The Armani shoes, the sleek indigo-black ones with the angel-hair laces he could
never keep tied, were too big for William, but he slipped them on anyway. He’d wanted to
wear one of Frederick’s suits, too, maybe the newish Pierre Cardin that Frederick had liked
because he swore the tiny black-and-white checks were slimming, the one William thought
really made Frederick look like a circus clown, although love had kept him from saying so.
But the suit was impossible on William, the shoulders drooping wide on both sides like
little mutant fins, the sleeves dangling past his wrists, the flapping waist that suggested
William might be a spokesman for Weight Watchers, except it wasn’t his weight he’d lost.
He couldn’t wear that to the grand opening, but he didn’t mind sliding around inside the
Armanis, just for one day, and if it got too awful he had his clogs in the canvas tote. Surely
no one would care if he made himself more comfortable inside his own store.
His own store. It had been Frederick’s idea, the older man thoughtful as always even
with his guts turning to jelly and a daily joint the only thing that had still worked to keep
the pain at bay. “Look, sweetie,” he’d said as William helped him into the tub one night
near the end, “this is perfect. It’ll keep you busy, put food on the table, which God knows
you need, you skinny little thing, and it’s all I’ve got to give you. And you can stay here,”
he’d said, with a weak little wave that scattered rose-scented bubbles across the black-
and-white tiles, “at least until Cassie gets wind of it.” Then he nearly sank under the water
until William got him propped up and started scrubbing his back with the loofa. Cassie.
William hadn’t met her, and Frederick usually referred to her as the evil stepsister, the
reason Frederick hadn’t inherited the house from his aunt outright.
And it was Frederick who’d found the empty retail space and negotiated the lease and
hired a couple of his former students, tobacco-chewing dropouts, to move the stuff in,
although it was just as well he hadn’t been around to see the brutes manhandle even the
most delicate pieces.
As William scuffed down Central Avenue, braced against a chilly November wind and
stopping every so often to tie the shoes, he could scarcely believe that at the age of
twenty-three he was on his way to the shop that he owned, the shop to which only he
had the key, the ancient black safe of which only he knew the combination to, and that in
just a few minutes after opening the door, no more than that surely, he would be pressing
all the buttons on the complicated new cash register Frederick had ordered just for him, to
ring up the first sale. His own store.
William & Frederick. That had been William’s idea, and it pleased him. They’d wanted to
call the store Blue Ridge Antiques, but when Frederick checked around, thumbing through
the phone book, a blustery call to directory assistance, an Internet search for listings up
and down the Valley, he turned up no fewer than fifty shops with that name, including one
hidden away inside the ghastly mall outside town, and another a few miles south, that
looked, when William drove Frederick’s Riviera down to investigate, like it had been
somebody’s garage, converted into a flea market, half an acre of rickety tables covered
with muddy tarps, and a hand-lettered sign out front that said, “Make an Offer! Swap Meet
Saturday.” But the perfect name had come to William two weeks ago while he sipped a
latte in Java Mountain, watching the lanky kid behind the counter flirt with the fuchsia-
haired Madonna, worried about the letter he’d received that morning, just gibberish to him,
from the lawyers handling the estate, the Richmond firm of Botts & Allen, whose offices had
impressed William with their dignified style, plush Persians and early Americana. That’s it,
William said to himself, or maybe out loud because the girl with the freakish hair turned to
look. An elegant, refined name, to sell elegant, refined antiques. William & Frederick.
It wasn’t all elegant stuff, though, William had to admit. Frederick had owned some
fabulous pieces, collected over half a century of shopping and travel, and roomfuls he’d
inherited from the aunt he’d claimed was royalty. “We’re all queens here, honey,” William
had said, mortified when Frederick didn’t laugh. “Well, she was,” he’d insisted, running his
hand over the dark surface of the walnut Queen Anne highboy, the gem of the collection.
Then there was the mahogany breakfast table that had its own name. Duncan Phyfe,
Frederick called it, as if it were a guest in the house and not a piece of furniture. “Let’s join
Duncan Phyfe in the kitchen,” he’d say, determined that they should actually use the thing,
despite William’s fear of damaging a valuable antique. “What,” Frederick had said, “you
don’t think the colonists ever spilled their tea?” The one piece that really unnerved William
was the Khmer bust of Buddha, which Frederick said he’d acquired for a blowjob in
Bangkok in the sixties. William didn’t doubt the price, a currency familiar to him, but
Bangkok didn’t sound like the kind of place Frederick would have been caught dead in—
dusty and smelly and filled with women on the make. That wasn’t Frederick at all. When he’
d arranged everything in the shop before the grand opening, William had settled the bust
into a corner and, when its stony eyes followed him everywhere as he dusted and shifted
and rearranged, hoping customers wouldn’t notice the little nicks and scratches that
cropped up everywhere like acne from his not-so-long-ago adolescence, he draped over it
a soiled batik sarong from that same Asian trip. But in addition to those valuable artifacts,
William had elected to display stuff that people in their god-forsaken, drought-parched
village might actually buy: Frederick’s childhood rocking horse; a pair of glass candlesticks,
with red wax cascading down the sides from last Christmas; five shelves of dusty books,
“The Classics” Frederick had called them when he’d tried to get William to read something
other than mysteries and true crime, and there were plenty more where they came from in
the den at home; a yellow porcelain teapot that William had no use for now that he could
drop the pretense he’d adopted to please Frederick, even though he knew Frederick knew
it was all for his benefit, but they both had gone on as if the love of chamomile was
something they shared. Thank God he could drink coffee again.
