Page 40 of Patio Lanterns

Finally, it was Robin’s turn. She stepped up to the counter and put on a smiley face. “Hello again. Remember me? I was in here with my dog?”

Mrs. Crawley’s eyes were emotionless, her craggy face still except for the constant tremor in her jaw.

Robin cleared her throat. “Well, anyway, um, I’m not sure if you heard, but my mother, Micki Pelletier, passed away last year. She and my father, Marc, owned the Blue Canoe Cottage on the hill.”

Mrs. Crawley squinted. “The Pelletiers?”

“Yes,” Robin answered cautiously.

“You have mail,” she announced, before fussing under the counter below the register.

“Mail? Um, okay. But I was just wondering if I could put up a notice in the store to let people know that my sisters and I are hosting a celebration of life for my mother.” She slid the printed sheet across the counter. “It’s on Friday.”

Mrs. Crawley held up a string on which dangled a brass key. “Number seven.”

“Number seven what?” Robin asked.

“Pelletier, number seven.” The old lady nudged her head toward the row of mailboxes on the wall. “And I have more in the back.”

“Ah gotcha,” Robin said, before tapping on the page to turn her attention to the more pressing matter. “So, is it okay if I put this up in the store?”

Mrs. Crawley’s hands shook as she held the page up to examine it more closely.

“Sure, you can put it up.” The storekeeper nodded. “And I’m sorry about your mother.”

“Thank you,” Robin told her. “While I’m here, I’d like to place a large order for delivery on Friday. We’re going to need a few cases of pop and bottled water. Ice. Definitely ice. And paper plates and napkins…”

Mrs. Crawley shook her head. “Hold on. I ain’t gonna remember all that.” Then she turned away and began the long journey to the back room, the path well-worn into the warped floorboards.

Not sure if she was expected to stay or follow, Robin figured it would expedite matters if she simply trailed behind the tracks of Mrs. Crawley’s ratty house slippers. For as long as Robin and her sisters had been coming to the store, the dark, cave-like room at the back was like Area 51: restricted and off-limits to civilians. Being shrouded in mystery made it darkly foreboding, summoning the curiosity of young customers wanting to unearth what was beyond its threshold.

Robin plastered her arms to her sides and sucked in her soft gut as she wedged through towers of boxes and crates stamped with familiar household brands—Nabob and Red Rose and Robin Hood and Windsor Salt and Mr. Christie among many others. She shouldn’t have been shocked, given the prolonged existence of the general store and Mrs. Crawley’s infinite longevity, but the maze-like storage space was like a hobbit’s Middle-earth hovel crossed with an episode of Hoarders.

Clutter covered every surface. Stacks upon stacks of papers and invoices were piled high among the bundles of weathered newspapers. On top of those was a collection of ephemera promoting an assortment of discontinued products from citronella bug spray to cigarillos. If this mess served as the general store’s archaic filing system, it was a wonder that it managed to stay open as long as it had.

A tidy alcove was carved into the chaos. The inner sanctum had a covered table, which held on top of it an African violet in a teacup and saucer, an old banker’s lamp, and a portable radio with a bent antenna.

“Sit,” Mrs. Crawley said, gesturing to the lone spindle-back chair.

Robin pulled the seat back. A broom suddenly swerved and fell with a crash, the handle thwacking into the radio and knocking it over.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, immediately uprighting it and leaning the broom against a heap of yellowed phone books. Please don’t turn me into a toad.

She slid down into the seat, restricting her movements and taking only shallow breaths lest a sudden gust cause the surrounding walls of junk to topple on them. Mrs. Crawley rummaged through some loose papers, then put a blank order form in front of Robin. “Make a list.”

“Are you sure? All I have to do is fill this out, and you’ll order it in for me?”

Mrs. Crawley nodded. “Make a list. And print clearly too, I ain’t got time to decipher your chicken scratch. I’m faxing it as is.”

Robin had forgotten her list at home so regurgitated all the party needs from memory. Water and pop. Ice. Definitely some beer. The chardonnay. Don’t forget the chardonnay. People liked mini finger foods, so better get a few boxes. Chips. Napkins, plates. Oh, and the decorations too.

“Do you carry lights?” Robin asked.

Mrs. Crawley took a moment to respond. “I have light bulbs.”

“No, no, like those big ornamental Chinese lanterns. They come in all sorts of colours and look like big ol’ swinging balls?” Robin held her hands apart the width of an invisible volleyball.

The request confounded Mrs. Crawley. “Swinging balls?”

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