When Darkness Loves Us

There was no one in town. The streets were quiet and deserted. She could hear the chatter of birds in some distant tree. Mr. McRae’s store was closed, so she sat down on the curb in front, one paper sack on each side, to wait.

Was it that first day? When her mother died, Mr. McRae gave her a folder of pretty pictures. Under each picture was a whole bunch of squares. He gave her a red crayon and told her every morning to get up and feed the chickens, then to mark a red X in the next square that had a big black number on it. When all the squares were full, he gave her a new one, with different pictures. He told her that he was never at the store on the days of the first square. She tried to remember. Did she mark the square this morning? Was it the first square? She couldn’t remember.

She didn’t know what to do. So she sat there, to wait for something to happen.

But it was just early, and soon traffic started to come into town, and then Mr. McRae opened the door to his store and saw her sitting there. He surprised her; she thought he’d come up the street. How did he get into the store if she didn’t see him? Was he there all night? He came out and helped her up and carried her packages into the store. He had such a pleasant face.

“Martha! How nice to see you! Had you been waiting long?”

She tried to think how to answer him, but he went right on. “And you’ve brought me bread. And eggs! Wonderful. Let’s take a look.”

He pulled each loaf of bread out and slipped it into a plastic bag, twisted the end shut and wrapped a little green wire around it. “These loaves are beautiful! How many are there? Let’s see . . . ten.” He handed her a small sack filled with plastic bags. “See how this is done? These green wires twist together like this.” He showed her, then watched her bag and tie two loaves. “Put your bread in these as soon as they’ve cooled, okay?”

She nodded.

“And eggs. Oh, my, let’s get you some cartons. Did your chickens like the new feed?”

Her eyes opened with enthusiasm. She bobbed her head and opened her mouth, but there were so many words, they all got stuck. She didn’t know which to say first. “Cluck, peck,” she said finally, in a rush of air.

“Cluck peck. Right. It’s cluck peck food. I’ll give you some more. Now. You’ve brought me ten loaves of bread; I’ll buy them from you for fifty cents each. And twenty eggs. I usually buy eggs by the dozen but I’ll pay you for two dozen today, at seventy-five cents; that comes to six dollars and fifty cents.” He counted out the money on the counter.

Martha just looked at it. She gave him money at this store. The bank gave her money; then she gave it to Mr. McRae. He wasn’t supposed to give her money.

“No,” she said, uncertainly, and looked out the window at the new brick bank building across the street. She pointed at the bank, then slapped her fingertips on top of the money on the counter. “I go bank, they give me money, I come here, give you money, take flour home.”

Mr. McRae understood immediately. This was too confusing for the poor woman. Now, what should we do? “Okay, Martha. I’ll tell you what. You use this bread and these eggs to pay me for the things you buy here instead of with the money the bank gives you, okay?”

Her face clouded over in heavy thought.

“Do you need more flour?”

“Flour, yes.”

“And the rest of the things you usually buy?”

“Yes. And soap. And cluck peck.” She was proud of the name she made up.

He laughed. “Okay. You wait right here.”

He brought the groceries to the counter, added the plastic bags and three empty egg cartons. “Now, Martha. Listen carefully.” Mr. McRae waved aside a few customers who had come through the door, holding them off while he explained. “I sell you flour, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And you go home and bake bread.”

“Yes.”

“Then you bring the bread here, and I will pay you for it with more flour and yeast and milk, okay?”

“Trade?”

“Trade. Exactly.”

“Okay!” She smiled at him crookedly, understanding at last. “You want more?”

“As much as you can bring me.”

“Okay!” She turned and smiled at the customers waiting in line. “Trade!” she said, grinning widely; then she took her sack and left the store.

She walked into the sunshine and the beginning heat of the day. She looked over to the bank, new and solid, on the corner. She should go talk to them. This was the first time she’d come to town without talking to them. She walked slowly down the street, conscious of the door coming up on her left, the door with the glass you couldn’t see through, the door with the shiny wall inside. She wished she had to go to the bathroom, but she didn’t, so she couldn’t stop. She kept going.

When she got home, ankle swelling and sore, Priscilla was there, with her haircutting scissors and a pitcher of cold, fresh lemonade. Martha put her sack of purchases on the counter by the sink and sat down at the table, pulling Priscilla down into the next chair. Her expression was intense.

“Mr. McRae and I trade.”