by Luke Geddes
Delores made a noise that somehow perfectly translated to don’t bother me and went straight into Hall Two.
Keith sighed. Who could blame Mark and Grant for standing them up? A stink permeated the Heart of America—not just the actual flatulent aroma that Keith, try as he might, could never Lysol out of the area surrounding Pete Deen’s booth, but that of scandal, defeat, and abandonment. So many dealers had dropped out over the past year that entire aisles of the mall were bereft of merchandise. Light bulbs had burned out in the ceiling and no one had bothered to replace them. (Keith supposed that was his job.) A pile of dishes had been sitting unwashed in the back room’s sink for weeks; a family of silverfish had taken up residence in them.
He could imagine the looks on Mark and Grant’s tan, telegenic faces if they did show up, what they would say: We came all the way to Wichita for this? This half-abandoned dust bunker that smells like burned hot dogs? This sad repository of chipped Precious Moments and leaking Beanie Babies? This is the Heart of America? And you, Keith Stoller, you consider yourself worthy of Mark and Grant’s Antiquarian Pickporium franchisee status? Don’t make us laugh our charismatic TV-ready chuckles, supercilious twinkles in our deep brown eyes, as we kick up dirt on our way—laughingly—out of what you have so hubristically deemed the Heart of America. Ha! we say, Keith Stoller, you failure of a husband, father, and business owner, ha!
Keith caught his reflection in the service bell. He didn’t look so strange—in fact he resembled his memory of his own father, a career bureaucrat who in his free time wrote letters to bridge columnists—but there was something wrong with him, some crucial defect hidden away undiagnosed in a body cavity that had prevented him from developing into an ordinary person like the rest of humankind.
At least Ellie would evade the Stoller family’s congenital deficiencies. Keith would see to that before he sent her on her way. He felt he’d gotten to know his daughter better than ever over these past few months. Not that they talked so much. But there was a lot you could learn about someone through observation. Ellie had grown into a smart and self-possessed young woman. Her ruthlessness was, from a certain vantage, admirable. You needed to be a tough bitch to get by in this world. Otherwise you’d end up like Keith.
She sat at her perch at the other end of the counter for the last time, duffel bag at her feet, waiting for Seymour and Lee to finish up and take her away. Keith had always thought that by the time she reached this age, their relationship would have evolved into one of mature love and understanding, they’d no longer be father-and-child but father-and-adult-daughter, she’d understand she had as much to teach him as he had taught her, etc., but she acted today as she had since she was thirteen, saying as few words to Keith as possible, shutting down his every gesture toward conversation or tenderness with an icy stare or shake of the head.
The phone rang. Who could it be but the producer calling to apologize for the delay and reassure him that Mark and Grant would be there shortly? But before Keith could pick up, Stacey emerged from the back room where she’d been hiding from the disappointed dealers and answered herself.
“The Heart of America. Yes, certainly.”
“Is it them? What are they saying?”
Stacey shushed him and withdrew into the back room. After a few endless minutes, he could take it no longer. He got up and followed her, but by the time he reached the doorway she returned to set the receiver in its cradle.
“So what did they say?” Keith asked. “Is it still on for today or are they going to reschedule?”
“What did who say?”
“The producers.”
“You heard from the producers?”
“No, I mean—who was on the phone just now?”
“Nobody. The bank.”
“Which one?”
“There’s more than one?”
“What did they want?”
“Nothing important,” Stacey said. “I mean, it is important. But we can talk about it later.”
“What did they say? The bank people?”
“You seem agitated right now. I don’t want to upset you. Anyway, it is what it is.” She raised her palms as if it were out of her hands, which Keith supposed it was, and disappeared into the back room, probably to check the status of an auction on the computer. He envied Stacey’s ability to never worry about money matters—except insofar as they pertained to her need to shop for collectible pottery, which at least partway explained the Heart of America’s gradual, probably at one time preventable but now hopelessly inevitable, failure, which was not to unfairly discount the impact tolled by Keith’s own ineptitude as a business owner and human being.
