Short Story
Errands
by K.M. Beesley
First item, checked off, the termite inspector was coming next Tuesday and the bill was paid. I was feeling better, getting stuff done. Leslie would be so happy when she came home. I didn’t want her to have anything at all to worry about. Just rest. She needed rest.
After last night, I appreciated everything about my wife so much more. Leslie was organized; I was erratic. I flew by the seat of my pants, lived in the moment, and usually it worked well. When we met, Leslie said she loved this about me, said it helped her loosen up and relax, but lately it seemed to really irritate her. She liked everything so neat, so orderly. She was a perfect match for her accounting job at the prestigious and highly competitive Myers and Binder. Ugh! This list thing was so not-me.
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Leslie’s cellphone buzzed. I didn’t have the password, but the notifications still popped up. A text from someone named Larry Zimmerman, “Changing tomorrow from 10:00 to 9.” Who was Larry? Someone from work, I guessed; I didn’t recognize the name. I’d already left a message with Myers and Binder about Leslie. Whatever it was, I felt sure they’d work it out.
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Item number two: get the car safety inspected and renew the registration. Skip that one, I thought; put all the errands together and get all the at-home stuff done first. Then I would go out and tick off all the out-of-the-house stuff later. It was weird that Leslie’s car was here without her, but she’d been walking when it happened, crossing the street.
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I scanned her list for stuff to do at home: water the ferns on the front porch—check! Dust downstairs—skip, I’d do it the day she came home and she’d never know the difference. Why dust twice a week? Seemed a waste of time, honestly. Take the dog to the vet for his rabies shot—ok, that was important—looked like she’d already made an appointment for 2:30. I could get the car inspected in the same trip. I checked off replace dining room light bulb and clean bathroom mirrors, jobs that would actually stay done more than a day. I found two more phone calls on Leslie’s list: call dishwasher repairman—must do that—and call Alicia about book club. I set up the repair for Friday and contemplated calling Alicia. I had to do it; I just wasn’t sure what to say. I could put it off. Book club wasn’t until Saturday night, but I might as well get it over with. I also wasn’t sure why Leslie needed to talk to Alicia about book club, but at this point, that probably didn’t matter.
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“Hello, Alicia? Yes, it’s Sean, Sean Bidelspach . . . Oh, so you heard? Yes, well, I know she was supposed to see you for book club, and I wanted to make sure . . . Yes, ok, uh-huh, thanks, thank you so much. I’ll let you know. Bye.” I really didn’t want to talk about it, but it was nice to know Alicia cared. She was Leslie’s best friend, and she’d been hosting this book club at her house every Saturday night for a couple months. Leslie really enjoyed it.
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I checked the time. 1:00. I ought to be able to get the car inspected and get to the vet by 2:30. I collared up Jingles and took him out to the pine straw. Jingles sniffed and turned, trying to find just the right spot, finally taking care of business behind the hydrangea. Leslie would have cleaned it up with a plastic poop bag and thrown it in the trash, but, honestly, did it actually matter? The rain would wash it away soon enough. I got Jingles in the car.
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The guy at Jiffy Lube explained he needed the registration to do an inspection. Did I have the current registration? I don’t know. Did I? Where would it be? If it were me, maybe in the visor? Or the center console? Maybe at home? Or under all the gas station receipts and food wrappers scattered on the floor of the passenger side. But this was Leslie’s car, not mine. I opened the glove box. It was right there by the tissues and the owner’s manual. Leslie. Organized as always.
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I got Jingles out and we walked away from Jiffy Lube, over to the Wendy’s. I thought I would buy a couple of burgers, one for me, one for him. Have a little guy time with my canine buddy. I got as far as the door before I realized I couldn’t take Jingles inside the Wendy’s. I decided to go through the drive-through instead. This is something Leslie never would have done. She would have been embarrassed for some reason, but hey, why not? I stepped over to the speaker, beside the curb. A car pulled up behind us as the drive-up attendant welcomed me to Wendy’s. I ordered the burgers. And fries. And a Dr. Pepper, did they have Dr. Pepper? No? Ok, how about cherry lemonade, sometimes they had that . . . the guy in the car beeped at me. Really? I’m trying to order here; what’s his problem? I settled for a diet Coke with a splash of Fanta Orange in it . . . could they do that? Yeah. Perfect. I walked Jingles around the corner and up to the pickup window. I fumbled around for my credit card as the window slid open.
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The drive-up worker gave me a patient yet slightly critical look. “Sir, you can’t do that. I’m sorry, sir, you can’t go through the drive-through without driving. You need a car.”
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That was so stupid. Did I look like I had a car? “I don’t have a car. I have a dog,” I explained, pointing to Jingles.
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“I’m sorry, sir, it’s a safety thing. I can’t help you.”
