Welcome to Walmart!

I found out that I was conceived out of wedlock in the Navasota Walmart parking lot. Well, the actual conception event did not happen there. But for some reason, my mother decided that this was the time and place to reveal this history to me. It was the day before Thanksgiving, and we were standing behind a muddy white Ford F-350 that stunk of manure. I could only imagine the shopping list my mother was rooting for in her giant bag:

Walmart:

• Laundry Detergent
• Paper Turkey centerpiece and matching napkins
• Tell firstborn daughter that she was truly a bastard
• Antiperspirant
• Hemorrhoid cream
• Trash bags.

“Your dad and I got drunk and three months later, I realized I was pregnant with you. So, we got married then, not the year before, like you think.” She rearranged her purse straps. “I hope they are not out of those turkeys. Alice had one at her house last year and it looked so cute on the table.”

Only my mother would think a 3-D paper turkey was a sophisticated Thanksgiving centerpiece. She did, after all, hate fresh flowers.

“Janie, I am just telling you this now, so when you see the gravestone for your father, you won’t think I got the date wrong. Your sister just insisted I include our wedding date on there.” She started digging in her purse again.  “I wanted to tell you last year. You were a year too early for the thirty-fifth anniversary party.”

“Why didn’t you tell me then?” Wait, did that mean Lisa already knew?

“I didn’t want to you to get all upset. And with your own marriage problems, we didn’t see the need to bother you more. “ Mom finally found her list and waved it like a fan in front of her face. 

The Ford’s horn let us know that the driver was ready to go get more manure and that if we didn’t get moving, my life would fittingly, end in the Walmart parking lot. 

Mom started to the entrance of the store, probably getting ready to be miffed that the retired shop teacher that greeted shoppers wasn’t quite quick enough with the shopping buggy. She had no clue that telling her daughter that she was the product of a night of binge drinking wasn’t something you did in a parking lot. It was difficult to be that inappropriate and yet, at the same time, be hyper-concerned with what everyone thought of you. It was the dichotomy that defined Maura Kean’s life, and therefore Jane’s as well. 

When I walked into the store, Mom was already inspecting the front display of Thanksgiving necessities. She did not have a reason in the world to buy another Swiffer, but if I said one word against it, the latest wet/scrub iteration would be sitting regally in the cart. 

“Have you tried these yet? With the dog and all, it could really help you keep the house clean.”

“I do fine with a regular mom, Mom.” I looked around to see if the coveted turkeys were on this display.

“I was just saying it would be easier. Mops are so messy.”

Cleaning is a messy business. It had been a while since I had been in this particular Walmart, but I think every Walmart in the country gets a map or schematic that lets the manager ensure that every one looks the same.

Mom started pushing the cart and perusing the rest of the display. “I am really disappointed that Scott would be joining us for Thanksgiving.” She picked up a bottle of toilet cleaner. “I’ll miss his compliments. You never say anything nice about my cooking.”

There was a reason for that. “Mom, if you wanted Scott to come, you could have invited him.”

“No, that’s okay, you would just make a big deal about it.” She pushed the buggy into the women’s wear section.

“What? Make a big deal about you inviting my ex-husband to Thanksgiving dinner? What would you think I would do that?” I am not sure why I said that. Mom did not speak fluent sarcasm. 

“It’s not too late, I could call…”

“Absolutely not, unless you want me to leave.” I stared at her. I was pretty sure that he wouldn’t come, he was probably going to be at his new girlfriend’s family home for the holiday.

Mom shrugged and picked up a blouse from the rack. “Maybe if you wore things that were more feminine, like this? All you wear are track suits.”

I was about to say that I worked for a sports team, we all wore track suits, but that was no longer the case. Scott seemed to be able to get me fired as part of the divorce.  “Scott did not divorce me because of how I dressed.”

“You could have tried harder.” She help up a red satin blouse that reflected the fluorescent lights. Hideous.