Keith returned to his stool and studied the creases in his palms. It was impossible to tell how much time passed before the door swung open and Jimmy Daniels walked in holding two birdcages in one hand. “Hidey ho, Mr. Stoller. How goes it?” He set the birdcages on the counter. “Shame about Mark and Grant. Guess you won’t be a TV star after all.”
“They’re just running late,” Keith said.
Jimmy’s grin was unwavering. “Didn’t you hear? The crew’s RV drove off the road and rolled over. On 54. Thank god nothing happened to Mark and Grant. They travel separately. Took hours to get up and running. Whole production schedule’s shot. One thing’s for sure, they ain’t coming back to Wichita.”
“That’s not good,” Keith said, the familiar black balloon of angst swelling in his chest. Hope had never worn well on him. It was in the face of failure he felt most himself, and he had never been more himself than in this moment. In the span of a day—the day that was supposed to have solved all his problems—the Heart of America’s fate had become irrevocably fucked. First, Jimmy called to inform him he and Margaret, two of the Heart’s most loyal dealers—among the few who could be counted on to pay their rent on time—were striking out on their own. Then Seymour and Lee, the only new blood the Heart had seen in years, reneging on their lease. Now, on top of everything, no Mark and Grant. Without them, the Heart of America was done for, and so was Keith’s last remaining unlikely chance at personal and financial redemption.
Jimmy chortled. “Bad luck, huh? Anyway, I wanted to ask if you could let me have the extra key so I can move out after hours. I got a couple transactions to complete before I go.” He picked up the birdcages. “Guy in Hall Two is trading me an Al Kaline rookie card for these. I know a Tigers nut who’ll pay top dollar for it.”
He couldn’t find the spare in the register, so Keith had to give him his own. It made no difference now. “What did you end up doing with the birds?”
“Had to toss ’em.”
“You just let them go?”
“No, of course not. I killed them. Sold their feathers to this costumer I know. I said, ‘Here, make necklaces out of them. Dream catchers or some shit.’ ” Jimmy strolled off to Hall Two.
Well, if the Heart of America was going belly-up, if Keith was destined to default on his home loans and lose everything, pretty much every last thing for which he had worked so hard—well, maybe not that hard, but work was work—was there really so much shame in that? He’d run a business—not particularly well but not so poorly, for the most part—for two full decades plus. Forget about their debt and their mortgage and dead-endedness. What the future held for him and Stacey, Keith did not know and was not particularly curious to find out. Ellie was all that mattered now. As he gazed down the counter at her, a little bit of poisonous air dislodged from the black balloon. It was time for an incredible gesture of selflessness he was pretty sure he would not regret.
“Ellie, I have something for you,” he said as he embarked on the long journey from his end of the counter to hers.
“Dad,” she said in the tone with which she’d address a fly about to be swatted.
He wanted to say to her all that had been on his mind, to explain why he was the way he was, to impress upon her that yes, she was right, he was a failure and a dumbass and a loser, etc., that she was already at
her age smarter than he’d ever been and more interesting and good-looking and perceptive and talented. He wanted to tell her what she meant to him without having to brace himself for her caustic reply, to say, “I love you,” without it sounding rehearsed and insincere, but instead like the words were new to them both and actually meant something. He didn’t even care if she said it back.
But he didn’t say anything. He reached into his back pocket and brandished the envelope of cash, all that he could scrounge up from the cash register, the store safe, the cigar box in his sock drawer. It was not as much as he owed her and not as much as she deserved, but it was all he could manage on short notice.
The moment was not as tenderhearted and climactic as he’d imagined. It felt like a ransom drop-off. She accepted it without a word, as if he were only delivering a payment she was owed. She did not smile, but without meaning to she lifted her head, and her eyes—fish-like, lined with scaly green mascara—met his. The saliva in Keith’s mouth made a smacking sound and a cloudy look of dread settled on her face.
He couldn’t blame her for the way she saw him. He was after all an old man, and like all old men he was disgusting. Only when he added, “Don’t tell your mother,” did the slightest smirk play on her thin lips. She zippered the envelope into the duffel bag beneath her stool. She did not say thank you.
