by Gayle Forman
“If I let you out of the deal, what’s in it for me?”
“I dunno. You’d be doing the right thing. A mitzvah.”
“A whatzvah?”
“A good deed.”
“Oh, you sound like Gerald, God rest his soul. He didn’t understand business at all. And I didn’t either until after he passed, without a dollar in the bank. And then, oh you’ll like this, I read a book.”
“A book?”
“Yes! It changed my life.” She forks a piece of pie and holds it up to my face. “Would you like a bite?”
“No, thanks.”
“Oh, go on.” She holds the fork there until I have no choice but to accept. The filling is cherry, but all I taste is strawberries.
“The book was called The Art of the Deal and it taught me how in business, nothing is personal. There are no good deeds. So I’d want to know what’s my incentive to let you back out of this deal, especially given I’ve already spent a fair amount of energy, not to mention money.”
“How much?”
“Oh, about three thousand dollars in legal bills and bank fees.”
I gulp. “What if I pay that back?”
“Do you have three thousand dollars lying around?”
We both know I don’t. But I could probably scrounge it up. Ask Chad for a loan. Maybe Mom. Maybe get a credit card of my own. “I can figure it out.”
“It’s a start, but that just gets me back to even.” She takes a loud slurp of her Sanka. “But say you were to buy out my option . . .” She taps her bubblegum-pink nails against the table. “With an additional ten thousand dollars, I might reconsider.”
“Ten thousand dollars?”
“Well, thirteen, total. By December first.”
“That’s in two weeks.”
“December first is the day we agreed to close by.”
“I’ll just pull out of the deal. I can do that.”
“You most certainly can. Of course, you’ll still have to reimburse my expenses, which will most certainly grow. And pay a penalty. It’s all in the contract.”
“It is?”
“If you’d had a lawyer read yours, you’d know all this.”
“You didn’t say anything about lawyers! It was just you and me signing the contract.”
“Who do you think executed the contract? My lawyer. You should always have a lawyer read your terms. Even though lawyers can be very expensive. Though not thirteen-thousand-dollars expensive. Sometimes you can be penny-wise but pound-foolish. Penny-wise. Ha!” She laughs at her own joke before stabbing another piece of pie.
I feel sick. “I can’t believe you’re holding my store hostage for thirteen grand.”
“Oh, pish. I’m just looking to leverage my assets. You see, winners take advantage of opportunities when they present themselves.” She scrapes up the last bits of cherry from the plate, the knife sending a nail-against-chalkboard shudder through me. “Though I suspect that’s one lesson you already know.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Cindy Jean, check,” she calls before turning back to me. “Well, for one, you sold the building to me without consulting your father. Now, I don’t pretend to know the ins and outs of your relationship, but I suspect you did that because you wanted to sell the store and you knew he didn’t. Which leads me to believe you have your own agenda.”
“But . . .” I sputter.
“Oh, I’m not judging you. If anything, I admire it. Though for the life of me I’m not sure why you let Ike and those gentlemen do any work, knowing it is for naught. That I don’t understand.”
“I’m trying to help my father.”
“Everyone always says they’re trying to help someone.” She dabs her lips with the napkin, which between the burger and pie now looks like a crime scene. “But really, Aaron, if we’re honest, we’re all just trying to help ourselves.”
Goldmine Record Album Price Guide
I get back to the store that afternoon to find Ira waiting for me, his slicker on.
“I have to talk to you,” I tell him. “Now.”
“I’m meeting Bev for support group.” He smiles. “My first one.”
“This is important.”
“So’s this,” he replies. “We can’t have me fainting all over town, now can we?”
“But . . .”
“It’ll keep.”
* * *
When Ira’s not back by six, I’m now on the verge of a panic attack myself. This morning I woke up feeling hopeful. I thought I’d found a way to make it work. Make Ira happy. And Chad. And the Lumberjacks.
I should’ve known better.
I lock up the store and go upstairs to make some pasta for dinner. I’m so distracted and distraught that when the phone rings, I pick it up without thinking.
“Aaron,” Mom says. “I’m so glad you answered.”
“Oh, hey, Mom. Ira’s out.”
“That’s okay. I called to talk to you.”
“Oh.”
A silence falls over the line.
“How’s the weather?” we both ask at the same time.
“Sunny and cold,” Mom answers.
“Rainy and cold,” I answer.
“Jinx,” Mom says.
“Haven’t we had enough of those?” I say.
The line goes silent again.
“What’d you want to talk to me about?”
“I was thinking maybe you might want to come for a visit,” she begins in a halting voice. “Silver’s not that far from you. You could drive.”
“Maybe in a few months,” I say. “Things are really busy right now.”
“Of course, my love.” I can tell she’s trying to hide her disappointment and it makes me feel like shit. “Your father mentioned you’re having some work done on the store.”
Knowing the work is for naught, I hear Penny say.
What have I done? Now, not only am I going to let Ira down, but Ike and the guys too. Chad was right. I’m the biggest coward.
“Did you say something?” Mom asks.
“Uh, just muttering to myself.”