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Ok, so no burgers. “Sorry, Jingles. When we get the car back, we’ll drive through and get them. Promise.” This wouldn’t have happened to Leslie, I thought. Leslie wouldn’t have tried to walk through the drive-through. Leslie would have had a plan. I was lucky to have her in my life.
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I had time to think then, sitting at the little picnic table outside Wendy’s, waiting on the car. Fear coiled in my stomach like a frigid, sour snake, trying to spiral up into my brain, trying to make me think I could lose her. I swallowed it down, quelling the serpent, but the insidious thoughts lurked just beneath the surface, waiting to strike.
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Why hadn’t I gone antiquing at the flea market with her last Saturday? Would that have been so bad? What if I never got that chance? Why did I always leave the cabinet doors open in the kitchen? She hated that. Sure, it made it easier to get a glass when I needed it, but she had a point, too. Why didn’t I show her how much I appreciated her and everything she does for us? All this stuff on this list, this stupid, organized Leslie-list that I hated and loved at the same time.
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I thought about last night. The phone call from the policeman at the scene; the flashing lights; the man who was driving the Corolla that hit her, crying and giving his statement; the ambulance they wheeled Leslie out of at the hospital ER; the gash in her upper arm; and her silence. She hadn’t woken up yet. Visiting hours in the ICU were from 5:00 to 7:00. I would go by after Jingle’s vet appointment. Maybe she would be awake. Would they call me if she woke up? I knew they would, but I let myself hope. Maybe she was awake and they hadn’t called.
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I shook myself out of it, looking at Leslie’s list. Pick up dress from dry cleaners. I saw Leslie’s car exiting Jiffy Lube and walked over to pay. It passed, of course. It was Leslie’s car; all was in perfect working order. I was lucky to have her in my life. I hoped she would wake up soon.
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After the vet, I bought Jingles a cheeseburger and we ate in Leslie’s car on the way home. Leslie never would have eaten in the car; she was afraid of getting mice. But she’d never know. I cleaned up the food wrappers when I got home. No harm done.
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On the way to the hospital, I stopped by the dry cleaners. They handed me her red dress, the short one with sequins at the top. Was there some special event I’d forgotten? I checked Leslie’s list. I didn’t see anything.
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Word had evidently spread about the accident, and when I arrived at the hospital, Leslie’s friend, Chloe, was there, crying. “Oh, Sean. Oh, Sean, I’m so sorry, so, so sorry.” Chloe and Leslie weren’t best friends, but they traveled in the same circles and saw one another frequently. I gave her a hug. We told one another it would be ok.
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As we waited for visiting hours, I told Chloe she was the second person I had talked to about the accident. I said Alicia had offered to bring food when I called about book club, and it was good we had so many friends who cared. Chloe smiled through her tears and said she could bring food, too, and it wouldn’t be long before Leslie was home, and she would take care of everything for Thursday afternoon, for the book club, not to worry.
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“You mean Saturday night,” I said. “Book club Saturday night, not Thursday.” Chloe could be a little flighty sometimes.
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“Right. Yes, I meant to say Saturday. Don’t know why I said Thursday, so silly of me.”
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We waited. I thought about Chloe and Alicia and our good friends. I thought about book club. I thought about how pleased Leslie would be that I finished her to-do list. I thought about the red dress. I thought about how lucky I was.
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When I saw Leslie, she hadn’t woken up yet, but she was stable, so that was something. I pulled a chair over, close to her, so she could hear me. Her face was so pale. She looked thinner, smaller, somehow diminished by the accident in a way I couldn’t explain. I said all the obvious things, how much I loved her, that it would all be ok, all the easy phrases until I ran out of words, but I wanted to keep talking, wanted to comfort her with my voice. I told her about the day we’d won the lottery, how she’d thought I’d wasted my money, but then we’d won! It was only a hundred dollars, but she’d jumped up and down and thrown her arms around my neck and kissed me over and over. I wanted to see her like that again: strong, vibrant, happy. I wanted to feel that way again. I wanted the woman I’d married.
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I’d tried to stay upbeat all day, but seeing Leslie like that was just too much. I stopped by Target on the way home and bought Oreos. Comfort food. On a whim, I also bought a lottery ticket, for Leslie. The check-out girl’s smile seemed incongruous; how could she be so perky? Didn’t she know? She briefly studied my credit card as she handed it back, “Come again, Mr. Bidelspach,” and then she gave me a surprised look, “Are you Leslie’s husband?”
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“Yes . . . ?” rolled slowly, suspiciously off my tongue. “How do you know Leslie?” Who are you, I wondered.
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“Oh, sorry, it’s just the name—Bidelspach—don’t see that one every day, so I just thought . . . Anyway, check lanes, guest services, not so far apart, you know?” She gestured with her hands as she spoke, making sweeping motions at the check-out lines and the guest services area, like a hostess on a TV game show.
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“Right. Sure.” I managed a weak smile. Wow, that was weird.
