It was as if she lived her whole life under water—no, under oil. Greasy oil that coated her whole perception of things, but once in a while, her subconscious would break through the surface, take a roaring gasp of fresh air, and look around while the filmy sheets of grease ran down her eyes. And at those moments, understanding would rock her soul with great heaving sobs of newness. Then she would slide under again, swimming in murky clouds of distortion.
Somewhere, though, those pieces of understanding were stored. She thought of them as little golden eggs—no, little fragile bubbles—with knowing stored inside, and they were stacked up in little triangular piles in some unused storeroom of her mind.
Martha gave the table a slap that stunned her hand. Now where did I get such a thought as that? What kind of an idea is that, anyway, bubbles in my head? Bubbles in my head all right. Bubbles in that drink they gave me.
She wanted to go back to that place with the shiny wall. She wanted to see the man with the apron, the one with the toothpick in his mouth, and the one without a tooth in front. She wanted to feel a part of something, a part of a friendly something.
Oh, I wish could understand.
Then a new thought came to her and her brow furrowed, her curly gray hair slid forward toward her eyebrows, her lips circled up, and her twisted lump of a nose wrinkled.
If understanding is in the bubbles, maybe I can pop one and catch it.
But the storeroom was guarded by a monster. She had seen it in her dreams, and as she thought of it now, its monstrous face snarled at her. Sharp teeth dripping with vicious saliva were bared; purple pink gums backed by wild yellow eyes showed its ferocity. It lunged straight at her eyes, rotten breath pushing her back in her chair.
She stood up quickly, startled, before her feet were under her, twisting her ankle, the pain driving the vision from her eyes. She bent over and rubbed it, automatically putting her trip to town off another day. She couldn’t walk on this ankle.
A glance at the rising dough showed it had a long way to go yet, so she hobbled over to the sofa and lay down. She put her foot up on a pillow. Comfortable, she looked at the worn brocade pattern next to her head and began to pick at it. How does this go, she thought, picking absently, pulling apart the threads to see what was underneath. All thoughts of the bar and the people who inhabited it were gone, chased away.
Martha packed carefully for her trip to town. She put five loaves of bread in each brown paper sack and filled two more little sacks with eggs. She wanted Mr. McRae to be very happy with her.
She dressed in a special red-print dress, her going-to-town dress. She looked in the mirror, thought she looked a little different but she wasn’t sure how, put on powder and lipstick, and brushed her hair back. That was it; her hair was too long. If the girl didn’t come soon, maybe she could cut it herself. Mother had always told her to keep her hair short, then she could just wash it with a washcloth and not have to worry about more soaps and stuff. But now her hair hung in gray curls around her face. She put more powder on her nose.
She put one bag of eggs in each bread sack and lifted them carefully. They were light. She went out into the sunshine and the early morning cool and began walking.
There was no one in town. The streets were quiet and deserted. She could hear the chatter of birds in some distant tree. Mr. McRae’s store was closed, so she sat down on the curb in front, one paper sack on each side, to wait.
Was it that first day? When her mother died, Mr. McRae gave her a folder of pretty pictures. Under each picture was a whole bunch of squares. He gave her a red crayon and told her every morning to get up and feed the chickens, then to mark a red X in the next square that had a big black number on it. When all the squares were full, he gave her a new one, with different pictures. He told her that he was never at the store on the days of the first square. She tried to remember. Did she mark the square this morning? Was it the first square? She couldn’t remember.
She didn’t know what to do. So she sat there, to wait for something to happen.
But it was just early, and soon traffic started to come into town, and then Mr. McRae opened the door to his store and saw her sitting there. He surprised her; she thought he’d come up the street. How did he get into the store if she didn’t see him? Was he there all night? He came out and helped her up and carried her packages into the store. He had such a pleasant face.
“Martha! How nice to see you! Had you been waiting long?”
She tried to think how to answer him, but he went right on. “And you’ve brought me bread. And eggs! Wonderful. Let’s take a look.”
He pulled each loaf of bread out and slipped it into a plastic bag, twisted the end shut and wrapped a little green wire around it. “These loaves are beautiful! How many are there? Let’s see . . . ten.” He handed her a small sack filled with plastic bags. “See how this is done? These green wires twist together like this.” He showed her, then watched her bag and tie two loaves. “Put your bread in these as soon as they’ve cooled, okay?”
She nodded.
“And eggs. Oh, my, let’s get you some cartons. Did your chickens like the new feed?”
Her eyes opened with enthusiasm. She bobbed her head and opened her mouth, but there were so many words, they all got stuck. She didn’t know which to say first. “Cluck, peck,” she said finally, in a rush of air.
“Cluck peck. Right. It’s cluck peck food. I’ll give you some more. Now. You’ve brought me ten loaves of bread; I’ll buy them from you for fifty cents each. And twenty eggs. I usually buy eggs by the dozen but I’ll pay you for two dozen today, at seventy-five cents; that comes to six dollars and fifty cents.” He counted out the money on the counter.
Martha just looked at it. She gave him money at this store. The bank gave her money; then she gave it to Mr. McRae. He wasn’t supposed to give her money.
“No,” she said, uncertainly, and looked out the window at the new brick bank building across the street. She pointed at the bank, then slapped her fingertips on top of the money on the counter. “I go bank, they give me money, I come here, give you money, take flour home.”
Mr. McRae understood immediately. This was too confusing for the poor woman. Now, what should we do? “Okay, Martha. I’ll tell you what. You use this bread and these eggs to pay me for the things you buy here instead of with the money the bank gives you, okay?”
Her face clouded over in heavy thought.
“Do you need more flour?”
“Flour, yes.”
“And the rest of the things you usually buy?”
“Yes. And soap. And cluck peck.” She was proud of the name she made up.
He laughed. “Okay. You wait right here.”
He brought the groceries to the counter, added the plastic bags and three empty egg cartons. “Now, Martha. Listen carefully.” Mr. McRae waved aside a few customers who had come through the door, holding them off while he explained. “I sell you flour, yes?”
“Yes.”
“And you go home and bake bread.”
“Yes.”
“Then you bring the bread here, and I will pay you for it with more flour and yeast and milk, okay?”
“Trade?”
“Trade. Exactly.”
“Okay!” She smiled at him crookedly, understanding at last. “You want more?”
“As much as you can bring me.”
“Okay!” She turned and smiled at the customers waiting in line. “Trade!” she said, grinning widely; then she took her sack and left the store.
She walked into the sunshine and the beginning heat of the day. She looked over to the bank, new and solid, on the corner. She should go talk to them. This was the first time she’d come to town without talking to them. She walked slowly down the street, conscious of the door coming up on her left, the door with the glass you couldn’t see through, the door with the shiny wall inside. She wished she had to go to the bathroom, but she didn’t, so she couldn’t stop. She kept going.