Elsie’s List
By Kathryn McKinney
The soft hum of a rock and roll tune played over the speakers of Doc’s Supermarket, mingling with the rhythmic click of Elsie’s heels on the linoleum tiles. The new decade had brought about changes in music, fashions, and attitudes, though the aging housewife scarcely seemed to notice. Pushing her shopping cart forward, she gripped her list as tightly as her arthritic hand would allow, the ink smudging from her vice-like hold. But that didn’t matter to Elsie; the catalog was memorized after decades of dinner-making and party-hosting, each item etched into her mind in practiced, elegant cursive.
Produce.
Deli.
Dry Goods.
Home Improvement.
Walking past the vegetables and to the fruit baskets, Elsie couldn’t help but inspect the gold-streaked apples. Picking up the largest honeycrisp of the array, she turned it over in her hand, admiring its flawless skin. The fruit’s brilliant gleam reminded her of those early years with Richard; morning sunlight dripping from the walls of their cramped studio apartment, as he confided that her hazel eyes reminded him of autumn orchards. She could almost hear his voice, warm and tender, as she placed the apple gently back amongst the others. Like all fruits, those moments had rotted away over time, leaving behind a sickly sweet stench and memories that seemed only to taunt her. Elsie continued her shopping trip.
Entering the frigid deli section, she smiled at the young butcher as she approached his counter. “Good evening, Joe,” Elsie greeted with a measured tone.
“Evening, Mrs. Monroe,” he replied, wiping his calloused hands on his apron. “The usual chicken breast today?”
“Not today,” Elsie said, shaking her head. She refused to eat another meager meal of dry chicken and greens, fretting over her figure for a man who would never be satisfied. “I’ll take a pound of ham instead.”
Joe raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. “Ham it is,” he said, wrapping the near-frozen leg and placing it in her cart. “Anything else?”
“That’ll be all, thank you,” Elsie replied, already considering her next item.
As she turned into the neighboring aisle, she felt a familiar chill run down her spine. There he stood, patent leather shoes shined to perfection, hands planted at his hips, the fluorescent lights casting a shadow over his stern, wrinkled face. “What are you doing, Elsie?” her husband’s voice boomed. “I can hear our neighbors now– Monroe’s wife has gone mad, they’ll say, wandering about making a fool of herself in public.” The weight of his words pressed heavily on her tired shoulders, her grip tightening on the cart’s handle for reassurance. “I’m just tired, Richard,” she replied, forcing herself to meet his piercing gaze, only to realize that the aisle was empty, save for her shopping cart and the echoes of a familiar conversion in her mind. She took a deep breath, steadying herself.
Elsie moved through the remainder of the aisles, selecting items with renewed resolve. Canned corn to accompany the ham, rat poison from home improvement, bleach from the cleaning supplies. Each found its place in her cart, nestled amongst her groceries.
As she approached the checkout, Elsie’s heart pounded in her chest. The cashier, a young woman with a bright smile, tallied up her purchases.
“Have a nice day, ma’am,” the cashier said, handing Elsie the receipt.
Elsie nodded wordlessly, carrying her bagged groceries out of the store, the sun setting behind her, casting long shadows across the parking lot.
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