aware (peterick)

8

"Hold on to these," I demand, slapping the roll of black swag onto the cash desk next to the pile of jeans, shirts and boxer shorts. The kid behind it glances up from his phone briefly, but he doesn't bat an eyelid. "We'll be back."

Patrick insisted we drive to Walmart even though it's only a few hundred yards down the road, and because you never know what tasty meals might be wandering the aisles, he also insists on gripping my bicep as tightly as possible to refrain from lunging at anyone. All without using any words; he's decided he wants to be mute again.

The least I'd managed to do without him scowling is put some decent clothes on him. My clothes, but I could care less if he contaminated them. If he'd worn that sickening, grey prison suit a minute longer, I would've gone mad.

Heck, he looks cuter in my clothes than I do...

At this time of night the store is relatively quiet. I prefer this to daytime shopping, namely because the strangest thing I'll see is an old man in flip-flops examining the Durex products in great detail before using a tube of orgasmic gel as hand sanitizer. Trust me, that's tame compared to the stories I've heard.

We turn left into the pasta aisle and Patrick tugs at my shirt. I ignore him. An elderly woman walks toward us from the other end of the aisle, her shopping basket containing nothing but Pop Tarts, tampons and a single banana. She stops a few feet away from us. I pay no mind to her and grab a packet of pasta twirls, because I'm a boring, tasteless sod. I hear Patrick whine quietly. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch the woman reach up to grab a can of Spaghetti Hoops. Then she draws her hand back.

"Is that your son?"

I look at her. She smiles sweetly at Patrick, who's hiding behind me, clutching my shirt. "Oh, no. He's my..." What am I to him, exactly? A friend? Caregiver? "Nephew," I say, protectively shielding Patrick with my arm. It's only half a lie, really. "I'm looking after him while his parents are out of town."

Satisfied, she turns back to the shelves, eyebrows furrowed, and presses her lips together, like she's struggling to remember what it was she'd meant to pick up a moment ago. Frowning, she looks back at me. "Pardon me, but your voice sounds oddly familiar."

She purses her lips and tilts her head to one side, staring at me through curious, half squinted eyes. Patrick hides his face in my shoulder and tightens his grip around my arm. Bewildered, I gape at the woman, whose neck is practically bent at a ninety-degree angle.

"That's it!" she exclaims brightly, head snapping upright. "Mr. Wentz. You're the one I spoke to about the disturbance in my apartment the other day."

"Mrs. O'Brien," I recollect, a faux smile spreading on my face. The persistent bitch I was on the phone to not too long ago. "Glad to finally meet you. What brings you to Walmart in the middle of the night?"

I pay no attention to Patrick's silent moans of protest. He'd sucked about seven blood bags dry before we left the house earlier, and although I can understand that standing in the same vicinity as two human beings is probably a tad overwhelming for his senses, I'm sure he can hold on a little longer until his next meal.

"I could ask you two the same," Mrs. Obrien chortles. "How did the investigation go?"

"Shit," I mutter. "We'd meant to call. I knocked on your door while we were up there but you didn't answer."

"Oh! No worries, I was probably sleeping like the dead!" she laughs hysterically.

"Well, you were right about the dogs," I tell her. If there were a world record for the number of white lies one person could tell another during one conversation, my name would be on the certificate. "We found several, actually, but unfortunately only one was alive. I'm afraid that's all. Nothing humanlike at all."