The Beautiful Things Shoppe

by Philip William Stover

  Chapter Eight

  Danny

  I try to ignore the sensation from Prescott’s arm brushing against my chest and focus on showing him the buildings. There’s still snow on the ground, but the sidewalks are clear enough for us to walk side by side. The air is cold and clear. We walk a few blocks past Bridge Street until we’re standing in front of the First Bank of Bucks.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” I ask, admiring the gorgeous midcentury marvel. Four tall windows make up the facade. They are uninterrupted by adornment—pure open glass that reflects the snowy street. Between each massive window is a stone and cement pillar. Each one creates a simple but perfect rectangle. A straight flat roof sweeps from the center of the windows out beyond the building creating the entrance awning and drive-through window. It looks like something from an episode of The Jetsons or a pavilion at a World’s Fair from the last century. It’s a vision of the future that never was, straight from the sixties. I adore everything about the look and feel of the structure. Modern. Exaggerated. Hopeful.

  “Wonderful is not the word I would use,” Prescott says.

  I smack him gently on the shoulder. “I know you’re just saying that to make me mad. You can’t possibly be blind to the beauty of this building.” He tilts his head from side to side and his bangs flop in such a cute boyish way that I almost have to look away.

  “Aesthetics are only one piece of it. I’m not against midcentury design. I suppose I just don’t get it. It seems so random. That movement never embraced all that came before it. It didn’t just rebel against the Beaux-Arts. It ignored it.”

  No matter what I say, Prescott finds a way to disagree or criticize. It’s exasperating but I want him to see what I see for once so I work harder to convince him instead of argue. “But that’s the idea. The buildings are about the future. They say we can create the world we want and not be the result of what came before. We can be free to be whatever we want.”

  He looks carefully at the building again and I watch him thinking. “I guess I never thought of it that way.” The words creep out in a momentary surrender.

  “See that steel girder that holds up that roof over the drive-through?” I say pointing. “It’s not adorned with sculptures of pretty birds or painted to look like a Greek statue or covering up anything. It is what it is and that’s enough.”

  “But your stuff in the store. It’s covered in color and texture and pattern.”

  “Right, but no one has told me that stuff is supposed to be beautiful. I collect what I love because it makes me happy. It brings me joy. Do things in your collection bring you joy?” I ask him because I truly want to know. Prescott takes a few seconds to answer.

  “Yes, they do. But not for the same reasons. I like knowing the history of each piece and understanding where it fits in.” He looks at me very seriously for a second as if he is sizing me up and figuring out if he wants to go deeper. “Were you teased much as a kid? You know, for being gay?”

  I’m surprised by his directness about something so personal but my gut reaction is an honest one. Mercilessly, I want to say. I want to tell him about having to change boarding schools because of bullies and how I would do anything to redirect their aggression. Instead I say, “Yeah, I was. It sucked.” I’m being truthful but not overly candid. I wonder where he’s going with this line of questioning.

  “Me too. But when I started studying antiques and learning about them, it gave me an expertise. I think some gay men become experts in things because it gives them a sense of power and control that they might not feel in other parts of their lives. That’s how it was for me. Knowing the provenance and art historical background of something makes me feel safe because it makes me feel in control. I guess that sounds silly.”

  “Not really,” I say, thinking about how I always had an ability to make people laugh and how I used that in the same way he’s describing. If I could make the bullies laugh it made me feel in control and that made me feel safe.

  “Excuse me,” a woman wearing an orange safety vest says as she places stakes in the ground in front of the bank. “You’re standing where I need to put my next marker.”

  We both politely move on impulse. “What are these markers for?” I ask even though it’s pretty clear they aren’t just decoration.

  “Demolition.” She says the word as if it does not signify catastrophe.

  “They cannot tear this bank down,” I say as if plucking the markers from the ground might stop it.

  She looks at me like I’m on her last nerve. “You think I have a say in what happens? I got a job to do so they know where to plan the explosion.” She continues down the road toward the corner, putting markers every few steps of the way. Prescott turns his attention from the bank to the woman. She puts down a stake and then walks a few feet, but when she gets to the edge of the bank she continues.

  “What’s she doing?” Prescott says with a sense of urgency.

  “I guess she’s marking the places where they’ll start the demolition. That’s what she said.” It’s not like him to be so obtuse.

  “No, I mean she is well past the bank now. She’s in front of—” he swallows hard “—the Yardley House.” He can barely get the words out of his mouth. I look over at the building next to the bank and even though I’ve seen it a thousand times, seeing it through Prescott’s eyes in this moment I understand it in a different way. It’s classically proportioned, elegantly designed and although a bit genteel in its demeanor, it does have some charming details when you look closer.

  Come to think of it, so does Prescott.

  Prescott

  “Ma’am, excuse me,” I say to the woman in the safety vest. I’m sure there is some explanation for everything that will make sense. “May I ask what you’re doing?”

