Wreath

by Judy Christie

  After carefully placing the books in her bike basket, she sought a patch of shade, pulled out her notebook, and added the new titles to her “books to read” list. Frankie would have liked both of these, and Wreath could have read them to her mama while she rested.

  Another tear slid down her cheek, and she got on the bike and pushed off with a wobbly start.

  Chapter 12

  The front door of the furniture store was locked, the OUT TO LUNCH sign hanging at its weird angle again today. Still reeling from the realization that two whole months had passed and wondering why it felt like a lifetime, Wreath settled on the step of the store. She pulled an apple out of her pack, wished for a hamburger and a large order of fries, and watched the man at the hardware store next door, sitting on his front bench, reading.

  She craned her neck to seek what the book was, searching for anything to keep her mind off Frankie.

  “Did you come here to daydream, or did you come here to work?” The snippy voice had become annoyingly familiar, but Wreath had not heard her boss approach.

  She jumped to her feet, the half-eaten apple flying out of her hands and landing right at Faye’s feet. The owner had opened the door from the inside, and Wreath was distressed every time it happened that someone could sneak up on her like that.

  You’d think she’d be used to it by now. Mrs. Durham’s routine was as predictable as Wreath’s was odd. “I didn’t think you were here,” Wreath said. “I knocked on the door.” She retrieved the piece of fruit and dropped it, unwrapped, into her pack. She could wash it off and eat it later.

  “If I must, I’ll tell you again. I’m here every day except Sunday and Monday. I eat lunch inside from twelve thirty to one. As my employee, you should make it your business to know such things.” She stood in the partially opened door. “Knock louder next time.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Wreath said, although she wanted to say something fierce and ugly. She had gotten a similar speech about a half-dozen times, even though she was never late, knocked loud, and worked hard.

  “Move that bike away from the door and come on in and get to work.” Faye turned and went back in, removing her lunch sign.

  “Witch,” Wreath mumbled as she pushed the bike past a pile of litter that had blown up against the front of the store. As she thought of ten things she would like to say before riding off in a blaze of glory, she could almost hear Frankie’s voice.

  “You be nice to them, they’ll be nice to you.” The words had been her mother’s guide-to-life every time they moved and when Wreath fretted about a new teacher or a bully at school. She wasn’t sure Frankie’s wisdom would work on Faye.

  Looking up, the hardware store owner laid the book on the bench, gave her a smile, cleaned his glasses on his flannel shirt, and peered at her closely when he replaced them. Waving, he picked up the book and went inside.

  Wreath took a deep breath, adjusted her pack on her shoulder, and walked into the furniture store, the smell not nearly as much like the junkyard as it had been a few weeks earlier. Her boss sat at the old desk, with a pen in her hand and the back of an envelope in front of her. She frowned at the paper, as though not quite sure what to do with it.

  Wreath walked over to her and stood quietly. The ticking of a big old clock, advertising some kind of dinette set, sounded like a bomb getting ready to explode, and Wreath’s stomach felt the same way it had the night before, when the frogs were too loud and the van too empty.

  “Thank you again for the bike,” Wreath said when she could stand it no longer. “It helps on hot days like today.”

  “If it helps you get here on time every day,” the woman said finally, “it was money well spent.”

  “But I paid for it.” Wreath frowned.

  “At a discount price,” Faye said. “But enough of that. I made a list of things for you to do today.” Wreath felt her gloom lift.

  For weeks she had come in to silence, swept, dusted, and looked for furniture to rearrange or other chores that might be important. She had scrubbed the storeroom, rearranged the cabinet under the sink, and stacked the boxes of junk like a child’s building blocks, in neat order. Her goal was to make herself indispensable, so she could keep the job when school started. Even if Mrs. Durham was rude and the merchandise ridiculous, not too many people came in. Wreath didn’t worry that Big Fun or anyone else would find her here.

