Thank You for Stopping

“Thank you for shopping at Marshall Fields,” she called after each customer. Her voice rang clear as a bell into the frigid Chicago night air, swallowed by traffic noise and street corner Salvation Army Santas. Though everyone who passed through the store heard her, no one turned to look. If they did, they’d see a woman neatly dressed in a navy blazer and a dazzling gold name badge reading Judith. Her posture, as erect as the toy soldiers in the holiday window display, bore a riding cap atop a wiry gray bun. While her smile remained pleasant and hands composed, you could see the strain the job took in the slope of her shoulders, the occasional roll of a navy pumped heel, or the tilt of her hips to adjust her back.

Judith was a fixture of Marshall Fields; an oak tree standing stoically and offering hospitality to all. But like a tree, she was noticed only in her absence. The bright young things who ran the makeup counter near Judith’s post flitted and chirped to one another like a flock of tropical birds, skin luminous and hair coiffed. Shoppers’ eyes immediately gravitated toward them, and all the better. They had wares to sell, quotas to maintain, and bills to pay. There was very little hanging in the balance for Judith.

A gust of wind blew through a revolving door, tinkling glass baubles festooned on the garland encasing the entryway. Judith shifted for a delicious stretch and a view of the four-faced clock at the corner of State and Washington. It was five minutes ‘til four pm on Thanksgiving Day and Judith’s benedictions were growing less frequent. This information didn’t cheer or disparage her. Time kept marching: another shift, another commute, another meal, another sunrise.

“That’s it, I’m calling it,” one of the makeup counter girls announced. Madison, Judith thought she was called, owner of a pair of distinct brows that justified her place on the payroll. “Any plans for the night?”

“Why bother making plans?” complained another, though she smiled while she spoke in case floor management was watching. “We have to be back here in eight hours for Black Friday. I’d sleep on Floor Six if I didn’t think Craig would fire me.”

“Chloe, Madison, I’m telling you, just come back to my place. We’ll order pre-made meals from Mariano’s, have a bottle of wine, and crash out before the next shift. I’ll even let you run a load of laundry.”

Judith recognized this one. Her name was Brianna, and she was a sweet girl even if her choice in lip color suggested otherwise. Fortunately, the lipstick seemed to be limited to the workplace because Judith never saw her wearing it while she walked her dog. Judith doubted the girl knew they lived three floors apart and worked less than twenty yards from each other.

Five tolls from the Wrigley Building bell tower signaled the women of the floor to abandon their posts. While the makeup counter girls sighed with relief, Judith pivoted on her heel and marched behind them toward the staff elevator. Doors closed, the girls immediately began the ritual of removing earrings, slipping off shoes, and liberating strained strands from bobby pins. Judith examined herself in the golden reflection of the elevator door: still spotless.

“Okay, that’s three Thanksgiving boxes, arriving in forty-five minutes,” Brianna said, fingers flying over her phone. She looked up and seemed to notice Judith for the first time.

“Oh hey,” she beamed. “You live a few floors down, right? Wanna come over for our Thanksgiving dinner? I’m sure you’ll be on shift as early as we are.”

Shocked to be noticed, much less addressed, Judith froze. Madison and Chloe exchanged a look somewhere between discomfort and concern. Eventually, Judith shook her head primly.

“That’s okay, then,” Brianna said politely, though her smile dimmed a few watts. “You’re much smarter than us to get the extra rest.”

The doors opened and the girls exited, gabbing all the way. Judith followed and collected her handbag from her locker. This was something that youth didn’t understand about old age. There was less need for rest and more need to fill time.

***

Ascending the icy staircase to the Brown Line, Judith took note of the growing downtown crowds with distaste. When the train screeched into its stop, she was nearly jostled off the platform. She slipped in before the door closed and sank into the nearest open seat.

Hmph, she sniffed. Thanksgiving is a time for family. Unswayed by her unheard diatribe, the crowds flocked to the Christkindlmarket, gluhwein in full pour despite the calendar. Christmas was everywhere and far too early. She ground her teeth when her workplace dragged out the décor earlier each year.

The train bucked and jolted out of the station, blurring the market’s string lights and dulling the sharp sting of loneliness. The car emptied out as it clattered around the Loop and soon Judith was the only passenger northbound. She checked her wristwatch and reached into her handbag for her phone. Carefully offering the screen a view of her face, her clumsy thumbs swiped until she found a photo of her son.

“Happy Thanksgiving Ma,” he said as he answered. Judith strained to hear him over the rhythmic rapping of the tracks on her end and the cheers and jeers of what must be a football game on his. “—I’ve hardly seen Linda—house smells amazing. I’ve been hiding— kids are coming down—.”

“The kids?” she asked eagerly, conjuring their smiling faces in her mind’s eye.

“What? Yeah, I think they’re getting sick—Jeremy fell asleep—ride home from—only fifteen minutes—”

No, that wasn’t her grandchild’s smiling face. That was her son’s, age seven, on Christmas morning. His grin glowed brighter than the incandescent lights over the fireplace, ecstatically clutching his brand-new art set with the “special” pens. The last time he’d been given a special pen was probably from his dead-end banking job. Nowhere near as exciting.

“Aw shit—he puked—Gotta go, Ma.”

“Happy Thanksgiving,” Judith whispered to the silence on the end of the line.

***

The apartment key refused to turn. After no small amount of shimmying, jiggling, and a few shoulder slams she’d regret on tomorrow’s shift, the door swung open. Once inside, Judith immediately slipped her blazer into its garment bag. It was original from 1970, its yellowing plastic sacrificed to protect the uniform beneath. The matching heels rested on their designated shoe rack and her stockinged feet padded across the linoleum to the refrigerator.

