Forever Finley

by Holly Schindler

  “I told you,” Norma barked. “I have no stories.” Even though it wasn’t true. She did have a story—a good one: the story of how she came to Finley. She’d been out in her Mustang, still mourning her Jim, the wound of losing him deep and fresh—it was still the kind of sore that needed to be bandaged, but kept sticking to any gauze you tried to use, so that every single time you changed the dressing, you wound up reinjuring it, peeling away any scab that had started to form and wondering if the thing would ever actually heal. Yes, it had felt just like that, and there she was, driving his car, when she felt this weird sensation, like she needed to get off the highway and take the turnoff to Finley. And then the car sputtered to a stop, running out of gas right in front of an antique store. Which was for sale. And Norma had herself been an antiquer for decades. And she was in need of life direction, now that Jim had passed and her closest friend had moved out of Granite Ridge, and she was all alone again. And—

  It had all been too perfect. Too coincidental. She had always felt as though some force had been behind it. Something—almost—otherworldly.

  But it was her story, too, and she just plain didn’t feel like sharing it with Annie and Justin. Especially if they were going to twist it and turn it into something else, something cliffhangery and silly to please the book-buying public. It hadn’t been silly. It had been inexplicable and perfect and beautiful.

  At Norma’s refusal, though, Annie’s shoulders drooped. Her outer crust—made of, Norma had often thought, a somewhat overly-superior attitude—dissolved a bit. But then again, that had been happening for a while now, Norma reminded herself. Ever since Annie’d come home for the summer, she seemed to lean forward more. She was becoming a listener. She was gaining the look of a woman who did not expect the world to be flocking to her. It gave her some substance—a greater maturity. And Norma found herself softening toward the girl, despite herself.

  “Would you mind if we talked to your visitors?” Annie asked. Her voice was slightly high-pitched. Nervous.

  “I don’t have visitors.”

  “The car show,” Justin said. “Rob told us you were in charge. Some of those guys enter every single year. Over and over. Surely they have something to share. Something passed down by their families. He was a Civil War soldier, you know. Amos, I mean. Town founder. That kind of thing—it’s so romantic, the story of him and his sweetheart. Surely they know—”

  “Surely they've seen,” Annie corrected. “Seen something themselves. Something they’d like to share.”

  “Up to them,” Norma said with a shrug.

  Annie and Justin beamed, pleased.

  “Hey,” Norma called out as they lunged for the door. They’d moved quickly, like little kids convinced Mom might change her mind, given the chance.

  “Things they know about Finley,” Norma said. “What kind of things specifically?”

  “Not the town itself. The woman the town was named after,” Justin clarified. “You know—Amos’s old sweetheart.”

  They paused, turning on their heels at the same time, in sync.

  “What do you hope you’ll find?” Norma asked. “What do you want them to tell you? What story are you after?”

  “Finley,” Annie repeated simply.

  This was beginning to drive Norma nuts.

  “Like who she was?” Norma pressed. “Stories handed down? That kind of thing?”

  “Who she is,” Annie corrected.

  Norma frowned, shaking her head.

  “There have been—well—sightings lately,” Justin said, looking at Annie.

  Norma pressed her lips together and blew, letting out a ptthhbpbhth sound. “Ghost stories. You want ghost stories?” Now they looked younger than ever. Seven, maybe. In their T-shirts and braids. Digging around for some kind of summertime adventure because boredom was creeping in. Ghost stories. Really.

  After a you’ve got to be kidding grumble, she waved them out of the store, nodding when they both thanked her and said they would see her at the car show.

  As the door fell shut, she turned toward her computer, glancing through the messages that had come in via her website. Her eyes lingered on a new inquiry regarding an estate: “Dad’s getting on in years,” the e-mail read. “Mom’s gone now…need to thin down some of his stuff. Would entertain any offer you might have.”

