Her mind is somewhere else.
“If Shug Blackwell has anything to do with it, he will chain himself to the door before he lets anyone take it from his mom.”
“Granny?”
“The old crank herself.”
“But what if something happens? Maybe we should have a backup plan? Have you thought about trying to interview again?”
Why is she bringing this up?
Charlie leaned back in his chair. “I don’t want to go back. It’s not who I am anymore, Velveteen. It’s not me.” He couldn’t give up this easily. He had already failed in business; he would not fail in this too.
“So this is who you are?”
“Didn’t we have this conversation this morning? You said you wanted this too – a new start, a simple life like Melba What’s-her-name.” His voice was louder than he had intended.
“I want running water, Charlie!”
“We don’t have water?”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Oh, right! That’s why we had to go out tonight.”
“I don’t know what I want, Charlie. But I think we need to be prepared. We need to be ready, just in case.”
“In case of what?” He knew what she meant – in case it happened again, in case they fell face first into another Rooning.
“I don’t know! In case we have a need… Like water!”
“Like in the city?”
“Charlie! I didn’t say that! Where is this coming from?”
She hadn’t said it, but he’d wondered about it every day since they moved to Coraloo. He was ready to call this home. But Velveteen always sounded as if they were on furlough, passing through until something better came along. “Were you even happy in the city?”
“Yes.” She paused. “No. Not completely. I don’t know. It was easier. I didn’t have to rely on anyone. I knew what I was doing.”
He didn’t understand. “What do you really want, Velveteen? Is this not enough?” He hadn’t meant to be so firm.
“It’s enough, Charlie!”
“Then what is it? Something is bothering you! Tell me what it is so I can fix it!”
“Why does everyone want to fix me? I’m not broken! I just want water!”
“Vee, what is going on?”
Her voice softened. “I don’t know, Charlie. I can’t explain it. I’m… unsettled, that’s all.”
There was a quiet, uncomfortable silence between husband and wife. He didn’t want to fight; they never fought before The Rooning. However, there was an intimacy about their recent heated discussions, an unveiling of the heart, and a deeper look into the woman he loved. His wife needed something he was not able to give her… something she would never tell him. Why?
Her eyes were teary, heavy, and tired. Before The Rooning, he would send her to the spa when she appeared on the edge of exhaustion. She would return a glowing ball of social updates, smelling of mint and rosemary. Now, he could barely send her to the grocery for shampoo.
“Vee, I don’t want to fight. If you need something, you have to tell me. I’ll find a way, but please don’t ask me to go back to the city.” He reached across the table for her hand, and then he squinted, rubbed his eyes, and looked at her again. “Did you do something to your hair?”
She stared at him as if he had lost his mind.
“You colored it today… you and Melba! It’s a tad darker, isn’t it?”
“A tad?”
“Is that the color you chose? I mean, darker is great. Do you like it?”
“It wasn’t supposed to be darker. I’ve been trying to tell you – there’s no water, Charlie.”
Was that really all she wanted? Water? He walked over to the kitchen faucet and turned the handle. A gentle stream of water trickled into the sink. “Hey, look at that! It’s working now!” He grinned at his frantic wife.
Velveteen slumped down in her chair and buried her head in her hands.
Charlie rubbed the back of his neck. He’d missed something. “This has nothing to do with the water, does it?” He had read hundreds of books in his lifetime, but not one of them had told him how to decipher the mystery of the female thought process.
“I had no one else to call! And my hair, and my hands, and Granny – she made me serve her, and we have no butter… I need to buy butter. And then! Oh and then…” Her voice shook, as the heat of her anger rose. “She forced me to tell her about The Rooning! And they dumped the water…” She motioned uncontrollably with her hands, acting out the process. “And that woman! That woman! She wants to work on me! But Clover, she’s so lovely, and she brought me a jar of tomatoes. I’m supposed to make salsa, Charlie.”
Charlie Price tried to comprehend his wife’s explanation of what had happened that day. “I don’t understand: why were they pouring water on you?”
Velveteen shook her head, unable to speak.
“Sweetheart, we’ll figure it out. Let’s make an appointment for you with, what was her name?” He didn’t have the money, but he would find a way.
“Sylviaaaa,” she wailed. “It’s not about my hair, Charlie. Okay, maybe a little about my hair. It’s about –” She paused, thinking. “Well, it’s really about…”
Just then, there was a ping to Charlie’s phone, followed by another, and then another. He cast a look to where he had left his phone sitting on the coffee table and then back to his wife. Three of the many items piled into the cupboard, under their bed, or in the garden shed behind the Toft house had sold. The thrill of the sell sent his mind racing. He fought the temptation to run for his phone. Was it the French horn, or possibly the box of vinyl records he had decided to sell as a set instead of individually? It could wait. She needed him now. He needed her. He opened his mouth to speak, to ask her what her breakdown was really about, but he didn’t know how to ask.
Velveteen pushed her chair away from the table and sighed. “Go ahead.”
He opened the app on his phone, studied the message, and laughed. He laughed so hard, he had to sit back down. “Well, how about that! Three items in one day! And one of them I’ve had listed for some time now.” Relief.
