Finally, one day while driving home from my latest New Mexico Albertsons’ failure, which had involved a record three fast-food burgers, each from a different place, and two crying breakdowns, I saw it.
It was tucked in the middle of a small town’s downtown like just any other store. I shrieked the car to a stop. A horn from the car behind me blared. I stared out the window at the apparition I had to be seeing.
“Albertsons’,” the store sign read. It was a small, rinky-dink, faded blue storefront, and yet there was the distinctive red cursive lettering and the window displays of crafts galore.
Somehow, I must have missed this location online, so it had presented itself to me like this, in this far-off town I didn’t even know the name of, which I was passing through by chance in hopes of a shortcut home.
I heaved myself out of the car; any considerable movement was starting to get tricky, and yet I still wouldn’t let Tiffany accompany me on these trips. If I found Brock, I didn’t want to scare him away with people he didn’t know. I needed a chance to explain myself.
The store window displays were impressive. More than impressive, they were show-stopping, making it look like a high-end art gallery. The first contained boards with several mandalas of flowers pinned on, purple ones and pink ones and blue ones with their petals fanned out in perfect circles of symmetry. The second was somehow even better. It contained a glimmering beacon of a sun, its body and beams made up of thousands of tiny jewels that shone as it swayed on its golden string.
I walked inside the store, turned the corner, and found myself looking at the front counter. Behind it was an old man who looked like a hound dog. His face sagged off the bottom of his chin, and his irises, which were in the top half of his eyes, regarded me with a bland indifference.
“Have you seen this man?” I asked him.
His eyes took a minute to slide over to the printout I showed him. Once there, they stayed in place until, after a long while, he blinked and barked, “Why?”
I studied his empty-looking face. Was this a promising “why”, or just a bad-tempered one?
“Please,” I said. “It’s really important that I find him. Did he buy a canvas here, this one or one like it?”
I lifted the chickadee canvas, turned it to the back, and pointed to the Albertsons’-labelled bar code. Again the droopy eyes took their time shifting to this new place, and once again they lingered there.
“Huh” was his only response.
“Please,” I said, tears coming to my eyes.
I couldn’t take another failure. I couldn’t take it.
“Can’t help ya,” he grumbled, turning away.
The tears spilled down now. “Please. I need to know. Was he here?”
The old man didn’t move; I couldn’t see where his eyes were. His sweater was woolly and had a hole in the bottom, and my search couldn’t end like this, it just couldn’t.
“Please. I’m pregnant with his children,” I croaked.
The old man didn’t move.
“You’re in the right place,” he growled, and I had to slap my hand onto the wooden front counter to avoid keeling over.
I had found him. After all this time, I had really found Brock Anderson, the father of my children.
“Comes in every so often. Says we got canvas boards like no other.”
He still wasn’t facing me; after speaking, his woolly shoulder rose and then fell in a shrug.
Then he turned to me, his droopy eyes alert and studying me.
“You gonna want the videos, huh?” he asked.
“Please!” I said, the word coming out in a burst.
My whole body was shaking. I couldn’t help it. Months and months of worrying and searching and praying, and now my prayers may have been answered.
“One minute,” the old man ordered with an up-down flick of his wrinkly, small-fingered hand.
He shuffled away.
“Lucky we watch this place. Damn hooligans,” he muttered to himself as he shoved a tape in.
Pressing on a taped-up TV controller that looked to be on its last leg, the video flew ahead in fast forward, the image showing the front counter and people zooming in and out, women and men and families and boys, and then him.
The old man stopped the tape just as that familiar maple-eyed face came on.
My heart stopped. My breath caught in my throat.
“That’s yer guy, ain’t it?” the old man said, his jowls wagging as he nodded several times.
“Yes,” I whispered.
He slammed his finger down on the controller again, and the screen went black.