Free Like Life by Lorrie Moore

solemn and processional. The woman behind the counter stepped out from her usual post and held the door to the back part, the examination room, open. “Wheel the cat right in there,” she said. She wore white shoes. You could see that now.
    They were all in there for no more than a minute before they returned, the children dragging the empty baby carriage behind them and Mrs. Miller sighing and smiling and thanking the woman in the white shoes, who told her to call sometime after three this afternoon. The anesthesia would be worn off by then, and the doctor would know better what to tell them.
    “Thanks again,” said Mrs. Miller. “Kids?”
    “Mom, look,” said the little girl. She had wandered over to where Jane was sitting and had begun to pet Jane’s cat, occasionally looking up for permission to continue. “Mom,see—this lady has a cat, too.” She called to her mother, but it was her brother who came up and stood beside her. The two of them stuck their tiny, star-like hands deep into the cat’s fur and squished them around there.
    “You like that?” said Jane to her cat, and the cat looked up at her as if he really couldn’t decide. She made Fluffers’ head nod a bit, as if he were answering the question.
    “What is his name?” asked the little girl. Her hand had found the scruff of the cat’s neck and was kneading it. The cat stretched his throat up in enjoyment.
    “Fluffers,” said Jane.
    The girl’s voice went up an octave into cat range. “Hi, Fluffers,” she half sang, half squeaked. “How are you feeling today, Fluffers?”
    “Is he sick?” asked the boy.
    “Oh, no,” said Jane. “He just comes here for a special kind of bath.”
    “You getting a bath, Fluffers?” cooed the girl, looking directly into the cat’s eyes.
    “Our cat is having an operation,” said the boy.
    “That’s too bad,” said Jane.
    The boy looked at her crossly. “No, it’s not,” he said. “It’s a good thing. Then he’ll be all better.”
    “Well, yes, that’s true,” said Jane.
    “Fluffers licked my finger,” said the girl.
    Their mother now appeared behind them, placing a palm on each of their heads. “Time to go, kiddos,” she said. “Beautiful cat,” she said to Jane.
    THE CHEESE SHOP Jane worked at, in the new mall outside of town, was called Swedish Isle, and she had recently been promoted to assistant manager. There were always just two of them in the shop, Jane and an older woman named Heffie, who minded the register while Jane stood out in front with thecheese samples, usually spreads and dips placed in small amounts on crackers. Once the manager had come by and told her that Heffie should be doing the samples and Jane should be minding the register and doing the price sheets, but the store manager was also the assistant district manager for the chain and was too busy to come by all that often. So most of the time Jane simply continued doing the samples herself. She liked the customer contact. “Care to try our chive-dill today?” she would ask brightly. She felt like Molly Malone, only friendlier and no cockles or mussels; no real seafood for miles. This was the deep Midwest. Meat sections in the grocery stores read: BEEF , PORK , and FISH STICKS .
    “Free?” people would ask and pick up a cracker or a bread square from her plastic tray.
    “Sure is.” She would smile and watch their faces as they chewed. If it was a man she thought was handsome, she’d say, “No. A million dollars,” and then giggle in the smallest, happiest way. Sometimes the beggars—lost old hippies and mall musicians—would come in and line up, and she would feed them all, like Dorothy Day in a soup kitchen. She had read a magazine article once about Dorothy Day.
    “A little late, aren’t you?” said Heffie today. She was tugging at the front strap of her bra and appeared generally disgruntled. Her hair was thinning at the front, and she had it clipped to the top with barrettes she was too old for.