The Cost of Bread

“So, what did you think?” Brenda asked.

         “About the party?” Ron asked.

         “Why do you always answer a question with a question? Of course I mean the party.  The place we just left.”

         “I’m sorry, honey,” Ron said. “My mind was wondering. I was thinking about the kids. The party was great. Larry seems to like his new job.”

         “Can you believe that house? It was huge.”

         “I know,” Ron replied. “They’ve got a three car garage. He has a workshop set up in one section with enough tools to open a furniture factory.”

         “I’d love to have a kitchen like theirs.”

         “The kitchen was okay but the television was huge. If I had one of those high definition plasmas I don’t think I’d leave the house. I know Susan and Peter would like it.”

         “Oh no you don’t,” Brenda said. “ Don’t try to bring the kids into this. I’m not going to let them have a new television either. You’ll never have one because it’s hard enough to get you to go out of the house the way it is,” she paused and smiled. “Hey, don’t forget to stop for bread.”

         "Are you sure we need it?" Ron asked.

         "Yes, honey. If we don't pick it up the kids will be eating chips and cookies for lunch."

         "I don't think they'd complain," he laughed.

         "Stop here," Brenda said, pointing to the Quick Stop. "If we go to the grocery store it’ll be out of the way."

         Ron steered the car into the nearly deserted Quick Stop parking lot. Brenda buttoned her jacket and opened the door

         "Hold on," Ron said. "I'll go in. You wait in the car. There's no reason for both of us to freeze."

         He gave her leg a playful squeeze, pulled on his gloves, and kissed her on the cheek. “Lock the doors. I’ll be back before you know it.

          Exhaling, his breath formed a cloud that was quickly blown away by the cold wind. When he inhaled, his lungs burned. His ears felt the sting of the cold by the time he pushed his way through the front door. A doorbell chime from somewhere in the store signaled his arrival.

         He quickly grabbed a loaf of bread from the sale rack to his left. A display of flowers toward the back of the store caught his eye. Six yellow roses in a bouquet were his choice. Yellow roses were Brenda's favorite. Without looking at the price he claimed them and walked to the counter.

         There, a man, the only other customer in the store, glanced around quickly as Ron stepped to the counter. His eyes darted from Ron back to the cashier.

         “Come on, come on,” the man muttered to the clerk. He glanced toward the door, back to the clerk and then to Ron. His coat hung long, to the top of his muddy gym shoes.

        "What are you looking at?" the scraggly man at the counter asked.

         Ron looked around the store and then back toward the man, "Are you talking to me?"

         "Who the hell do you think I'm talking to?" The man spit the words out, spraying spit in Ron’s direction.

         His hair was unkempt, a rough, grisly beard covered his chin and jaw line. Spittle covered his lips. A display of cheap cigarette lighters and sunglasses blocked Ron's view of the cashier. The thought of buying sunglasses during the winter in Cleveland was a little strange. You wouldn’t get a lot of use buying them this time of year.
         Ron looked past the display toward the clerk.  Beads of sweat covered his forehead. The clerks eyes darted from the register to the man and back again. Occasionally he glanced at the man’s hand on the counter.

         "Look, I was just getting ready to leave," Ron patted his coat, feigning empty pockets. He sensed something was wrong. "I just realized I left my money at home."

         The man turned to face Ron. He was holding a handgun still pointed at the clerk. “I’m gonna' request that you stay awhile,” the man said with a smile. He then pointed the gun at Ron.
         Ron didn't know what caliber it was but right now it looked like a cannon. His mind raced. What if he was shot and couldn’t take care of his family. Even worse, he realized he could be killed. Death wasn't in his plans. The girl of his dreams had married him. They had two kids, a house with a picket fence, and a love as strong as any bond ever created. It was the American dream; he didn't want to lose it.

         “Drop to the floor,” the man demanded.

         Ron hesitated. He thought about running but knew he was too close to the gunman.

         "Get down on your stomach, now!" the man demanded through gritted, yellow teeth. "Stretch your arms out." He turned to face the cashier, "You, hurry with that money. I’m tired of waiting."

