A Wealthy Woman Refused to Leave a Single Turkey for a Grandma’s Sick Grandson, but Minutes Later, She Regretted It
Hattie’s Rule
I was reaching for a gallon of milk when I heard an elderly woman say, “Please. I only need one.”
It was the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. Six-forty in the evening. The Shop-Rite on Commerce Street in Millbrook, Pennsylvania, was packed the way grocery stores only get packed the week of a holiday. Carts jammed in every aisle. Kids crying. Somebody’s toddler screaming about Lucky Charms. A teenage cashier on register four calling for a price check on cranberry sauce for the third time.
I’d come straight from work. Twelve hours at the hospital. I’m a respiratory therapist at Millbrook General. I was still in my scrubs. Navy blue. My feet hurt. My back hurt. I wanted milk, eggs, and a bag of frozen pierogies for dinner, and then I wanted my couch.
I had my hand on the refrigerator door.
Please. I only need one.
I turned around.
At the end of the refrigerated aisle, by the meat case, a woman was loading turkeys into her shopping cart.
Fast. One after another. Like she was racing somebody.
She was maybe fifty. Tall. Thin. Expensive blonde highlights. Heels. Real heels, the kind with a red sole. A camel-colored wool coat that probably cost more than my car payment. Bright makeup. Pearl earrings. A black leather purse hanging from her elbow with a gold clasp shaped like two interlocking letters.
She was pulling turkeys out of the open case.
The discount case.
Every year, the week before Thanksgiving, Shop-Rite puts out a case of discounted turkeys. Frozen. Twelve to fourteen pounds. Store brand. Red clearance stickers slapped on the plastic.
$9.99.
Regular price is thirty-eight dollars. Sometimes forty.
People line up for them. Every year. Families who can’t afford the forty-dollar turkey. Older folks on Social Security. Single moms. The guys from the VFW who buy them for the veterans’ dinner.
There are usually about fifteen of them in the case.
They’re usually gone by noon.
That year, there were thirteen.
And the woman in the camel coat was taking all of them.
Not two or three.
Every single one.
Her cart was already full. Turkeys stacked three deep. Red stickers everywhere. $9.99. $9.99. $9.99. The cart was so heavy one of the front wheels was wobbling.
She reached into the case.
She pulled out another one.
Number twelve.
I recognized her immediately.
Everybody in Millbrook would have. 