Her name was Beatrice Pemberton.
The Pembertons are Millbrook. That’s the only way to say it. Pemberton Motors, the Ford and Chevy dealerships out on Route 422. Pemberton Properties, which owns half the apartment buildings downtown, including mine. The Pemberton Building on Main Street with its name carved in limestone over the door. The Pemberton Wing at Millbrook General. The Pemberton Family Foundation, which hosts a charity gala every December at the country club that gets a full page in the Millbrook Ledger.
And the house. On the hill above Lincoln Park. Nine bedrooms. A circular drive. A fountain. You can see it from the interstate.
Beatrice was the daughter. The only child of Elias Pemberton, who started it all. She ran the foundation now. And the property management side. She was on the hospital board.
I’d seen her twice at work. At ribbon cuttings. Smiling for photographers. Holding giant scissors.
She never looked at any of the nurses.
Beside her stood a tiny woman in a worn blue coat.
Seventies, maybe. Barely five feet tall. Gray hair pulled back in a bun. A wool coat that had been navy once and was now faded to the color of old denim. The elbows were shiny. One button was missing. A knit scarf. Sensible black shoes with Velcro straps.
She was gripping a red plastic shopping basket.
It was almost empty.
A box of saltine crackers. A can of chicken broth. Two carrots. An onion. A bag of egg noodles. A box of Theraflu.
That was all.
“My grandson has the flu,” she said.
Her voice was soft. A little shaky. Southern, maybe, a long time ago.
“I raise him by myself,” she said. “He’s nine. He’s been sick since Saturday. He won’t eat anything. I wanted to make him soup. My mama’s turkey soup. It’s the only thing he’ll eat when he’s sick.”
She looked at the case. At the regular turkeys in the next section. The forty-dollar ones.
“But the regular turkeys are almost forty dollars,” she said. “I can’t—I don’t have forty dollars until the first.”
Beatrice lifted another turkey out of the case.
She didn’t look at the old woman.
“Then buy chicken,” she said.
“The chicken isn’t on sale either,” the old woman said quietly. “I looked. It’s eleven dollars for a whole one. And it’s not the same. Micah won’t eat it. He says it tastes wrong.”
There was one turkey left in the case.
One.
In the back corner. Under the light.
$9.99.
The old woman reached for it.
Slowly. Her hand shaking a little. Arthritis. Her knuckles were swollen.
Beatrice grabbed it first.
She didn’t even look at the old woman. She just reached past her and took it. Fast. Smooth. Like she’d done it before.
She dropped it on the pile in her cart.
Thirteen.
The old woman stood there with her hand still out over the empty case.
“Ma’am,” she said. “Please. You already have twelve.”
“Thirteen,” Beatrice said.
“Could you leave me just one?”
Beatrice adjusted the turkey on top of the pile so it wouldn’t slide off.
“I got here first,” she said.
I couldn’t stay quiet. 