Meg Yardley
ARE THEY OR AREN’T THEY?
Leah was standing in the feminine products aisle. At least, she had always thought of it as the feminine products aisle until just now, when she realized it was also the condoms aisle. Now she was surveying racks of condom boxes hanging from black wires, trying to figure out whether her teenage daughter and her teenage daughter’s boyfriend were having sex.
Leah had read a study saying that four out of five teenagers wanted to learn about sex from their parents, but maybe Chloe was that fifth teenager. Chloe had always been self-contained; as a child, she would kick the soccer ball against the wall by herself for an hour, thunk, thunk, regular and predictable, not waiting for anyone’s response. These days, at sixteen, she never seemed to want much from Leah other than her allowance, a signature on her work permit, or to drop her off at her dad’s house for the weekend. When she got her period at thirteen, Leah had haltingly gotten out some words about sex, hobbling along until Chloe said, “Mom, I KNOW. It’s in the book you got me.”
So she had read the book, then. That was something. But would she go to the book for answers now? Leah pictured Chloe opening the book, sitting side by side with her boyfriend, Miguel. Miguel was a little taller than Chloe, with acne-scarred cheeks and soft brown eyes. Chloe had allowed Leah to invite him over for dinner but had deflected most of Leah’s questions with “Mom! Don’t interrogate him.” Miguel was awkward, not very talkative, but sweet and well-mannered. Leah liked his awkwardness; it made her feel he could be trusted. Although of course that was an illusion like everything else.
Someone was coming down the aisle. Better to look? Or not to look? She settled for stepping back, as though she could be looking at some other product. It would have to be pregnancy tests, adult incontinence underwear, or (literal) douche bags. All the embarrassing things in one aisle, ovaries and genitals and waste, anything you wouldn’t want mixed in with your groceries.
“Ms. Goldfarb?”
Leah looked up at the young woman approaching her. What was her name, she had graduated last year? Her red cotton polo shirt bore a name tag. Tiffany, that was it.
“Oh hi, Tiffany,” she said. Were grocery store employees allowed to comment on your purchases, or did they have to keep some kind of professional neutrality, like doctors and librarians?
“It’s nice to see you.” Tiffany beamed at her, seeming oblivious to her surroundings. She ran a hand through her bleached hair. “I never had a chance to thank you for letting me do that project at the end of the year. I really appreciated it.”
Leah remembered, because the project had made the difference between graduating and not graduating for Tiffany. She hadn’t been sure Tiffany would complete it; Tiffany’s sunny confidence often masked a fear of sitting down to do the work, a dread that led to avoidance. But Tiffany had gotten it in.
“I was proud of you for getting it done,” Leah said. “You really worked hard. You earned that diploma.”
Tiffany looked warm, pleased. “I’ve been thinking of studying psychology or social work,” she said a little shyly. “So I could help other kids. I’m taking some classes for my associate’s first.”
“That’s a great idea. Come by sometime and let’s talk about it.”
“Tiffany, we need you at checkout,” said an officious voice, and a young man in a red shirt and name tag was striding down the aisle toward them.
“Oh, I’m just helping this customer,” said Tiffany brightly, convincingly.
Leah chimed in, “I was just looking for—” In a surge of feminist rage, all the products in the aisle slid before her eyes. Who was this self-important young man who had probably gotten promoted over Tiffany? Why should everyone be embarrassed about women’s bodies anyway? “—TAMPONS,” she said loudly.
“They’re right this way, at the end of the aisle. Let me show you.” Tiffany steered her away from the young man with a conspiratorial smile.
After Tiffany had left her in front of the tampons, Leah furtively sidled back toward the condom section at the center of the aisle. I’ll just grab a box, she thought. Just in case.
But: Ribbed? Studded? Flavored? Day-Glo? Extra large? With reservoir tip? Extra large ribbed? Flavored and studded? Ribbed and Day-Glo?
