This place is going to kill me, Harper thought as she pulled into the Tops.
She parked, breathed, and took in the view of the small-town white winter hellscape. She looked at the suffocating forests and fields, the barbed wire branches, and the deathly slow cars on the poorly salted road.
Please, Harper thought, don’t make me see a hundred-and-one familiar faces in there, or so help me God, next time I’ll drive all the way out to Nueva Roma and give my dollar to Walmart. I’ll do it! I’ll waste the gas!
Her son Roger in the passenger seat tugged on her sleeve, and she sighed and led him out into the February cold. The moment they entered, they were assaulted by advertisements.
$5.28 for a six-pack of Pepsi, because Harper and Roger’s teeth weren’t bad enough already.
$3.19 for a package of heart-shaped Little Debbie brownies, because Harper and Roger’s teeth weren’t bad enough already, and because it was almost Valentine’s Day.
$0.22/pound for pomegranates, because Harper and Roger’s teeth weren’t bad enough already, and because it was almost Valentine’s Day, which meant the fruit hadn’t been edible for at least a month and a half.
Roger wanted all of it. The numbers and the seasons didn’t mean anything to him yet. At least, that was what Harper told herself so that she could love him. He pointed at and asked for everything. Harper took a shopping cart, grabbed Roger’s hand, and said, “I’m sorry, Sweety. We have a list. Let’s just try to stick to it for now.”
Roger didn’t listen, because he was too busy pointing at something else. “Mom, can we get that?”
Harper followed his finger to a plastic container of six chocolate-covered strawberries, right next to the pomegranates. “I’m sorry, Sweety–” she started.
“I need something for Valentine’s Day, though. The party, ’member? You promised!”
Shit! Harper thought. She remembered the conversation from Friday:
The two of them had been at the dinner table, and Roger had actually had an answer to Harper’s “So, what’d you do in school today?”
“I need to bring in something for a Valentine’s Day party Wednesday,” he had said.
“Couldn’t you not sign up?”
“No, I was assigned.”
“Then what were you assigned?”
Roger had shrugged.
Bullshit! Harper had thought. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit! If you were assigned, it’d be something specific! And what teacher in Campton would assign Harper Lark’s boy to bring in anything? Then came the other thought, that Roger was an eight-year-old boy who didn’t know his right from his left. Plus, there was no way in hell Harper could give Roger the conditional love her parents had given her. That’s why I can’t drink before your bedtime. If you see me drink, then I love you less.
Back in the Tops, where it was Monday, Harper checked the price of the chocolate strawberries. $12.99 for half a dozen! She looked around her and thought, I know damn near everyone here, and I know damn well they’re smarter than this. What does Tops think they’re tryna pull?
Now it was her turn to point, right at those awful pomegranates. “You see those, Sweety? You see all the brown and rot?”
Roger nodded.
“How do you know that’s not under the chocolate? You see, what these companies do is they take the bad strawberries, cover them with chocolate, and then put them out so you don’t see all the bad parts. You don’t wanna bring those into class.”
Roger nodded again and looked down. “Ok, Mom.”
Harper led him off. “We’ll get something, don’t worry.”
Half an hour later, they were in the cold section.
$2.39 for the store brand frozen peas.
$7.25/gallon for the store brand orange juice, but the Simply Orange brand was $4.49/52 fl oz. and was buy-two-get-one-free, so Roger lucked out.
The milk was what hurt: $4.89/gallon for 2%. That was the price of the store brand: Harper didn’t want to look at anything else. She was fairly sure, also, that it was $0.50 cheaper at some other store, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember where. The thought of a 40 oz. crossed her mind while she put the gallon in the cart, but Roger was at that age when you start to learn things, and he sure as hell wouldn’t learn them from her.
When they exited the cold section, they met another family – the Godes – a mother and a daughter. The girl’s face lit up. There was something about her brunette hair that Harper didn’t like.
“Roger!” the girl said.
Roger smiled flatly. “Hey, Lora.”
Lora led the conversation, and Harper felt obligated to start a different one with the other mom. Mrs. Gode was much older than herself, and had big gold hoop earrings and lousy blue eye shadow, all under loose yellow curls.
