Foxy's Tale

by Karen Cantwell

  Amanda dropped her backpack at her feet and turned back to lock the apartment door. She had a bit of trouble fitting the key into the deadbolt, but she finally slid it through and turned it until it thunked into place. She withdrew the key, picked up her bag, turned to leave and there he was, standing just behind her – or by then in front of her.

  “Oh.” It was more a gasp than a cry. Startled, she dropped the backpack on her toe. “Ow.” This time it was a cry.

  “Excuse, please, for the disturbance.” The little man leaned down and reached for the pack.

  “No, it’s okay.” Amanda waved him away but he was already doubled over and had grabbed one of the straps.

  “Oy, so heavy,” he huffed a bit as he hauled it off the floor. “You could break a back schlepping that thing around town. So where do you go with it so early?”

  He stood there with his fingers wrapped around one strap.

  “I,” Amanda hesitated. She didn’t know why. It was weird. Uncomfortable. Having this man living upstairs. And here he was, practically in her face.

  “I’m going to school. I have to go or I’ll be late.”

  “Sure, sure,” he said handing her the backpack. “You shouldn’t be a stranger? Come up for tea one day? I am all a lonely in that apartment. Company vouldn’t be a bad thing?”

  He shrugged and handed over the backpack and Amanda thought it was odd that his sentences all sound a bit like a question. Tea? Now that was weird. But there was something about him. Something soothing in a way. Like he was someone you could talk to, someone who would listen and not argue with you.

  “Well, bye,” Amanda slid one arm through a strap and slung the backpack around to her shoulder. Then there he was again, right up next to her, helping her get her other arm into the second strap.

  “Such a lot to learn,” he murmured. “In my day ve had von book. Ve vere lucky to have enough ink to fill a pen. So bad things vere all over. Now with the computers and those valking-about phones and the music and the movies on CDDVDs MP thingamajiggies? Who can keep track of all the numbers and letters like an alphabet soup kettle. Does it make a better vorld? Ach, not in my mind. Vell, have a nice day.”

  He turned and walked to the stairs. Amanda thought it was odd that he was going upstairs to his apartment so early in the morning instead of downstairs and outside to go to work like everyone else. She thought maybe he went out for breakfast. An old man living alone wouldn’t cook much. And now that she thought about it, she’d never smelled any cooking odors coming from his apartment. And she’d never heard anything either. Like the man didn’t walk around or have anyone over. Well, maybe he was still getting settled. By the time she got to the sidewalk she’d stopped thinking about him and looked in the front window of the store. She saw Foxy seated at the desk and considered knocking on the glass and waving goodbye, but then she didn’t.

  As she walked toward the Metro she thought about Nick. Would he meet her at the Metro station and drive her the rest of the way to school? It would be nice not to have to ride that gross bus, and he did offer before. On the platform waiting for the train, she thought about it some more and again after she was on the train with the lights flashing as the train sped along. She looked at her phone, easily twenty times, but she didn’t make the call.

  “This is so lame. To have to take the Metro and then the bus.” She said it out loud as she trudged down the street toward the bus stop. She was angry at Foxy all over again. She pulled out her cell phone and called Nick. Although he programmed his number into her phone last week, she’d never called him before.

  He answered right away. He sounded happy she was calling. He said he was halfway to school and he knew the stop where she waited for the bus. He’d be there in eight minutes. She wondered that he knew exactly how long it would take him to get there. But she figured guys know stuff like that. Nick was one of the in-between guys. In between cool and nerdy. The cool guys hung out with him but so did some of the nerdy guys. He was smart enough to work with them on science and math projects. But he also did sports. Between classes she’d seen him sometimes with a headset plugged in to drown out the school noise. But she didn’t really know that much about him. He drove an old BMW that looked like a discarded family car. It had a few dents and some rusty spots.