William stopped just short of his store, in the glare of the tacky gift shop Frederick had
always refused to step foot in, but that William admired for its clever inventory, like those
darling salt and pepper shakers in the shape of Dalmatians. He gazed at his future. His
store wasn’t on high-traffic Main Street—the rent for both vacant spots there had been too
expensive, one next to the coffee house and one tucked between the tavern and the town’
s only nail salon—but he could see his door from the corner of Central and Main, a location
Frederick had been sure would guarantee success. Of course, the door was below street
level, five steps down into a tiny courtyard, more like an overgrown window-well that
collected leaves and cigarette butts and any other trash that blew down the hill from the
courthouse, and would probably fill up with grimy snow come winter, but the gold lettering
on the window, William & Frederick, was visible, even from across the street. It sparkled a
little, William thought. He stooped to tie his shoelace.
Dodging a red pickup and then a Ford van with a crater on the passenger side that
looked like the kind of dent an old cannonball would make, although William couldn’t
imagine how that had happened, maybe some Civil War reenactment gone awry, he
crossed the street in mid block. He didn’t have to fish in his pocket for the key because he
was wearing it around his neck on one of those lanyards, a gift from Frederick because
William, who had never owned anything valuable to speak of, had a knack for losing keys.
It didn’t matter so much, really, because the house was never locked, most folks didn’t
bother unless they lived on the west side of town, and Frederick hadn’t let William drive
the Buick except on special occasions. So the house key, the one key William had, until the
shop, was more a token of Frederick’s affection than it was of any practical use. William
didn’t bother to take the lanyard off, just bent over and fit the key in the lock, jiggled it a
little like the real estate agent—that handsome, thick-haired Mr. Lynch who had seemed to
hurry through their appointments—had demonstrated when he showed them the property.
A musty smell greeted William (why hadn’t he ever noticed it when all this stuff was
cluttering up the house?), and new paint, the lilac they’d picked over the bleeding-heart
pink because the pink was too passionate, Frederick’s color, and was sure to bring up all
kinds of memories he didn’t want to deal with. The lilac was just right, soothing and soft, a
color that made you think of your grandmother’s garden, which was exactly what
customers in an antique shop should think. Or at least that’s what Frederick had asserted
when he told William the rest of his plans for the store.
“I don’t want you going back there,” Frederick had said, and William knew he meant
back where they’d met, as if William could ever think of hustling again. Frederick had
rescued him, given him things, taught him things. Now he knew about wine and music and
antiques. A little, anyway. That other life was over.
“No,” William said. “I’d rather kill myself. But at least that way we would be together.”
That was something else they talked about, how fate had united them when Frederick
popped into a gay bar in D.C. and found William, and nothing like a little colon cancer was
going to tear them apart, at least not for long. Frederick wouldn’t listen to that, though.
He shook his head. “You’ll meet someone, honey. You’ll move on. I know that. But in the
meantime, there’s enough stuff in this old house to keep an antique store going a long
time, and when it’s gone you can buy some junk and sell that. It’s decided, then.” And
William had gone along to keep Frederick happy. The momentum had been too strong to
fight. “A shop. You know, I’ve always wanted to run a shop, keep the customer happy,
service is our business and all that. Where everyone expects you to be gay anyway, so it’s
no surprise when it turns out you are. And I’d paint it lilac, like my grandmother’s garden.”
Lights on. William hadn’t realized before just how dark the space was, on an overcast
fall morning, on this side street with no direct light anyway and the shop window half-
hidden by the stairs. Even with the fluorescents the place felt like a cave, or the bowels of
a ship, and William made a mental note to use the proceeds of his first sale to install
better lighting, maybe a couple of torchieres like Frederick had shown him in one of his
magazines, or a spotlight aimed at that nasty Buddha, maybe it would even help sell the
thing. He took a quick look around, sure he wouldn’t get another chance once the store
flooded with customers, a last-minute inventory of Frederick’s life before the hordes
started picking at the brocade on the Venetian divan, testing the strength of the spindly
comb-back Windsor chair, the one Frederick had never let anyone sit in, not even
featherweight William, for fear it would collapse into splinters, or caressing the seductive
satin of the Rococo rosewood chairs, the pair that Frederick had been given by a friend,
about whom he never said any more, no matter how much William pleaded, or forgave him
for past indiscretions.