“They know each other from school?” Harper asked.
“Oh, yeah. Lora talks about Roger all the time.”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, for sure. I’m glad Roger has a friend. And-and Lora, too, obviously.”
“Roger doesn’t talk about Lora?”
Harper smiled an apology. “Not really? Not often? I think he might have?”
Mrs. Gode waved it away. “Kids’ll be kids. You know how it is. We really need to get going, though. Beat the storm. We live in Emmonsville, so it’s a bit of a drive.” She said, “It was great to meet you!” while they left for the cold section.
“You, too,” Harper said so that they couldn’t hear. She certainly hadn’t heard of any storm. “Storm” my ass, she thought. I’ll “storm” you.
She realized what she hadn’t liked about Lora’s hair: It was the same shade as her own.
On their way to the soup aisle, Harper asked who Roger’s friend was, and why she hadn’t heard of her.
Roger looked at the ground. “I don’t need to tell you everything. Besides, she’s not a friend. I hate her. She’s so annoying, and she’s stupid, too. She’s one o’ the dumb kids.”
Then you’re a match, Harper thought. You sound like your father, and she has my hair.
“That’s mean, Roger.”
“I don’t care. She deserves it.”
Harper shook her head, but that was all. They were at the soup aisle, so it was back to the numbers.
$1.20 for a can of Chef Boyardee meat ravioli. Harper took four.
$4.59 for a four-pack of Campbell’s tomato soup. Hell yeah, she took two.
Just down the aisle was a six-pack of ramen for $5.99, and just as she put one in the cart, Roger blew a raspberry: “Pblpblpblpbl!”
Harper turned, and found her son making a face at another boy and his mother and father. “Wally, do you know this boy?” the mom asked. The boy – Wally – took a small step back, but kept looking at Roger with big, green eyes. Wally was a hiker, and Roger a bear.
“Pblpblpblpbl,” Roger spat/roared again. “Pblpblpblpbl. Pblpblpblpbl. Pblpblpblpbl!”
Harper stepped in. “Roger, is there a problem? Is this a friend?”
Roger kept up the mean bear persona. Wally caved into his parents even more.
The other dad smiled. “We’re wondering the same thing. Nice to meet you! I’m Garret.”
“Harper.” She nodded.
The other mom didn’t reciprocate the kindness. “So this is Roger.” She put a hand over Wally’s shoulder.
Garret rolled his eyes. “We’ve been over this, they’re friends, it’s just what they do.” He kneeled down to Roger and waved. “I’m Wally’s dad. He tells us so much about you.”
“Hi,” Roger said. The word was completely tonally ambiguous.
“See?” Garret asked his wife. “He’s being friendly in his own way.”
The other mom gripped Wally’s shoulder just the slightest bit more. She had one of the smaller shopping baskets in her other hand, and she raised it just barely. “Garret.”
Garret sighed and stood. “Sorry about all that.” Then, he followed his family out of the aisle.
Harper looked at her great, bear son. “Roger, who was that?”
“Wally.”
Smartass. “Is Wally a friend?”
“Mm-mm.” He shook his head.
“How do you know him?”
“He’s in my class.”
“Then why aren’t you friends?”
“I don’t see why I have to say.”
“Because I’m your mother!”
Roger looked down the aisle the way they had come, then down the aisle the way the other family had left, like he was about to tell the secrets of the universe. There were plenty of people they knew, as there always were in Campton, but he decided they were far enough away.
Harper’s sweet, eight-year-old bear of a boy whispered, “He’s a fairy.”
Harper had had her share of humiliation, but this was peak. It wasn’t actually, but it felt like it. “Who taught you that word?”
“Franklyn,” Roger said.
“Is Franklyn a friend of yours?”
“Oh, yeah! Franklyn’s the best! He just knows everything!”
Harper looked again at where Wally had been. My sweet child, she thought, no he fucking doesn’t. “Are you mean to Wally?”
Roger did not answer.
“Roger, are you and your friend mean to Wally?’
Again, Roger did not answer.
“Roger, I am your mother. I need you to answer me. Are you or anyone else in your class mean to Wally?”
