“May I help you?” a woman says. She has been bent into the pigpen so neither Rebecca nor I noticed her. Rebecca is deeper into the barn, exploring darker corners, so that leaves me to answer. “Well, actually,” I say, “we’re looking to get some new clothing.”

The woman claps her hands together. She has stiff red spitcurls and a triple chin. She cannot be more than four and a half feet tall. When she walks, her shoes squeak as if her socks are wet. “You have come to the right place,” she says. “We have a little bit of everything.”

“So I see.”

“My motto is, buy one only of each item. It helps the customer make up his mind more quickly.”

I am wary of buying something at Eloise’s. True, she has one of everything, but not necessarily things you would ever want.

“Mom,” Rebecca says, sweeping towards us. She is holding a sequined evening gown. “What do you think? Pretty sexy, huh?”

It has spaghetti straps and too much lycra. “Wait till you’re seventeen,” I tell her. She groans and disappears behind a bolt of calico.

“Excuse me,” I call to the woman who is leading me on this serpentine journey. “Miss?”

“Call me Eloise. Everyone else does.”

Rebecca, who is still holding onto the sequined black evening gown (where do you wear that in a place like Towner?), has culled a pile of clothing. “You finding what you want, dear?” Eloise calls. Then she turns to me. “Are you two together?”

“Very much so,” I say, and I walk over to Rebecca’s pile.

Rebecca peeks at the tag on a pair of red walking shorts. “Check out the prices, Mom.” She holds up the shorts. “Do you have these in a three?”

“What we have in stock is on the sales floor. I’d be happy to move these items to a dressing room for you.” She waddles around a corner, led by a sixth sense, I imagine, since the clothes are piled over her head. “You’re in room number six,” she calls to Rebecca. I peer around the corner at the fitting rooms. Cow stalls.

“Mom.” I walk over to where Rebecca stands, eyes shining. “This-” she holds out a pair of designer jeans, “-this is only three dollars,” she says. “This bathing suit is made by La Blanca, and it’s only one-fifty.”

I finger the white price tags. The numbers are written in crayon. “Maybe we’ll come here to do all our shopping from now on.”

I begin to leaf through the racks myself. At these prices, what have I got to lose? Eloise is a prudent businesswoman. She orders her stock in one of each size. So the bottom line is, if a pair of striped Liz Claiborne trousers come in, you can expect to find one of each size: 4, 6, 8, 10, 12, 14 and 16. If you happen to be a ten, and another ten has gotten here before you, you are out of luck. This is what happens in several cases for items that catch my eye; I’m an eight and I guess in North Dakota that’s a popular size. Those, and the sixteens, seem to be selling the best. Rebecca has her pick of the racks, still sporting a preadolescent figure.

Eloise crosses in front of me holding out a cute yellow jumper. “I saw her face and I thought of this. You said size three, dear?”

“What she really needs is a bra and some underwear. Do you stock that as well?”

Eloise leads me to another row of barrels, marked by size. I reach into the bin marked Four and pull out a handful of panties in pink, fuschia, black lace, and white with green flowers. “

Wonderful,” I say, taking all but the black lace. As I am looping them over my wrist for safekeeping, Eloise returns with a neatly packaged bra. I take these over to Rebecca. “You might as well put on some underwear,” I tell her. “Since we’re going to buy it anyway.”

“Ma . . .” she says, hanging her head over the swing door of the stall. “ You know.”

“Oh.” I rummage in my bag for anther maxi-pad. There are no garbage pails to be seen. I lean close to Rebecca. “Just bury it under the hay or something.”

Rebecca puts on a fashion show for me and Eloise. We are sittingon the underwear barrels with our legs crossed when Rebecca comes out in the yellow jumper. “Oh, how darling!” Eloise says.

Rebecca does look cute. She has braided her hair to get it out of her face, and it swings over the Peter Pan collar of the matching striped jersey shirt. The straps of the jumper criss-cross in the back and are secured with buttons in the shapes of crayons. She is barefoot. She twirls around, letting the skirt fly up.

“Let me guess.” Eloise says, pointing to Rebecca’s feet. “Size seven?” She shuffles off in another direction, back towards an area where an Old Town canoe is suspended from the rafters.

Rebecca ends up with six pairs of shorts, eight casual tops, a pair of jeans, a pair of white cropped pants, crew socks, black shoes, white shoes, various and sundry items of underwear, a nightgown covered in teddy bears, a pullover cotton sweater, a blue polkadotted bikini and two grosgrain ribbon barrettes for her hair. “I can’t believe this,” she says, coming out and seeking the stack of clothes Eloise has neatly folded. “This is going to cost a fortune.”

I doubt it; I’ve been keeping a mental tab and I don’t think we’ll even break fifty dollars. “Well, it’s your birthday. Enjoy.”

“So,” Eloise says, as Rebecca throws her arms around me. “What about for you?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t.” I cross my legs nervously, and then uncross them.

“I’m not going to let you travel with me, looking like that,” Rebecca says. “Not now that I’m dressed to kill.”

“Well, I could certainly use some underwear,” I admit. I have been sitting on the size seven bin. I jump off and open the lid, lining up several pairs on my arms. The last pair I pull out is a Gstring, a leopard print.

“Oh, that’s you, Mom. You’ve got to get that pair.”

“I don’t think so. It has its appeal, the way garter belts and thigh-high silk stockings have always held my interest. I like the idea behind them, but in reality I know I wouldn’t have a clue about how to put them on, so I do not bother.

Rebecca runs with Eloise around the racks, collecting cotton sundresses and khaki shorts and silk tank tops. It is harder to find such close matches because, like I said, I wear a popular size. “Really, you don’t have to do this.”

“Oh, just go get undressed,” Rebecca says, pointing to the cow stall. I walk inside and kick off my sneakers. The hay tangles in between my toes, prickling. Eloise sticks her head inside, which makes me embarrassed. I cross my arms in front of my chest. “Hello,” I say shyly.

Eloise throws two shoeboxes on the floor, a pair of leather woven sandals and a pair of black heeled shoes. They are both size eight. How did she know?

I check the price on each item of clothing before I try it on, a habit from shopping in expensive California boutiques that really is pointless here; nothing costs more than five dollars. The first dress I try on is too tight across the chest. I throw it onto the hay, disappointed. Somehow I had hoped that everything would look as perfect on me as it did on Rebecca.

The next piece of clothing is a cotton jumper along the same lines as the one Rebecca tried on. It is red and splashed with blue and pink flowers. There is a matching white linen top with buttons down the back and embroidered flowers on the collar and sleeves. I try it on with the sandals Eloise has given me and walk out of the stall. Rebecca claps. “You really like it?” There are no mirrors, so the only reflection I have is Rebecca’s opinion.

The last thing I try on is a lycra stretch tank dress, black. I put it on with heels. I don’t need a mirror for this one. The way it hugs my body, I know it’s bad. I can imagine sight unseen the places where my hips bulge out and where my tummy bloats. This is a dress for Rebecca’s body, not mine. “You want a laugh?” I say, calling to Rebecca.

She jumps off her underwear barrel and walks to the stall, holdingthe door open so that I don’t have to walk out. “Who’d believe it? My own mother is a fox.”