by Luke Geddes
“Of course.”
Keith bit his lip, removed his glasses, and wiped them on his shirt. When he put them back on they were somehow even more smudged than before. “Are you really sure this is worth me having to talk to them about it?”
“Yes,” Margaret said, “I am.” After all, she wanted to add, it took less than a doll to fell Rome, though she wasn’t sure what that even meant.
* * *
Having done her due diligence, Margaret thought it prudent to let Keith confront the men discreetly, so she left to attend to some errands and did not return to the Heart of America until later in the afternoon.
The Dealer Association meeting was not to take place until after closing, but as usual many dealers had arrived early with plans to update their stock or redecorate their booths. They shuffled in, unusually listless, the small talk strained and automatic. A couple of men from Hall Six flicked cigarettes past the outdoor ashtray and traded macabre gossip about the Bobo case.
“I heard they already found her body in a dumpster behind Big Lots.”
“Nah, the mother went psycho and staged the kidnapping, only she tied the rope too tight and the kid choked.”
“Says who?”
“Guy in the comments of the Eagle article, but it seems legit.”
Nevertheless, once Margaret made her way past those boors into the mall proper, she found herself overcome with a sense of comfort and belonging. How nice, even amid all the ugliness of the world outside, to know she belonged to a true-blue community. It was just too bad that the Dealer Association continually failed to elect her president, despite her expertise and seniority. She had been selling at Heart since before antique was a verb, years before current president Peter Deen began cluttering up Hall Two with his little playthings.
Margaret dreaded running into the new dealers. Perhaps it’d been unnecessary to raise such a fuss over a single item, even if it was by date of manufacture verboten vis-à-vis official Hall One policy. She hoped Keith hadn’t mentioned specifically that it was she who’d reported them. It wasn’t as if Margaret were some humorless shrew who lived and died by arbitrary principles, who never jaywalked even across empty streets, who never let loose or enjoyed half of a vodka gimlet to celebrate special occasions. And it wasn’t as if the power that came with being the senior-most dealer had gone to her head. She wasn’t out to disallow anyone the freedom to sell whatever merchandise he or she wished. This was the Heart of America, after all. She was, in fact, the driving force, so many years back, in the successful petition for looser merchandise restrictions in Hall One; before she changed things around, the area was limited to antiques and antiques only, but she hadn’t been able to see why she shouldn’t be allowed to include her fine Depression-era glass with the rest of her collection. And all the other dealers—most of them gone now, moved on to other malls and flea markets, or else they’d since dropped out of the business entirely—agreed with her. No one could accuse her of sticklerness. She had her fun, kooky side, too. If one doubted that, one could be directed to her second booth, in Hall Three, containing the most expansive selection of Hazel-Atlas juice glasses in the state, if not the entire nation.
Still, as she returned to her little corner of Hall One, she was relieved to see the offending item had been removed. She hoped—though she didn’t care one way or the other what most people thought of her, not really—that the men wouldn’t hold against her the fact that she’d, with no personal animosity but only a humble respect for the policies to which even she herself was held accountable, seen to the excision of the doll.
Now that it was gone—and sincerely she appreciated the men’s compliance—other sights poked her in the eyes: a big-headed Batman shampoo bottle, demonic stuffed creatures she vaguely recognized from TV ads, an illuminated beer sign with a picture of a scantily clad woman leaning over a pool table, a framed illustration of a crude Charlie Brown smoking a marijuana joint, a statuette done in the Precious Memories style of a grotesquely shrunken man with a base that read “Dirty Old Men Need Love Too,” a board game that endorsed binge drinking and pill popping called Pass-Out, an unopened six-pack of Billy Beer. Even if it was all manufactured prior to 1989, it tested the limits of what belonged in Hall One. An antique mall, in its ideal state, was a sort of museum in which all the curios and artifacts were available for consumption, not just by the wallet but the mind and eyes, too, the perfect hybrid of gift shop and exhibit. Accordingly, a smart vendor selectively curated his or her allotted space. This booth presently inhabited by Seymour and Lee (it just didn’t feel right, with Patricia so recently gone, to refer to it as their booth, as if they owned it, as if they belonged there) was meretricious, circus-colored. Surely the men meant no harm. They just hadn’t yet been thoroughly familiarized with the mall’s ethos. She’d just have to have a nice little nonconfrontational chat with them about it after the meeting.
