Jane could picture Dot talking so quietly, her lips barely moving. She remembered giving them one of her old business cards and crossing out the firm's number, printing her home and cell phone number carefully under her name. Miriam was right. She did need to get some new cards, some cards that said Jane Wheel, picker or dealer or vintage items bought and sold or something that reflected her new status in the world.
"Are you busy with a client right now?" Ollie asked.
Jane remembered her little lie to the house sale worker about being an interior designer.
"No, no, I'm not busy at all," Jane said, not sure why she was so thrilled to be hearing from the Shangri-La ladies. She got out a handfull of Cheerios and began feeding them to Rita, her adopted German shepherd, who had been sitting obediently waiting for some attention. Rita munched while putting one giant paw on Jane's lap, keeping her close. Out of habit, Jane, like any good commercial producer, picked up a pencil and began doodling, ready to take down numbers, notes, complaints, whatever seemed necessary.
"We were just over at Mary's new place, that is, me and Dot, and we told her all about the sale and meeting you and how you bought up all Bateman's Shangri-La stuff, and she was saying how she'd love to meet you… what, Dot? Oh yes, Mary's a little bored in the assisted-living apartment. It's a slower crowd than she's used to, you know? Anyway, we told her we had your number, and we'd try to get you to come over and see her, maybe tell her about the place you're designing that's going to have a little Shangri-La in it?"
Even though it was against all Jane's rules to meet an owner or seller, she agreed to meet Dot and Ollie in the lobby of the Grand Heritage at three so they could introduce her to Mary. She avoided sellers, but not for the reason that a dealer had given her while making small talk one Saturday morning standing in line at a huge estate sale.
"Relatives always want to charge you more. They think their parents' junk is worth a million, you know. They watch those bozos on the Roadshow and suddenly think that their daddy's old pencil sharpener— the one that sharpened the pencil of the nephew of the guy who ran against so and so for state comptroller— is worth a mint. So I want it 'cause it's got a Bakelite base and I can sell it for five or ten bucks, and they got a twenty-five-dollar price tag on it, you know?"
Jane knew. It was the same twenty-five-dollar price tag he'd put on it himself when he got it to his booth at the antique mall. Maybe he'd even charge thirty or thirty-five.
Jane didn't mind the relatives because of overpricing. She found that just as often, they were sad-faced and apologetic, asking a dollar or two for plates or vases that were clearly worth more to anyone who turned them over and read the markings for California Pottery. Jane had found two Griswold cast-iron baking pans in the basement at an estate sale. They were so heavy and bulky that the family member who checked Jane out wanted to just give her the "filthy old things." Jane had pressed a five-dollar bill into her hand and sped to her car like a thief. Miriam would price the pans at eighty-five dollars and probably accept seventy-five. That meant she'd give Jane thirty or maybe forty dollars each. She was generous to Jane, her protégée, and Jane was grateful. If she could only get over the guilt that the families didn't know what they were selling. The guilt was why she avoided the relatives.
"Look," Tim had lectured her, "you gave them five dollars more than they would have gotten if they had put them in the alley or, for that matter, if they had given them to anyone else. Another picker might have faked it a little, like, 'Oh, maybe I could use 'em for screws or something in the garage or give 'em to my grandkids for the sandbox' then strolled off to his truck cackling over his find. Finds, my dear Jane, depend on a good eye, which you have, patience to sift through rubbish and get dirty, which you also have, and luck."
"Which I have, too, don't I?" Jane asked, while Tim took a breath.
"Luck is a two-part invention. The first part is being at the right place at the right time. Figuring out the best sale to start with, being the early bird, and so forth. You've got that part down pretty well."
"And part two?"
"Acceptance," Tim said. "Picking up the butterscotch Bakelite cowboy-hat pin with the dangling boots, which, I might add, are dangling from their original strings, out of a child's junk jewelry box and handing over the requested dime, putting it in your pocket, and continuing to poke around instead of blushing beet red and looking like you're going to be arrested at any minute."
