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Lucky for me, Friday dawns clear, and the wind has finally died down. I am none too excited about riding my bike into town and hunting for the replacement lamp that I have to find. I do a quick sketch of the remaining lamp and tuck it into my backpack, which is otherwise empty. I have my money that I have been saving from Billups, which I was smart enough not to leave in my vent when I came down the road to stay at the Winthrop’s. I took it mostly because I was afraid my mother would find it, and it would all be gone when I came back, and since I have not really told her I am working, it’s probably best if she doesn’t find my wad of cash.
My mind hovers in dark places, hearing the words my mother spat out at me, hearing again her saying in her la-tee-da voice that I am nothing to Dylan, that I will never be anything to Dylan. I am their charity case. No matter how I spin these thoughts, her words, there is a certain ring of truth to them. An honesty that I have not often associated with my mother. How I hate her for telling me this truth, but in my heart I always knew.
My fingers are cramped and frozen from the ride, and I feel like my nose may snap clean off. I spend several minutes, after coming into the warmth of the furniture store, blowing into my hands, cupping my mouth and nose, until I finally start to have some normal feeling in my fingers and the tip of my nose starts to feel less chilled. I walk the lines of furniture, the pseudo rooms, looking for the lamp that I need. My fingers trail along the leathers and fabrics until I catch sight of myself in a bureau mirror. I am all angles and bones, with my hair flying loose around my head like fire, my fingers on the fine wood. A reflection of Calvin fingering Vaude’s kitchen ratchets through my mind, and I draw my hand back as if the veneer has burned me. I walk on, my hands clasped behind my back, leaving no prints or evidence of my passing.
I owe Vaude a lamp, and a vase, but the vase I know has been a part of the house since well before I met them and is probably an antique. I cannot replace it. I can’t even try. My only hope is that it is such the fabric of their daily lives that they no longer really see it. It makes me sick, remembering it crashing to the floor and knowing that it is my fault.
The lamps are scattered throughout the warehouse, mingled amongst the living room groupings, and after about twenty minutes of slowly strolling, a sales woman comes up to me, dressed to the nines in a black sweater dress and porcelain skin. Her hair is straight and long down her back, glossy blond. Her smile is edged in red, precisely drawn and friendly. I know she has picked the short straw when I glance behind her and see two others standing in a small pod, waiting for the Black Friday Sales to draw in the customers. I do see several other people, mostly couples, strolling the warehouse, debating the benefits of sleigh bed over pedestal maybe. That would be something normal people would discuss. “Can I help you find something?” she asks, and my hand is already digging in my pocket, ready to move on, even if it is a very cold and unpleasant journey back to the farm.
“Yes. I’m looking to replace a lamp.” I show her the drawing I made and bite my tongue to keep from making excuses, spilling my guilty soul onto her clickety-click shoes.
She glances at the drawing and then back to me. Her eyebrows raised. “I think we have this set. Come with me.” We make our way past her fellow salespeople, and I hear the chime of the front door again.
We find the lamps two rooms back, and I am so relieved that my knees feel a little weak. “Great,” I say. “I need one.”
Her chin juts out to the side in a quirk, and a small smile spreads her lips. “They come as a pair.”
“Oh. You can’t split them up?” I ask, trying not to sound wheedling.
“I’m afraid not. They are each individually painted, no two sets are alike.
“Oh.” So had I bought the one and gotten it back to the farm, I would have then seen some minute difference, or worse, Vaude would. It’s better to buy the set, the matching set and take the unbroken one from the farm to my own home. Does that qualify as stealing, me taking Vaude’s lamp and replacing it with the set?
I am sick to my stomach as I pay for the lamps. Only one lamp will fit in my backpack at a time. I shoulder the one and make my frozen way back to the farm, warming up and then heading back for the other. When I finally finish all my riding, I am exhausted and chilled to the bone. I take a long shower, thinking the heat will warm me, but when I get out, my teeth are still chattering. I sit in the kitchen, my hands around a mug of hot tea, my peanut butter and jelly uneaten.
I make my way out a little later to crack the ice on the water trough, almost more than I can handle. I manage to break the ice, but only because I broke it this morning, and it is just a thin layer refrozen. I fill the feed pails and leave the horses for the house, where I spend the next two hours curled on the couch waiting for night to fall so I can go up to bed. I’ve rechecked the locks several times throughout the afternoon, but check again before I go up. They should be home tomorrow. I’ll have to take the lamp from the broken set home before they get here. I dread going to the trailer and only hope that my mother will not be there. If she is, I can only hope she is passed out and drunk. I never thought I would wish for such a thing.