Butter

In the all-night grocery store

It’s an extraordinarily hot summer. Everyone’s got the air conditioning on. I do, too, it’s hard to breathe without it. The electricity demand is at a record high, so the town imposed a brownout on us faithful citizens. It’s uncomfortable. The a/c is barely cool. The heat makes everyone grumpy.

I sleep badly anyway, but last night, I couldn’t sleep at all.

I ran my eye over the bookshelf: nothing interesting. Scrolled through the Internet movies: nothing appealed. Social media: mind-numbingly inane. Nothing to do but lie on the sofa and stare at the ceiling fan turning.

But there’s baking. Getting my hands into flour and fat soothes me. My freezer is stacked with cakes, cookies, crusts for pies, quick breads, yeast breads, biscuits. I do get around to eating what I bake, but often I’ll give my goods away to friends or co-workers. Or invite someone to dinner, to use up the odd quiche or two lurking in there.

So there I lay there, thinking of flour and butter and the smell of cinnamon.

Cinnamon rolls.

I decided to bake cinnamon rolls.

I got up and surveyed the fridge. I had the needful: flour, eggs, sugar, yeast, milk, cinnamon, cream cheese for the glaze - but no butter.

Uh oh. How’d that happen? I’d have to go get some.

There’s an all-night grocery store down the block. They’d have butter. I sighed and put my shoes on. I don’t like going out at night. It’s spooky out there with the street lights so dim.

But I wanted that butter, so I went out, walking briskly to look confident. The dark was only partly relieved by street lamps shedding wan light. Nobody out but some shadowy person whisking around a corner, which made me shudder. Traffic swished in the distance. People talking, TV voices quacking, a door slamming somewhere…all noises were unnaturally muffled, vague. I pressed on.

Footsteps behind me made my heart jump - but it was only a couple hastily entering an apartment building. They looked relieved to get out of the street and shut the door. I wasn’t the only one feeling uneasy.

But there was the grocery store, its neon sign glowing yellow and red. I pushed the door open and breathed a sigh of relief for the coolness inside.

I knew the store owner, Mr. Brannagan, wouldn’t be there; he’s an elderly man, and presumably has something better to do in the middle of the night than mind the store. But I’d only ever shopped there in daytime. I didn’t know who might be there instead.

A thin young man sat behind the cash register. His dark hair fell over his forehead. His nose was long, and his lips were thin and very red, and his eyes were black, black as ink.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m looking for some butter.”

“That’s a strange thing to buy at this hour,” he said. His voice was reedy, suited to the general impression of frail skinniness. But his glance was friendly, and he smiled.

“I can’t sleep, so I thought I’d bake something,” I said, surprising myself. I don’t usually confide in strangers.

“Can’t sleep, huh? I have chronic insomnia myself,” he said. “That’s why I’m here, keeping the store open for Grandpa.”

“Mr. Brannagan’s your grandfather?”

“Oh yes,” he said. “He doesn’t sleep much either, but says he can’t stand to be in the store day and night. So he goes home to Grandma in the evening, and I take over until morning. I like it. It’s peaceful. I read a lot at night.”

I looked at the book propped up on the reception desk. “Not a lot of customers at these hours, I guess. What are you reading?”

“Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.” He showed me the book. “Aren’t the illustrations great?” He flipped a few pages and came to one he showed me.

“Fantastic,” I agreed. “Nobody ever beat Tenniel’s illustrations. Wow, these are even colored.” I took the book in my hands. It was old, the paper heavy compared to modern books. I turned a few pages carefully, admiring Alice having tea with the March Hare and Dormouse and the Mad Hatter. “Lovely edition.”

His thin face glowed. “A book lover, like me!” he said. “People do most of their reading off electronic devices, these days. But I love to handle real books. My name is Ned, by the way.”

“I’m Alice, actually,” I said.

“Coincidence,” he said lightly, and closed the book.

We shook hands. His bony hand was almost weightless.

