calves

The grocery store had been the defining feature of the small town when it still had life in it. All of the windows were shattered or dusted over since then. The yards conquered by weeds. The green sign out at the outskirts put the population at a hundred people. Vermin and stray pets had taken up in the houses – most of them long since emptied by littering.

Then there was the grocery store, strangely pristine throughout all of it. The clerk had found it empty and so could only assume it had been devoid of provender for so long a time that the rioting which fell over the world simply passed it over as something already raided of all its worth.

He stood over the shopping cart corral outside on the cracking asphalt of the parking lot, tossing corn into the midst of the chickens there. He'd cut a length of four-foot-tall chain-link fence from the derelict yard of one property or another, capturing enough aluminum ties that he could rig it to surround the cart corral. The door was another theft from an old privacy fence, the hinges nailed to the metal frame. Despite his best efforts it scraped a cedar-colored arc in the asphalt whenever he opened or closed it, but it worked, and it was a damn sight better than some other endeavors at carpentry he'd undertaken in his life.

The road slanted downward away from the store, so that a lost shopping cart might rocket off into the next county, if such things as counties could still be reckoned or accounted for. He looked down and saw the cloud shadows play across the ground. She approached with the borrowed cart in tow, the rattle of the wheels traveling up to his ears even at that distance. He liked to watch her move. She was young like him – maybe twenty-five. She had been a mother and had the waist to show it, but every other curve on her was subtle. She had round cheeks and brown hair that she wore back in a ponytail that always shimmered because he made soap for her.

The sky had grown darker. He could feel the rain coming. She finally made it up to him, panting a bit from the uphill walk. She wiped a strand of hair out of her face and smiled.

Mister Spencer.

With a gloved hand he tipped his hat. Despite his hard appearance and the quietness of the reply, the voice was urbane and deep, almost bold.

Miss Aimee.

She brought the cart up to him and took a towel off of the top of the large cardboard box she had inside it. He looked inside to find a mass of kittens no more than a few weeks old, weaned of their mother's milk and pawing at the sides of their featureless prison. She smiled. Priscilla had six this time. I know that old pervert from the town oughta be coming back any day now to stock up.

Maybe.

Hmph, maybe. I'll have more corn for you next week anyhow. She pointed to his chickens. So... how much cock do I get for this much pussy? Her face had twisted up in a naughty sort of smile, her tone of voice perfectly even and deadpan.

He smiled just a little.

We'll see. I'm sure you came for more stuff.

Mmhm. I'll go get what I need. Wouldn't want to get caught in the rain.

She intentionally slid her hip along his in passing, and they entered the grocery store, he throwing the tarp over the chicken coop and pushing the cart with its load of kittens.

He had already brought in the cattle ahead of the rain.

Later, she sat on the edge of the bed he kept in the back office, her skin dark in the light of the candle, he behind her and resting his chin on her shoulder. The sound of the rain drifted down from the roof, and brought a shiver to his back. She giggled at him.

What? he asked.

Nothing. Hearing the rain does that to me, too.

He felt her grow uneasy in the quiet. What is it?

I left him alone.

He'll be fine.

I shouldn't leave him alone.

You shouldn't bring him up here.

I know. But I hate to leave him.

They were silent. The rain did not abate, and he could feel her listening for it to be over. She shifted, turned around, their legs tangling, and she eased him down onto his back and laid on top of him. Her hand traced the contour of his chest. He was bone-thin, but the muscles stood out. She never asked him about the misshapen bit of bone that seemed to come off his sternum, covering the heart like another tightened fist.

You should come down to the house and meet him. I tell him about you all the time. He can say fifty words now and he can walk all by himself.

I can't leave the store.

Nobody comes out here when it gets cold. You should come some time then, stay with us for a while.

I'll think about it.

She kissed him and got to her feet, reaching for her clothes. No you won't. You never do.

That's true, I don't.

She gave him a playful little kick in the shin. I'm going. You give those little kittens to good homes.

Best I can.

The rain stopped soon after she and her tarp-covered cart were down the hill and reaching the turning point in the road. There was another solid hour of daylight left, and he knew she carried the big kitchen knife with her even if some delay should keep her out after dark.

He watched her vanish from sight, and stood leaning against the wall of the chicken coup until he came to the sudden realization the light had grown poor and he still hadn't eaten. Wandering back into the store, he walked the freezer section, seeing that the machinery still worked. Back in the break room there followed the attempt at cooking something.

His hand hovered over the controls of the George Foreman grill for a little while, then fell back to his side.

He looked down at the disembodied piece of an animal he had raised up from calf to meat with his own hands. He'd seen it birthed, cared for it, and had only the vaguest recollection of ever doing so. He returned to the bed, changed the sheets, and fell asleep as another wave of rain swept in.