Chasing Lilacs by Carla Stewart

started into the store.
    “Hey, what’s your rush?” Cly asked.
    “No rush. Just came for a Coke. Nice seeing you.” A tinny bell jangled when I entered the store. It felt like entering a cave.
     Two measly lights dangled from the ceiling. Willy leaned over the candy counter, his smooth, shiny head bobbing as he counted
     to himself, “Four Snickers, six Valomilks, five Slo Pokes.”
    I let my eyes adjust to the darkness and piddled around among the narrow rows. Six aisles times two made twelve rows. Four
     shelves each. Forty-eight wooden planks packed with vegetable cans, sardines, Epsom salts, dog chow, Windex, magazines. I
     studied items until I had practically the whole store memorized by the time Tuwana came in.
    “Hurry up. Let’s get our drinks. Cly’s waiting. Wants us to shoot baskets. I know how you love to play basketball.” She put
     her hand on my elbow, steering me back to the Coke cooler.
    “Actually, I thought I’d write an article about Willy for the
Dandelion Times
.”
    Tuwana looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “I thought we’d quit doing that ding-dong paper.”
    “Maybe you have. Not me.”
    “What’s gotten into you? I, for one, would prefer to play basketball than hang around here.”
    “You go on ahead. I’ll catch up later.”
    “What’s wrong? Are you afraid I’ll get mad if you flirt with Cly?”
    “No, I’m not afraid you’ll get mad.” I told her I didn’t feel like playing basketball, but that she should go on and have
     fun. I didn’t tell her about the pounding in my chest when I saw Cly pop out the door. Or about that business with Daddy.
    Tuwana pranced off.
    “Say, Willy, what would you think about me writing an article about you and the grocery business for my newspaper?”
    He puffed out his chest. “That would be quite an honor. Give me a couple minutes to finish this inventory.”
    I picked up a Big Chief tablet from aisle two for taking notes and went to the cash register.
    Willy took the change I’d plunked on the counter and said, “Now, what was it you wanted to know?”
    I went straight home when I got through interviewing Willy. Our own vegetable and fruit cocktail cans, the cocoa tin, boxes
     of macaroni, practically everything from our cupboard covered the kitchen counter. Mama stood on a chair emptying the top
     shelf.
    “Cleaning out the cabinets, Mama?”
    “Yes… no, but it’s got to be in here somewhere. Did you and Daddy move things around?” Her eyebrows puckered together.
    “Nope, though they might have jumbled up when we hunted for the ranch beans or the canned tuna.”
    “It’s Patch. I haven’t seen him since we got home. Went to the back door and yelled for him. I thought if I put some Alpo
     out, he might come.” She stood on tiptoe, reaching as far back as she could. “The problem is I can’t find any of his food.”
    “Mama, are you okay?”
    “Certainly. Never better.” She stepped off the chair and rummaged through all the things on the counter, checking each label.
    My stomach went queasy. She looked okay. Lots of energy.
But, Patch?
    “Mama, are you talking about our terrier, Patch?”
    “Good heavens, what other Patch would I be talking about? How many dogs named Patch do you know?”
    “Uh, none. There could never be another Patch.”
    “Well, he’s out of food. Would you run down to Willy’s and get some?”
    “Mama.” I touched my fingers lightly on her arm. “Don’t you remember Patch got hit by the school bus when I was in third grade?
     He followed me out of the house, and when…” I took a deep breath. “When the bus started rolling, he got under the tire. How
     could you forget that?” A lump formed in my throat.
    “Well, that explains it then.” Her face went blank and smooth as if a rag had washed over it.
    “How could you forget about Patch?”
    “I didn’t forget about him. I wouldn’t be looking for his food if I had forgotten him, now would I?”
    “That’s not what I