Having gotten to bed far later than usual and having gained the suspicion of a cold from spending more of the evening outside than planned, and in a misty rain at that, I hesitated following Chloe the next time she bought groceries. But how could I not? You question that? Well maybe you’re the type that can ignore things that seem out of the ordinary, and to that I say, enjoy the tsunami you didn’t see coming. However, I needed the peace of settling the question of Chloe’s strangely varied grocery items. I mean c’mon. Who buys all things wasabi, then takes a 180 degree turn the next week to an entire cart of bland?

So the next time she walked out of the store, I clocked out (easy to do since I work plenty of overtime) and followed her again. And again she did not return home. She went to a small white church that had sat empty for as long as I could remember. Again she jiggled the door handle just so and let herself in. Again she turned on a light. And again I sat outside into the night, this time in between some bushes nearby.

And so it went. One week it was what appeared to be a small apartment in the basement of an old building (she had to descend outside stairs before she did the jiggle of the door handle thing). I had never noticed its existence until that evening. Another week it was what I supposed to be a garden of sorts enclosed by a stone wall, and still another, the back door of a public library after it was closed for the day. A run-down playground. A boat house. My effort to discover the why of her grocery peculiarities gave no satisfaction at all, but rather led to more questions, and I began to lose sleep.

I decided I was going about things the wrong way and spent a few days at my computer trying to find information about Chloe (there was none except her home address) and about each place she spent an evening (nothing of note).

“You’ve been looking rather peaked lately.”

Chloe’s voice startled me. I was squatting, putting boxes of cereal on an endcap. I scrunched my eyes and made an effort to look at her like I was composing a police report in my head. It was unsuccessful.

“If you’re interested, I’d like to invite you to my house for supper tonight?”

It seemed an odd invitation since we knew each other only by sight. I glanced into her cart. Pasta, fruit, sausage, french bread, and salad fixings sealed the deal. There was no reason to decline, of course. I nodded my head.

“You know where I live?” she asked with the hint of a smile.

I nodded again.

“See you at 6:00.”

to be continued . . .

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There’s no accounting for taste. I mulled over this truth as I pulled out another box of macaroni and cheese to put on the shelf of the little grocery store I worked at.

Due to its size, I recognized regular customers. There were, of course, some who dropped in irregularly, but I am not speaking of those. At least not yet; and I hope none of them will figure into my tale, but who knows.

No, the customer of whom I speak is a small woman in what I guess is her 70’s who caught my attention oh, maybe a few months ago; and it was due to her grocery choices. You know how people habitually buy the same kinds of things every time they shop? Bananas, bread, and milk, for example. Some people are drawn to boxed meals you can just dump in a pan and heat with very little effort. Others have a fond relationship with the cereal aisle. Or canned goods. Or rice. Not many shop for fish unless it’s in a little round can. For the most part, maybe without conscious intention, customers put the same things in their carts week after week, year after year.

But this lady – her name is Chloe – buys strikingly  different selections every single time. I asked her about it once, and she scrunched her eyes and looked at me like she was composing a police report in her head. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken notice, not that it should matter, right? But I get it. Who wants their grocery cart scrutinized? Not me and not Chloe either.

It pestered me, though. Why? I’ve no idea. Why should I care what someone buys at the grocery store? It’s just that it was unusual enough that it piqued my curiosity. Did she have guests with varied preferences over to her house once a week? Was she one of those who can’t bear routine? Was it simply that she shopped whatever was on sale? That at least made sense. Except she didn’t; shop only sale items, that is. Yes, I admit I was nosy enough to notice.

I was beginning to lose focus on things that actually mattered, so I decided to take matters into my own hands, find an answer to her unusual practice, and put it all to rest. No one would have to know, and I would be able to read a book without re-reading the same paragraph over and over again.

This next confession should stay between us because it makes me look suspicious enough that Chloe’s composing a police report in her head probably wouldn’t seem unreasonable to her or to you. Please, please don’t judge and, as a favor, I won’t scrutinize your peculiarities.

I followed her home. Oh she didn’t notice. I stayed far enough back and hid behind trees – that sort of thing – that she couldn’t have suspected anyone behind her. The thing is, she didn’t go home. This town is small enough that I had a general idea of where she lived. No, I didn’t look it up. I just knew because when you live in a small town there are some things you just know. Don’t ask me to explain it.

She took a completely different route and stopped at an abandoned auto repair place. What. She jiggled the doorknob just right, turned on a light, and let herself in. It began to mist, but curiosity kept me crouched behind an old oil drum for the rest of the evening. I must have dozed, because when I opened my eyes around midnight, the light was off, my clothes were soaked, and she was gone.

to be continued . . .

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There’s a certain scent in hardware stores – not the perfumy enticement of a department store cosmetic counter, but rather a scent of sort of solid security suggesting all will be well. Likewise, Fleet Farm Supply. Fleet Farm offers more, though.

When I was a young boy, I’d head straight for the toy aisles at Christmas where I found the toy tractors and farm implements emblazoned in their catalogues. In springtime, I’d make a beeline for the cheeping sounds of chicks kept in a large trough under warming lights at the back of the store. As a young man, I found satisfactory clothes there and, when I was on my own, I bought the kind of food and drink a person can actually enjoy. Tools? For home and auto, just like an insurance commercial. Hunting and fishing supplies capped my needs. In fact, I’ve often thought everything I’ve ever needed can be found at the Fleet Farm.

Then one day tested that claim.

I’d been moseying through the aisles, stopping too long at fishing lures and probably not long enough at propane. It was because I was gazing at the new fishing lure in my hand, that I ran smack into a customer at the endcap. She nearly fell, but I caught her; and we stood there for a split second locking eyes and sizing each other up. It was uncomfortable and a little exciting at the same time. I’m not sure she felt the same way.

Ten minutes later, I checked out: fishing lure, trail mix, and Dr. Pepper. I’d just tossed my treasure into the backseat, when a voice addressed me. I bumped my head on the ceiling of my car, and, rubbing my head, straightened before I shut the door.

Why were you following me?

It was the customer I’d bumped into earlier.

Following you? I wasn’t following you.

She motioned in the air. And yet, here you are.

Maybe you were following me!

And maybe you are interested in birdfeeders, but I don’t think so.

It’s true. I’m not interested in bird feeders. Never have been.

I glanced at my watch.

It’s lunchtime. Join me?

It’s been twelve years. We have three kids, four dogs, go to church on Sundays, and keep each other content. And I just picked up another bird feeder at Fleet Farm.

**************

I started this story two months ago. And then my mom’s death stopped many of life’s activities, as it should. Maybe I’ll address it sometime. But I wanted to finish what I started. It’s not as long as it might have been. But I am becoming accustomed to accepting that things aren’t always, or even usually, as we might wish them.

*********************

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