Fiction

By Lynley Capon

MARGARET puffed and panted up the few steps to her back door. It’s just as well I’m at ground level, she thought, noticing a young woman from the same block of state housing units run up the nearby stairs.

Rummaging among the treasures in one of her shopping bags, Margaret found a key, unlocked her door and shuffled inside. Her heavy frame and snail-like pace belied her excitement.

A sickly smell of scent, stale cigarette smoke and cooking odors greeted her. She noticed neither that, nor the mess. If her chair and footstool stayed in front of the TV with a path clear of debris to reach them, she felt content. She made for them now, weaving among the boxes, picture frames, pot plants, tables and other “real bargains” from jumble sales. Dumping her bags on the floor, she flopped into her chair.

“Oh, brother!” Margaret spoke to the lonely silence. “My feet are killing me.” She kicked off her shoes. They had to be slip-ons. Her corpulent midriff ruled out tying laces. Painfully, she raised one swollen foot, then the other, to her footstool and lounged back until she recovered her breath.

At length, she reached to the bags tumbled near her chair. The first held goodies from the bakery. She yanked it open. A chocolate éclair oozing cream lay before her.

Doctors had insisted that she must lose weight. Otherwise, her feet never would get better. She must try a little exercise more often.

Well, I did that today walking all the way to the jumble sale and back, she consoled herself. She’d even deviated a little to the bakery. What good was a pension if she couldn’t splash out now and then?

Margaret bit decisively into the éclair. Her loose upper dentures made a chucking sound. A drop of cream fell to her ample bosom, but she didn’t notice, and it blended with the crumbs and tea stains already there.

After the forbidden feast, she studied the other bags at her feet. A time to gloat over her “treasures” had arrived. Again reaching to the bags, she lifted one to her knee. One by one, she took out the precious buys. A cut-glass necklace only cost 10 cents. She slipped it on over her henna rinse. A length of burgundy velvet cost 50 cents. She rubbed it against her wrinkled, powdered cheek. A paisley blouse in shades of pink cost 20 cents.

Eagerly, Margaret dipped back into the bag and drew out a brooch. Worked in silver, it was a horse-drawn Cinderella coach with a watch set in its centre and a delicate chain reaching to the horses’ necks. A fine, albeit broken, catch finished the piece. Margaret held it in her palm and pressed it to her breast, sighing in pleasure.

The doorbell rang.

“I’m coming,” Margaret called. Gripping the arms of her chair, she heaved to her feet, slowly approached the door and opened it.

“May I use your phone?” asked a young woman who lived upstairs.

“Alright, come in. You know where it is.” Margaret stood aside. The phone filled a shelf by her chair in the living room.

To avoid eavesdropping, Margaret entered her cluttered kitchen to make a spot of tea. As the kettle sang, she heard her neighbor call, “I’m finished. Thanks.” The door banged as the visitor left.

Margaret shuffled to her chair and placed a cup of tea on the nearest table. Now where’s my brooch? Where did I put that wonderful treasure? She rummaged about without finding it.

At last, she plumped down into her chair. Overwhelming loss engulfed her. The treasure had gone – nicked by that sod from upstairs.

“My treasure,” Margaret muttered. “And it cost me $2.”

ARCHIVES