Every Tuesday at half past noon, Vivian Nixon walks down her driveway and crosses the gravel road to step on the scale at the butcher shop.
On hot, still, summer days, passing vehicles leave clouds of chalky dust in their wake. Today Vivian floats through the thick, white cloud, disappearing momentarily. When she reappears, a collective gasp is heard from the crowd gathered to ogle at the spectacle.
They marvel at the sight of the Grandmother’s fat friend vanishing and then reappearing, conjuring an imaginary Ringmaster barking: “Ladies and gentlemen, and children of all ages, step up!” Like circusgoers, they are here to bear witness to something extraordinary.
The crowd parts to let Vivian through.
All chatter ceases.
She holds her head high, ignoring them. According to the Grandmother, Vivian is a proud woman.
The Grandmother lives next to the butcher shop. She refuses to participate in the public humiliation of her good friend. Instead, she gawks from behind window shades at Vivian’s weekly shaming.
All eyes follow Vivian as she enters the small shed where Hubert the butcher waits to greet her.
Nodding his head, he takes her hand, helping her step on the scale used to weigh sides of beef and freshly slaughtered hogs. Vivian stands rigid for a three second count, steps off, and he whispers something in her ear.
Hubert is the only man privy to the tale of the scale.
She touches his shoulder in thanks, turns around and walks back home.
The silent crowd refuses to look at Vivian, casting their eyes down.
What had Hubert whispered to Vivian this week?
A few are heard mumbling. Speculating: “Five hundred and ninety” or “Six hundred and twelve”.
On a recent, hot, still summer day, the Grandmother and Vivian’s paths cross on the porch of the Post Office. A Ford pickup truck rumbles by. Vivian starts to greet her friend.
Not wanting to be responsible for a public scene, the Grandmother silently brushes past her, walking away, into the hovering, thick white cloud.