William wanted just one last minute of respite before he started haggling with the
gaggle of bargain hunters: “It’s not quite what I’m looking for, and isn’t that a burn mark
on the top, and I saw the exact same piece at Blue Ridge Antiques for a third what you’re
asking, and I couldn’t possibly go any higher than . . .” William’s eyes landed on a Georgian
wing chair that had been one of Frederick’s favorites at home, angled by the fireplace,
perfect for a quiet evening with a book and that awful cognac he liked, while William curled
up on the couch with a Heineken. The leather was caramel, and spidery veins had
emerged on the seat where it sagged into a bowl.
“Come sit with me for a second, honey,” said the chair, although it was Frederick’s lilt
that William heard.
William turned around, slowly, making sure he was as alone in the store as he thought
he was. “I am not getting into a conversation with this chair,” he said. “I’m not. Do you
hear me, Freddy?” He spun on his heel and saw the Buddha, hiding under the sarong. “Do
you hear me? So please just shut up.” William knew perfectly well that the furniture wasn’t
talking, any more than the cozy tub at home called to him, or the big four-poster in their
bedroom whispered in his ear. He wasn’t crazy. He missed Frederick, that’s all. He missed
candlelight suppers of exotic dishes he’d never heard of before, he missed that awful
opera screeching from the stereo, he missed being corrected whenever he mispronounced
a word. He missed Frederick.
He hopped to the cash register, always reluctant to step on the grizzled Heriz rug from
the living room, even though Frederick had insisted rugs were meant to be walked on.
“They’re not fragile, honey,” he’d said more than once. “Some camel probably fornicated on
this rug.” William had been unconvinced. “All the more reason not to walk on it,” he always
said. William took up his position behind the counter, turned on the cash register, saw by
Frederick’s marble-and-gold Belgian mantel clock that it was almost ten, and eyed the
door, ready for business.
Just before noon, William still stood behind the counter. The door had yet to open,
although he had watched countless legs go by, legs cloaked in jeans and cowboy boots,
bony legs in running shorts and Nikes, elephantine legs that ended in what looked to be
fuzzy slippers, shapely legs in high heels behind a stroller. A little girl peeked out of the
carriage and waved at William. William waved back.
“Well, it’s understandable that business would be slow the first day,” William said
aloud. “I’m sure there’ll be a crowd at lunch.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” said the wing chair.
“I’m not talking to you,” shouted William.
When no one came in during lunch, William looked for ways to keep busy. He took down
the grand opening sign he’d taped to the window, got out the Windex to attack a streak
he’d noticed, and put the sign back up. He took Frederick’s collection of Toby jugs out of
the glass case under the cash register and dusted each one, wiped the shelves, and put
the jugs back, careful to leave them facing forward, as Frederick had shown him after
dusting them at home. Then William pulled the books off the shelves and set about
arranging them, in alphabetical order by author, and wondered if maybe he should kill
some time by reading one of them.
“Frederick would be pleased,” he said.
“And astonished,” said the bookshelf, a handsome oak lawyer’s cabinet with glass
doors and white porcelain knobs. “But what you really ought to do is move a chair outside,
so people can see some signs of life.”
William backed away. “Shut up!” But when he thought about it he saw it wasn’t a bad
idea, and he settled on one of the sturdier pieces, a heavy Roycroft chair from the dining
set Frederick had been so proud of because he’d assembled it from different arts and
crafts designers—the Greene Brothers, Gustav Stickley, even Frank Lloyd Wright. William
lugged the thing out to the sidewalk.
“Ouch,” said the chair, when William bumped it into the door. “Be careful.”
“Sorry,” said William. He went back inside, hopped over the rug, and grabbed a book off
the shelf without looking to see what it was, then sat outside, with his knees together as
Frederick had taught him, Frederick’s gray cashmere sweater over his shoulders, waiting to
be noticed. The street was empty. William opened the book and read: “Call me Ishmael.”
At three, William was hungry. He made another mental note, this time to bring his lunch
in the future, but on opening day he’d been so sure he wouldn’t have time to eat anyway,
he hadn’t bothered to pack anything. And he was reluctant to close, even for a minute, to
run down to Java Mountain for coffee and a bagel, because surely in the time it took to get
there, have that slow-witted boy with the snake tattoo on his wrist, cute as he was, make
the sandwich and the latte, someone would have come looking to buy the highboy and
gone away disappointed. He stood up, sleepy from reading about the doomed whaling
voyage, and took a step toward the shop door, then stepped back, worried even now that
he’d miss a customer if he took a break. His stomach growled.
