Lost and Found

I lost my pretty mother in a toy store.

Entirely my fault.

Despite her usual warn­ings, I wan­dered, I strayed.

Up one aisle down the next.

I became so bewitched by the dolls and acces­sories only after an hour did I turn myself in.

I was a lanky thing — all limbs, lace and hair.

A hefty clerk boosted me by my hips onto the ser­vice desk.

His name-tag read: CARL.

Above our heads hung a sign on a chain: LAYAWAYS & RETURNS.

“What’s your name, sweet­heart,” Carl said.

He had a clip­board with a pen­cil on a string.

“Last name first, first name last,” said Carl.

But I had been taught to ignore the inquiries of strangers.

So I played dumb, con­tent to gaze and click my heels.

Carl looked me over, up and down, up and down, then jot­ted a few words on his clipboard.

He told me to “wait right there,” so I crossed my legs and waited.

Within min­utes the store man­ager, a short ugly man with a patch of thin­ning hair, handed me an ice-cold bot­tle of Coke.

“What do you say,” he said.

He wanted a thank you, but I’d seen him fetch the soda using keys to the machine so it hadn’t cost him a dime.

“What’s your mother look like, kid?”

“She’s tall,” I said. “Tall as a tree.”

“What colour hair?”

“Foxy blonde, streaked with grey.”

“Pretty?”

“Head to toe,” I said.

“How old?”

“Me or her?”

“Let’s stick with her.”

“Agelessness is her secret,” I said.

“Approximately,” he said.

I sipped the Coke: “Do the math. Three times me.”

“Okay, then. How old are you, honey?”

“Guess,” I said.

He shook his head, show­ing his yel­low teeth.

“Bet you can’t guess,” I said, and stuck out my tongue.

“Bet what? With what will you bet?”

“Bet you another Coke,” I said.

He guessed wrong four times in a row. I gig­gled after guesses three and four. The fool was going higher, not lower.

“Hey,” he said. “Did you really lose a mother, or is this some type of scam?”

I squeezed my face, closed my eyes. I made myself ugly and started to cry. I kicked and banged my heels until both my shoes flew off.

A lady cus­tomer looked my way. “What’s that child fuss­ing about,” she said.

Carl the clerk said, “I for­get her story. Will that be cash or charge, ma’am?”

I screamed a ter­rific scream, a howl that would make any mother proud. I screamed so hard I hurt my throat. So loud the clerk punched out and went home.

Not entirely my fault. It was clos­ing time anyway.

The ceil­ing lights went dark in rows. The ugly man­ager jig­gled his keys to get my atten­tion. He had my shoes hooked on the ends of his fat fin­gers. He strolled over and set them on my lap.

“Pretty legs,” he said.

All night the ice-cold Cokes slid down my throat like kit­tens down a well.