Emily sprints across the dead street. Plumes of breath burst from a cloth mask. Her gloved hands claw the bottom of a rustling paper bag. It bounces against her puffy jacketed torso and cans clang from within the deforming brown paper. A Columbia University lanyard jangles keys and sways between her left hand and the bag. Boots search for traction in snow blanketed mud and find only failure. She falls to the concrete walkway leading to her stoop. A can of cat food rolls out of the bag. The scorch upon her knees does little to distract from the embarrassment. No one saw. Emily shakes her head, collects herself, and scoops the fallen can into the bag and rises to her feet and climbs the stairs. She balances the bag on her right knee, winces, traps the bag with her right arm, and unlocks the door.
She slams the door and her back slides against it until she sits with the bag in her lap. Panicked breaths interject the rapid thumps of heartbeats in her ears. Her jeans turn purple from the pooled blood on her knees.
“Emily… Is that you?” Echoes from deep within the stuffy row-house.
“Yes, Memaw.”
“Did you get the cat food?”
“Yes!”
On cue, a rotund smoky gray cat shambles to Emily and stares with large golden eyes.
“Hey Ernest.”
Ernest mews and tries to rub against Emily’s leg, but she shoots to her feet.
“No.” She shoos him away with her hand, which elicits a dirty look. “I’m sorry.” No reason to take chances.
Emily removes her outer garments and hangs them by the door. She washes her hands and searches the pantry for disinfectant wipes—only one left. Damn. Her eyes find the dish soap, of which she squirts a dollop in a mixing bowl before adding near scalding water. With a dishrag, she disinfects each grocery with thorough surgical precision before storing them and then she sanitizes the kitchen surfaces. Red knuckles crack from over washing and cleaning solutions.
Thick fuzzy socks run into an old smelling carpeted living room with yellowed bloated floral wallpapered walls. They run past pictures of Memaw’s wedding. Past pictures of Memaw holding Emily’s father as an infant and of Emily’s father’s graduation from Navy bootcamp and of Emily’s parent’s wedding and of Emily’s mother holding her as a baby and Pepaw reading The Hobbit to Emily. Past Emily’s high school and college graduations. The college graduation only featured her and Memaw. Socks stomped up narrow shag carpeted stairs and find the bottom of the hamper under a t-shirt and bloodstained jeans. Steam condenses on the bathroom mirror. Tepid water beats on Emily’s shivering form—sweet deliverance. O, to be back inside the house. O, to be clean and safe again.
She dries off and bundles herself in an old t-shirt, sweatpants, and thick socks. In her room, a high twin bed holds a pile of laundry. Ernest nestles on a sweatshirt surrounded by heaps of clothes. Golden light radiates in a column from between thick curtains and warms his fluffy frame.
“I’m sorry again, Ernest.” She nudges him with gentle hands and tries to coax him off her sweatshirt.
He looks up at her with sleep burdened, perturbed eyes and refuses to move. The sweatshirt slides out from under him, and Emily slides the warm garment over her head, pulls it down, and pets Ernest. He purrs and nuzzles her hand before cozying deeper into the clothing nest. If he’s resting in the clothes, she can’t put them away. Besides, she disturbed him enough in retrieving the sweatshirt. Emily scans the bookcases next to the bed for a book to read. Would she read The Road for the umpteenth time? No. Too eerily reminiscent of reality. Elmore Leonard? Not in the mood. Patrick Rothfuss? If only he’d release the final book of The Kingkiller Chronicle—as if she had the right to criticize anyone for succumbing to perfectionism. Maybe she’ll write something. With that thought, she walks over to her desk and sinks into a comfy swivel chair. Her eyes absorb a row of pictures on the shelf above the desk. Frozen memories summon Emily with her parents at the Calaveras Big Trees in California and with her friends at the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. Remnant monuments to former lives stand between her B.A. in English from Columbia and her M.A. from Oxford. No one attended the latter graduation.