Velveteen kissed him on the forehead. “I’m proud of you, Charlie Price.”
“Are you?”
She nodded. “I am. I have to get my head around it sometimes… literally.” She pulled her hair into a ponytail, let it fall over her shoulders, and forced a smile.
“Did they really pour jugs of water over your head?”
She held her hands up to display the number five. “Granny gave me a scarf too, but I don’t think it was hers to give.”
“She stole it?”
“Quite possibly.”
“Vee, I’ll do anything to make you happy.” He meant it.
When they were dating, they passed by a department store window – at the time a store far more expensive than either of them could afford.
He stopped her in front of the mannequin wearing a pencil skirt and silk blouse. “One day, you will shop here. You will walk in and they will fall over one another to clothe the famous interior designer, Velveteen… Price.”
“Price? That sounds nice.”
“I love you, and I will do anything to make you happy for the rest of my life.”
He asked her to marry him the next day.
She didn’t like the way the phrase had rolled off his tongue – my new profession. His new profession confined her to the financial mercy of whatever unsold items she had stuffed in the closet earlier in the day. It wasn’t so much that she missed the freedom of ordering whatever she wanted online and hopping in a cab for an afternoon of shopping whenever she desired – they hadn’t always lived that way – she missed the freedom of picking up a special treat for Gideon at Francine’s or surprising Charlie with tickets to a touring Broadway production. She missed the convenience and the ease; she had taken their blessings for granted. She would happily go to work and help pay the bills if she knew what to do, but Charlie, for whatever reason, wa
nted her to stay home. When she brought up the idea of her getting a job, he shut her down. She did not mind staying home, but it was easier before The Rooning. Maybe her mind had been too occupied with other things to think about a career. She had never really wanted a career anyway – design school was more of a hobby, one that she was happy to revisit to make their home in Coraloo more livable. Here she was learning to simplify, but even simplicity had its costs. She didn’t need much… maybe a little consistency. Yes, that was what she desired most of all – consistency.
“Let me buy you something! What do you need… other than water?”
His question aroused a sense of childlike helplessness. What do you need? There was nothing she needed from him in this moment. It felt selfish to take the money he had earned and spend it on herself. It had been easy before The Rooning, but not now – not when she could see worry and nights of troubled sleep exposing its true nature through deep creases on his forehead.
She had circled a throw in a catalog last week. It was silly – they didn’t need it – but she imagined how lovely it would look draped across the arm of the couch. But she would never mention something so silly to Charlie. There were other things they needed – things she could easily pick up on her next grocery run.
“There must be at least one thing you want. What would Melba ask of her prince if he offered to buy her anything she wanted?”
Velveteen forced a smile – the intensity of their argument held its grip on her. She kissed her husband on the lips, lingering longer than usual. What would Melba ask for? “She would ask for nothing, only that he forgive her.” She loved Charlie even more now, with all the uncertainty and upheaval they had been through, than she had before The Rooning. She hadn’t fallen in love with his money – he didn’t have any back then – she had fallen in love with his determination. She only wanted him to find something that made him happy.
“And if he refuses?”
“He would never refuse her.”
“And why is that?”
“Because he loves her muffins.”
“Her muffins?” Charlie raised his eyebrows playfully.
She frowned at his innuendo.
“Oh!” He grinned. “But she doesn’t make muffins.”
“How do you know?” she said with her hands on her hips. “I made a cake… once!”
“I told you she doesn’t make muffins!”
“You tricked me!”
“So where does Melba buy her muffins?”
“Melba wouldn’t buy muffins. She’d make them… however, Granny made mine.” Velveteen frowned at the memory of the rude woman making demands in her kitchen. She still needed to clean the spit off of the carpet.
“Granny gave you a scarf and made you muffins? She must like you.”
“I think she was afraid I would throw them at her! She is definitely the queen of the crazies.”
“They’re not crazy… unique, that’s all.”
“Did I tell you Granny informed me I’m starting a book club in Coraloo?”
“That’s fantastic!”
“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t feel much like thinking about it. It can’t go well. But for now, Charlie Price,” she said in her most sultry voice, purposefully suppressing all talk of jobs and consistency, “Let’s go pick out that suit.”
CHAPTER 11
Awave of financial peace washed over Charlie after a few of the smaller items sold – a rare original U.S. World War 2 tail gunner helmet and a vintage industrial stapler he’d acquired on one of his earlier trips to the market.
It was a tedious, time-consuming process: first in the listing, which required him to photograph each item dozens of times, from every angle, zooming in on dates, serial numbers, and engravings and noting any scratch or dent. Once sold, the item had to be packaged carefully in bubble wrap, placed in a box, and shipped to its destination – to arrive, he hoped, within two weeks. Inevitably, there were occasional delays, which equalled unhappy customers – Charlie’s least favorite aspect of the job. Still, when an item sold and he received positive feedback from the buyer, Charlie took a certain satisfaction in his “work”, especially when the funds came in and brought him a measure of financial security.
