I choose six tins of raisins and one of figs, a barrel of flour because it’s what I can afford, another of sugar, three bolts of calico, for spring will be here if we live long enough, and four bottles of vanilla. I need coffee beans and brown sugar, cream of tartar, and rubbed sage. I choose a jar of licorice sticks, needles, pins, and tobacco, but I must turn down oranges and bananas, grated coconut and cheese. The store has a case for cooling things, and years ago I kept wedges of cheese, fresh-killed chickens, and smoked pork, but I unplugged it long ago. I take eight bundles of batting—four for myself—and go into the kitchen and take out Phelps’ twenty and another ten against my account. When Will’m comes home, he can restock the shelves. On Saturday, when he gets back from Dooby’s, I’ll send him to the barn to unwrap the batting and beat it with a stick to make it light. Then I’ll put together the quiltie that’s now just a shell. It’s folded on the foot of my bed—a wedding-ring pattern in silver and gray.
