Page 119 of The Witching Hours

The good news is that he bought out my half interest in the restaurant which left me with some good years and the opportunity for an adventure.

I went back to school and got a degree in Myths, Legends, and Folklore. University of Cleveland didn’t offer that degree, but I talked them into devising an ad hoc version. After graduating, I talked the Metropolitan Museum into believingthey needed my expertise since I wasn’t demanding a noticeable chunk out of the budget for recompense. I guess I’m good at talking. No complaints. It’s a good skill to have. I guess I might’ve been successful in sales.

So, I told my friends and family I’d be gone for a year. Maybe two. Then I’d return with a trove of stories and a better attitude. Maybe then I’d go back for a doctorate and try to get a teaching gig at one of Cleveland’s community colleges. I could be a bachelorette professor with a dog named Sprigly.

My dad thought it was a great idea. Not the part about naming a dog Sprigly. He was vocal about finding that stupid. But he did think an adventure was just what the divorce doctor would order if there was such a thing as a divorce doctor. He also knew what it had cost me to be the child who helped him with Mom’s end of life cancer care. I was one of four kids, but there’s always one left standing there holding the caregiver sign when the others vanish in a cloud of smoke like Looney Tunes. It was me.

I’m not complaining because, truthfully, I have no regrets. At least not about Mom. If I was one of my siblings, I’d have both regrets and a guilty conscience.

So, this was my chance to live a little. Just for moi. I’d given the first twenty years of adulthood to my ex-husband and late mother. No doubt there’d be more sacrifice in my future. Nieces. Nephews. Who knows? But for now?

I gotta be me.

And, like a real New Yorker, I ride the subway to work every weekday, roundtrip. It’s thirty minutes and one dollar each way. Since I’m committed to five thousand dollars in rent – just to clarify, that’s monthly, not yearly - it’s a good thing I no longer own a car and the financial burden that comes with that like insurance, fuel, maintenance, taxes, inspections, etc. etc.

I made friends at work. In a short time, I met some of their friends and, soon I felt semi-settled in my new and alien lifestyle. I had a network of people to meet for lunch. I was invited to birthday parties, housewarmings, and exotic movies in foreign subtitles, many of which I didn’t understand despite the reading marathon. All in all, life was good, and I was well on my way to feeling like a real villager.

One morning as I hurried to the subway, struggling with how to balance my satchel, my lunch purse, and my umbrella, I jaywalked right in front of a familiar row of storefronts that had been built before the turn of the century. I mean the turn of the twentieth century, not the twenty-first. Because it was my regular route, the storefronts had become part of my weekday routine and faded into the background.

The store in the middle of a grouping of four identical units had been unoccupied for as long as I’d lived in the city. Granted, that wasn’t long compared to the record of most New Yorkers, but it was the only measure at my disposal. The store windows hadn’t been painted over to restrict the view of the interior, as was usual. Instead, the ground floor retail space had stood quietly open to view, bravely defiant in the face of graffiti and posters. Oddly, neither had touched the façade during its period of emptiness. Either the owner employed elves to come in the middle of the night and tidy the exterior, or some magic was at work because its flawless presentation implied an anachronistic dignity fast becoming rare in the Big Apple.

Sometimes one notices what isn’t present as much or more than what is. In this case, the absence of information was stark. No sign that read for sale or lease. No sign that made promises regarding a future tenant. Manhattan real estate being valued as it is, the notion of an empty property with no plans was a curiosity.

Until the day, when oddly enough, the new store that had literally been outfitted and stocked overnight made reference to what it was. The pretty, old-fashioned signage read Curious Goods.

I’d stopped on the sidewalk during morning commute hours, an act tantamount to sin in New York, but I was just what the sign said. Curious. The displays in the windows flanking the door were worthy of prizes for interest and creativity.

If I didn’t move along, I’d be late, but my feet felt glued to the ground while I looked over the details of each item in the windows.

On one side a Lionel train set from the fifties slowly wound around other items perched on various levels of colorful, ornately carved blocks. I knew the train had to be seventy-years-old plus, but it looked brand new. Not a scratch or blemish of any kind. Some of the things that drew my eye were an antique clock. Ice skates laced with glittery ice-blue satin ribbons. A hard cover copy ofAesop’s Fablesstanding up, fanned open. A small stuffed Airedale moving his head and appearing to bark. A rainbow-crystal, quartz-cluster geode with facets reflecting a spotlight dazzled. It was so mesmerizing it looked like it couldn’t possibly be of this world. A huge gold collar necklace appeared to be fashioned as two crocodiles embracing. A large black ostrich feather balanced in its holder with an ornate pewter dip pen and inkwell. A full face-covering Venetian mask with gemstones, framed by dozens of black/green coque feathers. Eyeball spotlights brought out the luxurious sheen and made me wish I was close enough to reach out and stroke them.