         Ron dropped the flowers and bread doing as the armed thief ordered. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He strained to look up but could only see the front door through the racks of snack cakes. His heart skipped a beat. Brenda came into view just outside the door. She must have grown tired of waiting. His mind raced. The chimes proclaimed that she was entering.

         Ron reacted. He jumped and screamed, “Brenda, he’s got a gun. Get out.” Ron dove for the man. The thief turned toward the front door but spun back to face Ron when he heard the scream. Ron's only purpose, only desire, was to distract the man with the gun. Even if it meant he might be shot. He no longer cared.

         The flash from the gun barrel announced the impact of the bullet. Everything around him seemed to slip into slow motion. When the bullet struck him it felt like a blow from a sledgehammer. Force from the impact propelled him backward into the counter. He saw the gunman run toward the door turning to fire at the clerk. From behind the counter the clerk emerged with a shotgun and fired once at the gunman, missing. Pieces of bread and breaking glass flew into the parking lot as the bread rack and plate glass window took the brunt of the shot. The cashier took aim again, this time connecting with the gunman's back. Spots of crimson appeared from jagged tears to spot his long coat. The gunman dropped to the ground and the handgun clattered to the concrete as it fell from his grip.

         Ron shook his head and tried to focus, Where is Brenda? he thought. The bite of the cold, night air swirled around him. There was a smell of gun smoke and toast on the biting wind that now whipped through the store. He took in large gulps of air. A gurgle sounded somewhere in his chest. Strange, he thought. He pushed off the counter to a sitting position. The room spun around him, out of control. He fell forward onto the cold, tile floor. Ron could now smell the scent of bleach and cigarettes on the hard surface. Funny, he thought. Brenda is probably dead, I’m dying and I notice the way the floor smells. Brenda, Where’s Brenda.

         "Brenda," he coughed. "Brenda, please answer me," Ron forced the words out and saw specks of blood spray the floor beneath his chin.

         He heard a piece of glass break, falling from the window frame and smashing to the sidewalk just outside the store. Ron tried to turn his head and searing pain filled his chest. He willed his head and eyes toward the door. Beneath the bread rack and pieces of strewn bread he saw the reason for the silence. He gasped when he saw Brenda's stocking foot hanging from the windowsill of the broken window. Blood spotted the white paints she wore. Tears filled his eyes. She’s gone, he thought. Ron’s mind tried to grasp what he was seeing. She must have been hit by the first shotgun blast. He tried to stand but fell back to the tile. Blood began to puddle on the floor around him. He grimaced and his head dropped back to the tile. The realization that she was dead hit him. Ron sobbed into the tile and blood. How can I face my children? What will I tell them? These questions and more raced though his head. He gasped for another gulp of air. In the distance he heard the approaching sirens. She’s not moving, it’s too late.

         Face down Ron whispered softly into the tile and blood, “I’m sorry, honey, he coughed, spitting blood again. “I’m so sorry.” The words formed tiny clouds of warm breath that floated and disappeared across the floor. Chill from the night spread through him. His ears once again felt the bite of the cold. It must be getting warmer, he thought, it doesn’t sting nearly as bad as before. The store slowly faded into darkness.

~

         Six months and three surgeries later Brenda was released from the hospital. She limped up the walkway to the house and life she had shared with Ron. A sob caught in her throat when she recalled how she learned of Ron’s death. They wouldn’t tell her anything but she persisted. Tears fell from her cheeks when the words echoed in her mind. He’s dead. He didn’t make it to the hospital.  The doctor explained he had been shot and the bullet struck an artery very close to his heart and also pierced a lung. Ron bled to death on the floor of the Quick Stop before the ambulance arrived. Brenda’s step faltered when she thought of the day she missed his funeral, missed the chance to comfort her children at his graveside.

         In her dreams she could still hear him calling her name. She had tripped and fallen back through the window opening. Broken glass from the window nicked her throat and punctured her back causing nerve damage that had since been repaired. What little sleep she had was filled with images of Ron dying alone on that cold floor. She wanted to let him know she was alive but moving her legs or calling out to him had been impossible. The one time he needed her and the one moment in time she couldn't be there.

         “My love, my life,” she sobbed. “You deserved so much more,” Brenda whispered to the night.

          A loaf of bread had never cost so much.

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