“Put a note on the door, sweetie,” said the chair. “I’ll be right here and people can
wait.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said William. He scribbled a little sign—Back in 5—and taped it
to the door. He ran up to the corner, took a right on Main, and ran back, slipping inside the
Armanis both ways, confident there’d be someone in the chair when he returned.
“Did anyone come?” William asked the chair, wheezing from the unfamiliar exertion.
“Nope,” said the chair. “Nobody. Nada. Zippo. Zero. Zilch.”
“Shut up,” screamed William, and looked around sheepishly when he remembered he
was standing on the sidewalk. He sat down, sipped the latte and nibbled at his bagel,
toasted, with rosemary chicken salad, no tomato, and opened the book again, this time in
the middle to see if the action might have picked up by then. “Chapter 49. The Hyena.”
Hyena? What happened to the damn whale? “There are certain queer times and occasions
in this strange mixed affair we call life when a man takes this whole universe for a vast
practical joke . . .”
“You got that right,” William said, and closed the book. He dragged the dining chair
inside.
At five, William banged the “enter” button on the cash register, heard the satisfying
bing-bong when the drawer popped open, and counted the day’s receipts. Zero, of course.
“Nada, zilch,” said the chair. He certainly didn’t remember selling anything, but he
considered the possibility, likelihood even, that he had spaced out, suffered temporary
amnesia perhaps, because surely there had been a steady stream of customers, it being
opening day for the elegant new antique shop near the corner of Central and Main, a
location that couldn’t miss, painted in surefire lilac, William & Frederick, a welcome addition
to commerce in the sleepy hamlet. He closed the drawer.
“Good night,” said the chair.
“Good night,” said William.
Although the first day had been disheartening, even frightening because it raised the
specter of poverty that his life with Frederick had, until now, allowed him to nearly forget,
William arrived the next morning armed with a rosy outlook. For one thing, the shop was
less lonely than the house. He’d moved so many of Frederick’s things into the cramped
store, and they’d been so vocal while the hours dragged on, that he actually looked
forward to leaving the echo chamber that had once been the living room of the Victorian
mansion and having a chat with the wing chair. Even if no customers appeared, at least he’
d have someone to talk to. Maybe the Louis XVI armoire would speak up today. William
had always wanted to learn French.
By the end of the first week, though, William was truly discouraged, the talkative
antiques being little relief in the end, a steady cinema of bleak alternatives playing in his
head—getting a real job, seeking out the brother he knew he had somewhere but hadn’t
spoken to in a decade, going back to the bar in D.C. where he’d first latched onto
Frederick, almost as hungry and desperate now as he had been then. The furniture tried
to cheer him up, assuring him it was only a matter of time, that the breakthrough would
come, that he only needed to be patient. William listened, dusted everything as lovingly as
he had seen Frederick do it, and even tried to read more about the devilish whale. At
home he’d painted a new sign to hang in the window, “Grand Opening Sale,” but it hadn’t
enticed a single browser into the store, much less a paying customer, and since it blocked
what little natural light he had, William took it down.
On Saturday morning, he opened the glass case to take out the Toby jugs yet again,
to remove for the fifth straight day dust that hadn’t had a chance to settle from the first
cleaning, when the shop door scraped open.
“Helloooo,” crooned the woman who entered, a behemoth in a flowered dress, with
overflowing chest and hips, breathless from the five steps down. She looked vaguely
familiar to William, as half the town did. Whenever he and Frederick had ventured out of
the house, resolved to ignore pointing fingers and stage whispers, Frederick offered
William a running commentary on the townsfolk. “That’s Bobby Cabe, a drunken old
backwoodsman who tried to pick a fight with me once because he thought I was staring at
him, not that I’d be the least bit interested in him even if he were the last fag on earth.
Now he’s just belligerent and babbles on about fairies, and it’s not me he’s talking about, I’
m reasonably sure. That one over there is Mildred Rutledge, from the high school. From
what I hear, she’s fond of young boys, so you better look out. And that one, the one with
the white hair bent over double like she’s looking for a dime, that’s Henrietta Doak. She’s
ninety years old and still drives herself around in her late husband’s Cadillac, so when you
see her coming, best get out of the way.” William wasn’t sure if this woman was one
Frederick had described, but he wouldn’t have been able to remember anyway, despite
her eye-popping girth, caught up as he was in the excitement of having his first customer.
In his haste, he dropped the smallest Toby jug on the glass shelf, and gasped when
the handle, a delicate, gray thing in the shape of a dolphin, or a whale maybe, or at any
rate some big fish, rolled away, sheered clean from the face that made up the body of the
jug, apparently a seafarer of some sort, William couldn’t tell. A mental note to glue the fish
back on, and William donned his widest smile, stuck out his hand as Frederick had
suggested even with the most unlikely buyers, and this woman looked as likely as William
could imagine, and welcomed the giantess into the shop. Mrs. Benson, as it turned out.
next page
never keep tied, were too big for William, but he slipped them on anyway. He’d wanted to
wear one of Frederick’s suits, too, maybe the newish Pierre Cardin that Frederick had liked
because he swore the tiny black-and-white checks were slimming, the one William thought
really made Frederick look like a circus clown, although love had kept him from saying so.
