Shades of Gray by Donald Olson

© 1997 by Donald Olson


On her sixty-plus years Flora Croft had acquired a certain instinct, keen as the human instinct for survival, that told her when circumstances were right and warned her when they were not, and when that inner alarm sounded she’d learned not to take chances. Like a soldier scouting enemy troop movements she was alert to the danger signals: a furtive movement behind the coat-racks, the seemingly coincidental reappearance of the same “shopper,” the telltale scrutiny of a pair of eyes that said watch out, they’re on to you. Then she would assume her vague, dithery smile, hold her head high, and make a strategic withdrawal.

Flora’s appearance was in her favor; she was the image of respectability and genteel poverty. A chunky little woman, she carried herself with an air of modest dignity, wore her ancient Persian lamb coat as if it were still the height of fashion, never ventured out without her gloves, or the knitted blue pillbox hat perched regally upon hair that was in the transitional stage from gray to white. Her body still possessed a vigor that could deny its age, and when the adrenaline was flowing during her shopping trips she did in fact feel ten years younger than when sitting alone at home measuring the hours by the various TV programs to which she was addicted, or had been until her set left the house and never came back.

The word “shopping” is of course a misnomer, for her periodic forays into the glittering vast bazaar of the Millbrook Mall were more in the nature of raids upon enemy territory.

Flora could never have afforded to shop in such places.

Nor did she, for what it is worth in the credit column, ever shop for herself. No, she shopped for the children in her neighborhood, a poor neighborhood if not a ghetto, the word Flora laughingly used when she had occasion to tell strangers where she lived, and there were literally hordes of children on Jubilee Street.

Regardless of size or color or any other characteristic, each of the male children reminded her of little Dickie.

Mercantile surveillance being what it is nowadays, it goes without saying there’d been embarrassing incidents, even the modest fine or two, but like many victims in bondage to other forms of addiction Flora knew in her heart that only some momentous event would ever free her from the compulsion to shoplift.

Such an event did finally occur on a windy, rain-spattery March day when the oppressive gloom of her little house on Jubilee Street drove her to don her Persian lamb coat and the knitted blue pillbox hat and venture forth in her rusty old VW bug, intent upon picking up that pair of athletic shoes for the little Galloway boy, one of her particular favorites. He had the same curly blond hair as little Dickie.


The shoes were on sale (as if it mattered) in Steinway’s, one of the mall’s bigger department stores, a place Flora had avoided for months following a slight unpleasantness which had happily ended with the security people accepting her story of having “forgotten” to pay for the track suit she’d picked up for her “grandson.” Only the most case-hardened functionary could withstand the appeal of Flora’s dithery smile and twinkling blue eyes.

Practiced in the various “tricks of the trade,” as she called them, to foil the equally artful tactics of the Enemy, Flora soon felt the weight of the trainers in her bag and unhurriedly made her way to the store’s exit into the mall parking lot. Beyond the doors a chartered bus, parked in what Flora called “no man’s land,” that space between the exit and where she’d left her car, was disgorging a stream of senior citizens on a shopping tour. As the group advanced upon Flora and two or three other departing shoppers she hastened her steps, her car being out of sight behind the bus.

Suddenly, with safety only a few yards away, she heard a shrill voice cry out, “Stop! Hold it right there!”

One of Flora’s rules was Never look back. Keep walking. Don’t act guilty. Now, however, as she ducked in front of the bus, she ventured a hasty glance behind her. A uniformed guard was pushing his way through the group of elderly shoppers and heading straight toward her. She was dimly aware of a scuffle and suddenly the guard was not there and a firm hand, gripping her elbow, was helping her, almost bundling her, into the car.

Flora always left her key in the ignition while she was in the mall, a risk she was prepared to take in the interest of making a fast getaway should one be necessary. Clearly, one was necessary now and Flora was not one to panic in a crisis. The car shot forward and sped toward the parking lot exit into Wembly Boulevard. The adrenaline was pumping madly. Not a word passed between Flora and her passenger while all this was happening; only when she was tooling down the boulevard did she chance a glance to her side.

Her first impression was that the young man beside her had the face of an angel; that is to say, he was fair-skinned and light-haired, with high cheekbones and a broad mouth.

“Oh, what a scare!” she cried, a little giddy now that the moment of high drama had passed. “Another minute arid he’d have had me in his clutches. Was it you knocked him down? Oh dear, what if he got my license number?”

She was aware of the young man watching her with a look of quizzical amusement. “I doubt it,” he said. “The bus was in the way. You live far?”