He blew up. “So what if we are? We’re not, because you can’t be mean to a fairy, not really – Franklyn says so, and Franklyn knows everything, more ’n the teacher, even! There’s no such thing as being mean to Wally, ’cause he deserves it!”
Her head pounded.
She needed that 40 oz.
What was one box of cosmic brownies? Just one?
The rot on those strawberries was just a lie, right? She hadn’t accidentally learned something?
Harper bent her knees, took her face level to Roger’s as Garret had done, and said, “Roger. You don’t bully. Ever. You are a good person. You are better than the people who hurt other people, and you are going to grow into a kind, strong man. You are a good person.”
Roger blinked with thick, beautiful lashes over hazel eyes. “I know.”
Harper felt like she had tried to swallow a big chunk of meat. “We’re gonna talk about this later.”
Just then, another family came by for ramen – a father and a daughter, Harper assumed. Harper and Roger smiled at the father the way one does at a stranger, and he smiled back. He was normal enough. The girl, though, made Harper do a double take. She had Wally’s big, green eyes, but the ugly brunette hair of Lora and of Harper herself. She also had big loopy earrings like Mrs. Gode, which looked funny on a child.
The incongruous girl did not make sense to Harper.
Nonetheless, Harper smiled.
The girl smiled back, then smiled and waved at Roger. “Hey, Roger.” She said it softly, as if giving Roger the excuse not to hear.
Roger took that excuse. He did not hear nor see her, even though he was staring at the ramen right behind her, so he wouldn’t have to acknowledge Harper.
Harper tried to remember how to parent, and stood. I’ll lead by example, she thought. “Let’s get that thing for your class.”
Roger lit up.
“It’s not a reward, though.” Harper tried to correct herself, but the damage had been done. No, she thought. No damage. It is unconditional love.
They went back to the junk toward the front of the store, and Roger returned to his good friend Little Debbie. He picked out those heart-shaped brownies the store had advertised earlier. Harper didn’t need to look at the price again, because Roger was happy.
On their way to the checkout, they ran into Mayor Lowenge, who smiled and waved. It was Roger who started the conversation this time, with, “Hey, Mayor! How are ya?”
Lowenge smiled more brightly. “Roger! It’s great to see you!”
Harper’s head swam. So he’s not friends with Lora, and he’s not friends with Wally, but he is friends with the Mayor?
“I spoke at the elementary school,” Lowenge clarified. “Your boy here had some great questions! I was very impressed!”
Fucking mall Santa Claus-ass condesention. “What questions?”
“Well, a conversation about the school turned into a conversation about taxes – light details, you understand, I promise it was relevant to the kids – and that turned into a conversation about money in general – The topic was somewhat out of my control, I don’t know why they had me talk about this, but oh well, what can you do? – and then this boy – this smart boy – this boy asks a great question: He asks, ‘What happens when the people whose job it is to count the money count wrong?’”
Harper looked at her cart. It looked fuller than she had hoped it would be. A dollar here, a cent there, and all of a sudden she had Little Debbie when she had intended to buy carrots. She had forgotten the carrots! “I suppose that is a good question,” Harper admitted.
Roger beamed, and the carrots left Harper’s mind.
“You should be very proud of him.”
“I–” Harper began. I am. I am. I am. The words came back to her: Unconditional love.
“I am,” Harper finished. “I’m very proud of you, Roger.”
Roger looked happier than ever, and Harper felt sick.
There was a broken light behind her, so more light came from the Mayor toward Roger than vice-versa. It put Roger in the hunched, monstrous, gray shape of the Mayor’s shadow. The bear-boy took one of the checkout knick-knacks – a foam stress toy globe – and he squeezed, and squeezed, and squeezed until a crack opened from the West Coast, through the Atlantic, past Europe, and to somewhere in Russia.
“Could you put that back?” Harper asked, and Roger obeyed.
Mayor Lowenge laughed, and then straightened up. “Well, it was very nice to see you. I’ve got to get back to, um…”
“Right, thanks,” Harper said. “Have a nice day.”
“See you!” Roger said.
Lowenge smiled one more time before turning to the checkout cooler with the sodas.