“It’s a start,” she said, adding, when Keith continued to stare without moving, “Is this a bonus for all my hard work?”
“No,” Keith said. “You’re fired.” He opened his arms to embrace her, but Ellie refused.
“This is getting a little Disney Channel, Dad.”
The intercom screeched. Stacey announced that the mall would be closing in fifteen minutes. “Please finish browsing and pay for your purchases at the front counter at your soonest convenience.” But there were no browsers left, and even though tomorrow Keith would wake up at eight thirty, drive from his exceedingly overvalued home in Eastborough and open up for business as usual, it felt at the moment like the last day at the Heart of America.
He walked unsteadily back to his stool, feeling a lot lighter without the cash weighing down his pocket.
“Hey, Dad,” Ellie said. He turned. “The mall is clossssing.” Her impossibly white young teeth flashed behind a curled lip, as close to a full-on smile as he’d seen from her in months. She was mocking her mother’s sibilant s. It was a thing they used to do, whenever they passed one another in the hall or when Stacey left the room, because it was funny and because they had nothing else to talk about.
“Yessss, it issss,” Keith said. “It ssssure is. The mall is closssssing,” he continued, prolonging the joke well past the point of amusement. He didn’t care. He was having—he hoped he wasn’t just deluding himself—what might be called a “moment” with his daughter.
24 RONALD
It was closing time at the Heart of America, but that made no difference to Ronald, presently locked alone in the interrogation room of the police station across town while Detective Skinner, the lady policeman, transcribed his confession. An interrogation room, just like in the movies: concrete walls, a bare light bulb dangling from the ceiling, venetian blinds covering the windows. Venetian blinds! Who was he, John Derek in Knock on Any Door from the old movie channel’s noir week programming?
Detective Skinner had been a touch brash with him at first. His wrists still smarted from the cuffs, but the physical pain was nothing compared to his anguish at the name-calling: kiddie diddler, pervo, sick f-word, creep. “And we found your little movie studio,” she’d said accusingly. “That’ll help us put you away for a good long time on CP charges.” No no no, Ronald had explained. She had the wrong idea.
And what do you know, once the two of them got to talking she softened right up. It was a lot like Ronald’s show, only this time he got to be the guest. Ronald had of course waived his right to counsel; he knew what he’d done was wrong, even if it all started with a silly misunderstanding—even if his intentions had never been malicious—and he took full responsibility. Besides, having a lawyer present would have interrupted the flow of the conversation. He’d really been on fire, the words pouring out like never before. He could not have asked for a more captive audience. Though Detective Skinner received his anecdotes with stoic professionalism, he could swear she’d cracked the slightest smile during his bit about My Secret Princess.
Detective Skinner returned carrying a Styrofoam cup of coffee and a thick sheaf of papers. She set the papers on the table and handed him the cup.
“Don’t suppose you have any hot chocolate?” he asked. “I’ve never been much of a coffee drinker myself. The one time I managed a full cup, I was practically jitterbugging all over the house. Why, I’ve heard tell that there’s a village in France where they brew a cup so strong—”
Detective Skinner shoved the papers so they hit Ronald in the chest. “What happens now is you read what’s on there aloud. Every last word.” She sighed and rubbed her temples. “Talk fast. When you’re done, if you take the words to be truthful and accurate, you sign your name.” She offered him the pen from her pocket.
“Yes, ma’am!” Hoo boy, that was a lot of pages. And it told the whole story from beginning to end. He had seen enough movies to know where he was headed. The future held things both inevitable and uncertain. One thing he was secure in knowing, however, was that when he was released, his Heart of America booth would still be there for him; a while back, the nice boy at the bank had helped him set up automatic monthly transfers to the Stollers, and with his modest lifestyle he had funds to spare. It wasn’t about having a home for all his postcards, though. On the contrary, what comforted him as he prepared to make official his confession was a newfound understanding of why Melinda had always ribbed him about his collection. People were what mattered, not silly objects. It was through the many relationships one fostered throughout life that a person made his or her mark and, in so doing, continued to live even after death. And there was no person that mattered more to Ronald than Melinda. His harebrained pickle with Lindy had been nothing but a way of distracting himself from the loneliness of life without her.