“Jubilee Street. Not far. Five minutes.”

“You have a garage?”

“Yes.”

“Sooner you get this bug under cover the better. Just in case.”

“But what about you? Where—”

“I’ll bet you brew a dynamite cup of tea. I could sure use one.” The promise of a more domestic adventure was quite to Flora’s liking. “I think it’s the least you deserve. My name, by the way, is Flora Croft.”

“Derek Callender.”

Pity his name wasn’t Dickie, she thought. With those blond curls and blue eyes he might have been little Dickie, all grown up.


Tea in the parlor as dusk was falling. Flora had taken time to whisk some muffins in the oven while Derek was taking a shower, which Flora had insisted he was more than welcome to do. “Who knows?” she’d said. “If it weren’t for you, I might be in some horrible filthy jail cell right now.”

Later, pouring the tea, she said, “I don’t do it for myself, you know. I’ve never taken a single solitary item for myself. It’s for the children, you see. This is a very poor neighborhood. Such lovable, ragtag little urchins. The shoes are for the Galloway boy.”

Derek Callender drank his tea and ate his muffins without taking his eyes from Flora’s face. “You mean you make a habit of doing this? A nice little old lady like you?”

“I always ask myself, why do I do it? Guess if I knew the answer maybe I wouldn’t.”

Derek asked her if some sort of charity work wouldn’t be safer, to which she replied that in a manner of speaking that’s what it was. Fitting him easily into the role of understanding stranger, Flora thought how wonderful it felt to be able to talk about it.

“I’ll tell you how it all began. After my hubby died I became ill — this was years ago — a severe nervous breakdown. We’d had one child, a little boy, Richard. I’ll spare you the sordid details but I was obliged to give him up. It broke my heart but I had no choice in the matter. I was sick. No money. No one to help. The folks who adopted him took him out of the state. In time I regained my health pretty much. I was able to take on cleaning jobs. Somehow I managed to hang on to this little old house. Then one day, this was a couple of years ago, I was in a store and I saw this adorable little playsuit sewn with teddy bears and I thought how perfect it would have been for little Dickie. I stole it. After that, whenever I was feeling blue, which was most of the time, I’d pick up some little thing for Dickie, a toy, clothing, whatever. And then I started giving them away to youngsters around the neighborhood. They all call me Auntie Flora. I suppose you think I’m awful wicked.”

Derek smiled. “If I did I wouldn’t’ve stopped that mean old guard from collaring you, now would I?”

“But how did you know he was after me?”

“I saw you boost the shoes.”

“You didn’t!” She thought back, trying to recall if she’d seen him in Steinway’s.

“Said to myself, this little lady’s heading for trouble. Better keep an eye on her.”

“My guardian angel.”

“Wrong. I ain’t no angel.”

“So tell me about yourself. Tell me everything.” Flora knew she was doing it again, what she called “making magic,” a form of daydreaming where she’d imagine various situations in which little Dickie returned home to a joyful reunion, never again to leave, although never before had there been a living, breathing image to hang her fantasies upon, and what a warm, delicious thrill it gave her.

“Not much to tell,” he replied, and what there was took only a few minutes. Derek told of bumming around the country for the past three years. He’d been in the merchant marines. He’d tried all sorts of jobs without seeming able to settle down to one thing.

“You meet lots of interesting people, of course,” he said. “Just last week I met this lady over in Cloverdale who hired me to rake up last year’s leaves. She gave me ten bucks and this sweater.” Flora admired the sweater, a pale blue cable-knit, soiled but obviously expensive.

“I’ll pop it in the wash,” said Flora. “It’ll be good as new.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“Why not? My stars, look what you’ve done for me. Oh, please. Stay the night at least. Up in Richard’s room. It’ll be such fun having a guest. I’ve never had a guest. I won’t know how to behave.” She looked toward the door. “If someone got my license number the police would have come by now, don’t you think?”

“Most likely.”

Seconds later she gave a little start as the doorbell did indeed ring. Flora rushed to the window and peeped around the curtain, then relaxed with a tinkling laugh.

“It’s only Mrs. Galloway. You stay put.”

Voices in the hall and then Flora returning with a young woman in jeans; a careworn face, pale red hair in a ponytail.

“This is Richard,” said Flora proudly. “I told you about Richard, remember?”

The woman stared at Derek. “Not little Dickie.”

Flora beamed. “Guess I can’t call him little Dickie anymore, can I? He’s come home for a visit. Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Great, yeah.”

