Short Story

COMPULSION

by

Mary McCluskey
 

The first time Kate was arrested the policeman handcuffed her to a radiator at the back of the Berkeley bookstore. He was a heavy cop with a smooth, shaved head and pale, porcine eyes. Kate was sick with fear. Men had always responded warmly to her, liking her soft curves, her pearly skin. This man's big face was cold with contempt.

"I was going to bring them back," she whispered. "I just borrowed them for a class."

He stared at her, then gave a loud, ugly laugh. She was not allowed to call her parents until she'd been booked into the Berkeley jail. When they arrived from Los Angeles, their backs stiff with shame, Kate was curled into a corner of the cell, sobbing.

~~

In Nordstrom, twenty-three years later, she is tapped on the shoulder by a boy younger than her son, then escorted to the manager's office. The manager is nervous and he lowers his thick lashes when he asks to see her ID, as if asking for something intimate, inappropriate. Then he turns to his computer.

Kate swallows. This is new. As he scrutinizes the screen, then types something into the computer, fear knots her chest. Her name is now accessible to every major store in the city. The next time she is caught she will be arrested and booked. No question.

"Is that legal?" she asks. "Storing information on someone who hasn't even been charged?"

"You want to call your husband?" he replies, with a tiny smile. "Or a lawyer?"

"My husband is a lawyer," Kate says.

The manager blinks rapidly, the smile vanishes. The young Hispanic guy, the one who had escorted her from the jewellery department, leans against the door and makes a small groaning sound.

"He'll get mad if I call him," Kate says. "At me. Or you guys. He'll make a big fuss about wrongful arrest."

They understand her. She knows they haven't called the police yet. She is carrying three hundred dollars in cash, eight credit cards, including a Platinum American Express and their own Nordstrom Valued Customer Card. She wears an emerald cabochon ring, an anniversary gift from her husband. The diamond studs in her ears are one caret each. She is easily able to pay for the Liz Claiborne scarf she was seen to stuff into her purse. And the hard plastic earrings, in the shape of sunflowers. Kate knows the thing that disturbs them most is that there are two items, from two separate counters. But she always steals two items. That's one of her rules. It has to be two items from the same floor of the same store. But they want to let her go. They don't want trouble.

"Perhaps if I pay for these things now? " she asks.

When she reaches her car, Kate is shaking so badly she cannot get the key in the car door. She stands quite still, taking deep, gulping breaths, willing herself to calm down. That was too close.

They had almost called Ben. The thought makes her light-headed. Her husband is a man of principle and firm opinions. A strong man, which is why she fell in love with him. He seemed the type of man who would take care of her. And he has. But his view of the law is simple and punitive. He thinks that teenage gang members who kill should be given the electric chair, that fourteen-year-old thieves should be tried as adults. Only yesterday they had disagreed over a kid arrested for stealing a six-pack in a 7-Eleven.

"It was an initiation thing," Kate had said. "His mother's a crackhead. He wants to be part of the gang. He wants a family."

Ben had given her that eye-rolling, what do you know, look.

"He's probably been unhappy and hungry all of his life," Kate said.

"Nobody's hungry in this country, " Ben snapped. He actually believed it. "You heard of food stamps?"

Kate remembered some of the scrawny kids from a trailer park near her junior high school. They had free lunches. For many, that was the only food they had. She imagined some of those kids were hungry at the end of the day.

When she first met Ben, he was a law student at Boalt Hall. She was studying comparative literature and passionately involved in a course on Writing and Madness. She would quote Rimbaud, Breton, Artaud, Foucault. He teased her constantly for taking this "foreign" literature seriously. He made her feel stupid for liking it, stupid for understanding it. An irony that did not occur to her until much later.

There are some things, she now admits, that Ben does not understand. Things that are grey, with edges that are undefined, confuse him. He would not understand what had happened today in Nordstrom.

In the newly decorated bedroom of her immaculate suburban home, Kate places the earrings and scarf in the locked trunk with the other shoplifted items. There are hundreds of them now. She can't remember exactly when it began. It was soon after Chloe and Nick left for college, when she quit her job at the advertising company. When she became, as Ben describes her, a lady of leisure.

"We can afford it, sweetheart. Do charity work or something. No need for you to bust your ass in advertising."

It started at her local supermarket: she stole a chocolate bar at the counter. A week later she took a magazine. It grew to two items a week. Like a monster, it made its own rules. The rule now is: two items a week, by Friday at three in the afternoon. The items have to be from the same store, on the same floor, and they have to be different. Two scarves, for example, won't do. Today's items, the pretty scarf, the silly earrings, don't qualify because she has paid for them. The problem now is that she is behind. She is two items behind. And it is already Thursday. Tomorrow then. Glendale Galleria.

~~

"Meet me for lunch tomorrow?" Ben asks, as they have dinner. "That client we met in Palm Springs. John Stanton? He's in town with his wife. "

Kate stares. "Tomorrow?" she repeats. "Where?"

"Bistro Gardens."

He studies her expression. "Busy day?" he asks. "Hair appointment?"

