by Billy Wright
And more importantly, sitting in the window were two dolls in beautiful dresses, just the kind of thing Cassie would love.
So arresting were the dolls that he couldn’t take his eyes off them, until the blaring of an oncoming horn jerked him back into the moment; he had started to drift into the wrong side of the street.
He parked and walked back to the store. One adjacent storefront was an attorney’s office, the other, a Western Art gallery. Through the window, beyond the dolls, he glimpsed shelves and shelves of untold curiosities, just like the name suggested. Toys, antiques, books, magazines, strange knickknacks, vintage clothes on mannequins that had worn them when they were new.
But it was the eyes of the dolls that drew his gaze. Like chips of backlit sapphire, droplets of evening sky, the blue of glacier ice, their eyes seemed to be looking at him. The dolls’ faces were like twins whose features were subtly different.
He caught himself grinning. Cassie would love one of those. Given how beautiful they were, he probably couldn’t afford them, but he had to find out.
He went inside, and a little brass bell above the door announced his entrance.
The air inside was cool, not the cool of air-conditioning, but the cool of an early spring morning. The place smelled of old hardwood, polishing oil, and gentle incense. Everything in here looked at least double his age, but there wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen.
The man behind the counter peered over his glasses with a smile. “Good day, young man.”
“Howdy,” he said, scanning the shelves in wonder. He couldn't quite place the shopkeeper’s accent. Eastern European perhaps.
The shopkeeper winked and returned to swabbing an old cowboy doll. A few wisps of white hair fringed his bald pate. His slumped shoulders and strange, rounded build, worn plaid trousers, button-down suspenders, and crisp white shirt gave him a peculiar, Humpty Dumpty-like appearance.
“Oh, wow,” Stewart said, spotting a Boba Fett action figure that he wanted so badly as a kid, but he had never been with a foster family willing to buy one for him. His neck and shoulders tightened. An impulse shot through him to buy it for himself, right now, but he didn’t have enough money to spare for that and a doll for his daughter.
“See something you like?” the shopkeeper said.
“You’ve got a lot of great stuff.”
“But I suspect you came in for something in particular.”
“How much is one of those dolls in the window?” Stewart said.
“I see you eyeing that Boba Fett.” The shopkeeper smirked. “You don’t look like a doll sort of fellow.”
“It’s my daughter’s birthday in two days, so what I’m interested in is one of those dolls.”
But the shopkeeper continued as if Stewart hadn’t spoken at all. “You look more like a pugilistic sort. How about this pair of vintage boxing gloves used by Rocky Marciano when he defeated Joe Louis?” He pointed to a pair of weathered leather boxing gloves hanging in a glass case.
Stewart frowned and clenched his fists. “I don’t fight for fun. Look, I just want to see one of the dolls. I’ve got to get back to work.” Nevertheless, he wondered how such items as those particular boxing gloves ended up in a tiny shop in Mesa Roja.
The shopkeeper’s gaze, suddenly sharp, narrow, and penetrating as an ice pick, turned Stewart’s shoulders to knots. “Let me tell you a story that you will not believe.”
“Is it a long story?” Stewart checked his watch.
“It is neither too long, nor too short, but eternal. It is the oldest story of all.”
“Then I’ve probably heard it before. Can we move this along? If my boss thinks I’m taking an extra five minutes for lunch, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“As I said, you will not believe it.”
“Try me.” After what he had seen this morning?
“Do you believe in magic, young man?”
The question put Stewart unexpectedly back on his heels. People didn’t talk about magic, and they didn’t ask if you believed in it, unless you were a child. “Let me put it this way. I wish I could.”
“But you don’t.”
“I... I used to.” But was that true? As a child, his belief in magic was the only thing that got him through. Had he abandoned that in the face of adulthood, the pressures of fatherhood, or was he just in a bad mood? “No, scratch that. I do believe in magic.”
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of the shopkeeper’s mouth. He came out from behind the counter, dragging one foot, and approached the window. “Then maybe all hope is not lost. What if I told you a great secret? It can only be understood by those who believe in magic.”