But the suit was impossible on William, the shoulders drooping wide on both sides like
little mutant fins, the sleeves dangling past his wrists, the flapping waist that suggested
William might be a spokesman for Weight Watchers, except it wasn’t his weight he’d lost.
He couldn’t wear that to the grand opening, but he didn’t mind sliding around inside the
Armanis, just for one day, and if it got too awful he had his clogs in the canvas tote. Surely
no one would care if he made himself more comfortable inside his own store.
His own store. It had been Frederick’s idea, the older man thoughtful as always even
with his guts turning to jelly and a daily joint the only thing that had still worked to keep
the pain at bay. “Look, sweetie,” he’d said as William helped him into the tub one night
near the end, “this is perfect. It’ll keep you busy, put food on the table, which God knows
you need, you skinny little thing, and it’s all I’ve got to give you. And you can stay here,”
he’d said, with a weak little wave that scattered rose-scented bubbles across the black-
and-white tiles, “at least until Cassie gets wind of it.” Then he nearly sank under the water
until William got him propped up and started scrubbing his back with the loofa. Cassie.
William hadn’t met her, and Frederick usually referred to her as the evil stepsister, the
reason Frederick hadn’t inherited the house from his aunt outright.
And it was Frederick who’d found the empty retail space and negotiated the lease and
hired a couple of his former students, tobacco-chewing dropouts, to move the stuff in,
although it was just as well he hadn’t been around to see the brutes manhandle even the
most delicate pieces.
As William scuffed down Central Avenue, braced against a chilly November wind and
stopping every so often to tie the shoes, he could scarcely believe that at the age of
twenty-three he was on his way to the shop that he owned, the shop to which only he
had the key, the ancient black safe of which only he knew the combination to, and that in
just a few minutes after opening the door, no more than that surely, he would be pressing
all the buttons on the complicated new cash register Frederick had ordered just for him, to
ring up the first sale. His own store.
William & Frederick. That had been William’s idea, and it pleased him. They’d wanted to
call the store Blue Ridge Antiques, but when Frederick checked around, thumbing through
the phone book, a blustery call to directory assistance, an Internet search for listings up
and down the Valley, he turned up no fewer than fifty shops with that name, including one
hidden away inside the ghastly mall outside town, and another a few miles south, that
looked, when William drove Frederick’s Riviera down to investigate, like it had been
somebody’s garage, converted into a flea market, half an acre of rickety tables covered
with muddy tarps, and a hand-lettered sign out front that said, “Make an Offer! Swap Meet
Saturday.” But the perfect name had come to William two weeks ago while he sipped a
latte in Java Mountain, watching the lanky kid behind the counter flirt with the fuchsia-
haired Madonna, worried about the letter he’d received that morning, just gibberish to him,
from the lawyers handling the estate, the Richmond firm of Botts & Allen, whose offices had
impressed William with their dignified style, plush Persians and early Americana. That’s it,
William said to himself, or maybe out loud because the girl with the freakish hair turned to
look. An elegant, refined name, to sell elegant, refined antiques. William & Frederick.
It wasn’t all elegant stuff, though, William had to admit. Frederick had owned some
fabulous pieces, collected over half a century of shopping and travel, and roomfuls he’d
inherited from the aunt he’d claimed was royalty. “We’re all queens here, honey,” William
had said, mortified when Frederick didn’t laugh. “Well, she was,” he’d insisted, running his
hand over the dark surface of the walnut Queen Anne highboy, the gem of the collection.
Then there was the mahogany breakfast table that had its own name. Duncan Phyfe,
Frederick called it, as if it were a guest in the house and not a piece of furniture. “Let’s join
Duncan Phyfe in the kitchen,” he’d say, determined that they should actually use the thing,
despite William’s fear of damaging a valuable antique. “What,” Frederick had said, “you
don’t think the colonists ever spilled their tea?” The one piece that really unnerved William
was the Khmer bust of Buddha, which Frederick said he’d acquired for a blowjob in
Bangkok in the sixties. William didn’t doubt the price, a currency familiar to him, but
Bangkok didn’t sound like the kind of place Frederick would have been caught dead in—
dusty and smelly and filled with women on the make. That wasn’t Frederick at all. When he’
d arranged everything in the shop before the grand opening, William had settled the bust
into a corner and, when its stony eyes followed him everywhere as he dusted and shifted
and rearranged, hoping customers wouldn’t notice the little nicks and scratches that
cropped up everywhere like acne from his not-so-long-ago adolescence, he draped over it
a soiled batik sarong from that same Asian trip. But in addition to those valuable artifacts,
William had elected to display stuff that people in their god-forsaken, drought-parched
village might actually buy: Frederick’s childhood rocking horse; a pair of glass candlesticks,
with red wax cascading down the sides from last Christmas; five shelves of dusty books,
“The Classics” Frederick had called them when he’d tried to get William to read something
other than mysteries and true crime, and there were plenty more where they came from in
the den at home; a yellow porcelain teapot that William had no use for now that he could
drop the pretense he’d adopted to please Frederick, even though he knew Frederick knew
it was all for his benefit, but they both had gone on as if the love of chamomile was
something they shared. Thank God he could drink coffee again.
