“Probably about two weeks,” she said. “But in another month it won’t matter. You can leave your frozen food outside and it won’t thaw until spring. It’s a long way to come into town if you don’t have to.”
Apparently she knew where we lived.
Tina proved to be very helpful, following me up and down the aisles and pointing out things I had missed. I was accustomed to dropping into the grocery store every couple of days. It was hard to comprehend what we might need for an entire month.
In the next aisle, we picked up cooking oil, peanut butter, honey, corn syrup, bottled fruit juice, coffee and tea, salt and pepper, ketchup, pickles, mustard, and spices. I had never baked anything in my life, but perhaps it was time to learn. I threw in baking powder, baking soda, yeast, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, and vanilla.
We left the overloaded cart near the checkout counter and started on the next one. In the produce section, I piled in potatoes, onions, and carrots. I hoped that root vegetables would keep in the earthen basement, as long as I could protect them from the mice by storing them in a plastic cooler.
Walking along the aisle with frozen desserts, I noticed there was little choice. The supermarkets in Phoenix had aisles the length of football fields devoted to all manner of frozen pies and cakes. Here the choice was limited to ice cream and Popsicles.
I didn’t want to waste money on desserts anyway. The cost of groceries here was exorbitant. Bridget helped me select popcorn kernels and raisins. Nuts were expensive, but I bought one small container of almonds and another of walnuts.
Finally, I picked up a couple of bags of ice for our primitive wooden icebox — although, if Tina was correct, I wouldn’t need it much longer.
“There! That should do us for a year, let alone a month!” I announced to Bridget.
I paid for my purchases with bills in all the colours of the rainbow. At least it wouldn’t be hard to keep the different denominations straight here, I thought, since the bills looked like Monopoly money. For change, I received silver coins with gold centres, called toonies, each worth two dollars; and golden coins worth one dollar each that looked like they came from a pirate ship. These were called loonies because they bore an engraving of a loon.
After paying for all of my groceries, I pushed a cart to my truck. Tina helpfully pushed the other cart and slung the bags into the back while I settled Bridget in the cab with Fizzy.
“Can you tell me where to buy my daughter some jeans?” I asked, assuming that a teenager would know.
“You betcha. The best place in town for clothes is the Salvation Army Thrift Shop, two blocks that way.” She pointed down the street.
At last, a familiar name. When I parked in front of the shop, I was glad that the wide street allowed nose-in parking. I would hate to try to manoeuvre this oversized vehicle into a regular parking spot.
Bridget trailed behind me into the shop, which was surprisingly well stocked, its racks bursting with clothes. I picked through the children’s section, reminding myself to wash everything before we wore it. I selected two pairs of jeans and some red corduroy overalls that looked like new.
Since I didn’t have anything resembling work clothes, I bought myself a pair of Carhartt overalls, the knees only slightly stained with grease, a pair of men’s workboots that fit my large feet nicely, and three pairs of woollen socks.
A tiny elderly volunteer with permed red hair whose name was Gladys told me where to find the pharmacy and the hardware store. “You’ll need plenty of supplies if you’re going to live in that old place!” she said. Another person who knew what we were doing.
“Canadian Tire” sounded to me like an automotive shop, but to my surprise I found it was an all-purpose general store. I loaded up with lamp oil, candles, matches, a heavy-duty flashlight and two dozen extra batteries, a portable fire extinguisher to keep beside the wood stove, and a five-gallon red plastic container filled with extra gasoline.
Visions of dirt and disease danced in my head as I piled in a broom and mop, dish detergent, laundry soap, and window cleaner. I finished off with a box of zip-lock bags, a dozen plastic food containers, and one large cooler.
I had been unable to purchase only one item. After searching the aisles at Canadian Tire, I stopped a young man in a scarlet vest and asked where the guns were kept.
“You mean hunting rifles?” he asked. “We don’t carry them here.”
“No, I mean a handgun.”
He looked puzzled. “Ma’am, where are you from?”
“Arizona.”
“I guess you don’t know that people aren’t allowed to own handguns in this country.”
“You mean, never?” I was surprised. “Aren’t there any exceptions?”
“Nope. Not unless you want to join the local Rod and Gun Club and use it for target practice. Why do you want one, anyways?”
“For self-defence.” He stared at me blankly. “You know, in case somebody tries to rob me.”
“We haven’t had an armed robbery around here since before I was born.”
“But how do people protect themselves?”
“Don’t worry, you got nothing to be scared about. Up here animals are the biggest problem, not people.”
He walked away, shaking his head. As we left the store, I saw him talking to one of the cashiers and pointing at me. Both of them were laughing.
Finally we hit the local pharmacy, where we bought personal supplies. I smiled to myself, remembering Bridget’s delight when she discovered the “free gifts” at the hotel. “Mama, look! They gave us free shampoo, free hand lotion, and free soap!” I tossed in an economy-sized pack of toilet paper, tampons, hand soap, and hand sanitizer. I deliberated over body lotion then decided it was too expensive.
Now for the hard part. I had to outfit an emergency first-aid kit. While I imagined all the various ways we might become ill or injured, I selected iodine, aspirin, and antibiotic ointment.
Reluctantly I picked up a roll of bandages, then shuddered and closed my eyes, hastily setting them down again. I couldn’t touch them without picturing blood. And unfortunately, I had a full-blown phobia about blood. I couldn’t even watch a television program if it showed quantities of red liquid, which ruled out shows about violent crime, vampires, even surgery.
I had never cut myself, other than the odd nick, and neither had Bridget, thanks to my obsessive vigilance, but there was always a first time. Bracing myself, I snatched up a box of Band-Aids and a roll of bandages and thrust them into my basket.
The pharmacist, a pleasant-faced older man with horn-rimmed spectacles, popped his head out from behind the counter. “Don’t forget a thermometer!” he said. Another person who seemed to know what I was doing. I busied myself looking for a thermometer and tried to overcome the bloody images in my head.
I had just enough cash left to fill the truck with gasoline, which sucked an alarming $150 out of my wallet. All that remained of my cash was $30 plus change. That was our financial safety net until the first of September. Then we would drive into town, pick up our $400 from the lawyer’s office, and replenish our supplies. Mr. Jones had explained that it would be simpler to pay me in cash since I didn’t have a Canadian bank account.
When we pulled into the yard, I had to resist the urge to turn around and drive away again. I gripped the wheel, trying not to burst into tears. Although I had been here twice before, things didn’t look any better — in fact, they looked worse, if that were possible. The farmhouse with its peeling paint and overhanging branches looked like a haunted house in a horror movie. And like the characters in a horror movie, we were completely