She laughs. There is a strange pride in the way he teases her about her empty, frivolous days. He is the sole breadwinner now.

"No problem. Bistro gardens," she says.

But Kate is seething. That means the Galleria is out. That means it has to be the Westside Pavilion again. She was there last week, when that middle-aged businessman followed her around. She knew he was security. She was carrying her Nordstrom bag; she always carries a bag from a department store in the mall, with a number of purchased items inside it. A basic rule. And she was dressed well and carrying a good quality purse. Her new one is Lauren, black linen, full of expensive clues to background and breeding. Intimidation. The guy hadn't been intimidated though. He'd stayed close.

~~~

At the Westside Pavilion the following day, Kate avoids Macy's, too many close calls there, and heads to Robinson-May. A lanky kid in sweats shoots up from nowhere. He is behind her as she enters the store. He is still there at the jewellery counter. She knows he is security. She has learned to spot them. Kate avoids looking at him. She idly picks up a scarf, replaces it, studies earrings, bracelets, tries one of them on her wrist, then puts it back. He is standing quite close, to her left.

When she takes the escalator, he is four people behind her. Lingerie will smoke him out, she knows that. It's worked well before. Even security guards don't like to follow into the red satin thongs and French bra department. But he's behind her. She can feel him. She glances at her watch and catches her breath. She is almost out of time. She has to be at the Bistro Gardens in half an hour.

"May I help you ma'am?" asks a salesgirl. She is a sweet Barbie doll of a girl, about Chloe's age. Security kid must have alerted her.

"Just looking," Kate smiles, panic starting in her chest, heart pounding. She is not going to be able to do it. The kid stands only ten yards away, and he is watching her openly. She meets his gaze, then smiles a tremulous smile.

"Hi," she says. He turns away.

~~~

She is ten minutes late to the restaurant and Kate is damp with fear. It is Friday and already 1:30 p.m. It will have to be items from the restaurant: knives, forks, saltshakers. She has done it before. It is awkward though and this is her husband's client.

John Stanton and his wife, Barbara, are already seated at the table, sipping aperitifs. Barbara has the kind of drink no one orders in LA anymore: a martini, straight up, with an olive. His looks like a scotch. Ben regards her with some disapproval.

"Sorry," she says. "Traffic."

She shakes hands, smiles graciously, but she is starting to tremble. She is running out of time. It will soon be too late.

Barbara Stanton has the perfectly manicured and coifed look of the Palm Springs matron. A generation ago her type of woman would have had blue hair. Her hair is streaked, blonde, her chin tucked, her skin spa-pampered. She smiles a white wide smile.

"Charmed to meet you," she says. The men talk business, the women, children. The competition is equally fierce on both ends of the table.

"Your daughter's at Brown?" asks Barbara.

"Yes. Chloe's choice. And Nick's at Duke. As far away from home as they could get! You have two sons?"

"Yes. Both Harvard," says Barbara, her smile victorious.

They exchange photographs, making admiring noises. "Chloe looks just like you," Barbara says.

Kate cannot see it. Her bright, lovely daughter, Chloe: so confident, so creative. She is amazed that she produced these children. The gene pool had obviously sucked more from Ben's side during their formation; all the classy traits from his patrician Pasadena family are visible. Her own working class genes are not in evidence.

Kate lifts the fish knife, turns it over, and places her hand over it. The waiter appears with salad, and takes the knife away with a swift, smooth stroke. Too late. They are too efficient here. She looks at the dessert spoons. Possibly, possibly. She is sweating. Her blouse is sticking to her back and she can feel her hair, damp, curling against her neck. Her heart is starting to pound, a hard nauseating pounding. Panic attacks, her therapist, Martha Kim, calls them.

"Terrifying but temporary," she had said to Kate when they first began.

"I think I'm going to die; that's how it feels."

Kate has not told Martha, of course, the reason for these attacks. The stealing, the rigid rules about the stealing, is something she has never shared with anyone. When the waiter asks about dessert, Kate pretends an interest only to keep the silverware on the table. She studies the menu: chocolate mousse, creme caramel. She looks up and suddenly, the waiter is there and the silverware is gone. The table is bare. Kate looks at him. "Decided?" he asks, smiling.

"Oh, nothing. Thank you." She knows her mouth is trembling. "Excuse me."

In the ladies room, she stands at the sink, fighting the nausea. It is fifteen minutes to three. It would be awful to vomit, she hates that. She splashes cold water on her face. She is ashen, her eyes wide with fear. In the mirror suddenly she sees Barbara Stanton's face.

"You okay, honey?" Barbara asks. "You turned so white in there."

"Fine, fine, thank you," Kate says weakly.

"You're not pregnant, are you?"

"Lord no. No. Too old for that. Menopause more likely."

"Is that it? You look so young."

Kate continues staring into the mirror as Barbara disappears into the stall. Barbara has left her purse on the counter. Kate takes a breath, listens, every nerve ending on red alert. The purse is soft kid leather, black with a silver snap clasp. Kate opens it.