“So could he.” It couldn’t have been that hard to not get the nineteen year old receptionist pregnant.  

Mom pushed the cart and started toward the back of the store. Other shoppers may have well been invisible as she slalomed down the aisles. She shrieked with delight when she reached the Thanksgiving end cap. 

“See, I told you the penny I found yesterday was good luck. One left!” She held up her prize, a turkey made from honey-combed paper. When the plastic was removed, the two cardboard backs would swing about and fasten into a three-dimensional turkey. According to the picture on the wrapping, he would be holding a cornucopia and wearing the stereotypical black Pilgrim hat. Because nothing said Thanksgiving than this gratefully smug turkey. I was so glad my sister was coming with her family and I would not have to navigate Mom’s first holiday without Dad alone.

When I first got to Mom’s house yesterday, I was treated to a twenty minutes lament about the unfairness of life, the bad luck she suffered and all that she had lost that year. What could she possibly be thankful for? Not only had she lost her husband, but she lost her beloved son-in-law as well.  At my rehearsal dinner she toasted Scott, saying that if anything went wrong with our marriage, she was keeping him. I only recently realized she wasn’t joking. 

Once the turkey was secured, we started looking at the paper plates and napkins. For some reason, Mom thought that the late evening turkey sandwich tasted best on a paper plate, preferably one with a cute turkey face, or a cornucopia. Not that she could pronounce cornucopia, but the “ice cream cone basket full of gourds” on a paper plate would be okay.

“Maura! Ready for Thanksgiving yet?” A short woman with blue gray hair pushed her cart next to ours. “And is this your daughter? Where are the grandkids?” She looked around, as if we were hiding them under the shopping cart. 

Mom gave the woman a hug. “No, Lisa is the daughter who has given me my grandchildren.”

“Oh, this must be your other daughter.” Maybe I was just imagining it, but she gave a loud sniff. The “other” daughter. As if the only reason I did not have kids was to deprive her of more grandchildren.

“Hi, I’m Jane.” I held out my hand, and she briefly held my fingers in a weird imitation of a handshake. 

“Right, you are the one we are praying for.” She looked at mom and nodded with her lips pressed tightly together. “I thought you said she was having Thanksgiving with her husband’s family, Maura?”

“I thought so, but this is the first holiday without Gerald. Jane was always a Daddy’s girl. I told her Lisa and I would be fine and she should be with her husband.”

Hi mom, you know I am standing right here?  

“Well, my Brady is home with his wife and their six, and Julie will be in later with her crew. She is expecting her fourth in February.” The woman looked at me again. “You and Julie were the same year, right?”

It came to me, this was Julie Hershel’s mother. Julie was the head cheerleader. I played soccer. We were definitely not ever friends. “Yes, Mrs. Hershel.”

Mrs. Hershel took my mother’s hand and gave it a pat. “Well, you enjoy your family and have a happy Thanksgiving.” She pushed her cart and headed towards the Christmas decoration. 

“God, I hate that woman.” Mom said, pushing our cart in the other direction. Who knew we would find something to agree about? 

She stopped in the aisle.  “I need to look at purses.” It was a short lived agreement. 

“Mom, we don’t need to stop in the purse section. The pilgrims did not express their gratitude with a new handbag.”

“I need a new black bag to go with my black pumps. All the others are too big. I want a smaller one, like yours.”

I had a black leather fanny pack slung over my shoulder. “I don’t think this is big enough for all the …stuff you carry around. You have medicines, a huge wallet, a photo book, lipstick, tissues, bingo dappers, dog biscuits,…”

“Isn’t this one nice? I think it will hold everything. Look at these little side pockets.”

I took the black pleather bag and turned it over in my hands. At least Walmart did price it like they were proud of it. 

She ended up buying three purses that afternoon. The small black bag, a fanny pack like mine, and a bright orange straw tote that looked like it belonged more at a beach than in a blue Walmart cart full of paper Thanksgiving decorations.