Stewart sighed, wishing the old man would just get on with it. As the shopkeeper passed, Stewart smelled cotton candy, earthy spring flowers, and freshly scrubbed baby. What kind of old man smelled like that?
“There is a war going on,” the shopkeeper said.
Stewart didn’t think he was referring to America’s endless wars of the last twenty years. “There’s always one somewhere.”
The shopkeeper clucked his tongue as if to silence Stewart. “The universe straddles three realms: the Light, the Dark, and the Penumbra, the place of shadow where Light and Dark meet.”
Stewart held back the urge to scoff. What is this, a New Age bookstore? Is he trying to sell me some sort of fantasy game?
“But I’m just telling you a story, yes? Only a story,” the shopkeeper said. “In the Light Realm reside beings of compassion, kindness, growth. Love. The Dark Realm is filled with creatures of hatred and cruelty, destructive forces, the utter absence of love.”
“Sounds like you’re talking about Heaven and Hell.”
“That’s...a somewhat narrow view, like understanding the truth of the universe through the prism of someone else’s beliefs. Do you know the story of the three blind men and the elephant?”
“No.”
The old man took another step toward the dolls, then paused to speak. This was excruciating. “Well, you see, the first blind man felt the elephant’s trunk and declared, ‘It’s a serpent!’ The second blind man grabbed the elephant’s tail, and said, ‘No! It’s a rope!’ The third blind man ran into the elephant’s leg and said, ‘No, ’tis a tree!’ And then they all came to fisticuffs over the disagreement. Such is the nature of religion. But forgive me, I wax philosophical, and you just want to make your daughter happy.” He took the two dolls from the window and carried them to the counter. “So the Light Realm and the Dark Realm are not just places full of otherworldly magical beings. The inhabitants are part of that realm, of that realm, and vice versa. The realms are alive, constantly growing or contracting, depending upon which side has the upper hand. Sadly, the upper hand is almost always held by the Dark.”
Stewart felt like he was in the middle of an enormous TMI session. Why was the shopkeeper telling him this stuff? “And why is that?”
“Because by its very nature, the Dark is ruthless, strictly self-serving, willing to go to any means, violate any boundaries, to achieve its aims. The Light side is often hampered by the desire to keep the innocent and vulnerable from harm. The Dark is happy to seize whatever upper hand it can.”
“So, the Light side will take the gloves off when fighting the Dark, but they’ll hold off if bystanders might get hurt.”
“Precisely. The Dark holds no such compunctions. And it is the Penumbra always caught in the middle.”
“What’s that mean, ‘Penumbra’?” Stewart asked, feeling the strange music of the word on his lips.
“That is our world, caught forever on the border between light and shadow, forever neither dark nor light, like the shifting edge of an eclipse.”
Despite the abruptness and whimsy of it, something about the shopkeeper’s tale thrummed a chord in Stewart’s breast. He had often daydreamed about such things, about some eternal struggle between Good and Evil, and how he too often felt like a man caught in the middle. There was so much goodness in the world,
but so much evil, too. Too often, it did feel like darkness predominated, with so much rampant cruelty, even among those whose job was to serve the public. Vile politicians, bad cops, abusive churches, greedy corporations, and that was before one even considered the overtly bad, like gangsters, tyrants, and criminals. His own life was marked with moments of regret, moments he had taken the path of violence or selfishness, but also moments of unexpected joy and wonder. He often felt like a pawn on a chessboard, or the rope in a tug-of-war. Everything the old man was saying would sound outlandish to almost anyone else, but not to Stewart. But how did this guy know how Stewart thought?
“Look, sir,” Stewart said, “that’s a great story, but I really gotta get back to work. How much for one of the dolls?”
“These dolls are a matched set. One cannot bear to be parted from the other.”
Stewart doubted he could afford both, and girded himself to leave empty-handed. “How much?”
“You are fortunate in that we are having a buy-one-get-one sale, today only.” That little smile tugged again.
