Read Online The Things That Keep Us Here by Carla Buckley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carla Buckley
Ads: Link
there.”
Libby slid the SUV into the spot and turned off the engine. She lifted the car seat from the backseat.
Ann slammed the door and, glancing around, spotted an abandoned cart nearby. She dragged it over and helped Libby fit the car seat on top. Another cart stood at the curb. She grabbed it. “You take the baby. I’ll start in the bread section.”
The doors glided open. Libby wheeled her cart to the right while Ann swept left.
Shoppers clogged the front of the store. Ann pushed through them to reach the bread aisle and stopped, staring in disbelief down the long, empty space. The shelves were completely bare. Not a single loaf or package of buns in sight. She’d never seen anything like this, not even after Phase Four had been announced. Maybe there was some in the back—
A man in a white windbreaker strode past, a name tag pinned to his chest.
“Excuse me,” Ann said. “When will you be restocking the bread?”
“You gotta be kidding.” He walked away.
All right. So there wasn’t bread here. But sometimes there was bread at the deli counter. She swung her cart around.
Sure enough, two racks stood by the swinging doors beside the shining glass deli cases. People were pawing through the shelves. Ann waded in among them and reached to grasp the necks of plastic bags. She didn’t know what she had until she brought them to the cart. English muffins. Cinnamon-raisin. She removed her coat and tossed it on top of the bread and went back in for more. Rye. Wheat. Everyone was pushing now and using their elbows.
“Hey.” A loud voice from nearby.
“You can’t stop me.” Another voice, just as loud. “Long as I pay for it, I can take as much as I want. This is America!”
Ann took some loaves from the bottom racks. She stepped back out of jostling range with relief. Stuffing the bread beneath her coat, she turned. Forget taking a ticket for the deli counter. One look at the long lines there convinced her—any lunchmeat she wanted would have to come from the refrigerated section.
Milk.
The meat section was on the way, and she reached in among the other shoppers for chicken breasts and ground beef. Not stopping to sheathe them in plastic first, she dumped packages in the cart and moved the bread up to the top. How much was enough? A glance to one side showed a woman stepping back, balancing a tower of Styrofoam packages in her arms. Ann took armloads of everything. She’d split them with Libby.
People thronged the dairy section. She jogged her cart as close as she could and tried to peer around people’s shoulders and heads. Was she too late? She couldn’t get close enough to see anything.
“There’s a line, you know,” a woman snapped.
All right . That was good. Some sort of order had been imposed here. Ann got in line and waited her turn. Slowly she inched closer, bringing her cart with her. At last she glimpsed the rounded shapes of milk cartons. From behind the shelves, a hand was pushing containers of milk through the plastic flaps. Gallon after gallon thudded into place, just as swiftly grabbed away.
She took a gallon in each hand and heaved them into her cart. She turned for another two. The girls drank a lot of milk. Six wasn’t too much.
“That’s it,” the guy behind her said.
Oh. So there was a limit. Ann nodded. “I’m getting some for my neighbor.” She took four more. She was beginning to sweat. She removed her sweatshirt and tied it around her waist.
She steered her cart along the back of the store, piling stuff in as she went. Yogurt. Cheese. Juice. What was she forgetting? She’d circled the perimeter of the store and now she began to try and push her way into each packed aisle. When she reached the cereal section, she couldn’t even get two steps into the aisle. Down the crowd of people, she saw Libby’s blond head, heard her voice. “You push that cart into me one more time—”
“Lady,” a voice said behind Ann, and she swung around to see a store
Libby slid the SUV into the spot and turned off the engine. She lifted the car seat from the backseat.
Ann slammed the door and, glancing around, spotted an abandoned cart nearby. She dragged it over and helped Libby fit the car seat on top. Another cart stood at the curb. She grabbed it. “You take the baby. I’ll start in the bread section.”
The doors glided open. Libby wheeled her cart to the right while Ann swept left.
Shoppers clogged the front of the store. Ann pushed through them to reach the bread aisle and stopped, staring in disbelief down the long, empty space. The shelves were completely bare. Not a single loaf or package of buns in sight. She’d never seen anything like this, not even after Phase Four had been announced. Maybe there was some in the back—
A man in a white windbreaker strode past, a name tag pinned to his chest.
“Excuse me,” Ann said. “When will you be restocking the bread?”
“You gotta be kidding.” He walked away.
All right. So there wasn’t bread here. But sometimes there was bread at the deli counter. She swung her cart around.
Sure enough, two racks stood by the swinging doors beside the shining glass deli cases. People were pawing through the shelves. Ann waded in among them and reached to grasp the necks of plastic bags. She didn’t know what she had until she brought them to the cart. English muffins. Cinnamon-raisin. She removed her coat and tossed it on top of the bread and went back in for more. Rye. Wheat. Everyone was pushing now and using their elbows.
“Hey.” A loud voice from nearby.
“You can’t stop me.” Another voice, just as loud. “Long as I pay for it, I can take as much as I want. This is America!”
Ann took some loaves from the bottom racks. She stepped back out of jostling range with relief. Stuffing the bread beneath her coat, she turned. Forget taking a ticket for the deli counter. One look at the long lines there convinced her—any lunchmeat she wanted would have to come from the refrigerated section.
Milk.
The meat section was on the way, and she reached in among the other shoppers for chicken breasts and ground beef. Not stopping to sheathe them in plastic first, she dumped packages in the cart and moved the bread up to the top. How much was enough? A glance to one side showed a woman stepping back, balancing a tower of Styrofoam packages in her arms. Ann took armloads of everything. She’d split them with Libby.
People thronged the dairy section. She jogged her cart as close as she could and tried to peer around people’s shoulders and heads. Was she too late? She couldn’t get close enough to see anything.
“There’s a line, you know,” a woman snapped.
All right . That was good. Some sort of order had been imposed here. Ann got in line and waited her turn. Slowly she inched closer, bringing her cart with her. At last she glimpsed the rounded shapes of milk cartons. From behind the shelves, a hand was pushing containers of milk through the plastic flaps. Gallon after gallon thudded into place, just as swiftly grabbed away.
She took a gallon in each hand and heaved them into her cart. She turned for another two. The girls drank a lot of milk. Six wasn’t too much.
“That’s it,” the guy behind her said.
Oh. So there was a limit. Ann nodded. “I’m getting some for my neighbor.” She took four more. She was beginning to sweat. She removed her sweatshirt and tied it around her waist.
She steered her cart along the back of the store, piling stuff in as she went. Yogurt. Cheese. Juice. What was she forgetting? She’d circled the perimeter of the store and now she began to try and push her way into each packed aisle. When she reached the cereal section, she couldn’t even get two steps into the aisle. Down the crowd of people, she saw Libby’s blond head, heard her voice. “You push that cart into me one more time—”
“Lady,” a voice said behind Ann, and she swung around to see a store
Similar Books