  Norma called the number listed on her website form and spoke with the young man who had found her online. Tomorrow? Yes, she could do that. She could definitely do tomorrow—it would get her away from the store for a while. Away from this car thing she’d been roped into. She could forget about it for a day; that would be nice.

  She drove to his address in her Transit van (which she’d purchased at Jo’s recommendation)—not her Mustang. The ’Stang was for driving out to get Mexican food or shopping in the next town over. It would be perfect for the Moonlight Drive-In Theater just off the highway, too—but she hadn’t gone, not yet. She’d grown up with drive-ins, and it still seemed—well—a little pathetic to watch a movie at the drive-in alone. She wasn’t even sure she liked the idea of going with Jo. You didn’t go to the drive-in with another woman; you went to snuggle up next to a date.

  And Norma was done with all that. She’d been in love twice and going around asking for more was just outrageous. Like praying to win the half-billion-dollar Powerball for the third time. And besides, at her age, did she even have the energy for it?

  She cringed against the silent excuse she’d just made to herself. Anyone who had the energy to run a business generally had the energy to do anything—climb Mount Kilimanjaro, if she wanted. She wasn’t sure she wanted the mental harangue, though. She wanted to focus on the business that bore her name—finally. Here. A business and a life that was all hers. She wasn’t yet ready to start thinking about another person’s schedule. Even if she did get nicked every once in a while by loneliness’s sharp blade.

  A middle-aged woman greeted Norma, waving happily as she parked her van. A woman, who quickly explained it was her brother who had placed the inquiry, her brother that Norma had spoken to the night before. Something in her voice led Norma to believe he was also the one who wanted their father’s things thinned down. But so it usually went with families—boys tended to be less sentimental where heirlooms were concerned. But the playthings of their own youth? That was a different story entirely. She’d seen grown men get teary-eyed as they’d lifted plastic robots off the shelves in her store.

  Heather—the woman’s name was Heather—and she led Norma not into the house but to a two-car garage out back. She unlocked the side-door and flicked the lights, saying, “This stuff—it shouldn’t be out here. I mean, value-wise. It’s better than this—being shunted out to the backyard. Ever wonder why that is, why we take our valuables and put them out of sight? Attics, jewelry boxes. Safe deposit boxes. And then we spend our lives looking at—well—junk.”

  Norma laughed. This woman got it. She liked her; she felt like maybe she could talk to her, even though she was surely only just barely forty. Heather had a better figure than most girls Norma saw at Walmart who were maybe eighteen. No children of her own, surely. Her father, Norma figured, really was getting on in years—probably a handful. Maybe Alzheimer’s. Whatever it was, though, was also none of her business.

  “I’ll let you look,” Heather said, pressing a few plastic sheets into Norma’s hand. “If you find anything, slap one of these stickers on it, and I’ll help you pull it all out in the yard. We’ll come up with a good collective price when you’re done.”

  Norma nodded and began to dig, to peel away the layers of this man’s life. The layers, she thought with a bit of a pang, looked a lot like her own: a wooden console TV (her younger customers were turning them into fishbowls), rotary dial phones, manual typewriters. Costume jewelry that reminded Norma of the pieces she’d clasped behind her neck before going out with Charlie—what had they been called? Dog collars—the beaded ones? Tapes—surely the daughter’s, most bearing the names
of the same bands whose posters had been on Elaine’s bedroom wall. Desk sets. An antique tea cart—Norma’s mother had owned one just like it. A few political posters supporting candidates she and Charlie had voted for. And records.

  “Ha-ha,” she muttered, happy to have found a box of albums whose covers bore images now considered collectible—and a stack of 45s still in the sleeves. People younger than Elaine were getting into vinyl again. She had just started to flip through them when a voice at the doorway—low, definitive—said, “You can’t have my records.”

  She gasped, startled, and straightened to find herself staring at a man with white hair. Just over six feet tall. Slender. A full beard.

  “Those are mine,” he said, stepping forward to slide a couple of 45s from her right hand.

