Chicken, New England Pot Roast and French Bread Pizza.
I whirled on her. “God damn it, Heather,” I cried, “I’m about one inch off filing a restraining order against your crazy ass!”
Heather Dillard, ex-wife of a guy I dated precisely twice, three years ago, gripped the handle of her cart and prepared for another assault. I didn’t see her for long periods of time—then, with no warning, she’d pop up out of nowhere, bent on avenging a whole slew of imagined wrongs. I’d caught her letting the air out of my tires once, and another time she’d waltzed into the bar and told Bert she was an old friend of mine, planning a surprise birthday party, and would he please, pretty-please, give her the key to my apartment?
Fortunately, he’d refused, but here’s the creepy part. It was my birthday, so she’d taken the trouble to find that out, along with God knew what other personal details.
And she’d sent me a present, too.
Three dead birds in a shoebox, tied up with a bow.
“You’re seeing Brian again,” she accused, knuckles whitening on the cart handle. Her nostrils flared, and her spiky hair—blond that week—stuck out all over her head, as if she’d gotten drunk and cut it herself, with a dull razor blade. Her pupils had white all around, like that bride in the news a couple of years ago, the one who skipped out on her wedding, stirred up a media frenzy and had a conglomeration of local, state and federal agencies frantically searching for her.
I sighed. “I’m not seeing Brian,” I said. My dead ex-husband and my murdered cat, yes. Brian, no.
“Of course you’d deny it,” Heather challenged, but she looked uncertain, and that gave me a moment’s hope that she might actually be reasonable. Which begged the question—who was crazy here, her or me?
“When something isn’t true, I deny it. Go figure.” I threw a couple of Yankee Pot Roast dinners into my cart, just to let her know I wasn’t scared.
“We have four children,” she said.
Two old ladies shopping for Stouffer’s backed off, and a manager appeared at the far end of the aisle, looking worried. I might have been reassured, if he hadn’t been about sixteen and roughly the same weight as Chester.
“I’m happy for you,” I replied, “and sorry for them. You need help, Heather. And you need to get away from me—and stay away from me—before I have you arrested.”
Her lower lip wobbled. It looked cracked and dry, as though she’d bitten it a lot. I felt a twinge of pity, but it passed quickly when her cart clanged against mine and one of the wheels ran over my toe.
“Bitch!” she screeched. “Homewrecker! Tramp!”
That did it.
I went after her. Right for her throat. I probably would have strangled her if two box boys and one of the old ladies hadn’t intervened. She must have been up on her Fosomax, that ancient shopper, because she dived straight into the fray, with no evident concern for broken bones.
“Somebody get security!” one of the box boys yelled.
A rent-a-cop appeared, overweight, his uniform shirt speckled with white powder, most likely doughnut residue.
“Did anybody see what happened?” he huffed.
“I did,” said the old lady, stepping between Heather and me.
I shook free of box boy #1.
Heather struggled in the grasp of #2.
“What?” asked the security guard—Marvin, according to his name tag—dusting off his shirt with one hand.
“This one,” answered the geriatric she-hero, pointing to Heather, “was harassing that one.” The arthritic finger moved to me.
“You’ve got that right,” I said huffily, tugging at the hem of my Be a Bad-Ass at Bert’s T-shirt. “It’s a fine thing when a person can’t even shop for frozen dinners without being attacked by some maniac. I’ve got a good mind to take my business elsewhere after this.”
Marvin and the box boys looked hopeful.
Heather started to cry. “She stole my husband,” she said, with more lip wobbling.
Marvin, the box boys and the old lady studied me thoughtfully.
“She’s nuts,” I said. “Certifiable. Over the edge. And furthermore, her husband is a jerk.”
“One of these days,” Heather said, “I am going to kill you.”
Public opinion swung in my direction.
“I rest my case,” I said.
“Did you steal her husband?” the old lady wanted to know.
“No,” I replied, ready to wheel into the sunset with my frozen dinners and what was left of my dignity. “And if I had, I’d have given him back.”
With that, I pushed my shopping cart between them and headed for the checkout stand. I didn’t start shaking until I was safe in my secondhand Volvo, with the windows rolled up and the doors locked.
Back at Bad-Ass Bert’s, I carried my groceries inside. Eight frozen dinners, a litter box and a bag of absorbent pellets.
“I wasn’t sure,” I told Chester, who was waiting for me when I lugged the stuff through the door. “About the litter, I mean.”
Chester sniffed the bag curiously.
“Of course,” I reasoned, because I needed to hear a voice, even if it was my own, “if you don’t eat, it follows that you don’t poop, either.”
“Meow,” Chester said.
“Thanks for hanging out,” I answered.
“I wish you felt that way about me,” Nick said.
I swung around to see him standing next to my bookshelf, which was beside the computer, where I kept my sizeable collection of Damn Fool’s Guides. Unfortunately, there wasn’t one dealing with dead people—trust me, I’d looked the day before, when I stopped to get the Tarot tome, but Near Death Experiences was the closest thing—or crazy female stalkers, either.
“Now what?” I demanded, letting the kitty litter and the plastic box topple to the floor. I clutched the bag full of Lean Cuisines to my chest, like a shield.
Nick was perusing titles. “The Damn Fool’s Guide to Dating,” he mused, running a finger along the spines. “Tantric Sex. Raising Ferrets.” He paused, looked me over closely, and with compassionate concern. “Ferrets?”
“It was a passing fancy,” I said, and started for the kitchen.
He followed, of course, and so did the cat.
“Tantric Sex?” Nick pressed.
“I’m single and over twenty-one,” I reminded him, jerking open the freezer section of the refrigerator