“He tracked me down after all these years.”

Flora ran to pick up the trainers still lying where she’d flung them on the sofa. “I hope they’re the right size. A special sale, so I can’t return them.”

A smile lightened Mrs. Galloway’s sallow face. “Perfect, I’m sure. But you shouldn’t have bought such expensive ones.”

“I know how hard boys are on shoes. Cup of tea, dear?”

“Thanks, no. Timmy’s watching the baby.”

Soon as the door closed Flora turned to Derek with a whimsical, contrite smile. “I hope you didn’t mind my telling that little fib. It just popped out.”

Derek’s broad grin carved dimples in his cheeks. Enchanting. Just like little Dickie’s.

For dinner there was leftover meatloaf, baked potatoes, and glazed carrots, served by candlelight, something Flora hadn’t done in years. Afterwards, Derek insisted on helping clear up. Flora washed; he wiped. She relished the feeling of warm coziness and deep contentment. It really was as if little Dickie had come home.

Later, Flora brought out the cards. All she’d been able to play for years was solitaire. Derek taught her a game called Spades; the evening seemed to flash by.

“Isn’t it amazing,” she said. “I just this minute realized something. This is the first time in ages I’ve felt really, truly safe. Here in the house, I mean, the neighborhood gone to seed like it has. I used to be such a trusting person, until a few months ago. My old TV set went on the blink and I just never seemed to have the money to get it fixed. I really miss it. Then one day I look out and see these two men carrying a TV set out of the house next door. I ran out on the porch and called to them. ‘Yoo-hoo,’ I said, ‘do you fix TV’s?’ The one man grinned and said, ‘We sure do, lady.’ I asked him to look at mine. They said sure they could fix it but they’d have to take it to the shop. Said it wouldn’t cost an arm and a leg either. One of them spots Mother’s silver tea set on the sideboard. ‘Give us that,’ he says, ‘and it won’t cost you a dime.’ So I did. Well, would you believe it? They were thieves! They were stealing that TV set from next door. In broad daylight! Don’t people do the most awful things nowadays?”

The long, considering smile Derek gave her made her blush like a girl. “Oh, I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “I’m hardly the one to talk, am I?”

“I wasn’t thinking that at all.”

“Well, look at it this way,” she said eagerly, full of the need to talk, to explain, perhaps even to apologize, as if it were Richard she wished to make understand. “Things aren’t all black and white, are they? There’s even shades of gray. Way I see it, there’s a difference between wickedness and evil. I may have my wicked little quirks, sure I do, but I’m not an evil person. I wouldn’t dream of stealing a poor widow lady’s TV set, and her silver tea service to boot. A person would have to be truly evil to pull a stunt like that, don’t you agree? I may occasionally have taking ways, so to speak, but I never have taken anything for myself. Though I don’t suppose God would think that argument held even a drop of water.”

“I guess only God knows what God thinks,” Derek said. “I only know what I think. I think it’s time you found a safer way to get your jollies.”


Flora slept fitfully that night, so many thoughts scampering through her brain, yet she felt a singular ease of mind, a sense of comfort in knowing she was not alone in the house, and when at last she fell into a deeper sleep her mind was still making magic, pretending it was indeed Richard lying in the room across the hall.

When morning came Derek said he would eat breakfast and then hit the road.

Flora felt a plunging sense of loss. “But where will you go?”

“Back where I come from, I guess.”

“Where was that?”

“Nowhere, really.”

“And where might that be on the map of the universe?” she asked. “Best you stay here a bit longer.”

“No can do. Last thing you need is a star boarder.”

“But you can help me. So many things need doing. Little repairs and paint jobs and drippy faucets. Oh, do stay, Derek, just for a few more days.”

Derek relented, and the morning was spent inspecting all the little jobs that needed doing around the house, starting with the dripping faucets, which Derek proved to have a deft hand in fixing. Then there were touch-up jobs using dibs and dabs of leftover paint, and patching the scarred and damp-faded spots on the walls with miscellaneous rolls of ancient wallpaper which didn’t always match the existing patterns; economy had to prevail, and even if she’d had the money Flora wouldn’t have dared take the car out of the garage for fear it might be recognized — even if the police had evidently not been given the license number.

While rummaging in the tiny attic for those rolls of wallpaper Derek had narrowly missed upsetting an old table lamp perched on a rickety table stripped of most of its veneer. The lamp had a slim metal base and a glass shade.

