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Sunday, September 15th
Charlotte had allowed herself too much time, arriving at the strip mall twenty minutes before the pawn shop opened. It was a ratty place on the far north side of Elm Grove, along a trucker’s route with access roads to the steel mills, and the trucks rumbled and whined as they accelerated and decelerated through the intersection. The pawn shop took up three store fronts out of the six, as if the business grew and swallowed up the spaces to each side. There were no lines of people waiting to get their old books appraised. A large sign in the window said NO BOOK APPRAISALS TODAY.
The fast-food coffee she was sipping left a lot to be desired, but it was hot, caffeinated, and free, thanks to the coupon in the paper that morning. It was her last issue of the paper, too, now that the subscription was canceled. Reading the paper over breakfast was something she’d done nearly every day since graduating from college, especially enjoying her favorite comic strips and working the crossword puzzle. Would reading the news online ever feel as familiar?
Her purse was on the floor behind her legs, and crammed with a plastic bag of mostly gold jewelry, with some silver and diamonds mixed in. Her set of sterling flatware was in a large shoebox on the passenger seat, the individual pieces rolled up in the pockets of silver cloth. She was parked near a pay phone, off to the side of the cracked and potholed asphalt lot. Places like this made her nervous.
The very idea of handing over her jewelry and silver, even temporarily, felt all wrong, but she needed enough cash to get through the next two weeks. The Jeep was acting weird more and more often, not always starting, having trouble accelerating quickly, vibrating a lot, and she just knew she was in for an expensive repair job at any moment. This was the sort of place she imagined bad stuff happened. There was a motel across the street, and several semi-trucks parked in the large lot next to it. A woman with dark eyes and bright magenta hair came out of one of the rooms, smoking a cigarette and hoisting an oversized designer knockoff tote bag over her shoulder. She waited at the busy four-lane highway and saw her chance to get across, strutting furiously with tiny steps in her spike-heeled shoes and pink spandex skirt. Once across, she continued straight to the shop and unlocked the front door.
By now the coffee had gone cold and lost whatever charm it had, as did the pawn shop. Charlotte was just about to give up, then decided that maybe it would be easier to talk to the woman instead of Bosley. She had to let him know that she was going with Stanton. And he was also the only pawn shop in town, the only place she knew about within safe driving distance in the Jeep. It wouldn’t hurt to ask. She hoped. She wouldn’t get much money, she knew this, but she needed every dime she could get. It was only for a little while. She started to pull up to a parking space in front of the shop when a large black sedan blew into the lot, raising dust and coming to a halt in the space she was planning to take. Two men got out and strode into the shop; the older one walked in like he owned the place. Maybe he did.
Charlotte thought about it for a few more minutes. When she started to pull up to the shop, she couldn’t do it. When she tried to leave, she couldn’t do that, either. But this was the only shop of its kind. Snap out of it! People have to do this kind of thing sometimes. There was a quarter in the cup holder in the console, and she picked it up and flipped it, heads go in, tails go home. Heads.
The shop was not quite what she expected, given the moped and racing bikes in the front window, the neon signs saying “OPEN” AND “PAYDAY LOANS.” There were, for instance, things that looked like antiques, and even some old books. Pawn shops bought valuable things cheaply in order to sell them for a little more, but still cheap, and those items usually meant jewelry, up-to-date electronics, silver, sports equipment, power tools, and the like. There was still evidence of the former Hobby Shop. Maybe it wasn’t such a coincidence that Bosley Warren found a valuable first edition.
The redhead was on the phone and looked up briefly as Charlotte came in, but kept on with the call that included an account of who was dating who on the night somebody went to jail and where the kids were going to end up. Even as Charlotte reached the counter and placed her purse and box of silverware on it, the redhead kept talking on the phone, while moving to a door leading to the back, and yelling, “Mr. Banks! Customer!” Then she kept on talking on the phone.
Charlotte waited, taking in everything in her line of sight, particularly the model train that was running on a track around the perimeter of the shop, up near the ceiling. There was a large locked glass case with various model train engines and cars, some with original boxes, plus scaled models of trees, buildings, people, and animals. She remembered reading in the newspaper that Bosley Warren was known for his expertise in model trains.