  While she waited for him to pull up, she thought about what to say during the short drive to school. There wouldn’t be much time. She wanted to tell him about Foxy and the house and store, about the man upstairs and how he sort of creeped her out this morning, about last night and Knot making her supper. But then she thought it was all too weird and maybe he’d think she was lame and wouldn’t offer to give her a ride again. Just as she decided to let him talk, he pulled up in his old BMW with one slightly crunched fender. She opened the door and was relieved that he was smiling. “Thank you for this,” she said as she buckled her seat belt.

  “Sure.” He pulled back into traffic, then an awkward silence began. He was lean and it seemed as if he’d grown another inch every time Amanda saw him. His hair was black and wavy and hung down over his eyes. He wore torn jeans and faded T-shirts and Nikes and a leather jacket. He was cute in a normal, everyday sort of way.

  Amanda’s mind raced, trying to find a way to fill the silence without sounding stupid. She finally decided on a school topic. “Who do you have for Civics?”

  “Huh?”

  “Civics. Who’s your teacher?”

  “Oh. Civics. Yeah. Walsh. You?”

  Amanda wasn’t used to talking to guys and wondered if they all talked like this. “Tomlinson. He’s a dork.”

  Nick laughed but didn’t say anything else. She thought about asking what other classes he was taking, but changed her mind. The silence built again, so she headed for another topic. “Nice car.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Is it yours?”

  “Nah. I stole it.” Nick said this stone faced. Amanda didn’t know how to answer. Finally he looked at her and smiled. Amanda really liked his smile. It was inviting. “I’m joking. Technically it’s my dad’s car, but I’m the only one who drives it.” He pulled quickly into the student parking lot and whipped expertly into the first space he saw. “We’re here.”

  As they were walking from the car to their classes, he pulled her up onto the sidewalk when a car came along too fast. She tingled, thinking about how protective it felt.

  “You sticking around after school today?”

  She thought quickly. She wasn’t planning on it, but she took a chance. “Yeah. I have some stuff to do in the chem lab.”

  “Practice is over at four-thirty. You want me to drive you home?”

  She couldn’t let herself smile. “Sure.”

  “Cool. Meet me at the car.” Amanda felt happy for the first time in many months. After her third class, she went to the library and popped open her laptop.

  Amanda’s Life in Hell (she wrote )

  Got better this morning. J

  Chapter Ten

  Foxy looked up when the bells over the door tinkled. She thought maybe she should replace them with something that sounded less Christmassy. The tune from Jingle Bells always popped into her head when she heard those little bells and then she had trouble getting that damned tune out of her head. She was surprised to see the little man from upstairs standing inside the door, squinting in the morning sunlight. His skin looked very pale.

  Foxy wondered if he was ill. She didn’t want to catch anything. She couldn’t afford to be sick. But after all, she did have Knot. He could watch the store for her. Yet he was not particularly good at the routine of everyday matters. He liked the chase. Liked to go out and sell. He was good with all the country club ladies and the political wives and the Georgetown crowd. He played one against the other and made them compete for price. He was very good for business. So good, in fact, that Foxy had to go on a buying trip soon. The antiques show in Palm Beach in November. She’d been looking at hotels. The Colony downtown. Or maybe the Four Seasons on
the beach. That would be nice. She sighed just thinking about it. And a fantasy man popped into her mind, even though she had sworn off men since she saw that picture of her ex on the cover of The Star. She was just waiting in the checkout line at Whole Foods, for God’s sake, and there he was, buck naked with a boner and his hands on the tits of that “hostess.” At least they plastered a black strip over the bodily details.

  Foxy had tried to get that image out of her mind but it just wouldn’t dislodge. She examined little Myron Standlish. Standing in the morning light, rumpled and tired looking, he seemed not to know why he was there.

  “Excuse, Mrs.,” he began and it occurred to Foxy that he didn’t know, or remember, her name.

  “Anders,” she said it a bit too forcefully and the little man flinched slightly as if she had struck him.

  “Ah, sure, Mrs. Anders,” he repeated it. “Excuse for the intrusion to your store. Nice things. Very nice baubles and such.” He took a step further inside and stopped by the Ming-like vase that now sat on a pedestal. He stroked the air around it, “So I vouldn’t break a thing. Nice things like this are not so easy to find these days. Used to be lots of nice things everywhere but now … ” He shrugged and tilted his head as if remembering better times.