Well, there was nothing left to do but get on with it. He cleared his throat and began: “On the evening of—”
He coughed.
“On the evening—”
He coughed again, his sinuses sandpaper-dry. He tried to continue, but the words stuck in his throat.
Detective Skinner drummed her fingers. “Don’t tell me that now you’re gonna cry.”
But it wasn’t that. Ronald had talked so much, he’d lost his voice.
25 LEE
“Aren’t you going to regret it?” Jimmy Daniels said as he hauled away the last vestiges of the record collection from Lee and Seymour’s Hall Three booth, leaving behind only a patina of dust marked with footprints and a single cardboard box filled with the leftovers even Jimmy wouldn’t bother with, namely nine copies of Whipped Cream & Other Delights. The house on Waterman was empty (even the stalwart Sansui 9090 that had helped him land Seymour was gone), their car packed with the saxophone and two suitcases that now comprised the entirety of their earthly possessions. All that remained to do before leaving was help Jimmy with the last few boxes of junk in Hall One—he refused to hand over the cashier’s check until it was all securely in his truck; “Past experiences,” he’d said, “have challenged my naturally trustful disposition.” His offer was surprisingly fair considering the value of the individual pieces, but nevertheless incommensurate with the pricelessness of the collection as a whole—not the sum lot of physical objects but rather the decades of life Lee and Seymour had spent acquiring them.
There was something dreadfully Sisyphean about it; they’d brought it in just a few days ago and now out it all went. Was Jimmy right? Would Lee regret it? Did he feel different, was he happier dispossessed of the historical weight of the collection? Or was this just a paroxysm of the belated midlife crisis that had led to the failed shop in Cam
bridge and the move to Wichita to begin with? At the very least he felt lighter, a touch youthful even. As a fan he’d always regarded band reunions as desperate cash grabs by enfeebled has-beens, and frankly he couldn’t say it would be any different with Tears in the Birthday Cake, but in a way it was cooler to succeed after already having given up, kind of like in school when you aced a quiz just by guessing.
For his part Seymour was approaching the purge with shocking enthusiasm. Presently Lee found him in the lobby sitting cross-legged on the counter poring over the sales computer with Ellie. As Lee approached, he read off the screen: “ ‘And just when the shambling charm of it all threatens to implode in “European Son” levels of indulgence, that saxophone breaks out as reliably as acne on a teenage James Chance’s upper lip. Chaos and structure haven’t had such a tuneful marriage since Loveless—and this came out years earlier! Probably the last un-lost classic of the Internet Age.’ Damn! I always thought they were good, but that good?” He turned to Lee and motioned at the monitor. “Robert Christgau’s blog.”
“Christgau’s a pretentious turd,” Lee said.
“Then take your pick on a second opinion.” Seymour clicked through countless browser tabs, flashing past over-the-top headlines hailing the momentous rediscovery of the Tears in the Birthday Cake album, each illustrated with old band photos in which Lee looked, compared to today, prepubescent. “I tucked away our OG pressings in your sax case. It’s cracked the Discogs Top 30. Once we get to Mass., I’m going to make a killing unloading them on some unsuspecting collector scum.”
To think, back in the day Lee couldn’t give the record away with a free case of beer. By the time it was pressed the band was all but broken up, the scenesters had moved on to other darlings, many of whom Lee would recognize on 120 Minutes just a few years later. Most copies were sent to uninterested record companies and the rest were divided between band members. They never even played a release show. Its failure had been so raw that over the years Lee had convinced himself it was perfectly rational; no one liked the album because no one heard it, and no one heard it because it was no good. Now, twenty years later, it was being heralded as a masterpiece by the hipster cognoscenti. It made no sense. Success was stupid, sometimes deserved but rarely earned.