Margaret turned away from booth #1-146, closed her eyes for a moment to clear the burned-in image of the big mess, and entered her dear #1-138. She felt as if she’d just emerged from the murky depths of a foreboding tar-colored body of water onto a sun-speckled white sand beach. Soft light and clean, delicious air seemed to flow outward from the yawning cavities of each piece of glassware surrounding her. She spun around, feeling almost girlish, picturing herself bathed in the kaleidoscope of colored light like that projected from a church’s stained-glass windows. After all—no blasphemy intended, of course—there was something slightly solemn, holy even, about it, a sort of near-silent sound—a vibration or presence—that emanated from the glass; she’d always thought so, but never shared this thought with anyone, anyone but Patricia, who then took Margaret’s hand in hers and whispered, her breath moist and particley from the crumbs of the Nilla wafers they’d just shared, “I know exactly what you mean. There’s a word for it, hearing something just by looking at it.” Margaret stopped spinning now and straightened her collar. The kiss—it had been meant only as a friendly gesture. That was the way they did it in Europe, wasn’t it? It was true that there was no occasion for it. Margaret had never had many friends growing up, she hadn’t been trained in how these sorts of relationships functioned. This is what she would say if Patricia finally answered the phone. Yes, she’d call again today, Margaret decided, after the meeting. She should be home by then. Margaret remembered that Patricia’s Thursday yoga classes ended at six.
It was then, out of the corner of her eye, that she caught sight of a foreign body at rest in one of her sugar bowls. As the silhouette came into focus, she dropped her purse and pitched backward, tripped on a heel, and collapsed on the cold floor. Looking up at the doll’s ominous brown face, its arms clutching the rim of the bowl, a tiny microphone in its tiny hand, she thought: This will not do. This will not do at all.
Anger lifted her off the floor and she grabbed the doll, careful not to disturb her bowl, and carried it, a plastic foot pinched loosely between two delicate fingers, down the aisles of Hall One. This was, in her opinion, grounds for eviction, and she was sure, if she reminded them of how loyal a renter she’d been these many years, Keith and Stacey would agree.
2 KEITH
Just last week Keith Stoller had had a very promising phone chat with an assistant producer on the new Pickin’ Fortunes spinoff. The network was optimistic, she’d said. Ratings for all Mark-and-Grant-related programming were at a record-breaking high. And—she shouldn’t be letting this out of the bag just yet but what the hell—Mark and Grant had an ulterior motive for their excursion across America and through its many inspiring small businesses. They were looking to expand their Antiquarian Pickporium retail franchise well beyond their flagship Nashville location. During the season finale, they would offer to purchase a stake in their favorite stops.
In Keith’s wildest fantasies, the television exposure brought not riches or fame but merely relief. If he could get out without losing too much money, great. If Mark and Grant put him in the black enough to pay off the mortgage
of his exceedingly overvalued Eastborough home, miraculous! No more scary Loan People calling at all hours and intimating threats. No longer would the house lie teetering on the precipice of foreclosure. And if there was enough left over to replenish the coffers of his daughter’s college fund, well then, shit, maybe—just maybe—he would once again be able to sleep at night instead of lying awake inventorying his innumerable shortcomings.
For instance: everyone else on his block seemed always to know when the garbage pickup schedule had changed and only he ever dragged the bins to the curb a day early or a day late. Unlike Keith, these were decent, earnest folks who lived their lives without grousing internally about every perceived slight or inequity, who worked hard enough day-to-day that they never had time to ask themselves whether they loved or hated their jobs. They considered their children their greatest achievement and wouldn’t hesitate to say as much if asked, and were moved to tears by television commercials for greeting card companies and cell phone plans. They understood the rules of every sport and could name their favorite books, movies, songs, etc., and explain with no small amount of passion why those were their favorites. Meanwhile, after nearly five decades on earth, Keith: had no hobbies or interests or friends; was in debt to such a degree that he worried even thinking of the amount he owed would trigger cardiac arrest; had lost track of how long it’d been since he and his wife had touched one another even platonically; had a beautiful grown-up daughter who hated his guts; was haunted by an unending sensation of dread, a feeling like knowing your shoes are untied and you will sooner or later fall flat on your face but you’ve forgotten how to tie a knot.
