Lollipop

The grocer had a Bell jar of lollipops by the cash register. They had been there for as long as anyone could remember, collecting dust; when the sun fell on them they shone with sticky promise in cloudy pink, lemon yellow, bottle green and murky blue so that the gazes of the children in line were drawn toward the imminent crackle of cellophane wrappers. This pact was nearly always fulfilled. The only time Esme could remember not receiving a lollipop, carried by the huge, kindly hand of Mr. Ripoll, from the jar was the day of the Colonel’s funeral; it had been a dark day, she remembered, although she had been no older than six at the time, and even the tears on the faces of the townspeople at the wake seemed tired and dry.

The jar watched her now as she stood an aisle away in the shelves of cheap plastic toys. Their lurid colors held the gazes of the passing children for the moment before they reached the jar of lollipops, a moment that was never sustained. They had learned already that the lollipop was a constant and that the toys never came down off the shelves.

Esme could feel a trickle of sweat down her back and convinced herself it was the heat of the day, although from the light that came through the glass storefront she could tell there were storm clouds gathering—it would not be hot much longer. She looked casually to her right, away from the register, down the rows of shiny kitchen appliances, blenders and mixers stacked on top of each other, so orderly you could tell they were touched by nothing except for dust and the ancient rag the hand of Mr. Ripoll wielded every week. Her hand moved casually towards the shelf, as though the thought of doing it were enough to propel such an action; when she touched the tiny pink thing, she couldn’t feel it. Subtly she pressed down hard enough that the ridges on the top of the thing dug into the tips of her fingers. Her hand enveloped its object, and it disappeared magically into her fist.

Her hand, curled around the toy as naturally as if it had been the hand of her mother, dropped to her side; Esme walked down the aisle as if to admire something that caught her attention there, her hand straining against itself in its haste to hide its contents. Her face burned, she thought, so brightly nobody could fail to notice her guilt. When finally she turned the corner and allowed herself to stow the thing in the pocket of her shorts it was as if her guilt disappeared as surely as the sight of her infidelity. Out of sight, out of mind.

Esme glided down the corridors of the long store on a cloud, sailing past tins of biscuits and round cardboard containers of Quaker Oats until she reached the counter. Slowly, slowly, she came to a stop in front of Mr. Ripoll.

“Not buying anything today, Esme?”

“Not buying anything, Mr. Ripoll.”

“Well, have a lollipop anyway. You have a good day.”

Esme took a pink one, as she did every time: “You too, Mr. Ripoll,” and stuffed the wrapping into her pocket, on top of the little pink toy. Sticking the lollipop in her mouth—a sudden saccharine assault on her taste buds—she walked out of the grocery store into the rain.