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Fiction Short Story

by Marian Allen

Helping Hand

Shereen had never considered how hard it would be to cuss with eye-doctor's drops in her eyes. Nobody ever said anything about that. Sure, don't worry about it; you'll be able to drive by the time you leave the office.  Didn't say you couldn't tell if you were down the aisle from an impressionable child or the preacher or somebody else you needed to watch your mouth in front of. Didn't say you couldn't read your daughter's grocery list. Didn't say you couldn't read the labels on the cans and boxes or the prices or the coupons.

Grumbling unsatisfactorily to herself, Shereen held the list up close, at arm's length, and with the big yellow smiley face both right side up and upside down. Any way she tried it, she couldn't see anything but blue squiggles of ink.

"Can I help you?" The voice belonged to a blond man in a dark green apron; tall, a little plump, features blurred but familiar-looking.

Shereen squinted up at him. "Hobart? Hobart Carson?"

"Yes, ma'am. It's Mrs. Mossman, isn't it? Brenda's mom?"

"You work here, now, Hobie?" Clean-cut, polite, hard-working boy, she remembered. Good grades. No trouble to anybody. Mothers loved him, girls gagged.

"Produce manager. Having trouble with your list? Forget your glasses?"

Shereen felt her face flush and her lips purse. Never wore glasses in her life, and here she was under sentence of bifocals. "Eye drops," she said, not exactly lying.

"How's Brenda?"

"She'll be just fine, if I can figure out what's on this list."

Hobart took the paper. "Heard she got married. I never did. After we moved, I never did find anybody I liked."

"Got married, had a son, got divorced." She felt the urge to unburden herself, probably because she couldn't see Hobart very well. It was kind of like talking to the TV. Besides, he started it, with his never did find anybody I liked. "Gene—her husband—started moving up in the company and she never could lose the extra weight she gained when she was expecting Bobby. Gene left her, and Bobby's not but only five. He pays child support, and sees Bobby every so often, but … "

"That's a shame. She was a real nice girl."

Hmmm.... Single, working, interested....

"She's sweet as pie! I tell her she ought to get out, see people, but she just mopes. It breaks my heart."

"Well, Mammas are like that. You want me to help you with that list?"

"Would you? I sure would appreciate it."

"You just go on up front and sit, and I'll take care of it."

Shereen fumbled for the red plastic zip-bag where she kept her coupons and her grocery money. "This ought to be enough. If it isn't, you know where I'll be."

She hoped he would ask more about Brenda, but he didn't even put her groceries into the Oldsmobile for her—just sent one of the bag boys to do it, and waved to her on his way out the side door. A produce manager's work is never done, I guess.  She sighed.

"Mom, what IS all this stuff?"

"You wrote it down. All I did was bring it home."

"This is more than I wrote down. I didn't write down boneless chicken breasts or honey butter or romaine lettuce …" Shereen watched as Brenda unpacked the bags.

"And I didn't write down new potatoes or—what are these?—snow peas. And two of those little space Legos from the toy aisle. The little bitty ones that are five dollars each."

"I couldn't read the list," Shereen said feebly. Hobart had tricked her—had loaded her up with unwanted items. "I got somebody to help me." Her voice grew fainter as she explained, watching Brenda's habitually sad face turn lively with astonishment. "Hobart Carson is the new produce manager, and he took your list and did the shopping … "What he had done was worse than dishonest; it was sneaky and mean. "And I always thought he was so nice!"

Brenda snatched up the red zip-bag and opened it. "How much money did you take with you?"

"Fifty dollars." Shereen sank into a kitchen chair.

There was a pause while Brenda counted the bills, then pulled out the register tape and scanned it. "Are you sure?"

Shereen nodded. "How much did he leave me?" Hobart Carson, of all people!

"Fifty dollars."

"That's what I said. How much did he leave me?"

"Fifty dollars. There's thirty-five dollars' worth of groceries here, and fifty dollars in the bag. He paid for it all himself."

Shereen was still thinking this over when there came a knock at the back door.

Brenda opened it and stepped back. Hobart leaned in and waved at Shereen.

"I followed you. Lost you at the light and had to circle around until I saw your car in the driveway." He smiled at Brenda. "I didn't know where you lived, so I had to stalk your Mom instead."

"Do what?" Brenda put a hand on his chest, as if to shove him out the door. He lifted the hand and brushed the fingers with his lips.

Shereen noticed he had a small blond moustache. My eyes must be clearing up, she thought absently. "What's the idea, paying for Brenda's groceries? And why didn't you just ask me where she lived?"

"Goodness, Mamma!" Brenda laughed—the little huffy sound she used when she was embarrassed—or excited. "You sound like the DA or something."

"I had to pay for the groceries. When a man invites himself to supper, the least he can do is pay for it."

"Invited yourself to dinner?" Brenda squeaked.

"If you aren't busy tonight. If you are, I invite myself to dinner the first night you have free. I'll even do the cooking if you'll do the dishes while Bobby and I play with the Legos."

"You're awful sure of yourself." Brenda sounded breathless.

But all he had to do was ask. He was always so courteous ... Shereen scowled. "Well, of all the nerve! Throw him out, Brenda. Pushy, underhanded, stuck on himself—"

Brenda flapped a hand at her. "Oh, now, hush, Mamma. Hobie's an old friend, you know that. And I can't just throw him out, not when he bought all this and offered to cook, besides. Hobart, you just come on in. You can meet Bobby when he gets up from his nap."

"Brenda, are you just gonna let him waltz in here—"

Hobart came in and shut the door with a click of finality. "You're welcome to stay for supper as far as I'm concerned, Mrs. Mossman."

"That's mighty nice of you, inviting me to eat at my own daughter's house."

"Come on, Mamma. Let's all be friends." Brenda wrung her hands, shifting her weight from one foot to the other—a sure sign of distress.

Shereen gave in. "Oh... all right. Guess I better be here, to keep an eye on this one. Boy goes away for a few years and learns nothing but bad manners."

Brenda giggled. "Oh, Mamma, don't be awful! I'll go see if Bobby's awake." She bustled out of the kitchen.

When her steps had faded, Hobart sat at the table opposite Shereen. "So, how long are you going to pretend you don't like me any more"

"As long as it takes, Hobie. I have to say, I always knew you were bright, but I never knew you were smart."

Brenda's voice approached, chattering to Bobby, happier than her mother had heard her in years. Shereen and Hobart solemnly shook hands, then she sat back and folded her arms across her chest. She and Hobart had time to exchange a wink before she hardened her face, glowering at him for her daughter's benefit.


About the Author
Marian Allen was born in Louisville, Kentucky and now lives in rural Indiana. For as long as she can remember, she has loved telling and being told stories. When, at the age of about six, she was informed that somebody got paid for writing all those books and movies and television shows, she abandoned her previous ambition (beachcomber), and became a writer.

Allen has worked as a high school teacher, an executive secretary, an accountant, and in Red Cross Youth Services. She is married, with three step/adopted daughters, one birth daughter, and varying numbers of cats, hounds, and chickens.

She has had three novels published electronically by Serendipity Systems, and has been published in small anthologies, on-line magazines, print magazines, newspapers, on electronic disk, coffee can labels and the wall of an Indian restaurant. Folklore, mythology, and archetypes are basic to her writing. She is a member of the Southern Indiana Writers Group and Green River Writers.

"Helping Hand" grew out of a discussion with her (married) youngest daughter about the hazards of having one's pupils dilated.