  “Oh, it’s not as hard as you may think,” Foxy stood up and moved away from the desk. “Is there something wrong in the apartment?” What else could he have been doing here?

  “Oh, no?” It sounded like a question as he stepped away from the vase. His hand rested in the air however, like he was looking for something else not to touch. “A nice lady by yourself − are you buying all these many beautiful things?”

  “Yes, I do,” Foxy was getting a little annoyed. Why all the dancing around? What did he want?

  “You travel for this buying?” he asked.

  “Sometimes,” Foxy walked forward, closer to where he stood.

  “You owned this house a long time?” He moved to the side and rested his hand on the edge of a love seat. He seemed about to sit on it but instead he skirted around behind it so the love seat was now a barrier between himself and Foxy.

  “Not very,” Foxy answered. “I got it in a divorce settlement. I just moved in and opened the store recently.”

  “Ahhh,” he nodded knowingly. “Such a shame. Divorce. For the child especially it is hard.” He looked up as if Amanda might have been standing directly above them in Foxy’s apartment on the second floor.

  “He’s not her father, if that’s what you mean.” Why was she telling him all this? Foxy wondered what he wanted, but she also felt something compelling about him. Which seemed even stranger than the confusion about why she was telling him anything about her life. She felt rather repelled and attracted at the same time. The way someone at a carnival is attracted to the oddities on display.

  “No?” he smiled at this. “Then maybe it’s not so bad. But the father – he sees her, yes?”

  Foxy turned away at this question and strolled back to her desk. Still the question lingered in the air between them. Myron Standlish did not move. His hands were now firmly placed on the back of the loveseat as if he’d staked out this particular square footage as his own.

  “Amanda has never met her father,” Foxy said it softly, reminiscently.

  “Ach,” said the little man. “A tragedy this is. I know this predicament. It is not good not to know your own father. I feel, poor child, she must be wondering all the time about him. Is she not?”

  “Of course she’s not,” Foxy snapped. This was really too much. Too familiar. Too close.

  “Oh, please forgive, Mrs. Anders, an old meddlesome man. Only this morning I met the child on the stairs and helped her on with that pack she carries to her schooling, and to myself I thought what a lovely child and she should have a father helping her with such things as this. Nothing more. You see, I am alone in this world and I feel for others who also are alone like myself. I had a father, you see. And a brother. An older brother who inherited the family name and wealth. It is that vay in the old country. The older is preferred and the younger is cast aside like an old shoe. But this is neither here nor where. If you may forgive the intrusion. But I see something in your store the other day as I walk past and want to make enquiries about it. But perhaps you are too busy now and I should come back. Perhaps another time?”

  “Now is fine, Mr. Standlish,” Foxy was all business again. The moment had passed. Jingle Bells had long disappeared from her mind. At least she had the little man to thank for that. “What did you see in the store?”

  “Vell,” he looked around and spotted the trunk, over by the wall, with a tapestry draped over it. “I tell you, Mrs. Anders, I been looking long time for something. But just the right something. Not any ordinary one you see. A trunk. And I see you have one by that wall.”

  “Yes,” Foxy came around the desk again, heading for the trunk now. “Would you like to see it?”

  “First, so not to trouble you. I see the other day from the vindow, before this cloth . . .”

  “The tapestry?” Foxy asked.

  “Yes, before that was covering. I see the trunk is locked. Am I correct?”

  “Why, yes,” Foxy said. “It was locked. It still is. I don’t have the key and of course with antiques one is not supposed to change them in any way. So we left it as it was when we found it.” She was standing by the window near the trunk in question. And she noticed the little man’s face had gotten some color back. He looked almost excited. “If you wanted it unlocked to see the inside I suppose we could get a locksmith in here. We’ve managed to date it back two hundred years. It was quite a find. And it’s in very good condition, considering the age, of course.”

  Actually Foxy had no idea how old it was. But Knot had said it looked two hundred years old if it was a day and they should sell it that way.