“Something bothering you?”
“Just money stuff.”
She chuckles. “Money problems are just math problems.”
“Insanely hard math problems,” I reply. “Like calculus level.”
“You boil down your priorities,” she says. “The rest sorts itself out.”
In my experience, nothing sorts itself out, and at first, I write this off as Mom New Age gobbledygook. But then I think about what she said. Priorities. Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s not calculus level at all. Maybe it’s basic arithmetic: Betraying Sandy < Saving Ira.
Suddenly, I know how to dig myself out of my hole. Dig Ira out of his. The truth is, I’ve known it all along.
“Thanks, Mom. That was helpful.”
“It was?”
“Yeah, but now I gotta go.”
“Oh, okay.” The hurt in her voice bleeds across the miles.
“I’m sorry. It’s important. Can I call you back later?”
There’s another heavy pause on the line because Mom knows I won’t call her back, even if she doesn’t know why. “Anytime, my love.”
After I hang up with Mom I immediately call the Corporate Health Food Emporium. It takes twenty minutes of bad hold music, three transfers, and two minor lies to get the name and number of Lou, the guy who I saw selling records there.
I get his voicemail. I leave a message: “Hey, my name’s Aaron. I have some good vinyl to sell,” and hang up.
He calls back thirty seconds later. “How many albums?” he asks. “What genre? What condition? How are they stored?”
When I tell him, his breath goes kind of ragged. “Can I come now?”
&n
bsp; Ira’s due back any minute. “How about tomorrow, around lunchtime?” I’ll figure out some errand to send Ira on.
“You won’t sell them before then?”
“I won’t.”
“You promise?”
If Lou only knew. “I promise I won’t.”
Lou says he’ll be there. I instruct him to text before he comes in. He agrees. I’m pretty sure if I’d asked him to cut off his pinkie before coming, he’d have agreed to that too.
* * *
The next morning, the Lumberjacks are taking the morning off for what they’re calling a “scouting mission.” I have no idea what this is but I persuade Ira to go with them.
“But who will watch the store?”
“I will.”
“But you already did that yesterday.”
“It’ll give me a chance to catch up on my reading.” I pick up Karel Čapek’s War with the Newts, one of my neglected Central European novels. “I’ve fallen behind,” I add, which is the understatement of the year.
“If you’re sure,” Ira asks.
“Positive,” I say. “Do you need money?” I pull a few twenties out of the till. “Have fun. And take your time.”
* * *
Here’s the thing: Sandy never should’ve asked me to do it. Made me, of all people, the guardian of his vinyl. I refuse to feel bad about selling it. It’s his fault we’re in this predicament as much as it is mine.
But Ira . . . I do feel bad about lying to him, so as penance, I pick up the Čapek and try to actually read it. The first sentence alone takes up an entire page and while part of my brain can register all the hallmarks of good writing—a strong voice, a weird setup, humor—my attention keeps getting snagged on words like island and equator, which makes me think of traveling, which makes me think of Thailand, which makes me think of Chad, which makes me think of Hannah, who I have not heard from.
I’m still struggling to get past page six of the Čapek when my phone buzzes with a text. From Lou. I’m here. Sorry I’m so early. I got excited. LMK when I can come.
It’s ok. Come now, I text back.
When I see the dented Subaru wagon rumble down Main Street, I know it’s Lou even before he parks. People who collect lots of shit that can’t get wet, like books, like records, tend to drive old, battered wagons.
As I lead him into the basement, he has that look in his eye, the one Sandy would get when he’d see a junk shop or a yard sale and yell “Stop” because his vinyl radar had pinged. When I open the first bin, Lou’s breath judders.
I show him the laminated index. “It’s all itemized. If you want to know what’s in each bin.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather just go through them blind,” he says in a reverent whisper. “Treasures like this don’t come around all that often.”
“Have at it.” I take a seat on the edge of the stairs.
He starts pawing through the albums, one at a time, gasping now and then. I can see it’s going to be a while.
“I’ll be upstairs. If you find anything you like, just put it in a pile and holler when you’re ready.”
Lou does not question this, nor the cloak-and-dagger secrecy of the endeavor. He’s already in the zone.
Back upstairs, I try again with the Čapek and manage another four pages.
“Holy shit!” I hear Lou scream.
“You okay?” I call down to the basement.
“You have Nico’s Chelsea Girl,” he replies. “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
I give up on the Čapek and return to my trusty Brusatte, opening to a random page the way I used to shake a Magic 8-Ball for guidance. I wind up reading about the discovery of a mass grave of metoposaurs—car-sized salamanders from the Triassic period, which Brusatte and his pals discovered in Portugal. It makes me feel better to know that something that lived fifty million years ago can still be here now.
When I hear Ike’s truck coughing down Main Street, I check on Lou again. “I’m going to close the door,” I call down. “When you’re done, don’t come up. Text me.”
“Roger, boss,” he says.
I close the door and lock it, just in case.
Ira comes skipping up the porch stairs. “You wouldn’t believe what we found!” he says, vibrating with excitement. “Tell him, Ike!”