As if the helmet led the charge, his phone alerted him another of his flea market treasures had sold. He checked the details, tucked the phone in the pocket of his slacks, adjusted the cuffs of his button-up shirt, and straightened the bow tie he had chosen as an added touch of sophistication. Charlie Price stepped boldly through the archway of the Coraloo Flea Market – out of the comfort of his blue jeans and strapped into the confines of the gray wool double-breasted pinstriped suit. He’d show Shug Blackwell pickers had class.
Suddenly, he was an outsider looking in – a stranger, an oddity, and no longer a cog in the movement of the market. The suit had given him the illusion of confidence, like the air of empowerment he had felt in his years at the bank. As he eyed the vendors – some of whom he thought of as friends – Charlie couldn’t shake the uncomfortable sensation that his conspicuous appearance would only serve to outclass the sellers, putting him on equal footing with the husbands with heavy wallets who slugged behind their wives carrying a bag in each hand. Charlie didn’t like it and considered walking back to the Toft house.
The last time Charlie had worn a suit was thirteen months ago. He had waited for the call, standing with his hands in the pockets of the very same Burberry suit, staring down at the row of food trucks lining the street in front of Heritage Financial. Other than a few jobs during his years at university, Heritage was all he had ever known. Two weeks before, Charlie told Velveteen that Edgar Green had announced his retirement; she went out and bought a dress. Edgar’s party commemorating his years of service to the bank would also usher in Charlie’s promotion. It had only taken eight years of long hours and late nights to position himself as the next vice president of the one-hundred-year-old establishment.
He recalled how, on that suit-wearing day, hungry patrons waited in long lines for curry-infused burgers, deep-fried churros, and authentic Vietnamese cuisine. The memory played out before him, as clearly as it had happened.
He pulled back the sleeve of his suit coat and checked his watch, crossed his arms, and continued to ponder the exchange of money taking place below him. It could have happened to any one of those poor entrepreneurs.
The phone rang. Charlie sighed. “Hello… yes, sir.” He placed the receiver back on its cradle, took another look at his minimalist, but sophisticated – as Velveteen had labeled it – corner office, and proceeded to the conference room.
One empty chair waited for him at the head of the table. Board members, bank president Ralph Walsh, vice president Edgar Green, Carl Rogers – whom Charlie blamed for this disaster – and a handful of other senior employees waited for him with forced smiles.
“Have a seat, Charlie,” Ralph directed.
“I prefer to stand.”
“Understood. You know why you’re here?”
“I have a good idea.”
“Son, you approved the loan. We have no other choice.”
Charlie passed a glare toward Carl.
“You see, Heritage Financial has been in my family for nearly one hundred years…”
Charlie tuned out the long-winded old man. He had been subjected to this spiel at every corporate event, conference, and on the day he was offered the position of vice president – pending Ralph’s retirement. He smiled and nodded, pretending to be engaged, but his mind wandered back to the elusive Kipling.
He could blame the Kipling for this debacle; after all, that’s where his mind had been the day Carl Rogers tossed the proposal for the rolling gut trucks of death on his desk. Charlie was good at his job and never doubted his instincts. His instinct told him to pass, but Carl pushed. Mid-conversation, Charlie’s finder called and said he had a real lead on the book. The rare leather-bound edition had eluded him at every auction, antique bookshop, and online dealer. That da
y, his mind consumed by the Kipling, and against his better instincts, he signed for the loan.
“Charlie…” Charlie Price returned his attention to his boss. “It’s a bad situation we are in. That truck chain you loaned money to spread a trail of salmonella poisoning over a five-block radius. The poor owner is being sued by two law firms and a neurosurgeon. Those lads at Dudley and Dudley are threatening to come after us next. We’re looking at a class action lawsuit. Charlie, we can’t afford the press, especially in this economy. The shareholders are looking for someone to blame.”
It was his first major blunder in eight years. The standard documents were there, right in front of him with the other necessary paperwork: registration with the local authority, a food service license, and a health and safety policy. But more trucks meant more employees, and required a written hygiene management plan, which the client didn’t have. The Dudleys had caught Charlie’s oversight. Chances were, the policy wouldn’t have stopped the stomach-wrenching deluge. Either way, he’d made a mistake, but he wasn’t going down without a fight. He refused to let Ralph Walsh and his cohorts blame him for the overactive bowel movements of some eight hundred people, including the Dudley brothers, who were forced to postpone all cases for two weeks after the younger Dudley failed to make it to the men’s room mid-trial.
“Sir, the data more than demonstrates the food truck industry is on the rise,” Charlie protested. “Have you looked out the window? There’s a fellow out there selling turnip tacos… and the people are loving it!”
“You made a mistake. Your name was on the loan, Son.”
“His business plan was solid!”
Ralph leaned back in his chair and placed his hands behind his head. “Dudley and Dudley won’t stop until they’ve drawn blood.”
“So you’re sacrificing me?”
“No, Son. We’re firing you.”
“Charlie?” A friendly voice.
Charlie jumped. The past was the past. He could not change what had happened on that day in the city.
“I walked past you three times before I realized who you were. Are you planning to leave us?” Stephen Blackwell asked with apparent concern for Charlie’s professional appearance.
The Death of Mungo Blackwell Page 9