For although the “Peddlin’ Pair” were due to arrive in just a few days—Monday at three o’clock, to be precise, as he’d written in the e-newsletter encouraging dealers and shoppers to show up in their telegenic best—the assistant producer had stopped returning Keith’s calls. Finally, this morning, on his fifth attempt, someone at the production offices answered, an intern who would not tell Keith his name and refused to forward him to anyone important. “You say you’re calling from Wichita?” he said as if the city were as remote as Narnia. “Hmm. I don’t see it on the schedule, except—hold on a minute.” After a wait of nearly ten minutes, he returned. “Yeah. There’s a bit of a snag in the plan.” The missing girl had made national news, he explained, and Mark and Grant were concerned about coming across as callous. “It wouldn’t be a good look for them to go around appraising bottle cap collections with BTK Part Two stalking the streets.”
“I’m sure that’s an overreaction,” Keith said. “The girl’ll be found any minute now, camping in the backyard or something. I ran away as a kid once. My parents didn’t even notice I was gone.”
“We can only hope that things will work out.”
“But you’re coming, though, right? If not Monday, then another time?”
“Our schedule is tight. We’re going to have to get back to you. Let us know what happens with the girl. Mark and Grant are praying for her,” the intern said and hung up.
One little girl out of the six hundred thousand who lived here! Who knew what kinds of terrible things were happening in all the cities Mark and Grant toured, but they didn’t cancel the whole show because of it. Okay, so a child in peril was unfortunate, but it would be worse to let one tragedy beget another—namely, the tragedy of the Stoller family’s financial collapse. Without a Mark-and-Grant buyout, the Heart of America was doomed.
So when Veronica Samples, the midcentury modern maven of Hall Four, had met him at the doors during opening that morning and accosted him with a bouquet of neon flyers, he’d had more important things on his mind—more important to him personally, at least—than Lindy Bobo. “We need to take action before it’s too late,” she said as he struggled with the door’s sticky lock. “Ninety-four percent of missing children are recovered within seventy-two hours. There’s no time to waste. Things aren’t just going to go back to normal on their own.”
It struck him as the key finally clicked into place: She was right. Find Lindy and everything would go back to normal—including Mark and Grant’s tour schedule. In fact, once he called up the producers and told them that he himself, proprietor of the Heart of America Antique Mall, Kansas’s largest year-round antiques market, had been the one to lead the search effort that found lost Lindy Bobo, there’d be no way they’d turn down such a compelling human-interest piece. Mark and Grant would have to reward Wichita’s own hero with a stake in their lucrative Antiquarian Pickporium franchise. At once Keith became a willing conscript in Veronica’s CHAANT (College Hill AMBER Alert Neighborhood Taskforce) group, offering to devote that afternoon’s Dealer Association meeting to rallying volunteers.
He was back in the lounge stapling the very last of the two hundred packets he’d had copied at the nearby FedEx Office when Veronica came in and joined him at the table. “Just in time,” he said. “I’m all finished.”
“It’s wonderful you’ve taken to the cause with such enthusiasm,” Veronica said.
“No problemo.” Keith surveyed the neatly stacked papers. Although it was menial, he could not remember the last time he’d felt such pride for a job well done.
Veronica adjusted her cat-eye frames. “It’s just that…” She removed and unfolded a paper from her purse. “What I gave you before. It was missing a page. Would it be much trouble to ask you to run back to FedEx Office to make enough copies of this?” The page was titled “Abduction Glossary.” “I’d do it myself but I’m expecting a really important call from Detective Skinner. My police contact.”
“Of course. Anything I can do to help.”
“That’s such a relief.” Veronica gently squeezed his wrist. It had been so long since Keith had been touched in any way by an adult woman that the innocuous gesture gave him an immediate erection. “Then you can remove the staples of the ones you’ve already done and put this as page four.”
“Maybe to save time I could just put it at the bottom. A sort of postscript.”