"You get the flashes too?" calls Barbara.

"Hmm. Yes. Sometimes."

"St. John's Wort, dear. Try it. Better than estrogen. Works like a charm. More natural." Kate is not listening. She's staring into the bag. A lipstick. Estee Lauder. She recognizes the casing. She takes it. And…what else? Fuck! What else? The bag is a mess. The toilet flushes. Kate grabs a tiny leather purse. It is tight in her fist when Barbara comes out of the stall and begins to rinse her hands. She smiles at Kate.

Kate catches sight of herself in the mirror: her eyes are round, sparked with fear. She has realized that the tiny purse, curled in her palm, surrounds sharp metal. Something is protruding. Car keys. Oh shit. They will turn the place upside down. Barbara must have driven here. Must have parked her car outside. They'll search the place. Kate drops them on the floor.

"Oh," she says, her voice high. "You dropped something. That yours?"

Barbara still has her hands under the faucet. She looks at Kate, then glances at her bag. It has slid onto its side; it is half-open. Barbara slowly dries her hands, then stoops down to pick up the little purse containing the car keys. She looks into her bag, thinks for a second, running her finger along her lower lip. Then she turns to Kate. She studies Kate for a long moment. There is no censure in her look, only sympathy.

"You need help, my dear," Barbara says finally. "Do you understand that?"

For just a moment, Kate hesitates; it would be so easy to say, yes. Yes, I do. As she has not been able to say to Martha Kim, or ever to her husband. But she shakes her head. "What do you mean?"

"Does your husband know about this?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"He should. He could help you to find counseling. Before it becomes," there is a pause while she thinks of the right word. "Public." She snaps her bag closed, looks hard at Kate. "Someone should mention it to him," she says quietly, and walks out of the room.

Kate stands still for five minutes trying to curb the shaking, fumbling in her bag for valium. She finds only Tylenol and takes three of those. Anything will do, anything. When she walks back into the restaurant, only Ben sits there.

"The Stantons leave?" she asks.

"Sure did. That crazy woman said you took her car keys. And a lipstick."

He stares at her, astounded.

"Sends John off to the bar for cigarettes for Christ's sake, then starts whispering to me. Shit. Can you believe that woman? I told her, Barbara or whatever you're called, my wife can buy any car in this city twenty times over and her own lipstick factory if she wants."

He shakes his head. "She left you her card."

Ben picks up a business card, tears it in half and throws it onto the tiny saucer holding the candle. "You don't want it, do you?"

Kate looks at it in the saucer, shakes her head. "No. No. "

She is barely listening. All she can think is that it is two minutes to three and she has only the lipstick. Only the lipstick. She's an item short. She is one fucking item short. She lifts the napkin as if to wipe her mouth, but the waiter is beside her, holding her chair, helping her up. The napkin has to go back on the table.

On the way to the door Kate begins to shake. She can feel the shaking from her knees right up to her hair. Hard, strong shaking, so that her head trembles on her neck. Fast, impulsively, she lifts a small vase from a table near the bar. It contains daisies. Kate sniffs them. She does not look at anyone. Staring straight ahead, she puts the whole thing into her bag. Vase, water, flowers, everything. And keeps walking. She begins to breathe again. The trembling slows.

It is then Kate notices that her skirt is damp. She pauses. Water drips from her soft linen bag onto the carpeting, onto her shoes. Kate thinks of the mess inside her purse. She imagines her wet driver's license, her sodden checkbook, the photographs of her children, the letter from Chloe, all destroyed by the water from a vase in her purse. It is lunacy. Kate stops.

"Ben," she calls, and he turns. He is holding the door for her. "Wait. Hold this."

She hands Ben the bag. She does not want to drip all the way back through the restaurant. He frowns.

"What the fuck is this? You dump this thing in the john?"

"I forgot something," she says.

Kate walks swiftly back to the table, praying it will still be there. The two pieces of card are curling in the saucer. She places them together. Barbara Anne Stanton. A Palm Springs address and phone number. Well, why not? A start. Maybe a friend.

When she gets outside Ben is pacing the pavement. He holds her purse in front of him, at arms length, so that it does not drip on his suit. He stares at her perplexed.

"What's going on?" he asks.

She shrugs, meets his eyes. His frown is deepening, fear and worry are on his face but the anger has gone.

"Is there some kind of problem with you, Kate?"

Kate slides Barbara Stanton's card into her pocket so that it is safe and dry then reaches for her dripping purse.

"No. I'm fine," she says. "I think I'll be fine."



####

Mary McCluskey is a British journalist who alternates between Los Angeles, California and a small Shropshire village in the UK.

Her work has appeared in a number of publications, including Zoestrope's ALL STORY EXTRA, LINNAEAN STREET, The PAMAUNOK REVIEW, EXQUISITE CORPSE, SALON and ATLANTIC UNBOUND.

She has just completed a novel White Nights, and is working on another.

She is an Associate & Contributing Editor of LITERARY POTPOURRI and can be reached at:mary.mccluskey1@btinternet.com