I used to believe that people with plenty would have an easier time sharing.
That morning changed my mind.
I had gone into the grocery store for milk.
Nothing else.
I wasn't looking for trouble, and I certainly wasn't planning to get involved in somebody else's argument.
But I heard a woman's voice coming from the refrigerated section.
It was quiet enough that I almost missed it.
"Could you please leave one for me?"
I stopped with my hand near the milk.
There was something about the way she said it.
She wasn't demanding anything.
She sounded as though she had already asked once and was afraid of asking again.
I turned toward the end of the aisle.
Two women were standing beside a refrigerated display filled with discounted turkeys.
Or rather, it had been filled with turkeys.
One woman was removing them faster than I could understand why she needed them.
The other stood beside her holding a small shopping basket.
I noticed the older woman first.
She was tiny.
Her blue coat looked worn along the edges, and she held her basket with both hands.
There was almost nothing inside it.
She wasn't blocking the display.
She wasn't reaching across anybody.
She simply stood there watching another woman take the food she had come to buy.
The woman taking the turkeys couldn't have looked more different.
Her camel-colored coat was expensive.
Her heels made sharp little sounds against the floor whenever she shifted her feet.
Her makeup was bright and carefully applied.
And the purse hanging from her arm looked like something I would have been afraid to set down on a grocery cart.
I knew who she was.
Beatrice.
In our town, that name meant something.
Her family owned apartment buildings.
They owned car dealerships.
They also owned one of the largest homes around.
People knew their money even if they didn't know them personally.
I had recognized her before she turned her face toward me.
Her clothes were enough.
So was the way she occupied the space in front of the display.
She wasn't rushing because she was late.
She wasn't looking around to see whether anybody else needed something.
She was taking every package with a red clearance sticker.
One after another.
I glanced down at the price.
$9.99.
That number stayed with me.
It was printed in thick black figures underneath the red sticker.
The sort of price that makes somebody stop when they've been watching every dollar.
I looked at her cart.
There were already so many turkeys in it that the packages had begun to sit unevenly.
Some were stacked sideways.
Others were wedged against the metal sides.
I counted without meaning to.
More than ten.
And she was still reaching for another.
The elderly woman took one small step closer.
"Excuse me. I really do need one."
Beatrice didn't look at her.
She lifted another turkey and placed it on top of the others.
The plastic wrapping made a dull sound when it hit the pile.
I remember that sound clearly.
It wasn't loud.
But after what happened, I couldn't stop thinking about it.
The older woman's basket hung from her fingers.
She looked down into it for a moment.
Then she tried again.
"My grandson is sick."
Beatrice kept working.
"He has the flu," the grandmother continued. "I'm taking care of him by myself."
I looked at the nearly empty basket.
There was no reason for me to assume I knew anything about her life.
But she was telling us what mattered.
She had a sick child at home.
She had very little money to spend.
And she had come into the store hoping the discount would make a meal possible.
"I thought I could cook some soup," she said.
Her voice was steady, but she spoke slowly.
Like she had to make herself explain something that should have needed no explanation.
"The ones at the regular price cost close to forty dollars."
I glanced at Beatrice.
She had to be hearing every word.
We were all standing close enough.
There was no crowd between them.
No music drowning anybody out.
Just the hum from the refrigerated cases and the small noises of packages moving.
Beatrice reached down again.
"Get chicken instead."
She said it as if the answer were obvious.
The grandmother shook her head.
"The chicken costs too much too."
No anger.
No accusation.
Just a fact.
I felt my fingers tighten around the milk I had picked up.
I could have walked away.
I could have decided that two strangers arguing over groceries had nothing to do with me.
That's what I would normally have done.
I didn't enjoy confrontations.
I didn't like raising my voice in public.
And I certainly didn't like arguing with someone whose family seemed to have influence everywhere in town.
Looking back, I don't like admitting how much that last part mattered to me.
But it did.
I knew Beatrice came from money.
And for a few seconds, that made me hesitate.
The older woman looked at the display again.
There was one turkey left.
One.
I saw her notice it.
Her shoulders shifted forward slightly.
She still had her basket in one hand.
With the other, she began to reach toward the final package.
I wanted her to get it.
I remember thinking that if she could just pick it up, maybe the whole uncomfortable situation would be over.
Beatrice moved first.
Her hand closed around the turkey before the grandmother's fingers reached the wrapping.
She pulled it out of the case.
The older woman's hand stayed suspended for a moment.
Then she lowered it.
That movement bothered me more than I expected.
She didn't grab.
She didn't argue about whose hand had been closer.
She just stopped.
Beatrice lifted the last package over the edge of her cart.
The grandmother looked at it.
Then at Beatrice.
"Please," she said. "You have so many already."
Beatrice turned her head.
For the first time, she seemed to give the older woman her full attention.
But there was no kindness in it.
"Is there something you don't understand?"
The grandmother swallowed.
"I was hoping you might let me buy one."
Beatrice glanced toward the empty display.
Then back at her cart.
"I was here before you."
She set the turkey on the pile.
That was it.
The display was empty.
Every discounted turkey belonged to the woman who could probably have bought the full-price ones without checking her bank account.
The grandmother had none.
I stood there with the milk in my hand.
I was staring at the red stickers.
Twelve turkeys.
At least twelve.
All marked $9.99.
That price was the whole reason the older woman had come over.
For Beatrice, it appeared to be a reason to take everything.
I could feel myself getting angry.
Not the loud kind of anger that comes all at once.
The quiet kind that starts with disbelief.
I kept waiting for Beatrice to reconsider.
Maybe she would see the woman's face.
Maybe she would realize how little she was being asked to give up.
Maybe she'd take one turkey off the pile and put it back.
She didn't.
She placed both hands on her cart.
And the grandmother stood beside an empty refrigerated case.
There was nothing left to choose.
Nothing left to ask for.
Except mercy.
I hated that I had just thought of it that way.
A woman had come to buy groceries.
Now she was having to ask somebody richer than her for permission to purchase one package of discounted meat.
She wasn't asking for a gift.
She wasn't asking Beatrice to spend anything.
She only wanted the chance to pay the posted price.
Ten dollars.
That was all.
I looked at Beatrice again.
Her face showed no sign that she considered any of this unusual.
She seemed ready to leave.
I knew I had reached the point where keeping quiet would be a choice too.
And I wasn't proud of how long it had taken me.
I hadn't entered the store intending to challenge anyone.
But standing there watching the grandmother hold her empty basket, I made a decision.
I wasn't going to pretend I hadn't seen what happened.
Click here to continue reading: PART 2: The Grandmother Offered Her Last Ten Dollars for One Turkey, but Beatrice Made Her Feel Ashamed for Asking
I Was Only Shopping for Milk When an Elderly Woman Begged a Wealthy Stranger to Leave Her One Discounted Turkey
Part 1 of 4