Last week brought the first snow of the season and Judith had rolled up pierogis as she’d done every first snow since she was a girl. Now, she plunked a handful of the frozen Polish dumplings onto a plate and watched them waltz about the microwave. As they plumped and steamed, she pictured the girls a few floors above her, digging into their hot slices of turkey. Brianna summoned their food on her phone and Judith wondered if she could make her phone do that. With a quick shake of her head, she dismissed the idea. Why waste money? She had plenty of food here at home.

The microwave dinged and she brought her plate to the table beside the window. She turned off the lights in the apartment and opened the blinds. Judith preferred to dine by the glow of the city: each yellow window a flare of the soul that resided inside. Fork poised over her dinner, she paused. The pierogis looked dull, camouflaged against the glazed ceramic.

Judith shoved the plate away in a fit of pique and rose, gripped by mania. In her eighty-odd years on this planet, she’d made plenty of holiday meals. Why should this year be any different? She tossed the pierogis on the counter and threw open each cupboard door. Undoubtedly provisions were in short supply, but who was she if she couldn’t improvise? She preheated the oven and greased a baking dish, stacking sliced turkey lunchmeat in considerable quantities.

She remembered the Thanksgiving her family ate turkey sandwiches from the tailgate of their Chevy Caprice at the Cook County girls’ soccer tournament. Her daughter’s team narrowly won their Thanksgiving evening match, much to Judith’s dismay. At the time, she lamented having to serve sandwiches with barbeque sauce instead of her prized turkey gravy. There was even greater lament the following morning when the team was eliminated three to zero, her daughter fighting tears on the drive home.

“There’s always next year,” Judith assured her.

Though the pierogies looked unappetizing, their innards could pass for mashed potatoes. She lit the gas range and dissected each dumpling, scooping their contents into a saucepan and stirring vigorously. Her son loved mashed potatoes and never failed to construct a mashed potato volcano, even well into adulthood. The year he studied abroad, she’d dialed him long-distance to the dorm phone.

“Are they serving a Thanksgiving meal for you?” she asked, anxiously eyeing the notably depleted tureen.

“They don’t celebrate American Thanksgiving in Switzerland, Ma,” he laughed. “I love you, have a great night.”

Judith stood on tiptoes and flicked open the highest cabinet. She rolled a bottle of cooking sherry between her palms. It was sure to be vinegar; she only knew one recipe that called for sherry and she hadn’t served it in years. Still, she wrenched off the cap and took a swig, remembering the year both children were finally old enough to toast with the their parents. Her husband poured out a California Cabernet he’d saved from their honeymoon in the central coast; the bottle and the marriage nearly thirty years old. Their adult children sipped then grimaced, raising their drinks high to conceal their disgust.

“Cheers,” they said, clinking glasses around the table.

Not long after was the holiday that brought the return of the kids’ table. Her grandson, Jeremy, sat on the kitchen floor at her feet all day, chatting her ear off. Judith scurried to and fro, fretting over the culinary aptitude of a five-year-old.

“I’ll talk to you later, Grandma,” he said solemnly when his father summoned him to set the table.

Her kitchen smelled like the holidays now, turkey roasting in the oven, potatoes bubbling on the stove. She slotted some bread in the toaster and rummaged about for cranberry preserves, tipping the sherry to her lips as she searched.

She didn’t serve cranberry sauce last year. Her husband had the stomach flu and couldn’t take the acidity. Or, so he’d thought, until they made a trip to the emergency room well after the plates were polished and put away. She couldn’t bear the smells, the sights, the incessant beeping of the heart rate monitor.

It was fine, remembering like this. So long as she kept moving, kept looking for those cranberry preserves. If she stopped, she could still hear the beeping. Not even the sherry could block it out. Judith tipped the bottle upside down. It was empty.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEEEEEEP.

Judith took her head out of her lowest cupboard. She crawled on hands and knees in her kitchen, now quickly filling with smoke, alarm screaming. She grasped for the oven handle and threw the door open, hastily flipping on the overhead fans. The sliced turkey lay smoldering in its dish and she tossed it in the sink. The crack of glass against stainless steel covered her sobs as she slunk down, back pressed against the cold plastic of the washing machine.

One day, it will be the last time she sees the first snow on State Street. One of the books on her nightstand will the last book she reads. One meal will be the last meal she tastes.

But not this meal.

Rising shakily to her feet, Judith removed the saucepan from the burner. The mashed potatoes were crusty around the edges. Those, too, hit the sink with a crash. Wiping her eyes, she crossed to her bedroom and extracted an unopened shopping bag bearing the imprint of Marshall Fields. The outfit in the bag caught her eye on a mannequin and seemed less of a luxury with her employee discount. The tags were still on each garment as Judith hadn't convinced herself she deserved nice things. Today seemed as good a time as ever to try it on.

She draped herself in the ivory silk blouse, admiring the pearl-seed buttons dripping from the stand collar. The woolen slacks were next, far cry from the itchy wool sheath she wore every day. She slid her feet into velvet flats and marched out her front door, studiously avoiding eye contact with the aging garment bag in the hallway.

The internal stairwell was designated for emergency use only, but Judith supposed she could say there was a fire in her kitchen if anyone bothered to chastise her for it. She couldn’t bear the idea of using the elevator to travel three floors. It was wasteful and would give her the opportunity to lose her nerve.

She stood before the door she thought to be Brianna’s, hand poised to knock. Companionable female voices rose and fell, laughing and talking about who knew what. Maybe Judith would have nothing to add to the conversation. Maybe she’d be little more than furniture, listening to the makeup counter girls like any other day at work. But at least she wouldn’t be alone.

Judith knocked and the door swung open. Brianna appeared, her smile its brightest yet.

“Hello! Welcome in,” she said.