General Fiction posted November 23, 2022

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Lester St. Claire - September, 1973

A chapter in the book Some Call It Luck

Some Call It Luck

by Jim Wile

Background
A brilliant and beautiful but insecure, nerdy young woman befriends a going nowhere older alcoholic caddie. Together, they bring out the best in each other and collaborate on a startling new invention

PART I

Lester St. Claire

September, 1973
Butler, Pennsylvania

It was 3:30 in the afternoon, and my son Henry and I were unloading bags of urea-formaldehyde in back of St. Claire & Son Hardware when my eight-year-old granddaughter, Abby, came riding down the sidewalk on her bicycle, red pigtails flying in the breeze. She rode right up to the rear of the store, got off her bike, and leaned it against the side of the building. She loved to help out at the store and showed up most days for that very reason. Henry and I had started paying her a dollar each afternoon she came to help after school and two dollars on Saturdays. She rarely missed a day.

“Hi Daddy. Hi Grandpa. Unloading fertilizer, huh?”

I don’t know if she could read the words “Urea-Formaldehyde” on the cover of each bag and knew that it was a type of fertilizer or if she just knew this was fertilizer from the size and shape of these particular bags—probably both—but she was right, of course.

“So, who’s minding the store?” she asked.

“Well, I guess you are now that you’re here, Abby,” I said. “Don’t forget to put on your smock,” I reminded her.

“I won’t,” and she went inside the back door, which was propped open.

I watched her take off her sweater and put on the little kelly green smock we had made for her that was hanging on a hook in the storeroom at the rear of the store. She then headed out of the storeroom and over to the counter.

Our hardware store was small and crowded, with rows of bins and with every square inch of wall space covered with hooks containing garden tools, carpentry tools, plumbing and electrical supplies, and hundreds of other items. A few ceiling fans spread a thin layer of dust over everything. I’ve been the proprietor for over 35 years and brought my son Henry into the business when he finished high school. He and I are now partners.

On her way behind the counter, Abby passed Mrs. McCorkle, who had come in to buy a few hardware items. I stopped for a minute to witness this exchange:

“Why, hello, Abby. Wouldn’t you rather be out playing with friends on a beautiful afternoon like this instead of working in this dusty old hardware store?”

“Not really. I like working here. Do you need any help finding things, Mrs. M?”

“I think I’m all set, dear. Do you think you can call your dad or grandpa in to ring me up?”

“I can ring you up. Grandpa showed me how.”

I called Henry over to join me in spying on her. I’d seen this play out a number of times, and it never failed to amuse me.

“Well, okay I guess,” said Mrs. McCorkle doubtfully as she put her four or five items on the counter.

Abby pulled out a small stool we kept near the cash register for her to use. She was only a wee little thing and needed the extra height to work the register. She studied the items on the counter for fifteen or twenty seconds then said, “That’s going to be $8.22, Mrs. M.”

“Are you sure, dear? Perhaps you’d better ring up each item.”

“I will, but it’ll be $8.22,” she said as she began entering the price for each item on the cash register. “Needle-nose pliers, $2.45,” she said as she entered in the amount. “Two eye hooks at 9 cents each, a spool of wire for $1.49, and a search light for $3.78.” When she finished entering the price for each item and pressed the sub-total button, the register displayed $7.90.

Mrs. McCorkle looked at the register, tilted her head, and gave a kind little smile. “We all make mistakes, Abby. Don’t feel bad. You were close.”

“I haven’t applied the sales tax yet,” said Abby, matter of factly, as she pushed the sales tax button. The four-percent sales tax made the order come to exactly $8.22.

Mrs. McCorkle’s eyes popped open as her jaw dropped. “That was very impressive, young lady! I don’t think my high schooler could have done that the way you just did. And you’re only in the third grade!” she said as she reached in her purse for a $10 bill.

“I like to do calculations in my head,” Abby replied, as she made change and placed the items in a bag along with the receipt from the register. “Have a nice afternoon, Mrs. M.”

“Thank you, Abby. You too, dear.” She picked up her bag, smiled at Abby, shook her head, marveling, and left the store.

After that, Abby hopped down from the register, retrieved a broom, and began sweeping the store. It was a little dusty in there, as Mrs. McCorkle had pointed out.

I looked at Henry, who had joined me to witness this exchange. We just smiled, and I winked at him as we went back to work unloading fertilizer.

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Book of the Month contest entry

This first chapter introduces us to Abby St. Claire--one of the two main characters in the story--through the eyes of her grandpa. She is 8 years old at the beginning of the story, which will end when she is age 41.

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