William stopped just short of his store, in the glare of the tacky gift shop Frederick had
always refused to step foot in, but that William admired for its clever inventory, like those
darling salt and pepper shakers in the shape of Dalmatians. He gazed at his future. His
store wasn’t on high-traffic Main Street—the rent for both vacant spots there had been too
expensive, one next to the coffee house and one tucked between the tavern and the town’
s only nail salon—but he could see his door from the corner of Central and Main, a location
Frederick had been sure would guarantee success. Of course, the door was below street
level, five steps down into a tiny courtyard, more like an overgrown window-well that
collected leaves and cigarette butts and any other trash that blew down the hill from the
courthouse, and would probably fill up with grimy snow come winter, but the gold lettering
on the window, William & Frederick, was visible, even from across the street. It sparkled a
little, William thought. He stooped to tie his shoelace.
Dodging a red pickup and then a Ford van with a crater on the passenger side that
looked like the kind of dent an old cannonball would make, although William couldn’t
imagine how that had happened, maybe some Civil War reenactment gone awry, he
crossed the street in mid block. He didn’t have to fish in his pocket for the key because he
was wearing it around his neck on one of those lanyards, a gift from Frederick because
William, who had never owned anything valuable to speak of, had a knack for losing keys.
It didn’t matter so much, really, because the house was never locked, most folks didn’t
bother unless they lived on the west side of town, and Frederick hadn’t let William drive
the Buick except on special occasions. So the house key, the one key William had, until the
shop, was more a token of Frederick’s affection than it was of any practical use. William
didn’t bother to take the lanyard off, just bent over and fit the key in the lock, jiggled it a
little like the real estate agent—that handsome, thick-haired Mr. Lynch who had seemed to
hurry through their appointments—had demonstrated when he showed them the property.
A musty smell greeted William (why hadn’t he ever noticed it when all this stuff was
cluttering up the house?), and new paint, the lilac they’d picked over the bleeding-heart
pink because the pink was too passionate, Frederick’s color, and was sure to bring up all
kinds of memories he didn’t want to deal with. The lilac was just right, soothing and soft, a
color that made you think of your grandmother’s garden, which was exactly what
customers in an antique shop should think. Or at least that’s what Frederick had asserted
when he told William the rest of his plans for the store.
“I don’t want you going back there,” Frederick had said, and William knew he meant
back where they’d met, as if William could ever think of hustling again. Frederick had
rescued him, given him things, taught him things. Now he knew about wine and music and
antiques. A little, anyway. That other life was over.
“No,” William said. “I’d rather kill myself. But at least that way we would be together.”
That was something else they talked about, how fate had united them when Frederick
popped into a gay bar in D.C. and found William, and nothing like a little colon cancer was
going to tear them apart, at least not for long. Frederick wouldn’t listen to that, though.
He shook his head. “You’ll meet someone, honey. You’ll move on. I know that. But in the
meantime, there’s enough stuff in this old house to keep an antique store going a long
time, and when it’s gone you can buy some junk and sell that. It’s decided, then.” And
William had gone along to keep Frederick happy. The momentum had been too strong to
fight. “A shop. You know, I’ve always wanted to run a shop, keep the customer happy,
service is our business and all that. Where everyone expects you to be gay anyway, so it’s
no surprise when it turns out you are. And I’d paint it lilac, like my grandmother’s garden.”
Lights on. William hadn’t realized before just how dark the space was, on an overcast
fall morning, on this side street with no direct light anyway and the shop window half-
hidden by the stairs. Even with the fluorescents the place felt like a cave, or the bowels of
a ship, and William made a mental note to use the proceeds of his first sale to install
better lighting, maybe a couple of torchieres like Frederick had shown him in one of his
magazines, or a spotlight aimed at that nasty Buddha, maybe it would even help sell the
thing. He took a quick look around, sure he wouldn’t get another chance once the store
flooded with customers, a last-minute inventory of Frederick’s life before the hordes
started picking at the brocade on the Venetian divan, testing the strength of the spindly
comb-back Windsor chair, the one Frederick had never let anyone sit in, not even
featherweight William, for fear it would collapse into splinters, or caressing the seductive
satin of the Rococo rosewood chairs, the pair that Frederick had been given by a friend,
about whom he never said any more, no matter how much William pleaded, or forgave him
for past indiscretions.