The older man who had gone into the shop before her came out from the room behind the counter. He was wearing a sports jacket over a polo shirt and dress pants, and appeared average in every way, save for the almost total lack of expression on his face or in his eyes. Charlotte couldn’t decide if he was beyond bored or if the neutrality was part of being a professional pawnbroker. Even his voice, as he placed his hands flat on the glass case that served as a counter, asking how he could help her, left Charlotte feeling uncertain, with nothing, not even trite pleasantries, giving her any firm ground to stand on.
“Um, I have some jewelry, and silver?” In her nervousness, it came out like a question. Her palms were sweating.
“Yes. Pawn or sell?”
“Um, pawn, I think.” She set the box on the counter, then drew the gallon-size plastic food storage bag out of her purse and handed it over.
“Doc,” said the man. Charlotte looked at him, confused.
The driver then emerged from the back room. He looked larger in person than he did in the parking lot, perhaps because dark brown turtleneck sweater was slightly tight, revealing muscles in his arms and the start of a paunch above his belt. His face was red and pocked with burn scars on one side. This was evidently “Doc.” The older man, presumably “Mr. Banks,” nodded for Doc to deal with the bag of jewelry, while he unrolled and examined the silver.
Doc calmly emptied the bag of gold chains, earrings, bracelets, and watches on the counter, and his big hands were surprisingly deft as he untangled the lot. He turned on a bright desk lamp and used a jeweler’s loupe to examine each piece, making notes as he went, all without comment.
The redhead, in the meantime, didn’t stop talking, and was gushing about not knowing where Wesley’s been, and how worried everybody was and how “Bos” was really getting out of line. Without any warning, the older man turned to her and hissed, “You will stop!”
She stopped mid-sentence and they stared at one another for a few seconds that felt like half an hour to Charlotte. The woman looked seriously worried and hung up the phone without another word, and went into the back room. Doc resumed his study of Charlotte’s jewelry, taking particular care with a diamond tennis bracelet. When he finished, he wrote down some numbers on a note pad, handed it to the older man, then answered his cell phone, which had been on vibrate. His voice was so quiet, Charlotte couldn’t hear what he was saying.
Banks added the value of the silver and the jewelry and showed it to her, without saying a word. His expression had changed to slightly lifted eyebrows, as if he was bored—and she could take it or leave it. The terms were better than she hoped, but still not much. She nodded her acceptance, also without saying a word. He gave her a check and a receipt on which was printed she had one month to return for the items, after which he would have the right to sell them.
No thank you, have a nice day, or if there was anything else he could help with. Just a noncommittal look that said they were done. And that was it. She felt compelled to get him to say something, just to humanize the situation for herself.
“You’ve a lot of books and model trains. That’s unusual for a pawn shop, isn’t it?”
“It’s a sideline.” He turned and went into the back room.
So much for that.
The redhead came back out, looking more worried than ever. Charlotte was about to give her a message for Bosley, when the shop phone rang and the woman answered it, saying “Warren Brothers Pawn and Payday, Ilona speaking,” then gasped in relief.
“There you are! Banks is not in good mood, you need to talk to him now!” She stretched her hand into the doorway of the back room, and Charlotte saw Doc’s hand taking the phone.
Ilona finally gave Charlotte her attention. “You need something?”
Charlotte tamped down her irritation at the woman’s why-are-you-still-here expression.
“Yes, I have a message for Bosley. I’m Charlotte Anthony. I’ve decided to go with another service for my estate liquidation, so he doesn’t need to hold the date for me.”
“Ilona!” shouted one of the men, unseen, from the back room.
Ilona started to leave the counter, turning to nod at Charlotte. “Yeah, no problem, I’ll tell him.”
And that was that, leaving Charlotte with a great sense unease about the whole thing.
The next stop was back in downtown Elm Grove, to check out the apartment. The stretch of storefront windows on either side of the entrance to The Good Stuff displayed a variety of home decor items with an autumn theme, including Halloween and Thanksgiving. As Charlotte walked up, one of the items moved, and she stopped to look more carefully. It was a large black cat—a real one, and when it turned to face her she saw it had white tuxedo markings on its chest and paws. It yawned and stretched, then sat on his haunches and tilted his head as he sized her up. Two small girls ran up the sidewalk ahead of their mothers and tapped on the window to get the cat’s attention. He touched the glass with his nose, then abruptly turned and jumped off the display ledge, disappearing into the store.