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I ate half the Oreos on the drive home, and paused at the mailbox, where I found three envelopes and a flyer, before pulling into the garage. Jingles was barking, excited I was home. I gave him some pets and then put the red dress in Leslie’s meticulously sorted closet. In the back corner, I saw some other dry-cleaning bags cocooning fancy dresses, and hung the red one next to them.
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I shuffled through the mail, tossing the flyer in the trash. Credit card offer, credit card offer, and something from Target Benefits Enrollment Services. Her phone buzzed with another text from Larry: “Sheila’s going to train you for drive-ups tomorrow, so find her when you get in.” Was Sheila another co-worker? And drive-ups? Leslie’s an accountant. Was this for some sort of drive-through banking thing? I asked Jingles, but he just stared back, wagging his tail.
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I cracked open a beer from the fridge and stared at Jingles, confused. “Who’s Larry?” I asked him. “Why does she need her red dress? Why did Chloe think book club was Thursday?” Jingles didn’t answer. My stomach churned. I felt a little sick. “Who’s Sheila? What’s with the drive-up accounting?” There was this whole portion of Leslie’s life I didn’t know anything about. It shouldn’t bother me—this was Leslie—but it did.
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I sat gazing at Jingles. “Is she wearing that dress to book club Saturday? And what was that weirdness with the checker at Target?” Jingles didn’t know. I still had one envelope in my hand: Target Benefits. I set the beer on the counter.
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“Jingles, we’re going for a ride.” I leashed him up and put him in the passenger seat, riding shotgun. We drove to Target. “Wait in the car for me,” I told him.
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I walked through the front door. Customer service was to my left, the checkout lanes to the right. I turned left. “Excuse me,” I asked at the counter, “I was here the other day and someone named Leslie helped me with a return. Is she here now?”
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“No, she hasn’t been in today. Can I help you?”
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“It’d be easier to just talk to her. Will she be here tomorrow?”
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The clerk looked at her computer screen. “Yes, looks like 10 am. No, wait, they moved her to 9:00. You can talk to her then.” Suddenly, her face got red. “Oh no, I wasn’t supposed to tell you that. I’m new.” But I had already started back to the parking lot.
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So, Leslie was working at Target. Leslie had been lying to me. Leslie, who does everything by the book. Leslie, the high-profile accountant. Perfect little Leslie. I tried to process this as I drove home on auto-pilot. When I got there, I picked my beer back up off the kitchen counter and opened the laptop, logging into our bank account. Leslie always handled the finances; she was an accountant, after all. I scanned back through the last month, then the one before that. It was three months since she had gotten a paycheck from Myers and Binder. There were a bunch of deposits from E-Bay transactions: $40, $90, $65. She was selling something, or some things.
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In the morning I confronted Alicia, who knew everything. Leslie had lost her job and been too embarrassed to tell me. She hoped she could find a new position at another firm, but had no luck and was working at Target. They let her work weekdays, but insisted she also work either Friday or Saturday night, so that explained the Saturday night book club. Also, she’d sold some of her clothes to make extra cash. I thought of the red dress.
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She must have thought she’d land a new accounting job in a week or two, and just tell me she’d decided to switch firms. Maybe there would have been a story about someone at Myers and Binder who did something unconscionable, or some reason the new firm was “so much better.” Why not add more lies onto the pile? I thought of her dressing up every morning, leaving the house at 7:00, off to Myers and Binder, so she said, and then, what? Changing in the Target bathroom? Into a red t-shirt to work at the customer service desk? Then she must’ve changed again before returning home. What must her Target co-workers have thought? How did she explain it? And I thought of her hiding Target-red t-shirts so I wouldn’t see them, washing them when I wasn’t home. She must have rushed to the mailbox every day, hiding correspondence from Target Benefits Enrollment Services.
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I thought about what it must have been like for her to lose that job, unable to find another. I remembered how I always bragged on her career when I introduced her, how it was the thing she was known for, the thing that she had that other people didn’t, her big achievement. I remembered how flustered and upset she’d gotten at the neighborhood block party, trying to navigate the conversation with the Clarke’s, who’d just moved in. “Oh, you work at Myers and Binder? Do you know Cindy Blackwell? I’ve known Cindy for years. We’ll have to get together, the three of us.” She came home angry that night. She said she didn’t need any new friends, didn’t need to get to know Cindy, didn’t need the Clarkes. As I remembered that night, I realized we hadn’t gone to any parties the last two months, and I saw how her world had closed in on her. Her identity as Leslie the brilliant accountant was destroyed in a day. No wonder she couldn’t admit it to me. My heart melted a little as I contemplated how she must have felt.
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Oh, Leslie, Leslie. My beautiful, wonderful wife. Don’t you know I love you for more than your mad math skills? I ached to tell her, and wondered if I would get that chance. I wished I had known. We would have worked through it together. I thought of her trying to manage it all, and I understood why she’d been so stressed and irritated. I loved her so much, and I was lucky to have her in my life.