Real Bad Things(5)
She ran her hand along a shelf of condoms and knocked them all onto the floor.
“Everything okay?” Billie appeared at the corner of the aisle, her skin all young and supple. Georgia Lee could’ve ripped it right off her.
“Everything’s fine.”
Billie chewed her hair and gave Georgia Lee an odd look before wandering off.
She took her time returning the condoms to the shelf. If it were up to her, she’d march into Maud Senior High—and the junior high—and give them all away. Birth control too. If it was too late for birth control, she’d give them the address for a clinic down in Little Rock. Off the record, of course. On the record, she was a Southern Baptist woman, and that was that in the great state of Arkansas. She, too, knew better than to get pregnant so young, but back then she’d also believed romance meant marriage and babies equaled maturity.
Deep breaths. Things would work themselves out. They always did.
The election would be over soon. Still, she felt compelled to unleash a good old-fashioned cussing. But her momma had told her it was like having a dirty thing in your mouth, cussing. Like everyone could not just hear but also see your filth. Georgia Lee knew her mother meant it figuratively, but she couldn’t help but think about a few of the dirty things she’d had in her mouth. She pressed the thought down into the deepest corner of her mind. That was then; she liked to stay in the now. Focused on the future. Being and doing different.
She straightened the hair dye and other health and beauty aids. Then she wandered down aisle eight. After a quick glance toward the endcaps, assuring herself of Billie’s presence at the register, she snatched the newest Jasmine Guillory, which she’d been reading during those times when she couldn’t focus on productive work, and headed toward the office. Reese’s Book Club had yet to steer her wrong!
Not five minutes into the climax came Bollinger—hollering hellos to Billie and Cassidy and Georgia Lee—like he had a sixth sense for when her attention drifted from store duties. Wouldn’t surprise her if he’d installed hidden cameras to go along with the ones he’d trained on the pharmacy counter after they’d been robbed of all their pseudoephedrine back in 2003.
She set her book aside and wandered out of the back office. Bollinger peeked his head around an endcap, then ducked back into an aisle.
“Good evening, Mr. Bollinger.” He insisted on being addressed formally even though they were the same age. He looked ten years older, though. Too much time in the sun without protection. Her smooth white skin looked better than that of her forty-something peers. Everyone said so.
He bared the bleached, straight teeth he’d gotten at a discount from a dentist friend and hesitated at her appearance. She wore the white smock required of all employees. He responded to such vocational costumes from a deep pubescent desire. Nurses, maids, the waitresses at Sizzler with their ill-fitting brown slacks and white button-downs. All were subject to the salacious mind of a man who didn’t know better than to superglue his thumb instead of using a Band-Aid.
He pushed the skin shut, then squeezed the clear liquid and let it dry for a few seconds. “Did you know they invented superglue during World War II to seal injuries?” Dubious. She would confirm on Wikipedia later. “Better than Band-Aids. I kept losing them in tight, dark places.”
Vile man. Georgia Lee scanned the shelf and handed him a box. “They make liquid bandages, which I imagine are far less irritating to the skin.” He claimed to be a pharmacist. A lie. She’d looked it up. But he owned the pharmacy. His daddy got it from his daddy. And his daddy’s daddy before him probably got the land for free from the government after they stole it from the Osage.
He leaned against the shelf, leg kicked back like the Marlboro Man. She couldn’t fathom how anyone saw Bollinger as anything but a two-bit businessman. He strutted into the spotlight without a lick of general know-how while she had to prove herself worthy of the council position she’d held for fifteen years. But Georgia Lee had paid attention in history class and Bible study. She knew better than to think folks couldn’t be swayed by someone’s charming stupidity.
Some days, she had a mind to drop out of the race. Let Bollinger try public service on for size and see how he’d do. But that wasn’t her way. She never quit. Not even in the worst of circumstances. She’d been through the worst already and come through.
A shock of memory disarmed her. Beer and onion breath. Spit on her neck. Blood on her tennis shoes. The images dislodged and scattered her thoughts. She recalled a dream from the previous night about being in a fight. The feeling of anger and fear, a tight ball in her stomach all day.
Rusty had suggested she might be overextended. Working too hard. Imagining people were out to get her. But this was simply the situation during election season. She had promised him she’d talk to Dr. Irwin about her insomnia, but she hadn’t. Deep sleep only led to harrowing dreams about fighting and not being able to breathe, and she didn’t like that. She preferred the little catnaps that refreshed her. Sleep apnea. That was probably the problem. She’d read the risk of developing it increased with age in women.
Bollinger stared at her long enough that she worried she’d had a stroke and wasn’t yet aware of it. She pushed the images and the previous night’s dream aside, put them in the box in her mind where she placed anything unpleasant that threatened to disrupt her focus.