The Checkout Girl by Susan Zettell Page A

them in the sandbox.
    For a while Al sold linens too, which he felt was a good complement to his main items, household cleaning and health care products. Recently he added a line of lingerie. Just testing the market, he told Connie when she asked him what was new. Connie told him she’d have nothing to do with lingerie; no self-respecting housewife would buy lingerie from a door-to-door salesman. And don’t try to give me any samples, either. Since Charlie died, Al would do anything for Connie. Anything she asked. Connie never asks.
    Connie pretends to ignore Al, says she doesn’t want to encourage him, but she once called him debonair. Kathy had laughed and said, I think he looks like Elvis-getting-old. Like a greaser who’s moved to the suburbs. Connie said, Al’s not old. Kathy said, Mo-ther! He’s older than you. Not giving up, Connie had asked, What’s the matter with Elvis? And Kathy rolled her eyes and said, He’s not Neil Young. Who? Connie asked. Exactly, Kathy said.
    If Kathy accumulated all the things Connie has said about Al over the years, the list wouldn’t be long, but it would add up to a positive image: He’s dependable. He’s a good father to Darlyn. He’s a hard worker. He’s a good neighbour. He’s kind to Shelly, most particularly important. At least he’s alive, she once joked. And he’s debonair.
    Al Brylcreems his dark brown hair — no grey yet — into a forward tilting shelf that juts above his brow, combed — tine marks showing in the grease — into a duck’s ass at the back. His chore pants, old paint-speckled black Sunday trousers, are always pressed and clean. He wears thin beige dress socks, black pointy-toed shoes polished to a reflecting glow for work and dress-up. The same shoes, though battered and old, for at-home. His dress shirts are white. In winter he wears undershirts with short sleeves, a bit of chest hair curling above his crew neck collar, a grey wool car coat with wooden buttons done up with thick leather loops, zippered black galoshes stretched to a puckered rubber V in the front by his pointy-toed shoes.
    â€œDo you want any more, honey?” Connie asks Kathy.
    â€œNo thanks,” Kathy says and leans back from the table. “What are you working on these days?” she asks.
    â€œValentine stuff. Marshmallow hearts, your faves. Want me to bring some home?”
    Kathy does love chocolate-coated marshmallow hearts. When Connie first started working at the candy factory, almost a year to the day after Charlie’s accident, they ate themselves sick. She brought home tins of seconds and refilled each tin when it was emptied. Turkish delight, cream-filled chocolates, peppermint patties, toffees. Kathy got pimples, Shelly got diarrhea and two cavities in her baby teeth and had to be knocked out to have them filled, and Connie started getting fat. Soon enough they all became sick of the sweets, or Connie and Kathy did. Shelly had no control at all and would eat until the tins were empty. Connie only occasionally brings candy home now.
    â€œBobby Orr, #4,” Shelly screams when Connie mentions marshmallow hearts. She flaps her hands in the air. “Bobby Orr, #4!”
    â€œA couple would be nice. Thanks,” Kathy says. “And some for Shelly. You like candy, don’t you, Shelly?”
    â€œBobby Orr, #4,” Shelly yells even louder.
    After they clean up, Kathy helps Shelly dress. She’d checked the rink at the elementary school on her way over to supper. The ice was freshly flooded, a smooth silvery slab, seams rippled like soldered steel, but no deep cracks, no lines yet cut in the surface.
    Tonight it’s cold, but not bitter. No wind. The snow has stopped falling. As they walk down the path between the houses, they kick up snow like dust on a dry cornfield. The wind has blown most of the ice clear, drifts mound against the boards at one end. Laced up, Shelly