Waiting for Joe by Sandra Birdsell

immediately she feels chilled. It’s not Joe who’s gone, she reassures herself, zipping up her sweat jacket. It’s Alfred she’s missing. She woke up mornings still expecting to hear him moving about in his room.
    Getting downtown is one thing, but getting back will be another. Her body is beginning to feel the lack of food, the early morning workout in bed, the walk. Pointless, she thinks, when she comes upon yet another strip mall that houses an insurance broker, a hearing aid store, and a florist. Within moments she’s inside and ordering flowers to be sent to Deere Lodge. And then she’s outside, her thoughts churning as she wonders how to go about telling Joe that the last of their credit is gone.
Laurie, you are such a fool
, she tells herself. Then she squares her broad shoulders and retraces her steps to Clara’s Boutique.
    The women in the store are startled by her abrupt entrance, her grim impatience as she waits for the clerk to be finished with the woman in front of her.
    “I want to return what I’ve just bought.” Laurie plunks the bag on the counter, as though the clerk is somehow responsible for her impulses.
    “You’ve read our return policy?” the clerk replies carefully. She gestures to a sign on the wall behind the counter. “We don’t refund cash, but we’ll be happy to give you a credit. You have six months to spend it on anything in the store.”
    “I’m not from here, and so I won’t have a chance to use the credit. Couldn’t you take that into consideration?” Laurie feels the women listening.
    “I’m sorry, I can’t make an exception,” the young clerk says.
    “Pardon me for asking.” Laurie turns away, and when she wrenches open the door, the bell above it jangles sharply.
    She takes off at a brisk walk down the street, her stride made long and quick by anger, the bag thumping againsther leg. Within moments the shopping centre comes into sight and with it, the motorhome, and her anger turns to relief. The Meridian’s silver length is interrupted by whirlwind swirls of purple and white, and by the slide-outs jutting from its sides that allow space for the queen-sized bed and a drawer chest in the bedroom on one side, and the dinette suite on the other. She’s grateful for its relative spaciousness. She’s grateful that the owner gave Joe a break on the rent, otherwise they might be living in a smelly and rusting dinosaur. Otherwise, they might be homeless.
    As she steps inside she’s enveloped by the almost overpowering odour emanating from the Formica and carpeting, the maple veneer and pressboard of the cupboards, closets and storage spaces. She drops the bag on the floor and sinks down into the leather lounger. The wine glass with its bridal etching is in the cup holder in the lounger arm, its rim printed with the boysenberry shape of her lip. The empty wine bottle and Joe’s glass are on the dinette table, as are the postcards she bought when they arrived, intending to send one a day to Alfred.
    At the sound of voices she gets up and slides in behind the dinette table where she can look out the window. Coming across the parking lot is the woman she saw on the apartment balcony earlier in the morning, wearing the long beige tunic and the head scarf. A little girl in a pink sweatsuit lags behind, her dark hair shining as though lacquered. She’s trying to take in all the sights at once, as her mother tugs at her hand to hurry along. As they pass by the motorhome, the girl peers up at it, her eyebrows scrunched in concentration. A gust of wind plasters the woman’s skirt against her body, revealing the outline ofher long slender legs. She’s wearing orange plastic clogs, a surprising shot of colour.
    They continue on toward Walmart, the girl walking backwards now to stare at the Meridian. Although Laurie is certain she can’t be seen at the window, she feels the power of the child’s scrutiny. She lowers the blind and goes over to the media centre above the cab