“You know, Sam, I’m really not supposed to smoke on the job.” I hold out my lighter, and Rachel guides the tip of her cigarette into the flame. For a couple of heartbeats, she cups her hand around mine, then she settles back on her stool and swigs her Diet Coke. Someone passes the store outside, and Rachel leans deep behind the counter to draw on her cigarette. She straightens up and glances out the front window of the shop, through the large, gilt-edged, black lettering that reads, “Pegasus.” Below that are smaller letters: “Antique Shop--Used Books” and below that, in even smaller letters, “Adult Books and Videos.” These last letters are not edged in gold. In fact, they’re not even painted on the window; they are black plastic letters that wobble along a horizontal guide line someone has drawn on the window with a pencil. “But I’ve been working here long enough,” Rachel exhales, “and Miles doesn’t check up on me anymore.”
I lean an elbow on the counter and peer into the glass case that holds an assortment of dented pocket watches, tarnished silverware, and knives with yellowed bone handles. “Isn’t in here much, is he?”
“Oh, he stops in sometimes to see how things are going. Mondays, usually, when he’s got a new load of furniture and stuff. He goes to auctions on the weekends. Estate sales.” Rachel tosses a grimace over her shoulder. “I’ve got that whole pile to clean and tag. Some nice jewelry, though. Old stuff.”
She clamps her cigarette between her teeth and comes out from behind the counter. Crossing the aisle between a glass-front display case, she bends over a crate marked “Jenkins/Arimo/3-96” and scoops up handfuls of costume jewelry. A silver baby cup, hooked in the clasp of a bracelet, detaches and bounces on the wooden floor. Rachel corners it with her left foot like a runaway soccer ball and nudges it back toward the crate. She piles the jewelry in a tangled mound on the counter and pulls a stool up with one cocked ankle. Perched behind the counter, her left jean-clad hip on the stool, her right leg braced against the bottom edge of the display case, she unknots chains and unclasps loops of darkened metal.
I lean an elbow on the counter and peer into the glass case that holds an assortment of dented pocket watches, tarnished silverware, and knives with yellowed bone handles. “Isn’t in here much, is he?”
“Oh, he stops in sometimes to see how things are going. Mondays, usually, when he’s got a new load of furniture and stuff. He goes to auctions on the weekends. Estate sales.” Rachel tosses a grimace over her shoulder. “I’ve got that whole pile to clean and tag. Some nice jewelry, though. Old stuff.”
She clamps her cigarette between her teeth and comes out from behind the counter. Crossing the aisle between a glass-front display case, she bends over a crate marked “Jenkins/Arimo/3-96” and scoops up handfuls of costume jewelry. A silver baby cup, hooked in the clasp of a bracelet, detaches and bounces on the wooden floor. Rachel corners it with her left foot like a runaway soccer ball and nudges it back toward the crate. She piles the jewelry in a tangled mound on the counter and pulls a stool up with one cocked ankle. Perched behind the counter, her left jean-clad hip on the stool, her right leg braced against the bottom edge of the display case, she unknots chains and unclasps loops of darkened metal.
“Let’s see what we have here...nice old cameo broach...pearl ring--probably fake...d’ya think these stones are jade?" She draws on her cigarette, squints through the smoke that drifts into her eyes, and holds a heart-shaped locket close to her face, fumbling with the tiny catch. “No picture inside. Sometimes there’s a picture. I like to imagine who it is and what the story is, you know? Did he die before she did, and did she use to look at his picture and miss him? It’s really sad when it’s a baby. You wonder if it died, and when. One time I found a little lock of hair.” She takes a final, deep draw on her cigarette and stubs it out against the sole of her shoe. Leaning far back on the stool, she drops the butt into a battered metal milk can on the shelf behind her. “Need to dump that out someday--if someone ever buys it. I don’t think my old cigarette butts are exactly antiques.”
A string of elephant bells jangles as a tall man in a bright blue windbreaker opens the shop door. “Hi,” Rachel sings out. “May I help you?”
The man nods, then shakes his head. He glances around the shop and thrusts his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “D’you have any used books?”
“Sure.” Rachel points. “Over there in that alcove. Looking for anything in particular?”
The man hunches his chin down on the zipper of his jacket and shakes his head. “Just looking.” He moves to the dusty shelves where a couple of dozen faded books lean against each other like tired drunks. He peers at the titles on the books’ spines, but doesn’t take his hands out of his pockets.
