They went in
that way and started shopping. The sunlight from the storefront dwindled away
quickly, forcing them to break out their lanterns. The storm had wreaked havoc
on the aisles, throwing boxes, cans, and empty clothes everywhere. Their
lantern light bobbed over it all like the world's last lighthouse.
Midway to the meat department, the
smell hit them.
Todd's nose wrinkled. " Ugh. "
"Yeah. That's the meat, going
bad." Damn it. Alan had known it was a long shot, but he'd been
hoping—
"Do we still have to go over
there?"
"Well, yeah. The bakery's
over there." He'd be damned if he was going to miss out on the world's
last doughnuts, even if they were a couple days old.
The refrigerated meat was a total
bust, the stench nearly overpowering. It turned out to be too close to the
pastries, after all; there was no way he could eat anything that had the stain
of that stink on it.
They grabbed as much fresh produce
as they could, loading up five bags' worth of veggies and fruit, and then hit
the bread section, tossing loaves into the cart by the armload. Alan wanted to
grab as much of the fresh stuff as possible while they still could. Now that
they had a working freezer, maybe they could make it last—and he figured the
canned and boxed stuff would last just as long here as it would at home.
"Remember when I found that
flashlight on the wall?" Todd asked as they headed toward the bottled
water.
Alan felt a flash of irritation. Yeah,
that was yesterday. Was it really so great that they had to start
reminiscing about it immediately? He opened his mouth to say something terse,
and Brenda stopped him.
Calm down. He's eight. He
probably only has three or four years of real memory. Of course he starts
reminiscing faster. Why get all bent out of shape about it?
That was a good question. Most
people would find it endearing, not annoying. But Alan wasn't most people. He
couldn't just parent the right way without thinking about it. Everything had to
be a titanic struggle.
"Dad, remember when—"
" Yes, " he
snapped, then tried to cover his tracks: "Yeah, of course." He bit
back that was just yesterday, and belatedly added: "That was
awesome."
Todd grinned in the lantern light.
"I just felt along the wall and it was right there! I couldn't believeit!"
He looked so goddamned proud .
The urge rose automatically to take him down a notch, but Alan recognized it.
Fought it.
"That was awesome," he
repeated. Todd's smile broadened. Despite himself, Alan felt an answering grin
tugging at his own lips. He even ruffled his son's hair.
It was getting pretty dirty. The
kid needed a bath. Alan wondered if the water was still running at home.
They'd finished up and started
angling toward the exit when Todd jerked to a stop. "Hang on," he
said. "Don't we have to pay for this stuff?"
Alan halted, struck dumb. He
doesn't get it, he realized. He really doesn't get it. "Todd,
there's... there's no one to pay."
"Oh," he said.
"Yeah." He resumed walking, and Alan stared at his back. Should he
say something else? Force a reckoning of some kind? Finally he just shook his
head and kept going.
On the way out, they passed a claw
machine game: one of those big glass contraptions loaded with stuffed animals
that no one ever won. Todd stopped again, enthralled by it as always. How many
times had they rushed past one of these things, too busy to let the kids give
it a shot? Being a parent meant feeling guilty all the time, that was something
Alan had realized quickly, but he suddenly wished they could've stopped for
them more often—for Todd, but especially for Allie.
Todd put his hands on the
glass—another thing his parents always told him not to do. Even now, Alan felt
a knee-jerk impulse to tell him not to smudge the glass.
"I guess it'll never work
again," Todd said.
"Maybe not." Never was
a big word. Alan didn't like those absolute words. Never. Always. Everybody. But never was the right word here, wasn't it? The machine might as
well
that way and started shopping. The sunlight from the storefront dwindled away
quickly, forcing them to break out their lanterns. The storm had wreaked havoc
on the aisles, throwing boxes, cans, and empty clothes everywhere. Their
lantern light bobbed over it all like the world's last lighthouse.
Midway to the meat department, the
smell hit them.
Todd's nose wrinkled. " Ugh. "
"Yeah. That's the meat, going
bad." Damn it. Alan had known it was a long shot, but he'd been
hoping—
"Do we still have to go over
there?"
"Well, yeah. The bakery's
over there." He'd be damned if he was going to miss out on the world's
last doughnuts, even if they were a couple days old.
The refrigerated meat was a total
bust, the stench nearly overpowering. It turned out to be too close to the
pastries, after all; there was no way he could eat anything that had the stain
of that stink on it.
They grabbed as much fresh produce
as they could, loading up five bags' worth of veggies and fruit, and then hit
the bread section, tossing loaves into the cart by the armload. Alan wanted to
grab as much of the fresh stuff as possible while they still could. Now that
they had a working freezer, maybe they could make it last—and he figured the
canned and boxed stuff would last just as long here as it would at home.
"Remember when I found that
flashlight on the wall?" Todd asked as they headed toward the bottled
water.
Alan felt a flash of irritation. Yeah,
that was yesterday. Was it really so great that they had to start
reminiscing about it immediately? He opened his mouth to say something terse,
and Brenda stopped him.
Calm down. He's eight. He
probably only has three or four years of real memory. Of course he starts
reminiscing faster. Why get all bent out of shape about it?
That was a good question. Most
people would find it endearing, not annoying. But Alan wasn't most people. He
couldn't just parent the right way without thinking about it. Everything had to
be a titanic struggle.
"Dad, remember when—"
" Yes, " he
snapped, then tried to cover his tracks: "Yeah, of course." He bit
back that was just yesterday, and belatedly added: "That was
awesome."
Todd grinned in the lantern light.
"I just felt along the wall and it was right there! I couldn't believeit!"
He looked so goddamned proud .
The urge rose automatically to take him down a notch, but Alan recognized it.
Fought it.
"That was awesome," he
repeated. Todd's smile broadened. Despite himself, Alan felt an answering grin
tugging at his own lips. He even ruffled his son's hair.
It was getting pretty dirty. The
kid needed a bath. Alan wondered if the water was still running at home.
They'd finished up and started
angling toward the exit when Todd jerked to a stop. "Hang on," he
said. "Don't we have to pay for this stuff?"
Alan halted, struck dumb. He
doesn't get it, he realized. He really doesn't get it. "Todd,
there's... there's no one to pay."
"Oh," he said.
"Yeah." He resumed walking, and Alan stared at his back. Should he
say something else? Force a reckoning of some kind? Finally he just shook his
head and kept going.
On the way out, they passed a claw
machine game: one of those big glass contraptions loaded with stuffed animals
that no one ever won. Todd stopped again, enthralled by it as always. How many
times had they rushed past one of these things, too busy to let the kids give
it a shot? Being a parent meant feeling guilty all the time, that was something
Alan had realized quickly, but he suddenly wished they could've stopped for
them more often—for Todd, but especially for Allie.
Todd put his hands on the
glass—another thing his parents always told him not to do. Even now, Alan felt
a knee-jerk impulse to tell him not to smudge the glass.
"I guess it'll never work
again," Todd said.
"Maybe not." Never was
a big word. Alan didn't like those absolute words. Never. Always. Everybody. But never was the right word here, wasn't it? The machine might as
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