  “What—are you—Dad?” This was no brittle man. Instead, he had the look of someone who had been an athlete when he was young. No, no, Norma scolded herself. The look of a man who is an athlete now. Who could run a marathon or cycle cross-country. Or kick anybody’s rear in a game of one-on-one.

  He chuckled. “I guess I am. You’ve got a nice collection going on here,” he added, pointing to the sea of round yellow stickers Norma had placed on his belongings.

  “I’m—sorry—your children—”

  He waved his empty hand. “I know. They consider me an antique, and they’re right. Most of this—it really is going to waste out here. It’s silly to sit on it all. I’m sure someone else would invite it into their living room.”

  Norma stuttered. She was flushed from the excitement of digging. The garage was stuffy and her hair was damp with sweat. She was certain she looked an utter mess. Her makeup—what little she still wore—had surely melted off half an hour ago.

  “I’m sorry,” she stammered, “to hear about your wife.”

  “Well, I was never fond of Florida, but I don’t know that her move down there is exactly deserving of a sympathy card.”

  “She’s not—I’m sorry—I assumed—your children indicated—”

  “Late in life divorce,” he admitted. Then shook his head. “That’s the way my son phrases it: late in life. Like there’s something unnatural about it. Or more tragic.”

  “Divorce is sad,” Norma said, and bit her lip.

  “Not always.”

  Norma nodded. She wasn’t sure what else to say.

  “You know what’s sad? Seeing a chunk of your life break off, like a piece of an iceberg. There it goes, just floating away—” He waved his 45s, his eyes growing distant. “Break off too many chunks, you’re not an iceberg anymore. You’re an ice cube.”

  Norma chuckled quietly.

  “Then again, my son tends to think everything I do right now is late in life. If I eat an apple, he tells his wife I’m still able to crunch solid foods late in life.”

  Norma laughed again. Louder this time. “‘Studies indicate that for the elderly…’ That’s my daughter’s favorite phrase. How she begins every conversation.”

  “The elderly! That’s worse than late in life. And you can’t pretend not to hear, like you did with parents when you were young. That just means they start e-mailing you information about hearing aid sales.”

  Norma nodded. And paused. She felt strange, suddenly, digging through this man’s life. Like she was prying. “Is there something else—I’ve put a sticker on—you don’t want me—”

  “Aw, no. Well. There are a few instruments out here. Couple of guitars. Drum set. That stuff’s mine.”

  “A musician.”

  He gave her a double take. “Nobody’s used that word to describe me in decades.”

  “Another piece.”

  He wrinkled his forehead.

  “Another piece of the iceberg?”

  It was his turn to chuckle. “Floated away a long time ago.” He slipped a 45 from the sleeve, pointing to the interior label: The Gary Glenn Trio.

  “Is that you? You’re Gary?”

  “I was. Pretty drippy, huh?” he asked, offering the label a half-smile as he brought it closer to his chest.

  “You cut real records. I mean—you weren’t some weekend garage band.”

  “Oh, a few. Small label. Never went anywhere.”

  “A failure of marketing, surely,” Norma offered, trying to be charming.

  “Or the guitar player-slash-singer.” He raised his eyes to meet Norma’s. “I got married. Quit playing. I could have done without on my own—eaten nothing but Pop-Tarts and never owned more than two shirts—but I couldn’t ask my family to.”

  The weight of the admission hit Norma like an avalanche of boulders. Because she had the feeling it had always been there—that quit. His entire adult life. Maybe there between him and his wife. She imagined it had wedged itself between them in the car, slept between them each night.

  “You’re not human if you don’t have that other life,” Norma said. “You know—the one that dangles out there somewhere. That other choice you didn’t make. The person you didn’t marry. The job offer you didn’t accept. The what-if that’s never all that far away from any of your thoughts.”

  “Do you?”

  “I don’t think I ever really had big dreams.”

  “No big dreams!”

  Norma shrugged. “Big for me, maybe. But not record big. I never thought I’d be Janis Joplin.”