"I don't…"
"I've watched you, babe. In this situation, your eyes would roll back in your pretty head and you'd be thinking about the girl's grandma giving her this pin that she picked up in a dime store for some spare change when she was a little girl and then when her little granddaughter said she liked horses, Grandma gave it to her and Little Sally wore it every day; but now she's a big girl and wants to buy flared jeans, and she's selling out Grandma and her whole history by letting you buy this pin for a dime. She'll regret it, oh yeah, and spend her adulthood going to rummage sales and auctions trying to find a pin just like the one Grandma gave her."
Jane wanted to tell Tim to shut up, but she was afraid her voice might crack.
"Luck is acceptance, Jane."
Jane had been poking around in Tim's flower shop while he was giving her his "picker's tutorial," and she picked up a small, Redware pitcher, noting a tiny chip on the spout. Just a fleabite, but it explained why Tim had it among these lesser vases for his loose and blowsy arrangements.
"Okay," Jane said.
"Okay what?"
"I'll accept luck when it comes along."
"Too easy."
"I'll accept luck," Jane said, finally smiling, "because when Little Sally grows up and finds that she needs Grandma's cowboy-hat pin more than anything in the world, more than new clothes, more than eating in restaurants, more than advancements in her career, she'll start going to rummage sales and thrift stores and flea markets and she'll find stuff that she likes and admires and has to buy; but it won't be quite the thing, you know, so she'll keep going and one day, she'll be at a house sale and it'll be there, in a jewelry box, and it won't cost a dime anymore, but she won't mind because she'll know that the money was spent in paying someone to be the caretaker all these years."
"Gag me, please," said Tim, "and are you hovering over the house as an angel, watching your estate go to all those deserving little boys and girls now grown up?"
"Don't be ghoulish. You and I are financing our apartments in a very fancy senior complex, where we will live happily ever after."
It wasn't the usual guilt clouding this meeting with Mary Bateman. Jane knew that she had paid more than the going price for much of the Shangri-La merchandise that was now being hung or displayed or washed and dried and racked up at the EZ Way Inn. Jane's guilt was too strange to discuss even with Tim. As she sat in the parking lot of the Grand Heritage, ten minutes early for her meeting, she was in serious debate with herself over the finger still in her glove compartment. On the one hand, why would you bring up something so disturbing to an elderly widow in a nursing home?
"Oh, by the by, Mary, I've come across a finger you might like to have…"
There's a conversation starter.
On the other hand, this finger was surely Bateman's, and even if Mary didn't want to keep Bateman's finger, she might not want someone else to have it.
"And I don't want to give it up," Jane admitted out loud, looking at the glove compartment.
Why she didn't want to part with it, she couldn't say. It was a curious attachment, and even Jane, who was a master of the creative, long-winded explanation for the whys and wherefores of keeping the stuff she did, could not put her finger on the reason she could not let Bateman's finger go. Not yet.
Dot and Ollie parked and got out of a small, silver Saturn on the other side of the parking lot. Ollie was talking a mile a minute, and Dot was staring straight ahead, nodding occasionally. The sight of the two women, both wearing the senior uniform of pastel jogging suits an
d running shoes, made Jane smile. Just as she began opening her car door, her cell phone rang. "La Cucaracha." Nick had been at the "menu options" again.
10
"I have found two pieces of information for you, Mrs. Wheel. I'm not sure that either one will shed enough light to be valuable, but perhaps, together, they will lead your way."
Jane slid down in the driver's seat, not wanting Dot or Ollie to spot her and come over until she'd heard what Detective Oh had to tell her.
"There were no police reports filed regarding an attack on Mr. Bateman, no descriptions of an incident over an injured or severed finger."
"Not much light there," said Jane, printing "no police report" in her small notebook.
"There was information about Mr. Bateman in the files though. He served a short time in prison on a gambling offense," said Oh. "Six months only. He was released, apparently, because of some missing paperwork on his case."
"Is that common? Losing paperwork gets you out of jail?"
