Three Women, One Key
The Rush/Winter Issue 12, December 2022
Lily unlocked the back door of the thrift store using a key that didn’t belong to her. Just an hour before, she’d scooped the key from the street, dangling it from its chain in the blurry early morning light. Thrift on Smith.
She’d been zigzagging, her feet clunky, aimless, from Mulroney’s to her crooked Cooper Mini. (Mulroney’s because she’d needed a drink after the lawyer’s letter came and she’d consumed all the alcohol left in the house.)
“What the hell,” she slurred, about-facing to the shop.
Inside, she inhaled the repellent “other people’s things” smell, flipped on the lights.
The gowns hung along the wall, sparkling from their hangers, heavy and impractical -prom and wedding in pastel blues and greens and pinks and blacks and of course whites. Lily pushed them along the rack, pulling them down, allowing them to fall, like fainting ladies, onto the floor.
She reached for the most beautiful dress, an off the shoulder number with floral inlay. She wiggled out of her skirt and silk blouse, poked her arms through the sleeves and fumbled with the side zipper, constricting her loose belly. Draped in the weighted fabric, she zombie-walked herself to the full length mirror, holding up the skirt’s peaks of meringue.
“Jesus.”
She deeply regretted the artificial red hue of her hair, jutting in ragged spikes. Shuffling closer to her reflection, she examined pores, smoothed wayward eyebrows, ran a finger across her lips, containing a bleeding pink stain.
“Get. This thing. Off,” she said, stripping down to her loose white panties and pilly bra. She hiccupped, her chest popping as she staggered back to her own clothing left crushed on the floor, like the Wicked Witch post-melting.
Lily exited the way she came, slamming the door behind her, pushing back on the knob to feel the lock, firmly in place.
***
Mae hoisted herself into the shop window, falling to the floor, thankful for her stretch slacks. She stood up, ungracefully, the glimmer of pride at having achieved access to her shop without a key fading at the sight of the mess before her. Ruby, the mannequin, eyed her, plastic head cocked to the left, hand jauntily on hip.
My my. What was I up to yesterday? Mae thought hard for a moment but came up with only mind dust, nothing, the usual. Familiar handwriting-her own-in small yellow squares floated at eye level around the room. Post-its. Some said Thrift on Smith, the name of the shop, her shop, of course this shop. Some said Mae Sanford, 73, 555-1264, 217 Rambly Ridge Way. One said, I, Mae Sandford, am the owner of Thrift on Smith.
“Dust myself, off and..” Mae sat heavily in her rolling desk chair, patted her ample thighs.
The clock sounded its opening alarm, slapping Mae to attention.
“Oh, sugar. Time flies.”
She wobbled across mounds of clothing to get to the door, turned the lock and flipped the closed sign to open.
“Now where…” she muttered, fighting the way back to her desk, command central, holding all the things needed to get by: calendar, post-its, pens and pencils, price tags, cashbox. Cashbox! Mae whipped open the desk drawer only to find it sitting there, peacefully in place. The post-it on its cover said, Your necklace. Mae reached inside her shirt, finding a small key around a chain. She placed it inside the lock and opened the tin box, counted the bills.
She sat quietly, her mind drifting to its status quo, an erased blackboard. She touched Cam’s picture. The key, he reminded her. Mae looked down, found it stupidly sitting on the blotter. Eureka! She relaxed into the chair, a hand on her round belly.
The door opened, producing a teenager with a blast of autumn air.
“Good morning,” Mae said.
“Hey,” the thin girl said, chin out, hands in dark pockets. “You got a backpack?”
Mae had no idea, but she was happy to help, would enjoy the distraction.
***
Sadie only had so long. As soon as her father left, she fled the sink, ran out of the house, jumped on her bike, shot down the hill, no brakes. Earlier, he gripped her upper arm, “You’ll get these dishes done in no time,” he’d said.
She opened the first shop door she saw, finding herself in the middle of a mess of clothing, pots and pans, picture frames.
“I need a backpack,” all she could think to say. The disorder of the place wracked her nerves. Her father could not handle a speck of dust, a drop of water on the floor.
A fat little woman-maybe an angel?- appeared, a halo of grey curls rising up in a bush around her head.
“Sure thing! My shop is a treasure trove of - ”
“Okay,” Sadie said, turning away. Not an angel.
The woman pointed her to a blue ink-stained backpack. Sadie unzipped it, began tossing things inside. She scanned a wall of paperbacks. Flowers in the Attic, took it, threw in a hairbrush, a bathing suit, some underwear. What else would she need? Anything. A sleeping bag? Sheets? Post-it notes? Wait.
“You run this place?” she faced the dumpy woman.
“Yes. Yes. My husband and I. My late husband. I almost forget he’s-“
The lady spoke from a tippy toe stance, like she was trying to put a star on top of a Christmas tree, attempting to rehang a fancy dress.
“Can I help you?”
Sadie dropped the backpack. She had no money anyway. No time. No nothin.
The dresses rehung, she excused herself to the barf-smelling bathroom, where she noticed a hot plate, a microwave, even a tub and shower. Soap.
She turned out the light, the post-it beside the switch reminding her to do so.
“What a lovely young lady you are-“ the woman called out as Sadie slipped the key on the desk to her jeans pocket.
“Thank you, mam. I’ve got to go. My father-” she began.
“Good girl,” the woman said, a bright smile clinging to her lips.