Stewart pulled out his wallet and checked his watch again. “Please, I really have to go.”
The shopkeeper gave Stewart a number that made him swallow hard. That was more than twice what he had planned to spend. If he paid that much, his truck would be running on fumes until his next paycheck.
But seeing Cassie’s face would make it all worth it. He sighed and counted out the money.
The shopkeeper’s eyebrows rose like white caterpillars arching their backs, but he spirited the money away behind the counter. “I’m sure your daughter will be delighted with them. They are looking forward to meeting her.”
What a strange thing to say.
The shopkeeper produced a beautiful bag of golden foil and put the dolls inside it.
“Thank you,” Stewart said, taking the bag and turning toward the door.
“There’s just one more thing,” the shopkeeper said.
Stewart sighed again and turned. “What?”
“You have questions, do you not? You want answers to them, yes?”
“Questions about what?” Stewart’s impatience was mounting.
“Why, about life, about the universe, about everything.”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
“Sadly, no. Many people find such questions bothersome.” The shopkeeper placed a folded parcel of what looked like parchment on the counter. “This will answer your questions.”
“Look, I don’t have any more money—”
“This I offer you as a gift.”
“Sorry, I don’t think I need—”
“Oh, but you do!” The sudden hardness of the shopkeeper’s voice, an insistence that wouldn’t be denied, brought Stewart up short and stoked an ember of anger.
“Who are you to say what I need?” Stewart said, his own voice turning hard.
“What rightly constructed boy doesn’t dream of digging for buried treasure? Just a look. I offer this to you free of charge.”
“Twain,” Stewart said.
The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow quizzically.
“That’s a line from Tom Sawyer. ‘There comes a time in every rightly constructed boy’s life when he has a raging desire to go somewhere and dig for hidden treasure.’” Stewart had read that book many times as a boy.
“Why, indeed it is,” the shopkeeper said with an enigmatic smile.
Stewart reluctantly came back to the counter as the shopkeeper unfolded a battered piece of parchment that looked for all the world like an old, pirate treasure map. But he recognized the outlines of familiar rivers, mountains, and canyons north and northeast of Mesa Roja. A dotted line meandered into the wilderness toward what looked like a lake with which he was unfamiliar. In the wilderness lay warnings: Here there be monsters. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Take this map. Take the dolls. And take your family here.” The shopkeeper stuck his finger on the X near the lake on the map. “Do that, and something extraordinary will happen. I promise you.”
“Uh, okay.” Stewart grabbed the map. He didn’t have any more time to trade words with this guy.
The shopkeeper grinned widely, showing an expanse of white, sparkling teeth.
Stewart tucked the map into his shirt pocket and hurried back to the truck.
As he started the truck and checked his list for the next job, he said, “What a bunch of bunk.”
And yet, there lay within him a boy who used to believe in such things. He had yearned to dig for buried treasure, dreamed of finding an ancient chest of Spanish doubloons, or an ancient cliff dwelling like Mesa Verde, which lay only a few hours’ drive away.
Then his company phone rang with a phone call from Mr. Richards.
***
Mr. Richards’ voice was like a brick lobbed at Stewart’s head. “What are you doing parked on the street in that part of town?”
“Taking my lunch break,” Stewart said calmly, but inside alarm bells were ringing that this might be one of his boss’s occasional tirades. Mr. Richards was always wired pretty tight, but some days he was simply insufferable, unreasonable, irrational. Time for some new meds, perhaps.
“Are you trying to get my truck vandalized?” The tone in Mr. Richards’ voice, suggesting that Stewart might be the stupidest lout ever born, set Stewart’s teeth on edge.
“No, sir.” The steering wheel cover creaked with the force of his wringing grip. There certainly didn’t look to be any vandals around, especially in broad daylight. The only thing moving around him was the hot breeze and the waves of heat that went with it. It was simply a street that had seen better times, like so much of Mesa Roja. “I’ve been with it the whole time.”
