Long before political division and social media and light-years before familial estrangement and the new normal of no contact, the Copelands were the poster children for finger-pointing and hateful derision.
Ishouldsell the bracelet.
The hands on the mid-century atomic starburst clock near the shadow box click.
My doctor’s appointment is in three hours.
I need the money more than I need this bracelet.
The woman continues to stare at me, smiling. I can almost hear her hiss like a cobra.
I open my mouth to spit out an exorbitant amount, but then my cell trills, and it is a selfie of Ron standing before Frank Sinatra’s Twin Palms home. He is waving and smiling, happy to be a Modernism Week board member and docent, even though I know he is still seething for having to clean up our mess this morning.
Ron is forgiving.
I think of his Church of Mary prayer.
This bracelet is my last connection.
My only remaining silk.
And when that is gone, what do I have left?
The woman moves toward the counter as if I have already decided.
Isn’t that why we watch reruns even though there is so much original content streaming today? Isn’t that why a show likeThe Golden Girlsremains eternally popular?
We don’t watch an old TV show to return to a time that was perfect, but rather to return to a time that marked a turning point in our lives.
The woman pulls the wallet from her bag.
What would it say about me if I sold the past—as I do in my business—but I did not believe in it? Wouldn’t I be just as big a hypocrite as a family that waltzed into church every Sabbath in their Sunday best pretending to be perfect when they were the epitome of the darkness and evil our pastor warned us about?
“I’m so sorry,” I finally say. “It’s really not for sale.”
The woman’s face falls. She’s not used to being told no.
I must make her laugh or risk losing even more money.
“You know, my mother was a farm girl,” I continue, taking Lucy’s wig and placing it on my own head. “Sturdy stock. From a distance, her wrists looked like her calves. I used to joke that my mother didn’t ever buy new heels, she just got re-shoed every few years. Her bracelet wouldn’t fit your petite wrist anyway.”
The woman roars.
I know how to turn the tables with wit and sarcasm.
“Follow me,” I say, stepping down from the window and grabbing her hand. “Be my Ethel for the day. Pretty please! Let me give you a private trunk show so you can see the baubles I’ve been holding back for Modernism Week. I can sell those to you before I ‘ten X’ the hell out of them.”
We head into the back room, where I keep my stock. I serve her champagne and one-liners, and she walks out an hour later, tipsy, happy and a thousand dollars lighter.
If there’s one silk I retained from my mother, it’s her sense of humor.
My mother was damn funny.
We had to learn to laugh, or we would not have survived. Humor is the great connectoranddeflector. It has both saved my ass and kept people at a safe distance many times over my life.
If there’s one thing I know for certain about the world today versus when I was growing up, it’s that we’re too damn serious. Was the world cruel to me? You’re damn right it was. Did I survive? You’re damn right I did.
I learned to be a fighter. I learned to be self-sufficient. I learned you can get spit on and have your head smashed into a locker every single day and still hold your head high.