  Best of all, at quitting time each day, Mrs. Durham gave Wreath a ten-dollar bill for her three hours of work. It wasn’t much, but it helped keep her fed, and it required no paperwork, no cashing of checks at a bank.

  Wreath had been surprised the first time she was handed the money. “I thought employees got paid by the week,” she said, stuffing the money into a side pocket in her pack.

  “Maybe they do,” Mrs. Durham said. “I’ve never had an employee before. It’s easier for me to keep up with my money like this.”

  What she hadn’t said, Wreath figured, was that she didn’t expect the girl to show up for work on any given day. She didn’t know that coming to work gave Wreath a sense of purpose she needed almost as much as she needed money.

  “Here are some duties for you,” Mrs. Durham said, holding out a piece of paper.

  Wreath eagerly grasped the list, surprised at how excited she was for new responsibility. Some days her life seemed more stagnant than the pool of water behind the junkyard. “I love lists,” she said, setting her pack on the cushion of a nearby chair and pulling out her journal. “They help me remember what I want to do. I can write down instructions in here, if you need me to.”

  “This isn’t a management class,” Faye said. “The list is self-explanatory.”

  Only three activities were on the paper: Sweep. Dust. Rearrange furniture.

  Wreath wondered if this was a joke, or if she was about to get fired. “But Mrs. Durham, this is what I already do.”

  “Call me Faye,” the woman snapped, turned her back on Wreath, and walked toward the rear entrance of the store. “I’m not your mother. Or your grandmother, for that matter.”

  “You’re sure not,” Wreath muttered.

  “What did you say?” Faye turned around abruptly; her eyes squinted like a villain in a cartoon.

  “I said, you’re sure not my mother or my grandmother. They were nice.” Wreath regretted the words before they made it out of her mouth, but she couldn’t stop them. Everyday struggles had worn her down.

  For six weeks she had been tied up in knots, and she couldn’t stand it one minute longer.

  “I quit,” she said.

  Chapter 13

  Faye didn’t know why she pushed the girl so hard. She didn’t remember being harsh when Billy was alive, but running the store was running her into the ground.

  That girl Wreath—what kind of name was that?—made all her shortcomings more obvious.

  Maybe it was the quiet way the teen had about her, always down on her hands and knees trying to get the last speck of dust out from under a couch. Or the dignity with which she carried herself, whatever the task. Whether told to scrub the toilet or get bird mess off the front of the store, Wreath did it with solemn persistence.

  Faye preferred sitting, determined to do things her way. Every day at lunch, she locked the front door and ate a can of tuna with four crackers, washed down with a bottle of fruit-flavored water, and topped off with one small piece of chocolate. Afterward, she wiped her desk with a paper towel, washed her hands in the tiny, outdated bathroom, and returned to the showroom.

  Lunch was followed by the small peace of sinking into one of the two recliners still in stock, slipping off her shoes, and pushing back. She did not read, watch television, or nap, but closed her eyes and thought about her husband, mad at Billy for dying and saddling her with this store. Sad.

  This was her life. She could find very little she wanted to do these days. But Wreath … The girl acted like every task was something she wanted to do, which confounded Faye. She was unsettled by the girl. Wreath made her un
easy, scrutinizing her like she understood far too much.

  But she didn’t want her to leave. Watching her first and only employee pick up that ratty pack, her back straight, Faye had an irrational urge to tackle the girl, the first surge of energy she’d felt in months. She suddenly felt like she’d perish if Wreath walked out the door. She couldn’t bear the thought of the store the way it had been. Stifling. Dusty. Empty.

  “Your shift’s not over,” Faye said.

  “I don’t work here anymore,” Wreath said. Her voice quivered the slightest bit.

  Faye tried to imagine what might make Wreath admit she’d been wrong to quit. “If you had an ounce of pride, you’d give me enough notice to find someone to replace you.”

  The doubt on her helper’s face intensified. “I … I’ve never had a paying job before,” the girl said. “I think it’d be better for both of us if I left today.”

