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She thought a moment, glanced at me, and then told him to take me out to her car very carefully while she finished with the groceries.
“Walk slowly,” she added when he offered his hand.
His name tag read “Marv Russel, Assistant Manager.” He had a boyish face and cerulean-blue eyes, and his light brown hair was cut in a short, military style. He looked more frightened than I was supposed to be, but when I took his hand, he let go and decided instead to put his arm around my shoulders. We started out. “Where’s your car?” he asked, seeming afraid to look at me.
“It’s that blue station wagon,” I said, nodding at it.
“When are you giving birth? I hope not any minute. I once saw a woman go into labor in a movie theater. I think I came close to fainting. My girlfriend thought it was quite funny.” I could hear the trembling in his voice.
“Don’t faint now,” I warned.
He smiled. “I won’t.”
“A little more than six weeks,” I replied to his question, making sure to agree with what Mrs. Matthews had told Mrs. Haider. Conspirators have to dot their i’s and cross their t’s when they’re telling a contrived story.
“How far do you have to go?” he asked when we reached the car.
“Fifteen miles. I live in the Whitefern mansion.”
He shook his head. That had no meaning for him. “My family and I moved here recently. I don’t know the area that well yet,” he said apologetically.
“Do you go to college?” I asked.
He laughed. “I guess I’ll never look older. I graduated three years ago. I majored in business administration. Should we rest a moment?”
“Just a moment,” I said. I really did want to catch my breath, but I was also feeling bad about what I was doing to his nerves. He would surely spend the rest of the day describing me and what had happened. And it was all a lie.
“How long have you lived here?” he asked.
“All my life. My family is one of the oldest ones in the Tidewater area.”
“Oh. It’s nice here,” he said, searching for things to say.
“Very. Are you still going with the girl from the movie theater?”
“No. She dropped me for the captain of the football team, but I have a nice girlfriend here. We’re talking about marriage.”
“Talking about it?”
“Planning,” he said, smiling.
“Get her into the car!” we heard Mrs. Matthews shout. “I want her sitting.”
“Right away,” he called back, and leaped into action, taking me to the car, opening the door, and helping me in. He breathed a sigh of relief the moment I was out of his hands. “Good luck with your delivery, and stay out of movie theaters,” he joked.
“I haven’t been to one in years,” I said.
He looked surprised at my admitting that and then stepped back as Mrs. Matthews shoved her cart of groceries toward the car as if she was delivering a missile. He rushed forward to catch it and then helped her unload and pack the car. She opened her purse to give him a tip, but he refused and backed away.
“Good luck,” he called to me, and hurried back to the safety of his supermarket.
“Very good,” Mrs. Matthews said when she got in. “Your husband will be pleased about how you behaved.”
“How I behaved?”
She made it sound like I was a child on an outing. “You know what I mean. That principal was watching us the whole time. I’m sure she’ll gossip.”
“She doesn’t gossip,” I said.
