Page 8 of Perfect Assumption
His gnarled hand drops back to his cane. “Hello, Angela. How are you doing today? Everything quiet up at your house?”
“Wonderfully so.”
When he smiles, his face creases into a million wrinkles. “If you have any problems, you call. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
“I’ll do just that,” I promise.
With a nod, he hobbles away. And I use the few moments before I approach the crowds gathered at the checkout to regain my composure. After making small talk, I burst through the store doors and inhale the air that is uniquely fall, a combination of dampness and smoky air as families everywhere burn fuel to keep their loved ones warm.
I yank up the hood on my vest as I push a cart full of groceries out toward my car. The early November wind doesn’t just whip a few lingering leaves in my face, but it also brings along a cold so harsh it makes me tip my head back with a frown. The frozen gray sky is a perfect reflection of my mood, but it doesn’t look like a snowstorm is going to roll in.
“I guess that’s a small gift,” I murmur aloud.
“Did you say something, Angela?” Another one of my grandmother’s oldest friends makes her way by using a scooter I’ve had run over my toes on more than one occasion. She pauses right next to me, and I manage to scoot back just in time to avoid the tires trampling over my poor toes.
Again.
“Just commenting on the weather, Mrs. Burnette.” At her frown, I explain, “It’s a gift.”
“Child, you were living with your grandmother for far too long if you think this weather’s a gift.”
I can’t prevent the slight curve of my lips at her cantankerous mention of my beloved grandmother. “Grandma would have said any day there wasn’t snow on the ground that she didn’t have to have shoveled was a good day, Mrs. Burnette.”
She barks out a laugh that sounds like an old furnace wheezing before it finally pushes out heat. An answering giggle bubbles up. I lift my gloved hands up to tamp it down, which is likely why I don’t see Mrs. Burnette slap hers down onto the control panel of her scooter, before flying forward into a display of chrysanthemums.
“Ahh!” she shrieks.
It’s a good thing it’s so cold out because by the time I get her sorted out and explain what happened to the store clerk who came rushing outside, anything frozen I had in my cart would likely have melted. But as cold as I normally am inside, it warmed me for a moment when Mrs. Burnette cupped my cheek and said, “You’re a good girl, Angela. Keep that smile on your face,” before she finally made it into the store for her weekly shopping.
If only I could, the world would be a very different place.
Pushing my groceries to my car, I load up the bags and let the car warm up for a few moments before I put it in gear to finish the rest of my errands.
* * *
The tiny village of Brewster,located in Putnam County, New York, has a lot of history for only having a population of less than 3,000 year-round residents. Brewster’s history dates back to the Revolutionary War where a teenage girl rode through the once-upon-a-time farmland to proclaim, “The British are coming!” from nearby Danbury, Connecticut. Due to its proximity to New York City—made possible by the Walter Brewster donating land for the New York and Harlem railroads to be built—Brewster has become a sought-after address for commuters.
It’s sheer happenstance I happen to own a home here, but I’m grateful for this oasis outside the constant pressures of New York City my grandparents left to me as a result of settling here back in the ’60s. When I crawled back here with a broken soul and my honor more deeply stained than an antique mirror, this little village sheltered me without question.
Stepping into the Eagle Eye Thrift Store, I call out a hello to the proprietress. Receiving one in return, I wander up and down the racks of the clothes people drop off because they’re simply out of season or have a microscopic stain that can easily be hidden. “Ridiculous. This shirt is Tory Burch. I can cover the stain with a pin, and no one will ever notice it.” Holding the blouse in the air, I frown at the mere $4 being asked for it before performing a more thorough examination of the item. “Miss Thelma, I’m leaving you a $10 for this shirt!”
She pops her head out with a smile. “Go ahead and leave the money behind the counter, honey. I’m just sorting a few things in the back.”
I almost volunteer to help her, but I know her pride is as strong as my grandmother’s was. “Not a problem.” Just as I lay the $10 near the register, a pin catches my eye in the display case. The clashing jewels make me smile as they remind me of the colors of the walls in the home I’ve yet to repaint. “Grandma would have loved this,” I murmur to myself.
I open my mouth to call out again to ask about the cost, and my breath catches in my throat. There are two men standing outside the enormous bay window, staring agape. I’ve never seen either of them before in my life, in this town. One elbows the other before they both start talking animatedly, pointing at me.
My heart skips a beat. My hands shake even as I present them both with my back.I’m supposed to be safe hereis all I can think. I quickly move toward the back of the store and the back entrance where my car’s parked. Trying to keep my composure, I call out, “If no one buys that flower pin, let me know.”
“Sounds good, Angie. You all set?”
“Yes, ma’am. I am. I’ll see you soon.”On a day where I don’t feel like I’m drawing everyone’s attention.
Calling out a goodbye, I slip out the door and slide behind the wheel, knowing no matter what, no matter where I go, the truth doesn’t matter. It didn’t back then. Ten years later, people who recognize me will still believe what they want. And those that do will immediately cast judgment no matter what.
Backing my car out, I make certain I’m not being followed before I head home. “Remember what Grandma said. No one sees you for what you are. They make assumptions based on things out of your control.” But repeating her words aloud doesn’t prevent the lone tear from escaping down my cheek.
* * *