“A whole mess of oak floorboards to replace the rotting ones,” Ike says. “A couple of lamps that’ll need to be rewired. And best of all . . .” He peers out the door. “Hurry up, will ya?”
“It weighs a ton!” Richie complains. “Can’t we use a dolly?”
“Just lift from your knees,” Ike says.
Richie and Garry struggle up the stairs holding some large, bulky, and clearly heavy object covered in a tarp.
“Oh, for cryin’ out loud,” Ike says, grabbing hold of it on his hip. “Aaron, put a cloth down, will ya. I don’t want it to get scratched.”
I quickly look around and see Lou’s left his jacket upstairs. I throw it on top of a sawhorse and Ike gently sets down his prize before whipping off the tarp with a jubilant “Ta-da!”
It’s a large cylinder with many knobs coming out of it, covered in a layer of rust and grit.
“Ain’t it a beaut?” Ike asks.
“It’s a something,” I reply.
“Do you know what it is?” he asks.
“A robot?”
“Guess again.”
“One of those old diving bells?”
“It’s . . .” Ike trails off with dramatic flourish.
“An espresso machine,” Richie shouts.
“Why didn’t you let me tell him?” Ike fumes.
“That’s an espresso machine?” I ask.
“Vintage Italian,” Ike says. “What they would use to make espresso and cappuccinos and all those fancy drinks in Italy. What’s the name of the company?”
“Something like Lady Gaga?” Richie says.
“Gaggia,” Garry corrects, with perfect Italian pronunciation.
“They don’t make things like this anymore. Fixed up, these babies sell for a thousand dollars,” Ike says. “We got this for two fifty.”
“But I only gave you forty dollars,” I tell Ira.
“Oh,” Ira says. “Chad fronted us the rest.”
“Chad? Why’d he give you money?”
“’Cause we knew you’d kick up a fuss,” Ike asks. “Now, should we put it in the basement?”
“No!” I shout. “I mean, it’s a mess down there. Just leave it here.”
“Okay,” Ike says.
“That was fun, lads,” Ira says, settling into his chairs. “Thanks for bringing me.”
“Why don’t you go get some espresso at ValuMart to test out the machine?” I ask Ira.
“Oh, first I have to take it apart and clean it and reassemble it,” Ike says, looking delighted at the prospect.
“Also, ValuMart doesn’t sell espresso,” Garry adds.
“Well, you could drive to Bellingham to get some. So we’re prepared.” I pull another two twenties out of the till, leaving it empty.
“I’m gonna stay here and work on Gaga,” Ike says. “And I’ll probably have to replumb the line to make sure the pressure’s adequate. Gonna take a few days.” He looks utterly thrilled at this prospect.
“Then you three go!” I push Ira, Richie, and Garry toward the door.
“We don’t have to go all the way to Bellingham,” Ira says.
“You might as well get the good stuff.”
“You’re sure excited about coffee all of a sudden,” Riche says suspiciously.
“Well, a good idea is a good idea.”
I get them out the door. “Be right back,” I tell Ike, who’s already started in on the machine.
Lou sits cross-legged on the floor, like
Hannah did a few days ago. Only he has several rows of records around him, and a large paperback book open in his lap. “I didn’t even get through a quarter of the bins, but this is already more than I can afford.” He taps on the smaller row. “These are worth easily worth two hundred. And these”—he taps on the larger row—“double that. I can only afford these.” He taps on the two-hundred-dollar selection. “But I’ll get an advance on my paycheck and come back for the rest.”
I do the math: two hundred dollars today plus four hundred later. It’s six hundred dollars. A lot of money. But about one-thirtieth of what I need.
Lou misreads my frown. “You can check if you don’t believe me.” He hands me his book. “Goldmine Record Album Price Guide. My bible. I wouldn’t rip you off. It would dishonor the records.”
“I don’t think you’re trying to rip me off,” I say. “It’s just I kind of wanted to offload all of them, quickly, and I thought since you had that business . . .”
“Oh, you mean the table at the health food place?” Lou shakes his head. “That’s not mine. That’s owned by someone else. I just shill for him. Mostly to get any good stuff before he does. But his shit is nothing like what you’ve got.”
“Would he buy these records?”
“Probably, but he’d rip you off.” He glances upstairs. “You have a space. Why not sell them yourself?”
“I can’t.”
Shrugging, Lou opens his wallet, counting out ten crisp twenties. “Let me ask around. I know some people who would go apeshit for this. Would pay you what it’s worth. And would honor the vinyl.”
“Okay,” I tell Lou. “So long as they honor it by December first.”
I empty one of Mom’s boxes and load Lou’s records inside, throwing one of her sweaters on top for camouflage. “Gotta keep the records cushioned,” I tell Lou.
“Who’s this?” Ike asks as we emerge from the basement.
“Lou,” says Lou.
“What’s he doing down there?”
“Looking at the gas meter,” I lie.
“You work at Cascadia?” Ike asks, giving Lou the side-eye. “Where’s your uniform?”
“He works in the corporate department.” I lead Lou to the front door.
