Breakfast at Harold's

997 Words

Breakfast at Harold's

He checked his watch. Seven eleven.  She would be walking in the front door in a minute or two, always punctual.  He didn’t know her well, but he admired her for always being on time. Her consistency made him worry less about her, too.  He imagined she could use a little worrying from someone.  He sat at his desk and waited.  Yesterday’s receipts beckoned.  He busied himself.  A stray person passing by his office would never know he was standing vigil.

He looked up in time to see her pulling open the front door. He had a perfect view from his office window.  The smaller version of her trailed behind, and they headed for the back of the store.  She didn’t hold the little girl’s hand anymore.  They had been coming every morning for weeks. She was in no danger of getting lost.

He put down his pencil and yesterday’s receipts and made his way down the stairs.  Her first stop was always the dairy case.  He knew he had a minute to get into place.  He peered through the round window and pushed open the door to the storeroom. He wasn’t just looking out for her.  Years of working in that store, from stock boy to manager, had worn him into constant care.

He didn’t know how long she had been stealing before he noticed her, but he did remember the first time he caught her.  Her back was to him and the little one was at her side. Her head darted from side to side.  The aisles were clear.  A crowd was rare.  He and the cashier were the only other souls in the store that morning. The quart of milk in her hand disappeared behind the green and blue checkered, flannel shirt.  She had stuffed it into the waistband of her jeans in one smooth motion.

The “Hey!” he was about to utter was stifled when the little girl by her side turned and looked at him.  She was no more than four, a tiny blond waif with short hair and worn out clothes.  Her slight arm tugged at her mother’s shirt.  The woman turned and followed the direction of her daughter’s gaze straight to his face.  An awkward moment passed as they took each other in.  He was struck by the stark contrast of simultaneous youth and age in her face.  Her skin was creamy and plump, like a woman barely twenty years old, but she had the haggard quality of a long, hard life.  She returned his stare.

“Good morning, ma'am.” He put on his best happy-to-see-a-customer face.  She hesitated, still poised with muscles taut like a rabbit ready to bolt.  The curved security mirror just above her head distorted his face, twisting his smile into a leer.  He hoped her vision of him was not distorted.

“Good morning.” Her eyes shifted away from him.  Her face held a mixture of fear and embarrassment.  She grabbed the little girl’s hand and scurried away.  She cast a glance over her shoulder.  Without words, from that moment they reached an agreement.  He watched the carton-shaped tent in her back race toward the front door. Shouting at her like a common thief would ruin the moment.

He didn’t need to follow her to know what happened next.  He imagined her running down the block, struggling to go slow and keep pace with the little legs struggling to go fast.  She put a comfortable distance between them and slowed.  She kept moving and soothed her child.  She scanned the streets for signs of trouble.  A grassy patch beneath a tree caught her eye, and she steered her daughter toward it.  They sat, and the mother unburdened herself of the carton of milk in her waistband, the apple tucked up her left sleeve and the Danish in her pocket.  Her little one gnawed the apple and waited for the milk to be ready.  She guzzled and dripped until she was no longer thirsty.  She looked up at her mother and chattered on about the things tiny people think of when they are not hungry.  Her mother stroked her baby’s hair and listened.

He was remembering the sight of them enjoying the stolen breakfast in the honest light of a morning sky when she swept past him in the bread aisle. A tiny loaf of raisin bread was visible in the roll of the same flannel shirt tucked beneath her arm. The slight bulge in her pocket had the shape of a banana. He figured the quart of milk was making an impression on the bread.  She gave him a shy smile and hurried out.

He let a few more seconds tick away while he filled the empty spot where the loaf had been.  He made his way to the front of the store.  Estelle saw him coming and smiled.  He ignored the tenderness she displayed.  This had become their routine every Monday through Friday.  He was glad they were partners in this silent conspiracy.

“What’s for breakfast today, Harold?”

“I think I’ll have a quart of milk, a loaf of raisin bread and a banana.”  She rang them up with ease.  Price tags only slowed her down. She had been here since the day the store opened and had no plans to leave.

“You going to pick them up on your way home again?”  There was a sigh in her voice that betrayed her.  She loved him for this act of kindness, but she wished they could dispense with the play-acting.

He fished the bills out of his wallet and dug in his pocket for the change.  Their eyes met over the money. Today was not the day to talk about the woman and child.  She stuffed the money in the drawer.

“Enjoy your breakfast, Harold.”  Her voice trailed after him as he made his way back to his office, empty handed.

“Oh, I will, Estelle.  I will.”