Charlotte once loved The Good Stuff as a young newlywed, completely smitten with the cheerful, colorful selection of lamps, posters, crockery, and other accessories assembled by the original owner. But now, the sheer mass of items was overwhelming—not unlike the pawn shop, she thought, as she went inside and became reacquainted with the place. There seemed to be a zillion small things on various display units, handmade jewelry, tiny bottles of essential oils and packets of incense, wind chimes and sun-catchers hanging in clusters along the windows, stacks of tablecloths and napkins, shelves of stuffed animals, party-favor toys, dozens of greeting card displays, and several aisles of kitchen and bathroom gadgets, garden ornaments, and pottery. It was three times the size of the original store, as well. Charlotte assumed the content changed because this was the stuff that sells.
There were quite a few customers and clerks milling about. Charlotte recognized Larry’s voice from the phone call, and followed it to the far end of the long checkout counter, where he was talking to a woman holding a pan for baking madeleines. He was slightly shorter than herself, very tubby, and bald on the top of his head. He was wearing a bright blue t-shirt with large white letters that proclaimed: The Good Stuff.
She got his attention after the customer left, and introduced herself. He beamed at her with a toothy grin framed by his bushy mustache, every inch a man happy to sell things to customers. They shook hands, and he told the staff he’d be back in a few minutes. Charlotte followed him outside and then through the door to the apartment, which opened to a long, narrow foyer with stairs immediately to the right. He reached up and pulled on a lamp chain, which lit up a space that reminded her of the foyer in the first apartment she had in college. The old-fashioned floral carpet runner on the stairs looked much the same, as well. As she followed Larry up to the apartment, her nose twitched at the mustiness and faint herbal notes that might have been from weed, but it didn’t distract her from the glow of sunlight at the top of the stairs; she felt excited by the implication of many windows. Would they turn out to be as pleasant as all the windows at her house?
Well, she thought as they reached the top and she got her first view of the place, they are and they aren’t. The three large windows across the wall that faced the street reached from three feet off the floor to nearly the twelve foot high ceiling. But Larry hadn’t been exaggerating about the condition of the place: the walls were dirty and loaded with the remains of papers and posters that had been taped to the walls, the carpet was old, ratty, and stained, there were a couple of broken chairs and an ugly card table, and there were large plastic bags of trash cluttering the kitchen area. The upper part of the windows didn’t look too bad, but there were fingerprints and other grime on the lower panes. One wall was painted black, another purple, the rest were a dingy white. Papers and old t-shirts littered the floor. A tall stepladder was propped up against the wall near the stairwell, along with a bucket and cleaning supplies.
But there were a couple of surprises. One was a huge, old-fashioned library table with legs like balustrades. Another was a well-worn Chesterfield-style sofa in oxblood red leather. Both were as grimy as the rest of the place, but seemed to be in one piece.
“Does the furniture stay?” she asked Larry, pointing at the sofa and table.
“I sure as hell hope so,” he moaned. “Do you have any idea how heavy that sofa is? That stuff belonged to the grandfather of one of the law students. He was a lawyer, too. I don’t know how they got this stuff up here, but it’s mine now. Along with the crap.”
Larry threw up his hands in defeat. “I’ve been up here a couple of times to clean, but I don’t really have much time, and frankly, I wonder what’s the use—the next people will probably trash the place, too.” He went over and opened up a window, and Charlotte was glad to see that it wasn’t painted shut. The sounds of traffic flooded the room, along with the mixed scent of exhaust and pizza.
They made the usual landlord/prospective tenant conversation; she told him she was a writer, an empty-nester, and in the process of selling her house. He confirmed there was cable Internet available, but that it wasn’t included in the rent, which she had expected. The area behind the apartment was storage for the shop, and he and his wife lived in the large apartment on the floor above. She wandered around to get a closer look at the kitchen area—it needed a good scrub and sanitizing. There was an under-counter refrigerator and a small stove. They both needed cleaning, too, but seemed to be in working order. The bathroom had a large claw-foot tub and pedestal sink, similar to the ones at Olivia’s house. Both begged for a hit of disinfectant. The place was a mess and needed a good cleaning, but it wasn’t absolutely squalid. Back in the main area, she lifted up a corner of the carpet and saw there was a reasonably intact wood floor underneath. It gave her an idea.
“Larry, I’ll be upfront with you. The rent is actually too high for me, even with the utilities.”