Detective Oh hesitated. "Not common, exactly, but possible. There may have been some kind of deal struck after the fact. Or perhaps, something was not on the up and up from the beginning. These gaming charges were confusing. Seems the state laws and federal laws were in conflict, and many tavern owners, holders of Illinois liquor licenses, were implicated in these so-called gambling raids. The paperwork is incomplete and sloppy in Mr. Bateman's case."
"Is there some way to find out more details?" Jane asked.
"It has been my experience that when paperwork goes missing, it stays missing," said Oh. "Most of the principals in this particular case are long gone… the judge, the lawyers. Perhaps if you had a way of talking to Mrs. Bateman? If you could somehow be put in touch with her, in some non-threatening role? A friendly conversation can reveal the most astonishing facts."
Jane sat up straighter. Dot and Ollie were standing by the large, double-doored entrance to the Grand Heritage scanning the parking lot. Jane opened her car door, stood up, and waved at them.
"I'll see what I can do," Jane promised.
* * *
Mary Bateman was like no one else. She was the paradox you encountered at a party, exotic yet familiar. Someone who enchanted you with her unique personality, her unconventional look, but someone with whom you felt totally at home. When she took Jane's hands in hers, she radiated warmth, but the handshake itself was firm and cool. If Jane had to explain it to Nicky, she might try out the term "soul mate," which would no doubt cause him to roll his eyes all the way up into his head, shudder and whisper, "Not the sixties, Mom, please, don't flashback to the sixties, Mom."
"Leonard, say hello to Dot and Ollie and Jane," Mary said, introducing her visitors to her euchre partner. "Len and I just whipped the Bagwell twins, didn't we, hon?" Mary asked, pointing to two women— dressed in identical red warm-up suits— walking arm in arm toward the large coffee urn set up on the other side of the parlor.
Leonard was an elegantly dressed octogenarian. Tan slacks, a navy blue silk shirt, and a red-and-navy striped tie, perfectly knotted at his collar. His hands were folded over his cards, a soft crepe tent, and he slowly lifted one of them and bent his already curled fingers into a wave. His movements, the wave, a slight turn of the head, all came with some effort; but his eyes were quick, darting from woman to woman to woman, resting finally on Mary. His whole body sighed as if he'd like to keep those eyes resting on Mary for a good long time.
"Leonard doesn't speak," Mary said. "Stroke. But he still knows his left bower from his right, don't you, dear?" she asked, gesturing to the jack of clubs played in the last trick. "See you later, baby."
Jane thought she might have seen tears gather in Leonard's eyes, but a younger man quickly came and wheeled him away from the card table as soon as Mary turned toward the hall.
"They're on the ball here," said Dot. "They've got an attendant making sure you're not stuck alone for a second."
"That's Leonard's private nurse, dear," said Mary. "Around here, it's the only way to fly."
"He was somebody, I bet," said Ollie. "Does he dress like that every day?"
"Don't be a sucker, Ollie. Any moron can tie a tie. Or pay someone to tie it for you, as the case may be."
Mary exuded lithe energy, despite the clumsiness of the walker she had begun to use for exercise. She led them down the hall to her neat one-bedroom apartment. Her silvery hair was long and wavy, and during Jane's visit, Mary put it up in jeweled hair sticks, took it down and rewound it into a french twist, shook it out yet again, and nimbly braided it into a single tail that hung down her back. The mere fact that she could use her fingers so ably and hold her arms up to do the braiding showed an admirable dexterity and a near miraculous lack of arthritis.
Jane ran her own hands through her thick, short hair. She understood Dot and Ollie's dismay at Mary being assigned to assisted living. Mary seemed capable, not only of taking care of herself, but assisting several others at the same time. When Ollie began describing one New Year's bowling tournament where they had all gotten snowed in, Mary raised both her hands in protest.
"Hush, Ollie, you're boring our guest to death with tales of the old Shangri-La," drawled Mary. "That place's dead and buried, child, dead and buried. Tell me about the rebirth, Ms. Wheel."