“No, that would be too confusing. Also, you’ll have to renumber all of the pages. Actually, you should just scrap these and start over.” Veronica stood and collected the completed packets in a bundle in her arms. “I’ll take these to the recycling. It wouldn’t hurt to print off some more flyers, either. Oh, and maybe stop at the hardware store and buy some extra flashlights for tonight.”
On his way out Keith stopped at the counter to borrow some cash from the till. Today he was in no mood to be humiliated by the pizza-faced FedEx Office employee respectfully informing him that yes, all of his credit cards seemed to be declined.
Ellie looked up from her textbook. “You’re allowed to steal from the register but I’m not?”
“Legitimate business expense. I have to run some errands. Think you can steer the ship while I’m out?”
“No. You probably shouldn’t trust me. I might find an antique gun and go on a killing spree.”
“Don’t joke about that, sweetheart.”
“Fine. I’ll just use it to blow my own brains out.”
“I’ll be back before closing. Love you.”
“Who cares?”
Something changed between them after the business with the college money. It was Stacey’s actions that screwed her, but Keith was the one Ellie regarded as the betrayer. He supposed he was just easier to hate. He recalled wistfully how they had once been such good friends who could stand to be in the same room together and enjoyed family activities like watching TV and making fun of Stacey’s sibilant s when Stacey wasn’t around. Ellie was so smart and such a unique person. Keith was terrified of her. He couldn’t remember the last time the two of them really talked. Ellie invariably went straight to her room whenever she came home and only emerged for school and work.
No one had prepared him for how lonely middle age could be. It was why people had families, he supposed; they had to be your friend by default, they couldn’t just break up with you or let the relationship fade w
ith an unreturned phone call.
Recently, while snooping through Stacey’s personal locker in the mall’s back room, Keith had found a small black ledger, the pages filled with a simple chart listing every Heart of America employee and dealer, each with a cryptic caption:
JIMMY DANIELS
ROOKWOOD SHAPE 962
RONALD MARSH
BLUE OVOID TECO
MARGARET BYRD
ROSEVILLE AZTEC SHAPE 2
ELLIE
YAGI KAZUO (?)
At first Keith thought it was a living will, though he was perplexed that she would distribute her collection among so many people who wouldn’t want it. Not till he reached his own name did Keith crack the code: it was kind of inventory associating—based on head shape or body type or personality, who could say?—the people she knew with pieces from her collection.
KEITH
BROKEN COOKIE JAR
That she conceived of human beings this way should not have surprised him. She was herself an empty vessel. And yet, almost twenty years ago, when they first opened the Heart of America, he must have been in love with Stacey, really truly in love. He had to have been. Only that all-powerful delusion could have ever led him to his present ineluctable misery. They’d courted in antique shops, inexpensive dates driving to out-of-the-way historic downtowns, strolling the aisles on Saturday afternoons. Back then Keith didn’t have to pretend to enjoy himself. Recently married, Stacey pregnant, they’d just closed on the exceedingly overvalued house in Eastborough, a modest one-story currently on its third mortgage with a finished basement, aboveground pool, and a two-car garage through whose disproportioned doors Keith’s Bonneville could never fit, the least impressive in a neighborhood full of mansions and mini-mansions. Of course Stacey had chosen the house, for its proximity to good schools, for its safeness, for any number of reasons Keith hadn’t paid attention to at the time, too in love was he to have an opinion of his own. Yes, it was true, and he was amazed to think of it now, that once he really did love Stacey. But what was love, anyway, especially at that impressionable age when Keith was just beginning to learn to be an adult, a lesson he didn’t really comprehend until the birth of his daughter, or maybe in truth he’d never comprehended it, seeing as he had failed his daughter, he’d failed as a husband (although his failure was largely Stacey’s fault, he thought), he was a loser, a crack-up, a creep. If not for Stacey’s dream to open the mall, and the attendant and unpredictably astronomical expenses operating thereof, they would have paid off the house by now and had a chance—a slight one, at least—of a retirement plan better than his current one, i.e., keeping his fingers crossed for either a windfall or an early, painless death. Keith supposed he was more fortunate than many; few could pinpoint the single moment that ruined their life, but he could: the day he and Stacey signed the paperwork on the Heart of America.