep with a stomach filled with nothing but hunger pains.
On the other side of the room, three boys in patched knickers and dog-eared caps stood in front of the candy counter, counting their coins and eyeing the glass jars filled with horehound drops, licorice, peppermint sticks, and Necco Wafers. Soot blacked their faces, and their hands were the color of mottled stone. The oldest boy looked to be seven or eight. He reached over to remove one of the candy jar lids.
“You boys, wait until I’m finished here!” Percy shouted.
The boy replaced the lid and turned his back to the register, putting his hands in his pockets and mumbling to his friends. He scuffed his boot on the floor and eyed Percy over his shoulder.
Emma wandered down the first aisle, the oiled floor groaning and creaking with every step. She remembered coming here as a girl and wishing for more time to look at the plethora of goods, but her aunt had always warned her not to dawdle. Now it seemed as though the store’s inventory had doubled.
General merchandise and household goods filled this side of the room: clothespins, floor wax, buckets, brooms, ironing boards, mixing bowls, wooden spoons, coffee mills. The other side held groceries: bins of flour, sugar, salt, dried beans, spices, and canned goods. The center of the store was lined with counters and racks of men’s work shirts and trousers, women’s stockings and blouses, children’s jumpers and underwear. Near
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