Vintage Veronica (25 page)

hat night, I dream about Claire.

She’s standing at a bus stop, holding these giant, overflowing bags of consignment stuff. She has this scarf on her head, a plastic one like my grandma used to wear when it rained, and these big Jackie O sunglasses, so I can’t see her eyes. But I know it’s her.

I walk toward her, and when I get close, she smiles.

“Hiya, Ronnie,” she says. Usually my dad’s the only one that actually gets to call me that, but in my dream I let it slide. “You’re just in time. I almost thought you were going to miss the bus.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask her. “Why did you go and leave without telling me?”

Claire looks confused, then starts to laugh. A great big barrelly laugh. Then, like Alice in Wonderland, she suddenly starts to grow taller. And taller, and taller. And bigger and rounder, too, until she’s like those big inflated balloons you see on TV at Thanksgiving. The bus stop comes up to her ankle, practically, and I have to shield my eyes with my hand to keep her face in view.

“They can’t fire me!” she calls from way, way up high. “They can’t fire me, I quit!”

Just then I turn and Bill’s there, tapping my shoulder nervously. “It’s the chute. The chute is clogged,” he says. “You have to come with me.” So I follow him into the store, but inside he starts walking faster and faster, and then he sort of ducks around The Pile so I can’t see him anymore. But when I come around The Pile, I see Len up to his knees, digging through clothes.

“It’s gone,” he says. And without saying more, I know he needs me to help him look. So I wade in and we dig, side by side, even though I don’t really know what I’m looking for. And then I see this loop, like one of those hand-straps on the ropes they use to walk the day camp kids around town with, and I know somehow that this is connected to what we’re trying to find. So I squat down and reach in and grab it. “I’ve got it!” I yell, pulling.

But as I do, I hear a ripping sound. The hand-strap gives way and comes off in my hand and I feel myself losing my balance. And then, from very far away, I hear Bill yelling, “Hey! I fixed the chute. All by myseeeeelf!”

And the next thing I know there’s a loud noise, like a
vacuum cleaner or something, and me and Len and the whole Pile are falling through space, falling down the chute, sliding through time and space and surrounded by flying blouses and jackets and hats … I can’t see Len or anything all of a sudden, and I’m seized with the panicked realization that the fabric is wrapping itself around me, like a tornado or something. I’m suffocating, clawing through the fabric, trying to gasp for breath, trying to rip the musty cloth off my face and unwind it from around my neck as I fall and fall …

And then I wake up. I’m drenched in sweat, and for a moment I’m not even sure where I am. I see the sci-fi film festival poster, and for a hazy moment I actually think,
Did I fall asleep at Len’s?

But then I realize that I’m in my own room. There’s light coming through my windows, so I have the strange sensation that I fell asleep doing homework or something and now I’m waking up just as it’s starting to get dark. But I’m wearing this old flannel shirt of my dad’s that I usually sleep in, so that can’t be right. Then I roll over and my clock tells me it is 7:15 a.m.

I can hear birds out on our lawn making a lot of noise. Jesus, they’re loud. What are they, crows? Do they do this every day? I have no idea. I’m a snooze alarm kind of girl. I squint out the window at them, but I’m facing into the rising sun, so all I see are their silhouettes.

I haul myself out of bed and start rummaging around in my closet for something to wear. If I hurry, I can get out of here before my mom gets back from her early-morning gym
workout. Our talk last night was enough for me. I’m in no rush for round two.

I fail the sniff test, but to expedite matters I skip the shower, and instead I just dump a few handfuls of water on my head and smear on some deodorant. I finger-comb some pomade into my hair, rake together two stubby ponytails, and brush my teeth. I find clean underwear, one of my bomber bras, a mint-green polka-dotted shirt, and a skirt I made by sewing seven vintage aprons together. I add bobby socks and my bowling shoes to complete the look, even though I will likely pay for this fashion choice in blisters.

In the kitchen, I make some toast, eat half of it, and leave a note perched on my dirty plate. It’s a conscious choice, made to give my mom something to harp on so the focus of our next conversation will not be my personal life. She takes the bait every time.

I walk to work fast, even though my shoes hurt and I no longer have anything to look forward to there. That damned refrain chases me, taunting me with each step. Because I just can’t seem to get him out of my head.

Miss-ing The Nail, miss-ing The Nail, miss-ing The Nail …

Gonna miss that Nail, miss-ing The Nail, miss-ing The Nail …

Because it is Friday, the line of Pickers is already there when I arrive at the store at a quarter of eight. Bill’s face lights up when he sees me through the window in the door.

“Veronica, hey! What’s shaking?” he asks, ushering me in with his usual greeting. If he knows that I saw him and Ginger in the stairwell, he’s not letting on. Which, knowing Bill, means he can’t know. Bill always lets on.

“Not a lot,” I say reflexively. I start toward the stairs, but slower than usual. I kind of want to tell him about how things unraveled with Len and get his thoughts on what I should do. So I wait for Bill to try to engage me in conversation, as he does every day.

“Okay, catch you later,” he says over his shoulder. The back of his shirt reads
I GOT THIS WAY FROM BOWLING
! I guess I finally convinced him that trying to talk to me on my way upstairs is futile. I stop on the second stair and wait another beat.

Nothing.

Finally, I turn and see Bill pushing the big flat broom across the floor, containing The Pile’s spread.

“Actually,” I hear myself say, “it’s pretty dead upstairs. Not a lot of consigners this week.”