  She adjusts her orange vest before cocking her head to the side and giving me a look that is certainly more pissed off than the look she gave Danny a few minutes ago. “Like I just told the other one—marking boundaries for the demolition for the new parking facility.”

  I’m getting more nervous by the second. “Are these markers in front of the Yardley House here so it won’t be damaged?”

  She laughs and then goes back to her work. “Damaged? I think fifty pounds of dynamite and a few bulldozers will do damage enough, you betcha. The bank only needs twenty. This building will take thirty pounds and it should be flatter than a pancake from Sweet Sue’s in eight seconds flat.”

  “I thought they were only demolishing the bank?” I ask with one last bit of hope.

  “They’re both going down. Can’t do just one. They share the same support structure since they’re on the river. If one goes down then the other has to go too.”

  I’ve followed her down the street asking questions and left Danny back at the bank. I walk back to him and ask, “How could anyone tear down such a beautiful building?”

  “Why do I think you’re not talking about the bank?” Danny rolls his eyes.

  “No,” I say to him and then point at the end of the block. “That beautiful building, the Yardley House. It’s a stunning example of nineteenth-century craftsmanship in the Second Empire style.”

  “Remind me again. What was the first empire?”

  “City Hall in Philadelphia is in this style. I’m sure you’ve seen it. This was built about the same time in 1871. See the dormer windows and mansard roof?” I point to the sloped tiled roof on the top floor, which is covered in simple gray tile.

  “Is that what that’s called? A mansard roof. Looks like it belongs in Paris.”

  “Good eye. Pierre Lescot is credited for creating this style. The most famous example is on the Louvre in Paris, bien sur. I did my master’s thesis on the Second Empire Period in the decorative arts of Eastern Pennsylvania and the Yardley House was one of the finest pieces I have ever seen.”

  “You mean that dull, boring building
where that woman is putting down stakes,” Danny says and I can tell he is teasing just to push my buttons.

  “Yes, that dull, boring building—as you say—is one of the most important historical monuments to American aesthetics ever built on the Eastern Seaboard. Who in their right mind would tear down something so beautiful and so extraordinary?”

  “Apparently Bridgeton Construction,” Danny says, pointing to the notice on the side of the building that indicates the plans for construction. “I knew the bank was in danger. I didn’t know about that building.” He says it plainly and without malice.

  “The Yardley House is as special to me as that bank is to you.” As I say it, I realize what the bank must mean to him.

  “I get that,” he says and I think he means it.

  “According to that woman, both buildings share a support system. I imagine there are pylons dug close to the river—”

  “—so if the Bank of Bucks goes down so does the Yardley House.” Danny’s expression is pained.

  “Yes, and if the Yardley House goes down, so does the Bank of Bucks. I don’t know if there’s much we can do.” The thought of the Yardley House being razed to the ground makes me shudder.

  “Nothing is a done deal. Ever. If we get enough people to protest we can make a difference. We can save both buildings. I’ve already gathered a list of names of concerned citizens and started planning what we need to do.”

  “It’s only been a day,” I say incredulously. I’ve observed him working hard in the shop, but I’ve been just as focused on making my collection a success that I haven’t noticed how determined he can be. It’s impressive. I know he has a lot of energy, in fact more than I can handle most of the time, but when he focuses he can be a real dynamo.

  “The truth is I could use help. So far we have started a group online to share information and get people involved but there will be city council meetings to attend, protests to plan and glitter to buy.”

  “How will glitter help you save the building?”

  Danny sighs. “You have so much to learn. Glitter can save a lot of things.”

  I have no idea how glitter works into the equation but I guess I’m willing to find out. “One of the first things we need is a teach-in to let people know how important these buildings are. I was already planning on talking about midcentury architecture and you could talk about the mansion roof.”

  “It’s called a mansard roof and it’s very special,” I say looking up at the stunning craftsmanship of dovetailed tiles. “But I don’t know. I’ve never really done any social action sort of thing in that way. I’m more a behind the scenes person.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’ve seen the way you talk about the things you love in the shop like with that man this morning when you were talking about that telescope. He was enthralled.”

  “You heard all that?” I ask.

  “Yes, I mean, I guess so. Any mention of aliens makes my ears perk up. Anyway, he bought the thing didn’t he?”

  “I suppose he did,” I say feeling my defenses weaken. Danny has a way of pushing me out of my comfort zone. Usually he does it by making me angry but he’s also able to find other ways.

  “The Yardley House is something you love. You’re a great speaker about all of that historical stuff. I’m sure people will listen to you.”

  “Did you just pay me a compliment?” I ask.

  “Don’t get used to it,” he says, but the fact is I could get used to it.

  I could get used to it very easily.

  Chapter Nine

  Danny

  Serilda is the president of the New Hope LGBTQ Historical Society, an elected position, but they are nonetheless treated like local royalty. They have lived in this area for decades and rule the political conscience of the town with equal parts sugar and spice. With Prescott on board and a list of community members interested in participating, sitting down with Serilda seems like the next logical step. When I asked Prescott to join us he agreed, and we didn’t even argue about it. In fact, we haven’t had one of our blow-out disagreements in days.