Roger pointed at it, even as they walked away. “Mom, can I get a drink?”
Harper hesitated, which was a good sign for Roger. “Yeah, when we check out.”
Roger pointed at the nearest checkout aisle, but Harper shook her head. “I need a drink, too.”
She led her sweet, impressionable cub to the liquor aisle and grabbed the first forty she saw, brands and prices be damned.
The shortest line with someone at the register had one old woman in a mobility scooter. Roger picked out a Coke-a-Cola, just as the old woman grabbed a package of peanut M&M’s. It triggered Roger’s impulses, and he pointed and asked, “Mom, can we get that?”
Harper shook her head. They had enough in the cart already.
Roger pouted, and Harper felt that maybe she had done something good after all.
The wait took longer than it should have, because the old woman and the cashier – a young woman with dyed red hair – shared some pleasantries. Harper was happy to see generations getting along, but nothing made her more anxious than waiting for a receipt. The old woman was slow, too. Even after she paid, it took her a moment to maneuver the scooter and make way for Harper.
The cashier slid every barcode under the sensor.
Beep! $4.89.
Beep! $5.99.
Beep! $3.19.
“Can I get an ID for the forty?” she asked.
It took Harper a moment to snap out of the numbers. Looking at them and misremembering them took all her concentration. Plus, she never liked this part. She winced as she gave away her driver’s license. The young woman looked at the license, then at Harper, then at Roger. Again, she looked from the license, to Harper, to Roger. This all happened while another worker bagged the groceries, because Harper had left her own bags in the car for the twentieth fucking time. You’re correct, Harper thought. I’m the woman with the birthdate in 1999, and an eight-year-old kid in 2024. Happy Valentine’s Day to me.
“You’re good,” the cashier said, and she handed the license back. A few beeps later, and she said, “Your total’s $139.07.”
The world ended. But I had a list… Harper thought. I only went off it for the forty… and the brownies, but those were for school… and Roger’s soda… and that orange juice, but I couldn’t not get that, there was a deal… and the milk was pricier than it should’ve been, but that was only $0.50…
Harper swiped her card and signed her soul away on the screen. Then it was toward the door, past that old woman who was still in the store struggling with her scooter.
When the groceries were in the trunk, the cart was in the corral, and Roger was next to Harper in the passenger seat, Harper heard something crinkle in Roger’s shirt.
She looked at him, another hiker to the bear. “What was that?”
Roger shrugged. He hummed, “Mm-mm-mm,” to the tone of, “I don’t know.”
“Roger, what do you have?”
“I don’t know, Mom! Mind your beeswax!”
“Roger, did you steal something from the store?”
He smirked. “No.”
“Are you lying?”
He took out the crinkling lump – a yellow package of peanut M&M’s. “I didn’t get it from the store. I got it from that fat old woman who held us up. She deserves it.”
“Roger! I don’t care what you learned from Franklyn! We do not think like that, and we do not steal!”
He opened the package. “She’s gonna die soon, anyway.” Then, he ate one.
She took a moment to watch the cars go by, and noticed that most of them were going right, toward the heart of the town. They crawled, because they had to with the snow this bad. There was one beat-up green Ford, though, on its way out, to the left.
It was going too fast. Harper had a funny image in her head of a panicked driver saying, “I gotta get outta here. I gotta get outta here.”
The green Ford lost control. Its tail end spun into the other lane and just barely clipped a Dodge, which curved out into a snowbank as carefully as it could have. The Dodge was brown, almost, or maybe a dark yellow. Harper might have called it hazel. The next car was a Volkswagen, which was also brown, but more of a brunette. It tried to avoid a collision, but overcorrected. The green Ford and the brunette VW were both totaled.
“Hah!” Roger laughed. “Hee-hee, heh-heh, hah!” Chocolate spittle rained on the dashboard.
Harper almost got out to see if they were all right, to check if she knew them, which she could only assume she did, but the Dodge distracted her.
It crept out of the snow bank. It was scratched, but it was fine. It must have been the luckiest car in the world, and it continued its slow path toward the center of Campton.
Harper wondered how many more times it could do that, before all the scratches and dents caught up to it. She thought, Roger, this place is going to kill you.