  “I didn’t peg you for a quitter.” Faye looked her straight in the eyes.

  “I’m not a quitter.” Wreath practically spat the word quitter, her shoulders bowed back and a stubborn set to her chin.

  Sensing victory, Faye went on. “You’ve hardly worked here a month. From where I stand, that looks like quitting.”

  Tension hung in the air.

  “Nothing I do pleases you,” Wreath said, but she set her pack on a nearby table.

  Tapping into Wreath’s pride meant Faye would have to swallow her own pride, too. It was worth it.

  Faye took a deep breath and plunged ahead, as though stepping out into oncoming traffic. “I’m not used to running a business. Truth is, up till about seven months ago, I rarely came in here.”

  Wreath kept her distance. “What happened?” she asked. “Is your husband sick or something?”

  “Or something,” Faye said, and Wreath shifted her head, the way she did when she was confused, like a blue jay considering a piece of bread on the sidewalk.

  “Dead,” Faye continued. “Billy is dead. It’s been seven months today.” She had almost forgotten the girl was there. “He was well respected around town and honored with all the Chamber of Commerce awards possible.”

  “That’s nice,” Wreath said, clearly unsure what she was supposed to do.

  “No, it’s not,” Faye said. “Billy was no real businessman. Look at the prices on this not-so-fine furniture. Who in their right mind would pay for this stuff?”

  The girl’s eyes got larger with every word, but Faye couldn’t stop. “I lied to you. I don’t have any inventory coming. I can’t even figure out what the new styles are, even if I did have money to pay for furniture.”

  “I don’t want to quit,” Wreath said in such a hushed voice Faye could barely hear her. “I need a job. I hope you’ll take me back. I’m sorry for saying what I did.”

  “The problem is, I can’t seem to think of enough to keep you busy,” Faye said. “The sweeping and all is good, but I need a handyman. This place is a wreck.”

  “I’m strong. And I’m not afraid of heights. If you’ve got a ladder, I can change that lightbulb. I helped … help … my mother a lot around the house.”

  “I don’t want you getting hurt. We’ll figure something out. Get back to your sweeping.”

  “I’m sorry your husband died,” Wreath whispered before walking to the back. “That must really hurt.”

  Faye sank down at the antique rolltop desk that Billy had despised, its top cluttered with overdue bills and an old-fashioned adding machine. Less than a year ago, she had trusted the business and all the details of her life to her husband of thirty-six years. While she had lived her life, he had lived his, comfortable and complacent. Their marriage had not prepared her for his heart attack, quick decline, and death—or the problems that suddenly had to be solved.

  She looked to the back of the store where Wreath fished new spiderwebs out of a corner with the broom. Each of the teenager’s movements seemed intense and focused, and Faye thought for a second that the girl could do a better job running the store than she could. Something would have to be done, but she wasn’t sure what. At least Wreath could stay for now and keep it clean.

  The familiar car slowed.

  “Need a ride?” Clarice called.

  “I’m good,” Wreath said and kept walking.

  “I’d be glad to give you a lift,” she said. “Where you headed?”

  “Nowhere,” Wreath said.

  Faye turned up the radio. Now that she was a widow, she could listen to the country-and-western station, enjoying twangy tales of love and loss and cheating and hurt, music that Billy’d had no use for.

  “My mama liked that song,” Wreath said, broom in hand, on her hands and knees, bringing out dirt and litter that had been there who knows how long.

  “She doesn’t like it anymore?”

  Two red splotches appeared on the girl’s cheeks. “I mean she likes it,” she said. “She loves country songs. She says they tell great stories, and she likes stories. Reading, too.”

  Looking as though she’d just told a family secret, Wreath turned away and made a great show of dumping a dustpan into a trash sack she carried with her.

  Faye liked her occasional chats with the girl. She preferred their calm conversation to the inane chatter of someone who had no intention of purchasing a dining room suite with a huge china cabinet and accompanying sideboard. However, she didn’t have to worry about silly customers, since not one person had come in during the two weeks since Wreath had almost quit.