He nodded and put up his hands to stop her. “I know it’s high for a studio. I was trying to discourage students and lowlifes, to be honest.”
“I see. Would you consider giving me a break if I get this place cleaned up and redecorated for you?”
He looked surprised, but intrigued. “What do you have in mind?”
“If you provide the supplies, I’ll paint it and get it squeaky clean again. It would also help if you could get this nasty carpet out of here, too.”
Larry thought about it for a minute, walking around with his hands in his pockets, sucking his lower lip, then turned to her. “I tell you what. You get rid of the carpet and the rest of this garbage, you can use the dumpsters out back, and I’ll provide the paint and brushes and stuff, in exchange for three months’ rent.”
So far so good, thought Charlotte. “But then what will the rent be?”
“Take a third off. I like you. It’ll be worth it to have a nice, quiet lady writer living up here, someone who won’t scare away the customers.”
It was an offer she couldn’t refuse.
Helene’s condominium building still looked like a church on the outside, complete with steeple and stained glass. Charlotte wondered if people who visited the town after many years away were ever confused by the changes. Did the residents have many strangers at the door on Sundays, for instance? Strangers pulling at the locked doors, banging on them, even, wondering what was going on? She rang the bell, and as she waited for it to be answered she looked down the end of the block at Olivia’s house. The yellow crime scene tape was gone, thankfully. What was going to happen to the place now? And the project? Helene answered the door with a smile, and Charlotte could smell a light touch of perfume. Such a light touch compared to Olivia’s, certainly.
She admired her friend’s never-failing elegance and ageless appearance, the beautiful cheekbones, the white swept-back hair. Helene wore one of her signature outfits, a dark gray cashmere tunic-length sweater over a slim camel-colored wool skirt, with the long sleeves of the sweater pushed up to three-quarter length. A silk scarf in off-white, gray, and tan with a tiny bit of black softened the neckline; a silver and polished stone bracelet and low-heeled camel tan pumps completed the look. The shoes were custom made. Charlotte realized that even on days like today, when she made an effort on her appearance, she looked scruffy by comparison to Helene, but that didn’t seem to matter. One felt lifted up around her.
They sat down at the little table in the kitchen, with cups of lemon tea. Helene placed a hand on Charlotte’s arm, said, “So, how did you like Martin? Isn’t he the most reassuring person you’ve ever met?”
“Oh, yes, undoubtedly. I felt so much more relaxed with him, and felt so much better about myself and my stuff. It’s hard enough to go through this without feeling like your whole life amounts to little more than a tag sale.”
“Even if something doesn’t bring as much as you hoped, you can be sure it brought as much as could reasonably be expected, especially these days.”
“Now I need to decide what I’m going to sell and keep. But I’ve got more news.”
“There’s more? You’ve been a busy bee.”
“I’ve found an apartment!” She described it, Larry, and the terms of renting it.
Helene marveled at Charlotte’s good fortune. “I’m thrilled! You’ll just be four or five blocks away. But won’t it be an awful lot of work?”
Charlotte nodded. “It will be, I won’t kid you or myself about that. But I think it will be cathartic. Other than making sure I’ve selected everything I want to keep, the estate liquidators don’t want me involved—they will do it all. It will help me a lot to have a place to move things to, to help me decide what to keep, and what I can’t realistically keep. It will help to make it more tangible, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, I do know, I do know. I went through that when I sold my own house. Obviously, I couldn’t take most of my things with me, and I had to allow room for two pianos on top of it. Not too many people can visualize space accurately.”
“It’s going to be hard to make the choices, though. I really like a lot of the things I have.” She took another sip of tea, and asked, “What would you do if you were in my shoes?”
Helene nodded slowly and thoughtfully. “I think,” and here she paused, as if still gathering the thoughts or finding the words, “I think I would travel light. In my experience, the people who survive are the ones who are willing to travel light. It’s the people who cannot part with their possessions that end up being trapped by them, and sometimes the cost can be very high.”
“Sounds like being a refugee.”
“More like a traveler to unknown parts. It’s good to have the right stuff, but not too much, so that you can move quickly when conditions change. Being independent is important. It’s also important to know that you don’t need to keep stuff in order to keep memories.”
Helene’s phone rang, surprising her, and after answering it, spoke little but quietly, and then hung up.
She turned to Charlotte. “Olivia’s dead.”