CHAPTER

22

PHOEBE WIPED HER hands on her apron and opened the door to the pawnshop. Mack was near the back of the store polishing a large glass display case. The big Doberman got up from her rug by the cash register to sniff Phoebe’s pockets for the strips of bacon she had come to expect in the middle of each afternoon.

The lunch shift had been a killer. An unexpected church group had taken up three tables and driven her crazy with coffee refills. The cop had sat at the counter pestering her with personal questions, stressing her out even more than the church ladies. He was starting to piss her off, acting like he knew something when there was no way he could know anything. Feeding Mack’s dog and browsing the familiar aisles had become a soothing part of the afternoon lull, but the dog was putting on weight and growing lazy and she worried Mack would blame her for that. She let the dog eat from her hands, feeling the softness of its muzzle, then watched as it flopped back onto the rug.

Mack scowled at a scratch on the glass case. He seemed prissy to her. The way he fussed over things, straightening a tray of watches, polishing a silver service, sweeping the front sidewalk every morning. Keeping everything in its place. It wasn’t manly to love all these household items, blenders and mixers, even if they were antiques. She could understand it if he were a woman. She could’ve made a life of these things, too: the neatly arranged shelves, the store’s musty odor. It was calming just to be in here. At night, when she couldn’t sleep, she would visualize the merchandise, name each brand, and try to remember exactly where it sat on the shelves. It helped some. But Mack knew what he’d paid for every single item and what its retail value was. She didn’t have a mind like that.

“Some watchdog,” Mack said as the Doberman rolled onto her side.

Phoebe began her usual loop around the store. The shelves were packed with stuff most people would consider junk, random china plates, teacups, jewelry, bits of collections he’d gathered over the last forty years. It seemed outrageous that one person could own so much. Eight years in prison, one year on the outside, and what did she have? A hot plate, a mini-fridge, a fold-out couch. A three-hundred-square-foot garage apartment, paid for by the Methodist Women’s Outreach Committee. She couldn’t afford new sneakers or a haircut; even her hair dryer was used. She stopped at the display case in the back where Mack kept the expensive items locked.

“See anything you want?”

He was teasing, but the first time he’d asked she’d taken it as an insult and realized that everyone in town knew her story. But then she’d seen his face go red and decided he meant nothing by it and it had become a joke between them. Between his morning breakfasts at the diner and her afternoon visits to his store, an unexpected ease had built up between the two of them.

At the beginning of her parole it had taken such an effort not to be pissed off at the ordinary comments people made—people said stupid things to her all the time—but he made an effort to put her at ease. She felt welcome visiting his store even though it was understood that she could never afford to buy a single thing.

And yet, it seemed any question she asked resulted in a lecture, like he meant to train her to work as a salesclerk in a store where nobody ever shopped. Two weeks ago she had looked twice at a toaster only to get caught in a ten-minute discussion on housewares. Once, she’d helped him polish a tea set and learned that it had been sitting in the store for nearly a decade. They never sell, he’d said, and always tarnish. One time he’d tried to give her a few pieces but she refused, embarrassed as hell—he clearly had no idea how she lived—and she hadn’t come back to the store for a week.

She bent to look inside a display case and felt the ring shift beneath her blouse. She tucked the string under her lapel, but he had seen. “You looking to upgrade that string?”

“Huh? No, it’s just a key.” She hoped he hadn’t seen the ring hanging there.

“That makes you a latchkey kid, then,” he said, and laughed a little.

She pointed to a tray of rings. “How do you figure out how much these things are worth?”

He set the dustrag down and found the keys to the case. “There are lots of ways to appraise a piece of jewelry,” he began, and she knew she’d have to put up with another lecture. The man could never give a simple answer. He picked up a wedding band. “See this? This isn’t worth much in weight, but they sell pretty well. A man on his way to the courthouse will pay a hundred bucks for it.”

“What about the one next to it?”

It was a big rock, set in twenty-four-carat gold. He glanced at the front door before he took it out of the case, like he always did with expensive pieces. “This one is special. Beautiful, isn’t it? Lots of color.” He held it up to the light and the facets caught fire.

“It’s pretty, but how do you price it?”

“It’s tricky sometimes, but I had this one appraised by a jeweler last fall when I was in Atlantic City.”

He could sound so pretentious.

“Priced it at twenty thousand, though it’s only worth that if someone is willing to pay it.”

She stared at it. She’d never owned a diamond and guessed she never would. In another life she might’ve had a living husband, be celebrating a twentieth anniversary. She might’ve had all sorts of jewelry by now, but these days, when she bothered to look in the mirror, all she saw was a worn-out woman whose clothes didn’t even fit. There was never anything her size at the thrift store, the only place in town she could afford anything at all. That might change soon.

“Try it on,” he said, handing it to her. “It is a universal truth that any woman hanging out at the jewelry counter loves to try on rings.”

“Well, this one doesn’t.” She set it on the glass, suddenly aware of her reddened hands, her fingernails that hadn’t seen polish in ten years.

He smiled. “You know, looking’s free.”

“What about that one?” She pointed to a gaudy piece with dozens of diamond chips mounted in white metal.

“Not much,” he said, getting it out. “Maybe two hundred.” He held it up for her to study.

“It’s as pretty.”

“Not to the trained eye. I can show you the difference in these catalogs.” There were dozens of old copies stacked on the counter. “These prices are outdated, but it’ll give you an idea of how diamonds are rated.”

He opened to a page and started explaining the difference between styles and cuts, but she tuned him out and flipped through the photos, checking prices.

“If you tell me what you’re looking for, maybe I can help. You want to sell something. Maybe a family heirloom?”

She shut the catalog and stooped to pet the Doberman one last time. “No, I was just killing time.”

“Hey. I didn’t mean anything.”

“No offense taken,” she said, and managed to give him a smile. “I just need to get back. Tommy will need help peeling the potatoes.”

At the front of the store, he made her take an old copy.

She hated being the constant recipient of charity, but sometimes it was better to take what was offered than to insult someone out of pride. Phoebe folded the catalog into her apron pocket.