“Hmmm?” asks Bill, looking surprised.

“I said, it’s really quiet upstairs.”

“Wow,” says Bill. “Must be nice. We’re getting massacree’d down here lately. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Oh, yeah? Huh. That must be why Shirley has been making Lenny fill the chute with back stock.”

“Shit, is she really?” Bill looks concerned. “Wow, I’d better talk to her about that.”

“Yeah, well, I mean, she won’t be doing it anymore. You know, right?” I say. “About Lenny?”

“Yeah, man. Totally sucks.” He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

“What, getting fired?”

“Lenny got fired?!”

“Hello? You just said you knew.”

“Not about that. I thought you were talking about his cancer coming back.”

“His—what?”

Bill winces. “He told me not to tell anyone. But you said you knew, and I thought—”

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I do know. I mean, I know he had cancer. I just didn’t know he was sick again. When did this happen?”

Just then there’s a banging on the door. I hear the Pickers chanting, “Eight o’clock, open up, eight o’clock, open up.”

“These goddamned back-to-school hours are killing me,” says Bill. “Look, I gotta let them in or they’ll take the door down. Just stay here a minute, okay?”

He goes to the door and unlocks it. Cheering, the Pickers troop in, some of them high-fiving Bill as they pass him.

“Hey, Dominic!” says Bill, greeting a tiny man in green platform flip-flops and mirrored sunglasses. “Hi, Rosie … Ay, Luigi, what’s shaking? Long time no see … Hey, Mac … Hi, Red … April … Mrs. Nunez … Yo, Willie …”

Eventually the parade subsides and Bill returns to where I’m standing.

“Sorry,” he says.

“You know all their names?”

“Nah, not all,” says Bill modestly. “But some of these guys have been coming here for years. They’re like my family or something. Anyway …”

“Lenny,” I remind him.

“Oh, right. Well, the thing is—oops, sorry.”

A lady is standing next to the scale, her arms full of garments already. Bill takes the load from her, weighs it, and rings her up. As she’s digging through her purse, Bill leans over and whispers to me, “This might take a while. Irma’s fast to shop but slow to pay.”

I nod, then wander over to the edge of the counter and rest my elbows on it. Just then I feel a tug on my skirt.

I turn around and there’s one of the store cats. He’s got a paw in the air, like one of those statues you see in Chinese restaurants. His gaze is fixed on one of the dangling strings of my apron-skirt.

“Rags …,” I say warningly. He lowers his paw. But as I turn back toward Bill, my skirt swings and I feel his paw snagging the dangling sash.

“Chester, behave,” I hear someone say. I look and it is the guy with all the hats on his head. Today he’s wearing no less than seven, including three baseball caps and a ski hat with a pom-pom on top. He wades through The Pile, the hat tower wobbling as he walks, and scoops up Rags in his arms.

“He’s just a youngster, that’s why he’s so feisty,” the hat man tells me.

“He is?”

“Yup.”

“I thought his name was Rags,” I say suspiciously.

“Nah, this here’s Chester. His brother Calvin’s over there.” He points to The Pile, and sure enough, I see a gray tail
twitching from underneath a ripped cotton dress I depped the day before. “And that there’s the mama cat, Dolly.” He indicates a cat sleeping on Bill’s chair. “Rags is Dolly’s pop, so he’s the grandpa of the bunch. He’s probably down to about two lives, I tell you, the way this place is.” His eyes scan the room. “I don’t see him around just now.”

“How do you tell them apart?”

The hat man sticks out his lower lip and shrugs. “By looking, I guess.”

“Hey, Red,” says Bill, coming up behind me. “What’s shaking, my man?”

The hat man whips off his hats, and to my surprise they all come off as one.

“Can’t complain,” he says to Bill.

“Red, this is Veronica. She works upstairs.”

“Hi,” I say.

“Pleasure to meet you,” says Red, bowing low and sweeping the hat tower across his waist. “See, I keep ’em on with spit and Velcro,” he claims, scratching the tufts of white bristly hair on the sides of his otherwise bald head.

“He’s just being modest,” says Bill. “Red here used to be a costume designer. He’s a bit of a living legend.”

Red laughs. “You’re half right about that,” he says. Turning to me, he asks, “So, tell me, you didn’t find that there skirt in The Pile, did you?”

I look down, surprised by the question. “No,” I say. “I mean, it’s not even really a skirt. I got the aprons at the fleas, and I was bored one day so I just kind of sewed a bunch of them together.”

“Turn around,” commands Red. Slowly, I do. He nods appraisingly.

“Girl, you’ve got the eye,” he tells me.

“Thanks,” I say. It feels odd to be accepting a compliment from a man wearing a tower of hats (in August, no less), but I actually kind of mean it. “And, uh, thanks for rescuing me from the killer kitty.”

Red grins. “Think nothing of it.”

I follow Bill back to the counter. “Everybody’s got a story here,” he says, shaking his head and smiling. “You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff I’ve seen down here. One day—”

“Wait, Bill? You were going to tell me about Lenny,” I remind him.

“Oh, yeah,” Bill says. “Right. Well, Lenny had cancer when he was a little kid.”

“Yeah, I know that part.”

“Oh, okay. So you know that’s why he walks the way he does. His bones just never healed right after all the surgeries, or something. But other than that, he’s been fine for a long time. And then, out of nowhere, his doctors think the cancer’s back.”

“Oh my God. Why?”