Her eyes finally lit on a box that didn’t seem to have any extra bright words on it. She grabbed it and slid it under the plastic bag of Swiss chard in her cart. She turned and wheeled at top speed down and out of the aisle, down three aisles to the pasta section.
Her shoulders relaxed at the comforting sight of penne rigate. Safe until checkout.
Although still hanging in her mind was the question: Are they or aren’t they? And would Chloe have planned out birth control, the same way she started school projects a week before they were due? Or could hormones have muddled her sense of order? Leah tried to remember Chloe’s eyes when she looked at Miguel: what kind of intimacy was there?
Well, either way, Leah would have done her parental duty. She could leave the condoms in the bathroom closet, next to the tampons. Maybe put them in a bowl or something? Not the frilly white basket from Chloe’s childhood; and not the wire mesh bowl that sat on her desk for erasers and paper clips. Maybe the small willow basket that held trial size shampoos. Something nice and solid, practical-looking, a little boring.
Leah began to load her groceries onto the conveyor belt, plotting where the condoms would be least conspicuous: discreetly slid between two cereal boxes.
“Oh, um, hey, Ms. Goldfarb.”
Behind the counter, another red polo shirt under a black zippered hoodie, and a name tag: Miguel. She looked into his face.
“Hi, so I just started working here, last week,” he said, his neck turning a little red. “I don’t know if Chloe said.”
“Oh. No, she didn’t. But that’s great,” Leah said. “It’s a great job. I mean, useful. To get the employee discount, I mean. I would think. For your family. Or anyone’s family.”
“Yeah, um. Do you need any bags?”
“Bags. Oh, no—I have my own. I brought them. Here they are.” She held them up, attempting a friendly and non-threatening smile, and placed them on the conveyor belt. At that moment, Miguel leaned under the counter to get something.
Before Leah could think about it, her left hand slid the box of condoms into the wide pocket of her parka.
Miguel stood back up and began moving her cereal boxes across the scanner. Leah kept her head down. She had not shoplifted anything since she was fifteen. Was there any chance someone would spot her? She avoided looking at the security guard near the entrance.
With relief, she entered her PIN into the card reader and went to load the bags into her cart.
“Here, I’ll help you.” Miguel came around the counter and lifted up one of her bags. Their elbows bumped, jostling a little, and something fell onto the floor. Oh god, not the box—
She looked down to see a wallet: Miguel’s wallet, apparently, from the hasty way he bent over to snatch it up. Although he was moving quickly, he was not quick enough for her to miss the two bright red and orange serrated plastic corners sticking up from the inside of the wallet. Unmistakably condoms.
“Uh. Sorry.” Miguel stuffed the wallet back into the pocket of his hoodie. His head was down now, but she could see his ears were red as he dropped a bag of cans into her cart.
“Miguel—” she began, and he looked up at her, his eyes wide and startled. “Don’t worry about it,” she finished, with a rush of parental feeling. He ducked his head and hurried around the counter, smiling a little, although his smile was askew, directed at the floor rather than her.
“Haveaniceevening,” he managed to get out.
“Hope you get off soon,” she said. “Work. Hope you get off work soon, I mean if your shift doesn’t go too late.” She stopped herself from adding, “I’ll tell Chloe you said hi.”
She pushed her cart out into the damp, cool night under the bright parking lot lights. No sirens, no shouts following her. As she glanced down, the bulk in her pocket seemed invisible in the dark parking lot. Was it middle-aged white lady inconspicuousness that had protected her? Or maybe she was still up on her thirty-years-outdated sleight of hand skills.
Closing the trunk, she slid into the driver’s seat of her car. The small willow basket would be good, she thought. On the middle shelf of the closet, front and center.
Meg Yardley lives with her family in the San Francisco Bay area, where she is a school-based social worker. Her poetry and short fiction have recently appeared or are forthcoming in publications including Gulf Coast, Salamander, SWWIM, Marrow Magazine, and Cagibi.
Read more from Cleaver Magazine’s Issue #46.