  Myron nodded. “This looks like kind of trunk I vahnt. Okey dokey. How many dollars can I give you?” he asked.

  At that moment the little jingle bell tinkled and in walked a well-dressed and carefully coifed woman of about fifty-five followed closely by Knot.

  “Well, here we are,” he made a grand gesture with one hand as if pulling back a curtain to reveal the store. “And here you are,” he said to Foxy. “And here . . .” but then he stopped at Myron, who looked a bit embarrassed.

  “This is your upstairs neighbor, Kuh-not.” Foxy nodded toward Myron. “Mr. Standlish,” she said being the perfect hostess, “this is Mr. Knudsen.”

  “Charmed,” Knot took in Myron’s rumpled clothes and scuffed shoes then turned to Foxy. “I’ve brought Elisabeth DuPont over to see the shop,” he told Foxy, eyebrows raised in a conspiratorial arch. “I’ve wanted you to meet her. She’s restoring a historic Virginia farm out in Middleburg. She has hunter-jumpers, you know.”

  *****

  In the half hour before lunch, Amanda popped open her laptop as she sat on a bench outside the dining hall.

  Amanda’s Life in Hell (she wrote again) Entry Two Today

  He offered to drive me home today. I said yes. It’s so much nicer than the Metro and the bus. I have a feeling Foxy is going to order Chinese takeout again. Think I’ll ask him to drop me off at the grocery store near my house – I’ll buy my own food for dinner, thank you very much.

  Chapter Eleven

  The DuPont woman, dressed in a black Chanel suit and red pumps, glanced around the shop, her chin tilted up, seeming to peer under her large Jackie O sunglasses. Her lips were pursed. It was a critical moment for Knot and, although he had imagined he would be alone here with his customer, he took charge nonetheless before Foxy or – horrors – that little man, could screw this up for him.

  “Let me show you the bureau I thought would be perfect for the foyer. As an accent piece,” he took her by the elbow and propelled her to the back of the store.

  “Look,” she cooed. “This tapestry is exactly what I’ve been looking for. To go above the accent piece. See, the hunting scene?” In the ai
r above the tapestry, she traced the threaded depiction of hound dogs and horses. “I’d love to see it laid out. To see the whole thing.” She brushed past Myron and lifted one corner of the tapestry. Dust floated in front of it from sunlight coming through the front window.

  “Excuse please, Madame,” Myron spoke softly. “I help you vith that.”

  Mrs. DuPont stepped back, dropping the tapestry. She seemed to see Myron for the first time. She looked him up and down as if he might have fleas.

  “Do you work here as well?” she asked.

  Myron shrank back at the subtle rebuke and his whole body started to quiver ever so slightly. Not wanting a potential sale to walk out the door, Foxy stepped in between them. “We can discuss the trunk later, Mr. Standlish. I’m sure it can wait.”

  “No,” he shook his head. “Me, I am ready now to be making the payment. How much should you be needing?” He reached into his jacket’s breast pocket.

  Now Knot was intrigued. He smelled the possibility of making two sales and jumped in with both stylishly shod feet. “Let’s pull this tapestry out and take a look at it.” He lifted up a corner of the tapestry with one hand while waving the other over it dramatically. “Elisabeth,” he looked the DuPont elitist in the eye, “you are so right. It is absolutely perfection for your foyer.” Besides his flair for showcasing, Knot had mastered the fine art of kissing a rich woman’s derriere to make the sale. “Let’s see how it looks with the bureau over there.”

  He took hold of the other corner and pulled it off the trunk, folded it in the middle and draped it over one arm. With the other hand he waltzed Mrs. DuPont across the room, leaving Foxy to deal with a nearly convulsing Myron and the old trunk.

  “What a horrid little man,” Mrs. DuPont whispered to Knot. She glanced back over her shoulder toward the trunk and Myron. “Why would such a queer, obviously destitute creature want such an antique so badly?” Despite Knot’s attempts to distract her, Mrs. DuPont seemed fixated on the trunk. Finally she looked back at Knot and announced, “I want it.”