  Truth was, she wouldn’t go so far as to call the handful of lookers in the store customers. Some were bargain-hunters, certain she was desperate to unload her inventory; others thought she had a flea market; and a few were friends and neighbors stopping by to check on her.

  She got up from the desk, sat down in a recliner with the weekly newspaper, and gazed at the monstrosity of a store. She looked at the big round clock on the wall, two feet in diameter, its old cord plugged in. She stared as the second hand slowly made its way around, a grinding sound marking the passage of one minute, then two. Faye did not know which she feared most—that no one would wander in or that someone might, that Wreath would leave or that she would stay.

  The teen, looking clean and cute in a pair of out-of-style slacks and a knit blouse, put the broom back in the storeroom and opened the door onto the alley as though she had been doing it for years. As the girl brushed out the dust, a wasp zoomed down from its nest under the back eaves. Wreath swatted wildly at the insect before knocking it to the floor and smushing it with her shoe.

  “You picked the wrong person to deal with today, mister,” the girl muttered. Faye knew the feeling all too well.

  Faye wrestled with the heavy back door, wishing she could afford Wreath all day.

  Annoyed at the thought, she jiggled the handle again. If that little squirt of a teenager could open it, she could. When it gave way, Faye practically flew out into the alley.

  Caught between mortification and triumph, she looked around, wondering where the weeds came from and how so much trash had piled up. The only bright spot was a patch of black-eyed Susans that refused to give up, despite the heat. Something about them reminded her of Wreath.

  The screen door of the garage apartment across the alley, part of the store property, creaked. Her tenant walked onto the landing, looked around, and went back in. Billy had mentioned that the woman was a good tenant. Other than that Faye knew little about her.

  The young woman stepped back onto the porch, and Faye moved into the shadows near the store, watching.

  Julia pretended not to notice her landlady, an aloof woman who seldom spoke and refused to do any repairs, in return for cheap rent, paid on time. Looking around the little porch for her running shoes, she felt like she was spying and went back in, glancing out the window. Mrs. Durham looked around the alley as though she’d never been there before.

  Distracted from her search for the shoes, Julia walked over to the calendar she had drawn for summer, reluctant to
mark the big X on the previous day. The days passed too fast, and she had canvases to paint, pottery to fire, training to do.

  She scoured the tiny apartment, rewinding her memory to think where the shoes might be. Stopping to study her latest painting, still on the easel, she touched the canvas with a hesitant finger. An oil of a barn on the outskirts of town, it was framed in weathered wood from the falling-down building. The piece bored her.

  She wondered what the customer would say if she offered an impressionistic pastel of the falling-down building instead. She had painted that one for fun, for herself, and she liked the way it looked hanging on her whitewashed plank wall.

  Finding her shoes under the bed, next to a stack of other pieces of art, some finished, some abandoned midway, she got ready for her run. She was late and in a bad mood and felt an unreasonable resentment against her landlady. Must be nice to inherit a store like that and not have to work.

  Julia dreaded the ongoing continuing education course that would occupy most of her day and hoped the run might wear her out enough to make the class bearable. If it hadn’t been required to keep her job as a teacher at Landry High, she would have skipped it.

  In-service, they called it on the official paperwork. In-servant was more like it. Why should she have to take a course, for no pay, during vacation?

  Julia longed to spend her months off creating. She wanted to teach students how to create, wished she weren’t stuck in a social studies class. She finished lacing her shoes and jammed her hair under a cap, all the while wondering what was worse—a social studies class or the artistic taste of the people who hired her to do paintings. She stepped onto the landing and waved at Faye, who was still poking around the alley. Irritated at life in general and determined to make the woman acknowledge her, Julia spoke. “Morning, ma’am. How’s business?”

  “Fine.” Faye made a show of inspecting the hinges on the old back door.