  “I don’t know why I was in such a rush to grow up,” he admitted. “I could have gotten married anytime. As for playing music—it’s for kids.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says everybody. That’s why it’s called ‘playing’—it’s kid stuff.”

  “You don’t have to believe it. Just because everybody else says it, that doesn’t make it true.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Gary said. “Nothing like platitudes. The stuff we sew on pillows doesn’t ever really seem to apply to the real world, does it?” His words were bitter with regret.

  “Who’s talking in platitudes?” Norma asked. “Me, or the rest of the world? You discount what I say, but you take the ‘playing music’s for kids’ thing to heart? You ever wonder why we choose what we believe? Sometimes, I think we just grab onto the stuff that justifies some decision we’ve made.”

  He frowned.

  “Looks to me like the perfect time,” Norma babbled.

  He jutted his chin forward. “Time?”

  “To go back to it. Why not? What are you going to do, just bounce around with no direction the rest of your life? For the next forty years? Think of all you did—and experienced—and accomplished—in the last forty years. Now what—it’s just supposed to be over? That’s it? That’s another thing everyone else wants you to believe, too. The infomercials and the ads for catheters—they want you to believe that your time’s over. That you’re supposed to move on over to the side and let the world pass you. You going to eat that up, too, swallow it down like whipped cream on your Jell-O?”

  He shook his head. Turning for the door, he grumbled, “Leave the music stuff. You can take the rest.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Norma felt bad about her interaction with Gary. And it wasn’t something she could just simply stop thinking about, not with an entire Transit van full of his stuff to deal with. Not when she had to add it to her inventory list—and research current prices—and arrange it all inside her store. His words followed her as she handled his things, the same way Elaine did when she was little and knew she’d done something to upset her mother. She’d trail Norma everywhere, trying on cute faces and being helpful—snapping fresh green beans for dinner or cleaning her room without being asked—in order to get some nod of approval or a sign that she was forgiven.

  Only, it wasn’t Gary asking to be forgiven. Norma worried she’d been dismissive of his feelings. Oversimplified something that could have very well been the hardest, most crushing decision of his life. It really was true that everyone left something behind, but maybe some left behind bigger things, heavier things. Not just a job or a sweetheart, but parts of themselves
. That’s what he’d been talking about. A part of himself—not some silly line on a résumé.

  Had she sounded judgmental? When she played it back in her head, it seemed that way. Not that long ago, she had little figured out about her own life. After Charlie died, she’d taken an apartment in the Granite Ridge Retirement Community, waiting for some life direction to find her. Magically. Arrive in a Styrofoam container, along with the dinners she had delivered from the dining room. It had taken Jim—and later on, finding the antique store—to finally get her off her keister and back into the game of life. Maybe that’s where Gary was right now: in his old house, waiting for his own new life direction. Maybe she’d thrown around some of that superior air that she’d disliked about Annie.

  Maybe she’d been a giant jerk.

  She stayed in the store late to price Gary’s stuff. Maybe, she thought, once she got it all priced—and a nice coat of Pledge on his wooden TV cabinet—she could put the whole thing aside, even that foolish feeling.

  When that didn’t quite work, she thought about calling the number for the house, still saved on her computer. But to say what? I’m sorry? Thank you for selling me your things? Have you opened that old guitar case of yours yet? Or listened to some of your old recordings?

  She scrunched her face into a grimace. That’s what she really should have done. She should have asked if she could listen to his 45. She should have asked him to plug in his old record player, slip one of those yellow plastic adapters into the giant hole in the center of the record, and drop the needle.

  Could she do that now—or was that stupid? For some reason, it felt a little like calling to ask, “Can Gary come out to play?”

  As she was staring at the cordless phone propped on the store’s front counter, her ears filled with static. Had she left a radio on somewhere? Had she just clicked something on her computer that she shouldn’t have? (An easy-to-imagine possibility—never had her hands felt more clunky than when she typed on that silly laptop of hers.)

  Light flickered on the opposite side of the store.