Confrontation

by E. Wells

It’s ten o’clock, closing time, when I push my loaded shopping cart out of the supermarket. The parking lot is almost deserted. There is only one delivery truck by the side of the building and a few cars near the exit, mine one of them. Not a person is in sight.

I start thinking. How stupid to have parked so far away. The lot wasn’t full when I drove in. Just habit, I’ve parked near the exit ever since the car was rammed that day. It seemed safer. It never seemed far, either. Now it looks a mile away. I’d better get a move.

The moon hangs low in the sky, with dark clouds blowing over it.

This is an eerie place at night, I think, as I push the cart hurriedly past the truck. I felt sorry I hadn’t let my son come along. Tim could have finished his homework later, like he said. I shiver and pull the collar of my old coat up around my throat. I should have shopped this morning instead of painting the bathroom. Forty-five years old and I still can’t organize my time.

The cart bumps along over the rough parking lot. The wheels are shaky, making it hard to push. I would pick the worst of the lot. There must have been fifty good ones.

Suddenly I hear footsteps behind me. I push faster. They follow. That truck! Someone was hiding behind that truck!

I glance around, my pulse beating wildly in my throat.

A tall boy stops as I stop. He stands there, motionless, not looking at me. What shall I do? There is nobody else here! Where are all the late shoppers? I stand there – frozen.

The boy steps forward. He puts his hands on the shopping cart, pushing me aside with his elbow. I move over and stand looking at him. His bony hands grip the cart as though they are welded there. He’s a tall, thin boy in sneakers, faded jeans, and a torn T-shirt. His head is bent so I can’t get a good look at his face.

He’s just a young boy, not much older than Tim. And Tim dresses like that most of the time. It seems to be the uniform of the young. Maybe he doesn’t mean me any harm. Maybe he just wants a tip. I’d better act as though I believe that.

I take a deep breath and start walking toward my car. The boy walks beside me, pushing the cart with quick, uneven jerks. “I’m glad you came along”, I say softly. “This cart is old for such a heavy load. I was having trouble pushing it”.

The boy stops and stares at me.

I stop too. We have just reached an arc light, and it shines full on his face as we stand examining each other. He has strange eyes, almost glowing in his rough face. I can’t read any expression in them. I glance at his shoulders – and shudder. They’re huge. Then I notice his throat. It looks thin, almost childlike.

Concentrate on his throat, I tell myself. Perhaps he works after school – lifting heavy crates. That would account for his shoulders. The idea comforts me. I look up at him and manage a smile.

He shrugs and lunges forward with the cart. A wheel catches in a rut. I reach out and steady it. He doesn’t pull away, so I keep my mind on it, pushing it lightly.

Talk to him, the way you would to one of Tim’s friends. Don’t let him see that you’re frightened.

“You look like a football player”, I say admiringly. “My boy Tim tried out for the team, but he was too light. So he took up drums. He plays bass in the band at Franklyn High. Tim Martin, do you know him?”

The boy shakes his head. He grunts something. It sounds ugly, but it isn’t a word I know. I probably deserve it, though. I’m stupid! Is it likely he has time for sports? He probably helps support his family. No father, maybe, or a no-good one. At least until he was fifteen, Tim had his father. Lucky Tim. This boy may be desperate – hungry even – and now I’ve made him angry. I reach over, take two apples out of a bag and hold them out. “Tim’s always hungry”, I say lightly. “Do you have hollow legs too?”

He doesn’t answer or look at me, but he pulls the cart close to him with a jerk of his foot. Then he grabs the apples and stuffs them under his T-shirt, pushing the shirt into his jeans with quick stabs of his big hands. He jolts the cart into action again, and we walk the rest of the way in silence.

As we approach the car, my heart starts pounding. Maybe he’ll push me in the car and make me take him somewhere, or grab the keys, take the car, and leave me here. He could have the car; if he just wouldn’t hurt me! Oh God, I’m such a coward. Help me to be brave, show me what to do. For both our sakes. Please, God?

When I stop beside the Chevy, he pushes the cart beside the rear door and looks at me. Slowly I reach in my pocket and pull out the car keys. Keep stalling, act natural. Maybe someone will come along. The police patrol this lot. I’ve seen them here.

I’d meant to unlock the car myself, but suddenly I find myself holding the keys out to the boy. “Would you put the things in the back seat for me?” I ask, making my voice warm and confident. “You’ve been so kind. I don’t know how I could have managed without you!”

He stands there a moment, his head bent, searching my face with his queer, light eyes. Then he takes the keys and unlocks the door. As it swings open, the light flashes on. His face is beaded with sweat. Somehow this shocks me more than anything else that’s happened. He’s frightened, I realize.

Poor kid! That makes two of us. I’m frightened of him, and he’s frightened of himself – of what he might do. I’ll bet he’s never done this before. Neither of us knows what he’ll do next! Well, give him something to do.

I reach into the shopping cart and lift out one of the big bags. I give it to him, and he puts it in the car. Then he reaches back for another. He’s in charge of this operation.

When the cart is empty, I step forward the front of the car. The boy slams the rear door, then he turns and gives the cart a tremendous shove. It bumps across the parking lot, sounding like a death rattle in the dark empty night. A scream rises in my throat, but I choke it back. It’s my move again and it might be the deciding one.

I open my bag and get out my wallet. I sense him behind me, watching me, waiting. I take out two crumpled one-dollar bills, all I have left. Turning to the boy, I hold them out. “Thank you so much!” I say. “You’ve been a great help”.

When he doesn’t move to take the money, my knees begin to buckle. Dear God, don’t let me faint, please!

Then slowly his hand reaches out. He takes the bills and stuffs them in his pocket. Again – he waits.

I breathe deeply to steady my voice. Then I hold out my hand. “My keys?” I say gently.

The boy stands there as though deciding. Then with a sudden movement he pulls the keys out of his pocket and shoves them into my hand. “Get in”, he commands. He grabs my elbow and pushes me roughly into the driver’s seat.

Now he’ll say, “Move over!” I think in despair.

Instead, he slams the car door shut. “Get home!” he yells, his furious face pressed against the window. “You shouldn’t be out alone!” Then he turns and disappears into the darkness.

I manage to lock the door, but when I try to turn on the ignition, my hand shakes so much I drop the keys. I leave them there and drop my head on the steering wheel, waiting for control. “Oh, my God!” I murmur. “Thank you – thank you – for both of us!”