Humble Pie Volume 8

social skills, cognition. Five year olds are very social. Eager to learn. Often adventurous and prone to injury. Injury. Injury.

The floor creaks, the pads of feet, I look up. “Um …”

He slams the lid of the laptop, nearly snatching my fingers. I stand up and start to back away, my body is like a feral cat ready to run or slash. But he turns away, and I see the back of him. Broad shoulders and heavy arms. He grabs my handbag from the table and returns with an easy walk, looking at the floor. Then he throws it at me, hitting my legs. He throws my shoes, one at a time. I’m still backing away, hands open in front of me. My dress. My underwear.

“Get the fuck out, whore.”

It’s five in the morning when I pull into the parking lot at Wal-Mart. The rearview mirror hangs from a wire, and I lift it to see my face. Blotchy red. Black eyes. Dilated pupils. I pour foundation between my palms and rub it across my face. Put on sunglasses.

The entrance is a blinding spotlight, emitting the piercing odor of ammonia floor cleaner. There’s an elderly man in a blue vest, he greets me with a smile though it quickly fades the closer I approach. Welcome to Wal-Mart. The toddler section is to the left, past the young teen clothing. I would strangle any mother who put her daughter into these clothes. They should be burned. The clothes and the mothers who buy them.

I love the toddler department. This is my church. I feel whole, alive, filled with blood. I look at and touch everything. Sometimes I inhale, hoping for the scent of a child. Maybe the salt of a sunbathed little girl. Or the dirty grass of a little boy just home from baseball. Shoes the size of my hand. Socks with ruffles. Overalls. Polka-dot dresses. I’m putting them all in my shopping cart. I’m snatching dinosaur T-shirts, talking Elmo, Minnie Mouse shoes, camouflage backpacks, baseball caps, bracelets. And when I am trying to pick up a ten-speed bike to lodge in between the slats of the cart, a bright red-faced man is smiling at me.

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