William wanted just one last minute of respite before he started haggling with the
gaggle of bargain hunters: “It’s not quite what I’m looking for, and isn’t that a burn mark
on the top, and I saw the exact same piece at Blue Ridge Antiques for a third what you’re
asking, and I couldn’t possibly go any higher than . . .” William’s eyes landed on a Georgian
wing chair that had been one of Frederick’s favorites at home, angled by the fireplace,
perfect for a quiet evening with a book and that awful cognac he liked, while William curled
up on the couch with a Heineken. The leather was caramel, and spidery veins had
emerged on the seat where it sagged into a bowl.
“Come sit with me for a second, honey,” said the chair, although it was Frederick’s lilt
that William heard.
William turned around, slowly, making sure he was as alone in the store as he thought
he was. “I am not getting into a conversation with this chair,” he said. “I’m not. Do you
hear me, Freddy?” He spun on his heel and saw the Buddha, hiding under the sarong. “Do
you hear me? So please just shut up.” William knew perfectly well that the furniture wasn’t
talking, any more than the cozy tub at home called to him, or the big four-poster in their
bedroom whispered in his ear. He wasn’t crazy. He missed Frederick, that’s all. He missed
candlelight suppers of exotic dishes he’d never heard of before, he missed that awful
opera screeching from the stereo, he missed being corrected whenever he mispronounced
a word. He missed Frederick.
He hopped to the cash register, always reluctant to step on the grizzled Heriz rug from
the living room, even though Frederick had insisted rugs were meant to be walked on.
“They’re not fragile, honey,” he’d said more than once. “Some camel probably fornicated on
this rug.” William had been unconvinced. “All the more reason not to walk on it,” he always
said. William took up his position behind the counter, turned on the cash register, saw by
Frederick’s marble-and-gold Belgian mantel clock that it was almost ten, and eyed the
door, ready for business.
Just before noon, William still stood behind the counter. The door had yet to open,
although he had watched countless legs go by, legs cloaked in jeans and cowboy boots,
bony legs in running shorts and Nikes, elephantine legs that ended in what looked to be
fuzzy slippers, shapely legs in high heels behind a stroller. A little girl peeked out of the
carriage and waved at William. William waved back.
“Well, it’s understandable that business would be slow the first day,” William said
aloud. “I’m sure there’ll be a crowd at lunch.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” said the wing chair.
“I’m not talking to you,” shouted William.
When no one came in during lunch, William looked for ways to keep busy. He took down
the grand opening sign he’d taped to the window, got out the Windex to attack a streak
he’d noticed, and put the sign back up. He took Frederick’s collection of Toby jugs out of
the glass case under the cash register and dusted each one, wiped the shelves, and put
the jugs back, careful to leave them facing forward, as Frederick had shown him after
dusting them at home. Then William pulled the books off the shelves and set about
arranging them, in alphabetical order by author, and wondered if maybe he should kill
some time by reading one of them.
“Frederick would be pleased,” he said.
“And astonished,” said the bookshelf, a handsome oak lawyer’s cabinet with glass
doors and white porcelain knobs. “But what you really ought to do is move a chair outside,
so people can see some signs of life.”
William backed away. “Shut up!” But when he thought about it he saw it wasn’t a bad
idea, and he settled on one of the sturdier pieces, a heavy Roycroft chair from the dining
set Frederick had been so proud of because he’d assembled it from different arts and
crafts designers—the Greene Brothers, Gustav Stickley, even Frank Lloyd Wright. William
lugged the thing out to the sidewalk.
“Ouch,” said the chair, when William bumped it into the door. “Be careful.”
“Sorry,” said William. He went back inside, hopped over the rug, and grabbed a book off
the shelf without looking to see what it was, then sat outside, with his knees together as
Frederick had taught him, Frederick’s gray cashmere sweater over his shoulders, waiting to
be noticed. The street was empty. William opened the book and read: “Call me Ishmael.”
At three, William was hungry. He made another mental note, this time to bring his lunch
in the future, but on opening day he’d been so sure he wouldn’t have time to eat anyway,
he hadn’t bothered to pack anything. And he was reluctant to close, even for a minute, to
run down to Java Mountain for coffee and a bagel, because surely in the time it took to get
there, have that slow-witted boy with the snake tattoo on his wrist, cute as he was, make
the sandwich and the latte, someone would have come looking to buy the highboy and
gone away disappointed. He stood up, sleepy from reading about the doomed whaling
voyage, and took a step toward the shop door, then stepped back, worried even now that
he’d miss a customer if he took a break. His stomach growled.
“Put a note on the door, sweetie,” said the chair. “I’ll be right here and people can
wait.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said William. He scribbled a little sign—Back in 5—and taped it
to the door. He ran up to the corner, took a right on Main, and ran back, slipping inside the
Armanis both ways, confident there’d be someone in the chair when he returned.