Mary had blue eyes. Normally, Jane trusted brown eyes. She felt they somehow demanded truth, both from the speaker and listener. Humble, yet rich. Deep, yet vibrant. Yes, brown eyes were the reliable feature of the true soul mate. Mary's eyes, though, threw everything Jane had believed out the window.
It was now that sparkling blue that commanded attention. Jane was mesmerized, riveted by Mary's stunning eyes. The old black-and-white photos had captured her movie-star allure, but that was nothing compared to the spell she cast in full living color.
"It's going to be a humble rebirth, I'm afraid," Jane said, "but a loving one."
"Do tell," said Mary, folding her manicured hands and sitting up straighter to listen.
Jane explained that she was a picker, not a designer, but that lately the picking was leading her into some designing projects. She told her about the McFlea House fund-raiser and Tim, and found herself talking about Charley and Nick and her confused marital status and confused professional status, and after running on for longer than Ollie ever had, she realized she was near tears.
Mary had not stirred. Dot had gotten up and poured Jane a glass of water, and Ollie had nodded and clucked through the entire story. As Jane drank the water, she realized that she had explained how Tim had convinced her to decorate the kitchen of the McFlea, and that Tim would use Shangri-La collectibles in the basement party room. She had talked for several minutes and explained much in great detail, but she hadn't yet mentioned her own tavern connection. She hadn't told Mary she was a saloon keeper's daughter.
"I don't know why I've rambled on so," Jane said. "Sorry."
"Did you find the punchboards?" Mary asked. "Do you know what they are?"
"Yes, yes, I found them," Jane said. Here it comes. I babble on to sympathetic ears, and now I hear her story of how she wants everything back.
"If you don't use them in your show house, dear, you can sell them on Ebay for good money. My granddaughter says there are idiots out there who will buy anything."
Jane nodded. She was too familiar with those idiotic Jane Wheel types.
Jane tried to direct the conversation to Bateman himself and the golden days of the Shangri-La.
"Golden days?" Mary said. "Some people think whatever anybody else does must be fun or glamorous or romantic or some such stuff. I'll tell you what running a tavern was like, honey. It was plain hard work, serving drunks and layabouts who couldn't hoist their lazy butts off a bar stool to get home to their wives and kids."
"Mary."
Dot spoke so rarely that when she said her friend's name, it had the effect of a major chord being struck in an auditorium. Everyone turned expectantly, waiting for her to begin the concert.
"The Shangri-La was a nice, clean place, and there were plenty of wonderful people who came there just to be a part of something, especially when times were tough. Bateman always welcomed everyone, and we all felt like it was our place, you know. Not fancy, but…" Dot seemed to lose her place for a moment, "fun and friendly."
"'Where everybody knows your name,'" Jane said, quoting the Cheers theme song.
Three pairs of eyes, a combined total of more than two hundred years of vision, stared a hole through Jane.
"It's from a television program," Jane said. Why did she feel like she should apologize?
"Of course it is," Mary said.
"I did know everybody's name," said Ollie, "and if I didn't know somebody, I went over and asked what the hell he was doing in our bar."
Dot nodded. Apparently her defense of the old days of the Shangri-La was enough talking for one day.
Jane envied these three old friends, their brains uncluttered with the debris of television theme songs and advertising jingles. Their memories of who came up with the design for the bowling shirts or who decided what to serve for snacks on euchre night were perhaps just as trivial as some of Jane's, such as the name of the actor who played Diane's professor on Cheers. These women's memories seemed, at least to Jane, more important, more real. Maybe it was because those stories that they told and retold truly belonged to them. How many conversations did Jane have with people her age that began with, "Remember on Seinfeld when George…" The memories she shared with her peers she also shared with millions of others whom she had never met, would never meet. Television, she thought, where nobody knows our name. Even conversations with Tim, with whom she had shared her childhood, her real life, were often peppered with television and movie and song references. It keeps us at a distance from each other, Jane thought;we wear it like armor.
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