The display on the other side of the door featured various reproductions of antique planes circling like a priceless aerial. A jewel-encrusted Damascus sword rested against a carved block and managed to look both sinister and inviting. Varieties of playing cards arranged in stacks two to three feet high. A replicaof a fairytale castle that, even in miniature, looked like it had been constructed of authentic materials. Although no fan was visible, tiny flags waved by an unseen breeze fluttered from towers and turrets.

Though too many to mention, I realized I could spend hours just looking at the items in the windows.

With a shake of my head, I looked at my watch. It was decision time. Let the allure of the Curious Goods store pull me inside and be late for work, or be responsible and keep walking. Interestingly, at least to me, the exercise of weighing these two options brought up a brief, and unbidden, review of my life. As a child I’d sometimes been called teacher’s pet because I could be counted on to follow rules. As a teenager, my friends’ parents would sometimes make permission conditional on my going along, as if there was some implied surety that all would be well if I was present. The trend held through adulthood. I played the role of wife and support to the best of my ability, never wavering from my perceived devotion to duty as spouse or daughter or friend or student or employee.

It took no more than seconds to complete that evaluation and realize that, when it came to coloring outside the lines, I was due. Looking toward the subway, I gave myself a last chance to change my mind, but it was a superficial effort. I’d already decided.

I hoisted my satchel higher up on my shoulder and opened the door. Just as I was about to put one foot inside a taxi came careening around the corner and smashed into a van on the other side of the street right where I’d jaywalked. The crash was deafening and followed by the sound of a woman screaming, just like in the movies. A scene isn’t complete without the sound of a woman screaming. I froze in place, watching pedestrians and other drivers hurry to make sure everyone was ok.

The van had been empty. The cab driver was rattled, but got out of the car on his own. But it felt like a really close call. A few minutes earlier and there would’ve been a fatality. Me. I shuddered, but my attention was riveted by the pleasant sound of a bell. Whoever might be present was notified that a customer had arrived when the door was opened. It was so wonderfully old-fashioned; I’d only experienced it in movies portraying shopping in a bygone era. These days if entrance caused a heads-up sound, it would more likely be a buzz, beep, or hoot, all of which are unwelcoming.

I didn’t see anyone in the store, but did see that the entire store was more of the magic the display windows promised. I couldn’t be more charmed unless the sound system happened to be playing a favorite song from my childhood. Which it was. I am a person who believes in coincidences, but this one was so farfetched I questioned whether I was awake. I’d never heard that song played anywhere except my childhood living room.

My mother had some old 78 rpm records that she played for me on a turntable. One of them was “The Muffin Man”, now permeating the store’s audio space. I felt instantly euphoric. That was followed by instant suspicion. What could be more manipulative than playing songs from childhood?

“Hello?” I called.

I heard a voice in the back of the store.

“Hello!” he answered. In a moment a bespectacled man emerged wearing a white shirt, tie, blue wool trousers, and a cobalt-blue apron with horizontal gray stripes. His shoes drew my attention simply because it was unusual to see wingtip shoes. His were brown and, though they gave the impression of being well worn, they were polished to a high shine. He had a shock of white hair, a mustache to match, and twinkling blue eyes like Santa’s were imagined to be inNight Before Christmas. If asked, I would’ve guessed he was sixty. Not because of the usualsigns of age, the worn look punctuated by lines. In fact, his skin was smooth and had retained a youthful color. I might’ve said sixty because of his white hair and energetic air. Sort of a been-around-and-survived-with-a-smile maturity. “What a glorious day!” he said. I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder knowing we were expecting a big rain at any minute. “You’re our first customer.”

“Oh,” I said dumbly. “That’s, um, nice.” I wasn’t sure whether it was nice for him or nice for me. Maybe both. That was to be determined. One thing was certain. Though New York merchants weren’t usually cold to paying customers, they weren’t this enthusiastic either. “The music that’s playing.”

“Yes?” he asked then sang along for a couple of bars bouncing to the tune.

“My mother had a recording of this same version of this song.”

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