“Where’d this come from?” asked Derek, finger-brushing away the dust from the shade to reveal a painted scene of an orange-colored sunset above a woodland lake.

“Wedding present to Mother,” said Flora, “or I’d have slung it out long ago.”

That evening Derek announced he’d be leaving in the morning. Flora looked at him in dismay. “But you said you’d stay. At least for a few more days.”

Derek shook his head. “Wouldn’t work out, Flora. But don’t think I don’t appreciate the invite.”

“You won’t change your mind? You could find a job, live up in Richard’s room.”

“I can change my mind but not my feet. They get this awful burning itch if I stay too long in one place.”

“But I’ll miss you.” Like losing little Dickie all over again. “My evenings will be endless. Not even a TV to keep me company.”

Derek’s gaze traveled about the room as if storing up its details in his memory. “Stay here,” he said. “Be right back.”

Up the stairs he went and when he came down he was carrying that old relic of a lamp with its painted glass shade. Placing it on the dining room table he fetched a dishrag from the kitchen and carefully cleaned away the layers of dust and grime while Flora watched with a bemused expression.

“Now see here,” he said. “What’s it say on this band?”

Beneath his fingertip Flora made out the word Jefferson inscribed on the narrow brass rim atop the glass shade. “What about it?” she asked.

“I worked for a spell with a guy in the antique trade. Used to haul for him. Down south, out west. Learned a bit about the business. I can’t tell you exactly what a Jefferson lamp’s worth today but I’d wager it’d be enough to buy yourself a real fine TV set.”

“That ugly old lamp? Now you’re making fun of me.”

“Trust me. You know any antique dealers in town?”

“There’s Cardell’s over in the West End Arcade.”

“Good. Tomorrow morning I’m taking this lamp over there, see what I can get for it. If that’s okay with you.”

Flora would have agreed to anything if it would delay Derek’s departure for only a few hours. “You do that,” she said, “but don’t be surprised if the bulbs are worth more than the lamp. Folks don’t go for that sort of monstrosity anymore.”

“You’d be surprised.”


Refusing to let Flora drive him, Derek wrapped the lamp and shade in plastic bags and getting directions from Flora, set off to walk uptown to the arcade wearing a shabby old raincoat and hat which had belonged to the long-dead Arthur Croft. This was at ten o’clock in the morning. Flora busied herself dusting the furniture and preparing a tuna casserole for their lunch, wishing there were some way she could talk Derek into staying. Already, as if a death had occurred, the house had acquired its old familiar atmosphere of silent desolation.

By noon he was still not back. Flora left the casserole on top of the range and went out on the porch to stand gazing up the street, expecting any minute to see Derek’s tall figure emerging out of the thickening mist. An hour passed and then another. As the afternoon waned and shadows of dusk crept into the dingy front room Flora’s heart grew heavier by the minute until finally she forced herself to accept the fact that Derek was never coming back. It was like the TV “repairmen” all over again. Now that she thought about it, Derek hadn’t firmly made up his mind to leave until after he’d spotted that old lamp in the attic.

She warmed up the casserole and, despite her lack of appetite, tried to swallow a few nibbles. No fool like an old fool, she told herself, yet she bore no grudge against Derek. More power to him if he succeeded in getting a few bucks for that old lamp. She was still in his debt. Hadn’t he saved her from what might have been the most humiliating experience in her life?

After clearing the table she climbed the stairs to Richard’s room, sat down on the bed, and clutched to her breast a tattered brown teddy bear, the one memento of little Dickie she’d never dream of giving away. Without actually formulating the resolve she knew the neighborhood children would be receiving no more handouts from Auntie Flora. Derek was right. It was high time she found some other way to get her jollies.


Midmorning of the following day a white van pulled into the driveway bearing the logo of a well-known appliance dealer. No mistake, the driver assured Flora. His instructions were to deliver the TV set to Mrs. Flora Croft at that address. Installation included.

Flora didn’t stir from in front of the set for the rest of that morning, and when the local newscast came on at noon the sight of the newscaster’s face was like meeting an old friend after a long absence. It was the usual bad news, of course, from which Flora felt comfortably remote. She got up to put the teakettle on, missing the final item on the broadcast:

Police still report no leads on the attempted holdup of the Millbrook Mall branch of the First National Bank Thursday afternoon. The young would-be robber, apparently unarmed, fled from the bank after a teller sounded the alarm. Bystanders reported he escaped in a small gray car with a possible accomplice after assaulting a bank security guard who tried to apprehend him. Now for the weather...

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