"Thank You"

The storm hit in drenching waves, the rain pummeling her skin, sharp as needles. A respite from the boiling heat for the first few drops, alarm replaced relief as muddy rivulets raced down the decrepit road before her. The current pulled on her ankles, and then her shins in short order.

The water parted around each of her legs, riding up in curling waves almost to her hips now. She slogged up the few steps to a covered porch that had withstood the rain before, and hoped it wouldn’t fare any worse this time.

The porch led to a storefront. Libet paid the entry fare and went inside.

“Extra charge for letting the rain in,” the store clerk said.

“How much?” she grumbled.

“One-half entry.”

“Robbery,” she muttered while fumbling for her card.

Still, it was good to be out of the weather, even if she didn’t have enough money to stay for more than a few minutes. Perhaps the storm would be over by then. And maybe the roads wouldn’t be too bad. The rains came so often that it seemed all the mud had to have been washed away, exposing the rocks and bare foundations, but somehow there was always more.

Dawdling as she selected some staples -- rags for washing, lye for soap, some processed flour, cooking oil, gasoline, and charcoal for the water -- she lingered over the impossibly priced finished products of individually wrapped chocolate chip cookies. The plastic wrap was dirty and ill-fitting. How many times had it wrapped things before? But the cookies made her mouth water.

“10 seconds,” the storekeeper said.

“What?”

“It’s been 10 seconds. You’ll have to pay if you want to keep looking.”

A sigh escaped her and she turned her head away.

She stood in the short line to pay for her precious goods. Examining her bill, there appeared one more surcharge.

“I was waiting in line! I couldn’t have left earlier!” she said, exasperated.

“Not my problem.”

There was no use arguing. Another fee would apply. She gathered her goods in her oilcloth bags that had seen better days, hoisted the container of gasoline onto her back, and headed out.

The rain had indeed passed. Steam rose in thick wisps from the damp wood of the porch and the ground beyond, and the floods had subsided to rivulets. If only the silt left behind wasn’t so slippery. The trek back to the compound would take extra time, with pay docked accordingly. Her face was already dripping with sweat, and she hadn’t even started.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Was the old storm moving on, or was another headed her way? Quickening her pace, her eyes remained averted to the hucksters selling trinkets along the side of the road. How had they managed to set up their stands so quickly after the deluge, all she could guess was their own needs outweighed the troubles.

She rearranged the gallons of gasoline on her back, and indulged in the luxury of removing one of the rags from her bags to mop her face. Would anyone notice? Maybe not. The rags were hardly new. Cleaning cost extra. She would do it herself once she got back. Maybe, if the rains came again before making it home, she’d place them on her head and let the water do its pounding work.

At least on the solitary walk, there were no extra charges. How could there be so many expenses when nobody had any money?

Two hours and one quick drenching rain later, Libet arrived at another enclave, with hucksters lining the main road with their goodies. Out of the corner of her eye, not daring to incur a fee for looking, or worse yet, touching, let alone getting interested in objects she could not afford, the baubles and novelties looked exactly the same as in the last town. Who bought these things, anyway? Avoiding gazes at anyone’s face in particular, a few looks down at the worn, muddied sandals and frayed pantlegs told the stories of their occupants.

It was time to take the mandated lunch break. She checked in at the local Workers Agency.

Their office was relatively cool in the Spring heat. The excruciating summers would rob the offices of even that much. But the occupants wore newer clothing with fancy insignia, words too long for her unaccustomed eyes.

“Your card,” the clerk behind the counter said. His voice carried the easy authority of a middling bureaucrat.

She duly complied.

She was handed her daily nutritional ration cake along with a glass for the allotted two cups of water from the communal well. The deposit fee was more than a day’s labor. Too bad she wasn’t allowed to simply cup her own hands under the fountain. Rules were rules. Caution was the watchword to safeguard her glass during her break.

The water was surely delicious, fresh and restorative as it ran down her throat, cooling the inside of her belly. The foodstuff was its usual unexciting drab crunch, eaten between her two glasses of water. Every drop of her second one was sipped as slowly as rules allowed, washing down the crumbs. Her eyes closed in pleasure. Her hand relaxed. Too relaxed. The glass slipped from her sweaty fingers and fell onto the wet ground.