“Did anyone come?” William asked the chair, wheezing from the unfamiliar exertion.
“Nope,” said the chair. “Nobody. Nada. Zippo. Zero. Zilch.”
“Shut up,” screamed William, and looked around sheepishly when he remembered he
was standing on the sidewalk. He sat down, sipped the latte and nibbled at his bagel,
toasted, with rosemary chicken salad, no tomato, and opened the book again, this time in
the middle to see if the action might have picked up by then. “Chapter 49. The Hyena.”
Hyena? What happened to the damn whale? “There are certain queer times and occasions
in this strange mixed affair we call life when a man takes this whole universe for a vast
practical joke . . .”
“You got that right,” William said, and closed the book. He dragged the dining chair
inside.
At five, William banged the “enter” button on the cash register, heard the satisfying
bing-bong when the drawer popped open, and counted the day’s receipts. Zero, of course.
“Nada, zilch,” said the chair. He certainly didn’t remember selling anything, but he
considered the possibility, likelihood even, that he had spaced out, suffered temporary
amnesia perhaps, because surely there had been a steady stream of customers, it being
opening day for the elegant new antique shop near the corner of Central and Main, a
location that couldn’t miss, painted in surefire lilac, William & Frederick, a welcome addition
to commerce in the sleepy hamlet. He closed the drawer.
“Good night,” said the chair.
“Good night,” said William.
Although the first day had been disheartening, even frightening because it raised the
specter of poverty that his life with Frederick had, until now, allowed him to nearly forget,
William arrived the next morning armed with a rosy outlook. For one thing, the shop was
less lonely than the house. He’d moved so many of Frederick’s things into the cramped
store, and they’d been so vocal while the hours dragged on, that he actually looked
forward to leaving the echo chamber that had once been the living room of the Victorian
mansion and having a chat with the wing chair. Even if no customers appeared, at least he’
d have someone to talk to. Maybe the Louis XVI armoire would speak up today. William
had always wanted to learn French.
By the end of the first week, though, William was truly discouraged, the talkative
antiques being little relief in the end, a steady cinema of bleak alternatives playing in his
head—getting a real job, seeking out the brother he knew he had somewhere but hadn’t
spoken to in a decade, going back to the bar in D.C. where he’d first latched onto
Frederick, almost as hungry and desperate now as he had been then. The furniture tried
to cheer him up, assuring him it was only a matter of time, that the breakthrough would
come, that he only needed to be patient. William listened, dusted everything as lovingly as
he had seen Frederick do it, and even tried to read more about the devilish whale. At
home he’d painted a new sign to hang in the window, “Grand Opening Sale,” but it hadn’t
enticed a single browser into the store, much less a paying customer, and since it blocked
what little natural light he had, William took it down.
On Saturday morning, he opened the glass case to take out the Toby jugs yet again,
to remove for the fifth straight day dust that hadn’t had a chance to settle from the first
cleaning, when the shop door scraped open.
“Helloooo,” crooned the woman who entered, a behemoth in a flowered dress, with
overflowing chest and hips, breathless from the five steps down. She looked vaguely
familiar to William, as half the town did. Whenever he and Frederick had ventured out of
the house, resolved to ignore pointing fingers and stage whispers, Frederick offered
William a running commentary on the townsfolk. “That’s Bobby Cabe, a drunken old
backwoodsman who tried to pick a fight with me once because he thought I was staring at
him, not that I’d be the least bit interested in him even if he were the last fag on earth.
Now he’s just belligerent and babbles on about fairies, and it’s not me he’s talking about, I’
m reasonably sure. That one over there is Mildred Rutledge, from the high school. From
what I hear, she’s fond of young boys, so you better look out. And that one, the one with
the white hair bent over double like she’s looking for a dime, that’s Henrietta Doak. She’s
ninety years old and still drives herself around in her late husband’s Cadillac, so when you
see her coming, best get out of the way.” William wasn’t sure if this woman was one
Frederick had described, but he wouldn’t have been able to remember anyway, despite
her eye-popping girth, caught up as he was in the excitement of having his first customer.
In his haste, he dropped the smallest Toby jug on the glass shelf, and gasped when
the handle, a delicate, gray thing in the shape of a dolphin, or a whale maybe, or at any
rate some big fish, rolled away, sheered clean from the face that made up the body of the
jug, apparently a seafarer of some sort, William couldn’t tell. A mental note to glue the fish
back on, and William donned his widest smile, stuck out his hand as Frederick had
suggested even with the most unlikely buyers, and this woman looked as likely as William
could imagine, and welcomed the giantess into the shop. Mrs. Benson, as it turned out.
next page
r.kv.r.y. quarterly literary journal
winter 2008 fiction
leviathan by clifford garstang
winter 2008 fiction
leviathan by clifford garstang
| William Blake's Behemoth and Leviathan |