“But you came here to buy something,” he said. “Butter, isn’t it? Come, I’ll show you our butters.” He spun on his heel and began walking to the interior of the store. The aisles seemed to stretch out to a point way far back.

I pointed to the door. “Shouldn’t you lock the door while you’re away from the cash register?” I said.

He came back. “No one will bother us,” he said. The door shut by itself with a click. The sign that read Closed on one side and Open on the other flipped to the Closed side. The shutters rattled down.

I was starting to get an unreal feeling, like a marijuana high. Sniffed around. No scent of weed or of anything else. Maybe it was just my nerves unwinding, I decided. I was relaxed, but unusually alert at the same time.

Ned turned his pale face to me. There was definitely something weird about him, and about Brannagan’s store. But I wasn’t apprehensive. I only wondered what might come next.

“So what butter do you want?” he said. “Because we have butter for every need. Demi-sel for spreading on crusty bread. Sweet British butter for your toast and jam. Truffle butter to melt into baked potatoes - that’s delicious. Butter speckled with garlic and dill, a gourmet delight - ”

“I’m baking cinnamon rolls,” I interrupted.

Ned gave a titter. “Is that what you do when you can’t sleep?”

“Yes,” I said. “I bake. I’m going to bake cinnamon rolls. I need plain sweet butter.”

Ned stood and considered. The lights, working on half-power, flickered. The unreal head feeling increased.

I heard a rustle, some small thing running between the aisles.

“Do you have mice in here?” I said. “You should tell your grandfather; he could get into trouble with Sanitation.”

He made a tsking noise and the rustling noise stopped. “It’s just one little mousie,” he said. And gave me a sly, guilty smile. “He doesn’t do any damage. He sleeps a lot.”

“You should get a cat.”

“A cat!” Ned was horrified. His voice went up an octave. “A cat, shedding fur all over the store? What about customers with allergies? No indeed. Mousie’s only around at night. Actually,” he said, lowering his voice and looking around, “He comes with me in my pocket, and when I get ready to go home in the morning, he jumps into my pocket again. It’s nice to have a little friend around when there’s no one here. But don’t tell anyone.”

“Oh, okay,” I said. Who was I to argue. “As long as Mousie doesn’t get into the butter.”

“He doesn’t eat anything here, I feed him very well at home. But yes, butter. Come with me.”

He led the way past refrigerators full of chicken, and cheeses, and eggs, past ice cream refrigerators, past cold beer and deli meat, past polenta in squeeze tubes, past bags of lettuce and grapefruit sections, past ever more foods chilling in vast refrigerators with see-through sliding tops. His long, skinny legs moved fast; I had to trot to keep up.

“I didn’t know the store was so big,” I panted.

Ned threw me a strange smile over his shoulder.

Finally he stopped in front of a tall fridge festooned with advertisements for thirty kinds of butter.

“Here you are,” he said.

I stood and gaped. “How can I choose from all these butters?” I said. “I know the kind I want. But all these brands! It’s bewildering.”

“I see you need a little help,” Ned said. He nodded. “Very well.”

He dragged a folding table over, the kind supermarkets use to display food samples on. A platter appeared on it, with a silver butter knife, and a baguette already sliced into thin rounds. The bread was fresh and smelled good.

“Oh, and we need chairs,” he added.

Two plastic chairs appeared on either side of the table. I didn’t startle. It seemed that magic was to be taken for granted, so I took it for granted. At that point, it was the sensible thing to do.

“Let’s eliminate the butters that won’t work for you,” Ned said. “Hm. Forget the herb butters, the truffled stuff, the vegan substitutes, the heavily salted ones. Are you sure that a lightly salted butter won’t do? Some bakers swear by it for pastries.”

“I’m a home baker,” I said, sitting down. “Plain butter’s good enough.” I looked at the table, which was set up as for a cheese tasting. What’s this going to be, a butter tasting?”

“Exactly,” Ned beamed. “That’s what’s needed, don’t you agree?”

“I guess I do,” I said.