Emily opens her laptop, clicks on Scrivener, and types on her Model M keyboard until external sound and sight fade into oblivion as she enters a fugue state. The light from the window fades, but she doesn’t notice. Ernest mews, but she doesn’t notice and eventually he leaves. Metallic wobbles follow sharp clanks and thuds.
“Emily dear… Emily.”
“Yes, Memaw.” Emily looks around to regain her bearings and scrutinizes the Swiss train station wall clock. Seven hours passed while writing. She blinks in disbelief.
“Can you come here?”
Emily races downstairs. Memaw hunches over scattered crumpled cans that spill noisome gravy and gelatinous wet food across the kitchen tile. Ernest, immune to Memaw’s shooing, devours the exposed gravy and meat slurry.
“Are you okay?” Emily’s eyes dart over Memaw and analyze potential signs of trauma and focus on her shaking hands. Memaw’s M.S. makes it difficult to hold anything, let alone execute fine motor movements. She must have knocked the cans from the cupboard trying to get Ernest his supper.
“I’m fine, dear.”
“Why didn’t you get me?” The aggressive tone shocks Emily, and she lurches back and covers her mouth.
“You seemed so peaceful, and I didn’t want to disturb you because I know how much you love writing.”
“I’m sorry.” She collapses and begins wiping and collecting the damaged cans. “I’ll clean it.”
“Can you do me a favor?”
Emily looks into Memaw’s eyes with terror. She knew what Memaw would ask of her. Please don’t ask for another trip to the store.
“Can you go to the store and get Ernest food?”
“Can’t we salvage what’s in these cans?” Trying any tactic to avoid the unseen danger, Emily’s mind wanders scenarios of risk. Desperation and despair flood her mental fields, but bear no fruit. She can’t say no to Memaw, and Memaw won’t understand her fear.
“We can’t let poor Ernest go hungry.”
“He’ll be fine.” She fought knowing she’d lose. They’re all each other has left. Emily would do anything for Memaw.
“Please.”
“Fine.” Emily makes peace with her fate and battles the panic the best she can. She cleans the kitchen, puts on warm clothes, dons her mask, gloves, and coat. Clad in the best armor available to her, she sets out to meet the invisible nemesis and, with a bellied inhale, she exits Memaw’s house and bolts into her car. Her mind unravels on the drive, which lasts both an hour and a second. Deep breaths in the store’s parking lot become meditation, which becomes a hype session. Full of newly mustered courage, she marches into the store. Oppressive lights engulf her, blurring her vision, and bleach fumes stab through her mask, overwhelming her nostrils. Shoes click and clack and people talk out of focus. Are they right on top of her or nowhere near her? Each person presents a landmine, and each couple evokes a mob. Emily navigates the store and maximizes distance from people and even retreats from the pet aisle several times because of occupancy. The coast is clear and Emily sprints to the aisle’s middle and reaches for a stack of squat cans, the few remaining cat food cans.
“Hey! That’s mine!” An unmasked man glares at Emily from beady, searing eyes under his red hat. His open woodland camouflaged jacket reveals a gut draped in a blue shirt with a red-white-and-blue symbol.
“Excuse me—” Emily stares at him with mouth agape. What nerve to feel entitled to everything? Who made him lord of the grocery store?
“I said that’s mine!” Spit flies from his frothing mouth. He pulls a black semi-automatic pistol from his jacket and points it at Emily’s head. All this for cat food? She was nothing to him—not a person, barely an object. Her life, her story, her Memaw—none of it matters to him. The world is his, and this reduces her to the object of his privilege. The store goes about its business. No one comes to help her. Nobody tries to defuse the situation. It’s as if it’s his right to point a gun at her head to get his cat food.
Emily peers into his desolate leer and then studies his weapon—an abominable destructive instrument. She’s robbed of breath and devoid of words. Her shaking hand taps the top can’s lid. Rapping fingers shift the short stack of cans. The cans fall—clank. The gun recoils—boom. She’ll never finish her novel. Ernest will go hungry. Who will look after Memaw?