“Never mind. Lunch break is over. I just got a call from the customer telling me you haven’t been there yet.”
“I’m working the sheet in the order you gave me.”
“Don’t give me any of your smart lip, you dumb lummox. Get your butt over to the old taco shop on Alameda. The bank wants those locks changed pronto.”
“Yes, sir,” Stewart said, but he was already fuming at being called names. Was any job worth working for such an abrasive ass? It was like wearing sandpaper underwear.
Maybe it was time to start looking into his own business. He’d only been thinking about it for years. He had been watching Mr. Richards for so long, he had a solid grasp on how to run a locksmith operation—as well as how not to. Not being a dick was high on that list. He didn’t bother trying to offer suggestions anymore.
The line clicked dead, and Stewart threw the phone onto the dashboard with a snort of disgust. Nevertheless, he started the engine and headed to the next job.
For the rest of the afternoon, Stewart resisted the urge to drive back to the shop and punch Mr. Richards in the head. He fantasized about walking in and laying his boss out with one shot. But then Stewart would go to jail. And he couldn’t have that, not with two of the world’s most beautiful kids at home. Time to swallow his pride. At least for a little while longer.
The rest of the day’s jobs all went smoothly. The customers thanked him profusely at saving their bacon. When he finished the taco stand job, the man from the bank tipped him twenty dollars with a kind smile and firm handshake.
With his job list complete, he returned to the shop to work on the inventory and found Eddie alone minding the store.
Behind the counter, Eddie put his feet on the floor and his phone on the desk, then tossed back a long, blond lock of hair that habitually hung over one eye and gave Stewart a little nod. “’Sup, bro.”
“Where is he?” Stewart asked.
Eddie shrugged. “I ain’t his secretary.”
Stewart had a moment wondering why Eddie felt safe doing nothing when the boss might walk in at any moment. He didn’t resent it—to each his own—but something felt off. “Want to help me with inventory?”
Eddie shrugged again, perhaps his most habitual mannerism. “Sure.”
“Thanks. How�
�s your mom?”
“Mean as ever. Still smoking, even on chemo.”
“She’s a tough old gal.” Eddie’s mother was a woman made of weathered boot leather, with eyes like polished turquoise. Even fighting off Stage 3 non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, she would probably outlive all seven of her kids, of whom Eddie lay somewhere in the middle.
Eddie gave a wry smile. “Don’t I know it. Where’d we leave off yesterday?”
“Deadbolts, I think.”
Inventory was a hugely tedious job in which every key blank, every lock, every screw, every washer, had to be meticulously counted. Nevertheless, it required the kind of concentration that made time pass quickly.
It was nearing time to clock out when the back door chimed, announcing Mr. Richards’ return.
At the sight of him, Stewart had a flash that the man was a walking scarecrow with button eyes, a frame of sticks inside a shirt stuffed with tattered rags and moldy straw, some strange rodent peeking out from between the buttons of his shirt. But it was not just a metaphor; it was as real, for half an instant, as the monstrous creature he had seen this morning. Then he was just Mr. Richards again.
“Stewart,” Mr. Richards said, “in my office.” He went straight into his cramped little office, more of a closet, really.
Stewart jerked stiff and his stomach flipped over. He put down his clipboard and followed Mr. Richards. Had he done something wrong? All the jobs had gone smoothly, as far as he knew. He still chafed at being called a “dumb lummox.” His fists clenched.
As soon as Stewart stepped into the office, he caught a strange, earthen scent.
Mr. Richards said, “Shut the door.”
Stewart shut the door behind him. He hid his clenched fists in his armpits.
“I’m sorry to have to do it,” Mr. Richards said, “but I have to let you go.”
An invisible truck tire slammed into Stewart’s belly. That was absolutely the last thing in the world he had expected to hear. A thousand protests and questions sprang to the edge of his tongue, but the fact that Mr. Richards didn’t sound the slightest bit sorry brought them all up short. So he just stood there, frozen, rooted, his insides starting to boil.