The scene was unreal, but almost familiar, and at the same time amusing, as in dreams. It seemed perfectly natural to be with this strange Ned, in the far reaches of Brannagan’s grocery store, in the middle of the night.

“Let’s make a little party of it,” Ned said. “Hungry? How about a little seed cake, and currant cake? Cucumber sandwiches, and smoked salmon sandwiches - with the crusts cut off? Tea?”

“Tea, of course,” I said. “Quite Victorian. Perfect.”

In an instant, all those things appeared on the table, with a silver tea pot and a sugar bowl and tea cups and spoons.

“Oh dear, forgot napkins,” Ned said, and made a flourish in the air.

A linen napkin appeared on the side of my plate. As I unfolded it and placed it on my lap, I noticed that my chair was now a comfortable armchair. The table was different too, transformed into an old-fashioned dinner table. It was set with cups and saucers for some ten people, and I wondered if anyone else was going to show up. But that whole night it was only Ned and me.

“You think of everything, Ned,” I said.

“Oh, just a little light enchantment,” Ned said modestly. “Now eat up, it’s way past dinner time.”

The sandwiches and pastries were appetizing and fresh. I enjoyed the sharp and sweet flavors, and ate a lot. Ned, I noticed, only nibbled at the cake and ate half a cucumber sandwich. But he drank many cups of tea. The pot never emptied; it was full of sweet, hot tea all the time. And we didn’t forget the butter. We spread many kinds of butter on the baguette slices, tasting carefully. I set aside one I thought best for pastries, an expensive Irish brand.

We talked about books, and popular music, and movies. He had definite opinions, some opposed to mine, so we had a couple of good arguments too. Once a pair of long furry ears appeared wiggling at the edge of the table, but they vanished when I blinked. I shrugged; was having too much fun to worry about the odd magical something. Time passed quickly. I didn’t notice how the night wore on.

Still, eventually, the talk ran down. I plucked the last little finger sandwich off the tray and nibbled it, thinking I’d never eat such delicious things again. Ned yawned.

“That was a wonderful tea,” he said. “But you must go home now, Alice. It’ll be daybreak soon.” He looked exhausted and had blue circles under his eyes. “Aren’t you getting drowsy? I am.”

“I’ll crash as soon as I get home,” I said. “Thank you so much, Ned. It’s been amazing. But tell me, do you do this often? I mean, transform your Grandpa’s store at night? Does he even know?”

“Grandpa doesn’t believe in magic, so I don’t bother him with it. He trusts me to keep the store open nights because he knows I don’t sleep. I know he thinks I’m crazy, really. A lot of people think I’m mad.” He looked down, his lashes dark against his thin cheek.

“Well, I think you’re sweet,” I said.

“Thank you,” Ned said. “I don’t often have midnight tea parties. Only spontaneously, and only with people I find simpatico.”

“I’m honored,” I said.

Ned escorted me to the door. The walk wasn’t nearly as long as it seemed the night before. In fact, the store seemed to shrink back to normal size around us as we went. The strange feeling in my mind went away but I had a headache like a slight hangover.

Something was moving on the floor. A little brown creature jumped up Ned’s leg and skittered up his chest, nestling in the shirt pocket. It popped its head out, twitched its whiskers, and regarded us.

“Good morning, Dormouse,” I said. I opened the door and stood for a moment with Ned, admiring the pink dawn and luxuriating in the cool hour. Last night’s tea party seemed like a dream.

I stepped out, then remembered that I hadn’t paid for the butter. “Ned, I forgot. How much does this butter cost?” I showed him the package.

“It’s my gift,” Ned said. “Because you appreciate it so much.”

He was looking fainter and fainter, becoming almost transparent. A top hat appeared from somewhere. He put it on his head. He smiled at me; a heartbreaking, sad smile, and turned back to the store. I thought I saw a large hare loping after him as the door closed. But I couldn’t really tell.

Ned’s voice came, faint as an echo, as I started walking towards home.

“It was the very best butter,” he said.

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