Robert Alter - 100 Malicious Little Mysteries

There, she thought. With the transistor radio and the electric shaver she already had in the bag, that should be enough for one day. The money Mr. Simpson would give her for them would feed her army of stray cats for several days.

As she stooped over to pick up her bag, Mrs. Twiller noticed a man watching her from two counters away. A floorwalker, no doubt. She grasped the handles of the bag and straightened up, tottering just a little not so much as to make the floorwalker come to her assistance, but just enough to make him think tenderly of his own dear old mother. She fluttered a hand to her chest and saw the suspicious look on his face fade away and be replaced by a benign smile.

Well, that took care of him. Now if he saw her drop something into her bag he would merely chalk it up to her absent-mindedness, which was certainly forgivable in a lady of her age.

It was time to leave, but first Mrs. Twiller wanted to visit the basement floor and pick up a few more plastic bowls for the new cats who just that week had found out about the private welfare center she ran. They did so appreciate their own dishes, and she liked to afford them that small dignity.

On the way down the escalator she checked her coin purse to see that she had the necessary cash. She wouldn’t think of filching anything like the dishes. That wouldn’t be ethical. She only took the other things because she just couldn’t stretch the tiny check she received weekly from her son — certainly could not stretch it to cover all the cat food she put out each day. Besides, her son kept close account of how she spent the allowance he sent her.

Actually, she thought, the department store would probably be quite proud of the humane project they were supporting, if only they knew.

Suddenly Mrs. Twiller realized she had been on the escalator for some time. She should be down to the basement floor by now. Maybe the escalator was broken. No, it was still moving. Then why was it taking so long?

Mrs. Twiller squinted into the darkness. Darkness? Why was it dark? Was there another power failure like the ones in 1965 and 1977? No, the escalator would have stopped if that were the case.

For a moment Mrs. Twiller was alarmed, then she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw a glimmer of light far down in the mists at the bottom of the escalator. Mists? Mists in a department-store basement?

The light became brighter as she descended toward it. The mists began to look more like smoke and she could detect a faint sulfuric smell. In the distance she could see what looked like vast fires. And then she caught sight of a colossal gate, topped by a spectacular sign whose flaming letters spelled out: HELL. Underneath was a smaller sign which read: Entrance.

“My stars,” marveled Mrs. Twiller aloud. “So that’s where it is, right here under the Hardware Department.”

She didn’t have much time to wonder about it because she was about to be met by an uncomfortable-looking individual who appeared to have a bad sunburn.

“Follow me, lady,” he intoned without introducing himself, which Mrs. Twiller regarded as especially bad manners. But then, she reasoned, what else could you expect in Hell?

She decided she had better follow the man since it seemed safer than trying to escape into the smoky terrain that stretched out on all sides. He led her into a seared building beside the imposing gate, and Mrs. Twiller found herself in a large room decorated sumptuously in vivid colors — scarlet, tangerine, and blood-red, among others. There was another fiery-looking individual seated behind a huge table which Mrs. Twiller took to be a reception desk, but when she headed toward it her guide said curtly, “Sit down,” and disappeared through a crimson door.

Mrs. Twiller chose a cherry-colored sofa and sat down heavily, jarring her poor old bones until they rattled. Despite its soft appearance, the sofa was hard as a rock — which was only logical, Mrs. Twiller thought, since on closer examination it turned out to be made of petrified lava. She settled herself as comfortably as she could and glanced at the man behind the desk; but he was occupied with some business of his own involving a large book into which he seemed to be burning notations. Since he seemed in no way hostile, she relaxed a little and let her gaze roam around the brilliant room.

Mercy, she thought, it was a nice place to see but she certainly wouldn’t want to live here. Not that it wasn’t beautiful, in its own fashion, with its startling colors and stunning art objects scattered casually about. But to Mrs. Twiller’s way of thinking it was overdone and even rather vulgar, as if the owner were trying to impress someone by displaying the valuable things he owned. Still, she caught her breath as she leaned closer to examine a small gold figurine of an imp which reposed on an obsidian table next to the sofa. There was also a ruby statue of indeterminate shape and a small vase studded with huge diamonds. She was admiring a solid platinum Mt. Vesuvius when a deep voice addressed her.

“Mrs. Twiller.”

She turned quickly to see an elegant dark-haired gentleman attired in a shiny-black cutaway coat with a copper-red vest and tie, and striped trousers. He wore a well-trimmed goatee and managed to look distinguished in spite of being a brilliant shade of red.

Mrs. Twiller gulped, then stiffened her back. “How do you know my name?” she asked, standing up and eyeing him belligerently.

“I make it my business to know the names of people like you,” he said, smiling sardonically.

Mrs. Twiller clutched her shopping bag in both arms, it being the only familiar object in this frightening situation. “What do you mean, people like me?” she demanded somewhat weakly.

The fiery-faced gentleman shrugged. “I hate to apply so harsh a term as thief to so lovely a lady. Shall we say pilferer?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Mrs. Twiller whispered, her voice trembling. She let her left hand flutter to her throat in the gesture that never failed to make strong men turn squishy with concern and sentiment.

The red individual raised his hand. “Please, dear lady,” he said, “spare me that. I am well aware of your wiles and I also have a record of every item you have ever appropriated for your — ahem — worthy cause.”

Mention of her project gave Mrs. Twiller new courage. “Who would feed all those starving cats if I didn’t? I’m just trying to do a little good in the world the only way I know how.” She blinked her eyes and tried her best to squeeze out a tear or two.

The man in the cutaway, which had turned wine-red, strode to a window whose black shade he raised to reveal a landscape of fire and smoke. “Dear lady,” he said, “you seem to forget where you are. We are not concerned with the good you do. Quite the contrary!” He turned and pointed a slender finger at her. “You are running up a very bad record, Mrs. Twiller, and I have brought you down here this time just for a warning. Mend your ways or you may end up down here for good — or rather, I should say, for bad.”

“This time?” Mrs. Twiller was cheered. “You mean I’m not really here to stay?”

Her companion gave a short laugh and turned back to gaze out of the window at his domain. “I hope to frighten you enough so that we can burn our records on you, Mrs. Twiller. What would happen if we started taking in little old ladies like you down here? In a short time we’d have frilly curtains at our windows and sweet daffodils all around our fire pits.” He swung around. “This is a last warning, dear lady. No more stealing from department stores or you’ll wind up down here, and none of us would like that now, would we?”

Mrs. Twiller’s courage had returned. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, running her hand over an emerald statuette of the god Pan. “It doesn’t seem to be that bad down here.”