She’s shaking all over, fully panicking now. “I…I…” Her little pink tongue slides across her lower lip. “May I come with you, sir? Please?”
I nod, and hold out my hand, palm up. “Sure. Whatever you’re most comfortable with. Can I get the gun back? Not safe for you to carry it out in public.”
She scoops it up in her palms and proffers it to me, palms cupped together with the weapon in her hands. In taking the gun from her, my fingertips brush her palms, and she gasps, yanking her hands to her chest as if burned.
I suppress my irritation, reminding myself that she’s probably never known a gentle touch, or anything but violence. It’s not her fault, and it’s not me. It’s just the situation.
I shut off the engine and headlights and pocket the keys, exit the car. Naomi doesn’t get out, seems to be waiting. With a sigh, I round the hood and open her door for her. Moving slowly, she gets out and moves a step away, waiting with hands folded together in front her, head bowed, as I close the door. When I take a step forward, she assumes a place a step behind me and to my right. When I slow my pace as we enter the store, she holds that position, behind me and to my right.
A woman’s place is behind the man, I would assume she’s been taught.
I halt just inside the drugstore—it’s a little mom-and-pop place, not a chain; the rows of shelves are tightly packed, filled with junk food, snacks, soda, sports drinks…the usual. The cashier counter is to the right of the entrance, the wall behind lined with bottles of liquor, cigarettes, and chewing tobacco. The druggist counter is on the back wall, a metal grate closed and locked, the light off. Behind the cashier counter lurks a young man with long greasy dark hair and a patchy beard, wearing baggy ripped jeans and a huge black hoodie. He watches something on his cell phone, earbuds in his ears. He ignores us totally.
I glance at Naomi. “You can walk next to me.”
“Yes sir.”
I again suppress a sigh. “I’m not telling you to. I’m saying you can do what you want. You can wait here. You can walk next to me. You can wander around the store by yourself and pick whatever you want. I’ll buy it for you. You can walk out of the store and not come back. You’re your own person now, Naomi.”
She shakes her head, hunching her shoulders up around her ears, looking panicked again. “I know my place.” Her voice is quiet as ever, shaking with fear.
“Your place is wherever and whatever the hell you want it to be,” I growl, unable to contain my frustration.
“Yes sir.” Agreeing blindly, purely out of fear and conditioning.
I sigh. “Come on. Walk wherever you want to walk.”
She keeps her place behind me and to my right, following meekly as I grab a bag of Doritos, a bag of pretzel twists, more jerky, a case of Coke, and an eight-pack of red Gatorade. Naomi expresses no interest in anything, just follows with her head ducked, hands folded, skirt hiding her steps so she appears to float, so graceful and smooth is her gait.
I bring my armload of purchases to the counter, and the kid pauses whatever he’s watching and starts ringing me up without a word, let alone removing his earbuds. I notice Naomi’s gaze wandering to the rack of magazines and chocolate bars lining the front of the cashier counter—specifically, her eyes fix on a Hershey bar.
“You want that?” I ask, pointing at the chocolate.
A shrug of her shoulders.
“Do you?”
Another shrug, and now she’s shaking again.
“Naomi.” I keep my voice quiet, and as gentle as I can make it. “You want the chocolate?”
A hesitation, and then she very subtly, very fearfully, dares to nod, once—and then turtles, as if terrified this expression of a desire will get her hit.
I reach in front of her to grab the Hershey bar—my shoulder brushes her hip. At the contact, she shuffles backward with a sharp inhalation through her nose, hands raised in front of her face, shaking all over.
I straighten, moving slowly, lifting the bar of chocolate. “Whoa, easy. It’s fine. You’re fine.” I set the bar with the rest of the purchases.
The kid looks up finally, glancing at Naomi; his eyes widen when he sees the state of her. His eyes flick to his phone. To me.
I hold up my hands, palms out. “Hey, I didn’t do that to her. I’m helping her.”
He looks at Naomi. “He tellin’ the truth?”
Naomi doesn’t look at him, but nods. “Yes,” she whispers.
“Sure?”
Another nod.