In horror, Libet looked around. Luck was in her favor. No one saw the mistake. She grabbed the glass from the mud as quickly as possible and walked under a nearby tree into seclusion to take a moment to examine it.

It was chipped.

In panic, her body shook.

Had it been like that when she had first gotten it? Unlikely. Too easy to spot.

Maybe one of the vendors would have one. Less costly than forfeiting the deposit and paying for a new one anyway. She had a few minutes before she had to report back at the end her lunch break. She could look.

She walked by the displays of wares, barely glancing lest she be accosted by the sellers to pay, pay, pay.

And there it was. One single glass. It looked just like the one in her hand. Yes. It was the same. She was saved.

Maybe.

A closer look revealed no defects. Clean and ordinary. The Workers Agency clerk should never notice.

“How much?” she asked the seller.

His response surprised her. An ordinary price for an ordinary glass. No mark-up for her obvious distress.

Transaction completShe clutched the glass to her chest and exhaled a deep sigh of relief. Mission accomplished with minutes to spare. Enough time to take a quick look at the seller’s other merchandise.

Amongst the strands of cheap jewelry lay a heart-shaped locket. It looked old, stained and tarnished.

“Pick it up. No charge to hold,” the seller offered.

A sense of unreality enfolded her.

She fingered the gold chain. As old and as stained as the locket itself. It didn’t look like real gold.

It had a clasp, a little button. She pressed the mechanism, and it sprung open. Clean and sparkling inside. A little heart-shaped hinged frame for a picture inside also swung free. No picture.

“Ohhhhh,” she exclaimed, unaware of how obvious her delight was.

She held the chain and gently swung the locket back and forth, watching it sparkle in the sun.

“How much?” she dared to ask.

The seller waved a hand. “Keep it.”

“Keep it? But you must -- you must --” There were no words to express her thoughts. Everything cost. Everything.

He shrugged. “I’ll take the glass. The broken one. In your bag,” he said.

“You -- you know?”

He shrugged. “Look around. See any other glasses for sale?”

There were no other cups, let alone any glass that looked exactly like the one she’d chipped. On his table, or anyone else’s.

“You saw. And you didn’t report -- you didn’t . . . your fee . . . for turning me in . . . “

He gave a wry smile, eyes turned inward.

Thoughts swirled in her head. She fumbled the glass out of her bag and gave it to him, looking around to make sure no one was watching. He took it from her easily, as if exchanges instead of payments happened every day. Exchanges of a broken item for a piece of jewelry, no less.

She clutched the locket in her hand. The cold metal was warming to her touch. Could she keep it a secret when she got back? Where could she hide it? How could she explain where it came from? How could she not sell it, or keep someone else from selling it? But she wanted it with all her might, even for all the problems it could cause. Her own locket. Hers.

The man smiled. “Go on. Get back to the Agency before you’re late.” He waved her away, chuckling.

“Uh, uh, ok.” No other words came to mind, try as she might to find any to fit.

As she lugged her heavy cargo back to the Workers Agency, her heart could not stop beating faster at the thought of the locket, now hidden around her neck under her clothes. More questions filled her head and her heart. Why had that man not charged her? Did she owe him anything? Would he report her for stealing after all? Why hadn’t he reported her and collected his fee? No one would believe her if she said he didn’t charge her for the locket. She should have said no. She should have left it there. She should turn right around and return it. She should stay out of trouble.

It wasn’t just the locket. So pretty, yes, but there was more. How she’d gotten it. Something in her heart felt different. Humbled. Grateful. In debt. But a good debt. She’d never heard of a happy debt, but there it was. All she wanted to do was go back and find that man, and tell him so. But maybe he knew already. In fact, she was sure he did. That’s why he’d given her the locket in the first place.

She clutched it in her sweating hands, opening and closing the clasp, fingering the picture frame inside, through two more rainstorms, all the way back home.