Return by Louise Arnott, brewed coffee

‘Honey, these work pants need to go back,’ said Gerald, tossing them to Margaret. ‘You do returns better than me.’

Margaret sighed and held out her hand. ‘Receipt?’

            ‘You don’t need one at Costco, do you? I’ll spring for supper after you dump the pants.’ 

            Margaret grabbed her coat. ‘Come on. I don’t want to be there all night. While I do your return, you get the groceries. I’m assuming your supper splurge is the usual hot dog deal.’

            ‘Hey, I’m no cheapskate. I’ll toss in an order of fries. See you at the food court.’

            Twenty minutes later, when Margaret reached the front of the returns line, an obviously exhausted clerk waved her up. 

            ‘Hi, I need to return these pants. My darn husband . . .’

            The clerk interrupted. ‘Membership? Receipt? Slide them through the slot.’

            Margaret made a pretence of digging through her bag. ‘I’m sure I have it here somewhere,’ and gave the clerk her best oh, so sorry look.

            The clerk, minutes away from retirement, scanned the barcode, struggling to keep the boredom from her voice. ‘No receipt? You get the last sale price.’

            ‘Gerald wouldn’t have gotten them on sale,’ said Margaret. ‘He always pays full price.’

            The clerk eased her shoulders and looked back at the screen. ‘They were on sale in February for $24.99. The last ones were further discounted a week ago. $15.85 plus tax goes back on your card.’

            ‘ No, you can’t do that. I’m sure that he paid nearly $40 for those pants.’

            ‘Ma’am, that is store policy. Not my decision. Do you want a refund?’

            ‘That’s just not acceptable. Gerald will be furious. He said I wouldn’t need the receipt. You could look it up when he bought them.’

            The clerk exhaled. ‘Without a receipt, you get the lowest price.’

            Margaret vacillated. ‘Gee, I don’t know. What would you do?’

            The clerk, beyond caring about customer relations, barked, ‘Truthfully Lady, if it’s your money, find the receipt. If it’s his, give me the pants, pocket the cash and tell him to do his own damn returns in future.’

About the author 

 

Louise moved from land-locked Calgary, Alberta to Victoria, British Columbia to enjoy ocean views. Instead she spends hours in her basement writing about the uncommon in the commonplace. 

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Return

 

by Roger Noons

a bottle of Stella

After Mum died, I begged my father not to remarry. 

    ‘This house needs a woman,’ he insisted, but waited the acknowledged six months before he went through a private ceremony. So private, even I didn’t attend. In fact the first I knew of the event was after they returned from a weekend at the coast and she couldn’t resist waving her left hand around.

    ‘This is Shelley,’ he announced. 

    I nodded then left the room.

    Within a week I had acquired a new job; assistant manager at an hotel sixty miles away. I was provided with a standard room, so I could stay away from the newly weds.

It was the first week in December and we were beginning to become busy when she rang to say Dad wasn’t feeling well and acting funny. I’d had no time off since I started at The Crown, so my boss could hardly refuse my request. 

    I decided to walk from the station, use the time to get my thoughts in order and calm my attitude. I rang the bell four times before I heard the sound of a bolt being drawn back. I was confused when the door opened and my father stood blinking against the light.

    ‘Hello Son, come in.’

    ‘She rang me, said you weren’t feeling well?’

    ‘When?’

    ‘Three days ago. I couldn’t get away until today.’

    ‘Well, she’s gone … come inside; don’t want to talk on the doorstep.’

    I followed him along the hallway. He didn’t bother to switch on the light. In the kitchen, he waved me to a chair and opened the fridge door; handed me a can of Stella. He took a bottle of cider unscrewed the cap and put the bottle to his lips.   

    Without opening the can, I said, ‘What’s going on?’

    ‘She left, yesterday.’

    ‘Did you have a row?’

    ‘No more than usual.’

    Each second I became more confused, sat, shaking my head.

    ‘You were right Adam, I shouldn’t have married her. She wasn’t right for me, nor I for her. Said my lifestyle was too unconventional.’

    Before we could continue our conversation, the doorbell rang. He left to answer it. I  ring-pulled my can, took a swig, and stepped up to the window to look at the garden. Not ten yards away, either side of a heap of soil, were two uniformed police officers, each holding a spade.

Return

Roger Noons

A glass of communion wine

    I feel the pull of the earth, the polish of the grass. Meandering between the simple gravestones, I am close to those who have served their time, gathered wisdom and earned their rest. I am ready to share their secrets, complete the tasks they failed to finish and reap the reward.

    It is seven years since I left, following an argument with my father. Replaying that parting scene in my mind I appreciate that we were equally to blame. He pig-headed and I believing I knew all the answers. Neither of us was right, but having a bucketful of his genes, I was unprepared to take a step back and he was unwilling to move forward.

    My mother tried to reconcile us, but soon gave up. ‘I should bang your heads together,’ she told us, but knew it would achieve nothing. So I went on my way and Dad continued to operate as he had always done, preaching, conducting marriages and funerals, earning a meagre living.

Mother was hanging out washing when I arrived at the back of the house. She didn’t pause. ‘He clung on as long as he could, was sure you’d come. He wanted to say goodbye.’

    ‘I’m sorry. I was up river and only got the message three days ago.’

    ‘He was proud of you. He never had the courage to work as a missionary. Always said I was the reason, but I would have gone anywhere with him.’

    She still failed to look at me, yet my face reddened as I said. ‘The Bishop’s asked me to take over.’

    Raising her head, she asked. ‘Are you going to?’

    ‘I’d be honoured.’

    ‘Will you come and live here?’

    ‘If that’s all right?’

    ‘Are you on your own?’

    I nodded.

    ‘I’d be happy if you would. You may not be alone for long though, there are one or two presentable young ladies who regularly attend services.’

    A glance at my expression confirmed what she had always thought.

  About the author   

This is Roger’s 110 th piece to be accepted for Cafe Lit. Chapeltown Books recently published his book, Slimline Tales.