“Get up. Get up,” Mrs. Johnson urged in a whisper as she hurried toward me.
“Won’t they even let you sit down?” I demanded, struggling to my aching feet.
“They won’t say nothing to you but if the aisle manager sees you he’ll put you on their black list.”
I looked the two women over. Mrs. Johnson’s white face was haggard until it looked pinched. Mrs. McDavit had lost much of her ruddy color and dark circles had formed under her eyes.
“You are both dead tired. Both ready to drop,” I told them. “Your feet ache so badly that you feel like cutting them off.”
“If my back didn’t ache I don’t believe I’d mind my feet so much,” Mrs. Johnson admitted. “When I was young girls didn’t go to business as they do now, so I didn’t get no training. Maybe if I had it wouldn’t come so hard to me now.”
“It’s harder than washin’. I’ve found that out,” Mrs. McDavit said. After a moment she added diffidently: “If you was a married woman you’d know how hard it is to work at a thing that made your children ashamed of you.”
It was not long after this little exchange of confidences that an elderly man, whom I had noticed earlier in the afternoon loitering near our counter, approached and spoke to me.
“These are not of very good quality?” he questioned, fingering the underwear.
“They are unusually good value,” I truthfully replied. “Good for the price.”