“Watch him,” Rachel whispers, then turns her attention back to the tangle of jewelry, this time pulling a tarnished gold band from the pile. “Look. A wedding ring.” She rotates the ring like a tiny steering wheel. “’To Ruth from Bob, 6-5-42.’ That’s probably worth something.” She rubs the band on her pants leg. “Well, maybe not. It’s engraved. Guess you could melt it down. I’ve got a friend who makes jewelry. Maybe she could use it.”
I’ve been dividing my attention between listening to Rachel and watching the man in the blue windbreaker. He’s still standing in front of the Used Books shelf, hands in his pockets. Now he turns, and--as if for the first time--notices the unvarnished cafe doors that are mounted on a five-foot-high wall bisecting the right half of the shop. On this side of the wall, facing the front window, is a metal rack stuffed with kids’ old comic books and back issues of The Saturday Evening Post. On the cafe doors is a hand-lettered, cardboard sign that says, “Adult Section. No one under 21 allowed.”
The man in the windbreaker takes his hands out of his pockets. He doesn’t turn his head, but I can see him flick a glance at us out of the corner of his eye. I pretend to pick a scab on my elbow, and Rachel peers closely at the old wedding ring that she’s now wearing on the index finger of her right hand. She rubs it against her pants leg, looks at it closely, turns it, and rubs again.
Seconds tick-tick-tick by. The man yearns forward on his toes, then settles back. He glances over his shoulder at the Used Books and tugs the zipper of his blue jacket more snugly under his chin. Then he turns and moves quickly away from the cafe doors and past the counter where Rachel sits. I step back politely as he goes by. When he reaches the door of the shop, Rachel calls out loudly, “Thank you. Come again,” without looking up from her pile of jewelry. He half-turns his head in our direction, then pushes the door open and steps out. Through the window, I see him jam his hands back in his pockets and stride away.
“He’ll be back,” says Rachel and lights another cigarette.
A string of elephant bells jangles as a tall man in a bright blue windbreaker opens the shop door. “Hi,” Rachel sings out. “May I help you?”
The man nods, then shakes his head. He glances around the shop and thrusts his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “D’you have any used books?”
“Sure.” Rachel points. “Over there in that alcove. Looking for anything in particular?”
The man hunches his chin down on the zipper of his jacket and shakes his head. “Just looking.” He moves to the dusty shelves where a couple of dozen faded books lean against each other like tired drunks. He peers at the titles on the books’ spines, but doesn’t take his hands out of his pockets.
“Watch him,” Rachel whispers, then turns her attention back to the tangle of jewelry, this time pulling a tarnished gold band from the pile. “Look. A wedding ring.” She rotates the ring like a tiny steering wheel. “’To Ruth from Bob, 6-5-42.’ That’s probably worth something.” She rubs the band on her pants leg. “Well, maybe not. It’s engraved. Guess you could melt it down. I’ve got a friend who makes jewelry. Maybe she could use it.”
I’ve been dividing my attention between listening to Rachel and watching the man in the blue windbreaker. He’s still standing in front of the Used Books shelf, hands in his pockets. Now he turns, and--as if for the first time--notices the unvarnished cafe doors that are mounted on a five-foot-high wall bisecting the right half of the shop. On this side of the wall, facing the front window, is a metal rack stuffed with kids’ old comic books and back issues of The Saturday Evening Post. On the cafe doors is a hand-lettered, cardboard sign that says, “Adult Section. No one under 21 allowed.”
The man in the windbreaker takes his hands out of his pockets. He doesn’t turn his head, but I can see him flick a glance at us out of the corner of his eye. I pretend to pick a scab on my elbow, and Rachel peers closely at the old wedding ring that she’s now wearing on the index finger of her right hand. She rubs it against her pants leg, looks at it closely, turns it, and rubs again.
Seconds tick-tick-tick by. The man yearns forward on his toes, then settles back. He glances over his shoulder at the Used Books and tugs the zipper of his blue jacket more snugly under his chin. Then he turns and moves quickly away from the cafe doors and past the counter where Rachel sits. I step back politely as he goes by. When he reaches the door of the shop, Rachel calls out loudly, “Thank you. Come again,” without looking up from her pile of jewelry. He half-turns his head in our direction, then pushes the door open and steps out. Through the window, I see him jam his hands back in his pockets and stride away.
“He’ll be back,” says Rachel and lights another cigarette.
