Bentley Little - The Store

"Thanks."

Sam nodded.

She looked tired, Shannon thought. And pale. Sick. "Are you all right?" she asked "I'm fine," Samantha snapped.

"Just asking."

"What are you going to tell Mom and Dad?"

"I'll think of something."

"Just leave me out of it."

"Okay." Shannon watched her sister turn and walk silently out of the room.

A few moments later, she heard the shower running in the bathroom. She considered telling her parents that she'd gotten a job -- she had to tell them, since she started work tomorrow -- but she didn't know what to say and needed some time to come up with a plan.

They'd freak if they knew she'd be working at The Store.

Shannon lay on her bed, reading a magazine, and after Sam finished with her shower, she waited another ten minutes for the steam to clear out of the bathroom, then went in to take her own bath.

She pulled up the metal knob that plugged the drain and began running the water, testing it first with her fingers to make sure the temperature was okay.

She undressed, opened the hamper to toss in her shirt and jeans, and saw Sam's panties lying on top of the other clothes. They were spotted with blood, and though at first Shannon thought nothing of it, she realized seconds later that her sister's period was not due for another few weeks.

Shannon paused. She thought of how worn out and sickly Sam had seemed tonight, and she considered asking her about it, seeing if anything was the matter, but she simply stared down at the bloody cotton underwear for a few moments, then threw in her own clothes, let the lid of the hamper fall, and stepped into the tub, sinking into the water.

She told her parents after her bath.

They were seated on the couch, watching TV, and she walked into the living room and stood before them. She'd considered just coming out and telling them the truth, considered easing them into the truth, but finally decided that the best course of action, the only course of action in this instance, was to lie.

"I got a job," she said.

Her mom smiled. "That's great. Where?"

"When did you find out?" her dad asked. His voice was serious, not supportive, and she detected the beginnings of a frown on his face.

"Just now."

"How?"

"They called," she told him.

"I didn't hear the phone ring."

"It rang. I answered it. I got the job."

"Where?" her mom repeated.

"Yes," her dad said. "Where?"

Was that suspicion she saw on his features? She swallowed hard, tried to smile. "George's," she lied. "The hamburger stand."

Mr. Lamb was waiting for her the next morning by the Customer Service desk. She'd carpooled in with Sam, and she was a half hour early for her appointment, but Mr. Lamb was waiting for her anyway, and he smiled as he shook her hand. His skin was cool to the touch, his smile cold, and she wished Sam had stayed with her as the personnel manager began giving her a brief description of her duties. He paused in his prepared speech, as if reading her mind. "Yes," he said. "You're very lucky to have a sister like Samantha. She's quite a woman."

His smile broadened. "Quite a woman."

Shannon felt chilled. She should've listened to Sam and her parents, she thought. She should not have applied for a job here.

This was a mistake.

Suddenly, a summer of lying on her bed, reading magazines and listening to the radio, seemed pleasant rather than boring, seemed like what she should be doing with her time, and for a brief second she considered turning down the job, quitting, getting out of here.

But Mr. Lamb was now leading her out of the Customer Service area, taking her on a tour of The Store, and it was too late. The chance had passed.

Too late?

Why was it too late?

She didn't know, but it was, and she followed him down the aisles, through the departments, as he explained the layout and operation of The Store.

Her panic passed, her uneasiness disappearing as quickly as it had come.

Mr. Lamb showed her the break room, the locker room, took her through a stockroom, led her into a room lined with video screens in which Jake and his fellow security men monitored the building.

Jake, thank God, wasn't there.

She wondered what she'd do if she ran into Jake in the break room or something. How would she handle it? She tried to tell herself that the fact that Jake worked at The Store was another reason that she shouldn't have applied here, but she knew deep down that he was one of the reasons she had. Despite what she told people, despite what she pretended, somewhere in the back of her mind was the thought that they might get back together again.

Mr. Lamb was definitely a weirdo, but the initial chill she'd felt in his presence was gone, and the deeper into the building they went -- Mr. Lamb introducing her to other, smiling employees along the way -- the more comfortable she felt about The Store. She could work in this place. She could fit in here.

They took a small elevator downstairs, to a concrete-lined hallway that looked like a bunker, and he showed her a conference room and a training room and then stopped before an arched doorway with gilt-edged trim.

"Here," he said, "is the chapel."

Shannon glanced through the doorway, into the room. For a brief second, the coldness returned. Pews were arranged in rows, scented candles burned in twin alcoves in the side walls, but instead of a pulpit or altar at the front of the chapel there was a huge portrait of Newman King, lined with red velvet.

"This is where the department managers hold their meetings each morning.

Before the store opens, they pray to Mr. King that we will have a profitable day." Pray to Mr. King?

She'd seen The Store's founder on TV, on the news, and while he was obviously a rich and powerful man, he was not a god, and the idea that the man or woman she'd be working under came in here each morning and ritualistically prayed to the painting of a millionaire creeped her out.

Then they were moving on, back into the elevator, back onto what Mr. Lamb called The Floor, and shoppers and browsers were roaming the aisles, sitting in the sushi and espresso bars, and Shannon was thinking how lucky she was to have been hired by The Store.

"That's it for now," Mr. Lamb said. "There'll be a week's worth of training classes -- how to work the cash registers, handle customers and the like -- then there'll be a two-week probation period, then you'll be in." He handed her a photocopied schedule of training classes. "Your first class is tonight, in the downstairs training room. Be there or be square."

"Uh, thank you," she said.

He grinned. "Thank your sister." He looked her over, starting at her feet, moving up to her hair, then nodded, satisfied. "I think you'll be a model Store employee."

"I'll try," she said.

He started to walk back behind the Customer Service counter, then stopped and turned at the last minute. "A word of advice?" he said. "Lose the baby fat.

You're a little chubby. We don't like to have fat bitches working for The Store.

Not a good public image."

He smiled, waved, then stepped behind the counter and disappeared into an office.

Fat bitches?

She was shocked, not sure how to respond, not sure even what she felt. It had been said so offhandedly, so casually, that she was not even sure she'd heard him correctly.

No. She knew she had.

It was an unprofessional thing to say. That was her first response. A person in a position of authority shouldn't talk like that, shouldn't use words like that.

Her second response was to walk over to Women's Clothing and find a mirror.

Baby fat.

Chubby.

Was she really overweight? He'd zeroed in on that, offered it without being asked, practically ordered her to lose weight if she wanted to keep this job, so obviously it wasn't just a matter of her being paranoid, wasn't just a matter of perception. She had a problem.