Fiction

Grocery Day

by Dalya Goldberger

Marilyn Hendriks noticed a tiny dust ball on the foyer table, moved to flick it away, then thought better of it and carefully swept it into her cupped hand. Yesterday, Tuesday, was dusting day; she was a bit annoyed that the dust had settled so quickly. Looking up into the mirror that hung above the little table, she surveyed the rest of the entranceway and smoothed a stray hair. Minutes before, the kids had left for school and Doug for work, leaving behind a wake of jumbled shoes and newspaper sections. It had only taken her a moment to put things back into tidy order.

In the kitchen, Marilyn folded her grocery list in half and tucked it neatly into the open, side pocket of her purse. She pulled on a blazer over her meticulously pressed baby blue cotton blouse and headed for the door. Outside, the air was crisp and clean smelling, and the sun was shining. "A good day for hanging the laundry outside," she considered, although today was not laundry day. The light scent of Summer Breeze potpourri escaped from the car as she opened the door and stepped in.

Inside the car, she pressed a button and opened the passenger-side window about five centimetres. Anymore than that and her hair would be blown around by the wind. Down the street, left at the stop sign, further down along the street and then left onto the river road she travelled the familiar route out of her neighbourhood.

On the river road highway, Marilyn accelerated to reach the speed limit and then settled in with her favourite radio station to enjoy the twenty-minute drive. With her hands comfortably at ten and two, Marilyn hummed quietly along with Air Supply. On her right, just over the low guardrail, she could see the white, choppy peaks of the small waves on the river. On her left, the cliffs glowed with an ochre hue in the early sunlight. She imagined that the rocks would feel warm to the touch.

In the background, the deep, soothing voice of the radio DJ announced the time. She checked her watch: to the minute. "Perfect," she thought.

The trip to town and back, including shopping, always took an hour and ten minutes. Marilyn was a careful, conscientious driver. She had only been driving for seven years, but had never had an accident or even received a speeding ticket. She followed the rules and expected others to as well.

She had prepared a grocery list as she always did — bread (white and whole wheat), cheese (two kinds), fruits (apples, bananas, pears, and apricots), vegetables (broccoli, carrots, lettuce), steaks, milk, coffee, ice cream (chocolate) for the kids, a frozen pizza for movie night, and a magazine for herself. The items rarely varied, but Marilyn never committed them to memory. She didn’t need to — she had her list.

Just after passing the sign signalling 15 kilometres to town, Marilyn spotted the headlights of an oncoming car in the distance. She was surprised to have company on the two-lane highway at this time of the morning. By now the commuters had reached their destinations and the school buses had delivered their young cargo at school. She couldn’t make out what kind of car it was but guessed that it was one of the delivery trucks that usually travelled this route. She kept her eye on the approaching car. Was it in her lane? She couldn’t tell for sure with the curve in the road.

On the seat next to her, the stark white scalloped edges of her grocery list caught her attention; it was protruding somewhat from the side pocket of her purse and moving back and forth in the wind. Fearing that it would blow out the window, she reached out to secure it when she felt the gaze of bright headlights trained on her.

Now, in the straight of the road there was no mistaking that the oncoming car was in her lane. Unsure of what to do next, Marilyn eased off the accelerator and tightened her grip on the steering wheel. She would wait. Surely the driver of the car could see that he was in the wrong lane. He would move; she was convinced of it.

Seconds passed. The oncoming car held its course in her lane and seemed to pick up speed. A slight dampness developed under her blazer. "Why won’t you move over?" she silently demanded. The grocery list flapped angrily in the wind.

When the approaching car’s headlights suddenly turned off, the car seemed to disappear for an instant. Adjusting her eyes to the polished black shape, she was able to discern the featureless silhouette of a person on the driver’s side. "Wait — wait," she told herself "he’s in your lane."

The grocery list, almost fully exposed and flapping madly, threatened to wiggle out of the purse pocket. With a disapproving tsk Marilyn reached out to grab it again. But before she could touch it, the delicate stationery lifted up off the seat, twirled once in the air and vanished through the open window on the crooning notes of Barry Manilow.

In moments they would collide.

Eyes fixed on the car ahead, Marilyn’s muscles relaxed and the colour flooded back over her white knuckles. She felt the accelerator pedal firmly under her right foot. As she thrust it to the floor, the day’s weather forecast sung out across the airwaves.