  Prescott has gone from indifference to sustained enthusiasm since finding out the Yardley House is part of the demolition. Even though we each have our own agenda and reasons for wanting to stop the destruction the fact is we are working on this together because we don’t have a choice. The fate of each building is tied to the other so this is shaping up to be a team effort more than I thought it would be.

  After a busy morning in the shop we put the “We’ll be back shortly” sign in the door and head over to the Honeysuckle for our meeting. Serilda is ready and waiting seated at the same table they always sit at in the back of the cafe. It’s like their throne. If someone is sitting there and Serilda enters, that someone moves and does it quickly. It’s a healthy mixture of fear and respect.

  Today, Serilda is wearing a black-and-purple houndstooth pantsuit and a white faux-fur hat that’s almost like a crown on the top of their head. In addition to always being fashionable, Serilda can smell b.s. from across the river so it will be interesting to see how they react to Prescott.

  “Serilda, so nice to see you,” I say, giving them a kiss on the cheek. “May I present Prescott Henderson?”

  “Danny, always nice to see you,” they say.

  Prescott extends his hand and Serilda shakes it gingerly. “Your broach is stunning,” he says, admiring the pearl-encrusted crescent moon on their lapel. “It looks like it’s from the Aesthetic Movement. Late 1860s or possibly 1870s I would say, without a more careful examination.”

  Serilda looks Prescott up and down. They are serious and we both anxiously await their verdict.

  “To be exact, 1866. It was my great-great-grandmother’s. She purchased it after her first year teaching at a school during the Reconstruction era,” Serilda says, moving their fingers over the pin.

  “Sounds like she was a trailblazer, like Mary S. Peake,” Prescott says and Serilda’s eyes open and warm.

  “Please sit down,” they say, studying Prescott. We both pull up chairs at their table. “How do you know about Mary S. Peake?” Serilda asks. “My great-great-grandmother corresponded with her when she was a student. They became friends and colleagues.”

  I’m not sure who they’re talking about but it’s clear that the mention of this woman’s name has given Serilda and Prescott a keen interest in each other.

  “Really? I’d be so interested to see any letters if you have them and are comfortable sharing. I studied Mary S. Peake in graduate school. There is a famous engraving at the National Portrait Gallery.”

  “The one by Lewis Lockwood. Yes, I know it,” Serilda says. They are one of those people who seem to know everything, like a human Wikipedia. I’ve begged them more than a number of times to try out for Jeopardy but they think game shows are crass.

  “Who is Mary S. Peake?” I ask not wanting to feel left out.

  “She started a school for formerly enslaved people. She was one of the first Black teachers to work in a private school. Like my great-great-grandmother,” Serilda says.

  “She was an incredibly important figure in education in the nineteenth century,” Prescott adds.

  “Sounds like it,” I say and notice that Prescott is smiling. I know he was nervous about meeting Serilda since I described them as a somewhat intimidating figure.

  “This one is not only handsome but also a scholar,” Serilda says as if I should be paying more attention.

  I don’t tell them “this one’s” been trying to ruin my life for the past few weeks, since we are here to work together, after all. Fortunately, they don’t wait for me to answer. “Now, we can use your knowledge to help educate the community about those wonderful historic buildings. That’s the first step in a social action. Educate people and get them fired up. A teach-in.”

  I knew Serilda would be able to give shape to
this action. I’ve listened to them tell many stories about being on the front lines of social justice movements from the March on Washington when they were a kid to organizing the float for the Trans Peer Support Group last Pride. I’m grateful they feel passionately about these historic buildings.

  “I was thinking we could do something at the store like a community forum. I can talk about the bank and Prescott knows a great deal about the Yardley House,” I say.

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Prescott says slowly. “Instead of doing a talk I could write something up sharing my research about the building. That way people could look at it when they wished.” His chin drops a bit and his eyes are just slightly downcast. I know he was hesitant about talking in front of a group, but I thought he had agreed to.

  “It’s good to have something like a website as a backup but we need you live and in person. Both of you,” Serilda says, their eyes sharpening at Prescott’s resistance.

  “What do you think, Prescott?” I ask holding my breath and realizing I might want him to be a part of this more than I’m letting myself realize.

  Prescott

  I take a sip from the now-cold coconut latte sitting in front of me to buy some time. I know the other night I told Danny I would speak about the Yardley House but that was the result of his flattery. The truth is, anything over a crowd of two and I tend to freeze up. I don’t have the big personality that Danny does. He doesn’t seem fazed by any type of public speaking. The other day a busload of tourists got an impromptu lesson on making shadow puppets that ended with cheers and applause. When I had to defend my graduate thesis I practiced for weeks and even though the room contained only scholars I had studied with for years I still threw up the night before.