“Yes.”
With a joyful bark, Bear breaks away from Nathan and barrels toward me. “No, Bear!” I shrink away.
Before she reaches me, Nathan grabs the dog and wrestles her back inside. “I’m sorry, she’s been quite naughty as of late.” He throws a stern look at where the dog’s eyes would be.
I recover my breath. “Well, it’s late. Good night.” I begin to descend the staircase.
“Miss Sweetie?”
I pause at the last stair.
“How did you know Bear’s name?”
“I, er, I thought that’s what you called her.” Didn’t he? Or did I imagine it?
“Oh. Of course.”
My ears burn as the night swallows me up.
—
THE WEEKEND STARTSoff a rinse-water gray, a color that does nothing for fair Atlanta, or as Mrs. English would say, “piles on the ugly.” Folks move slower on Saturdays, like they’re trying to make it last longer. Even the trains at Union Station move as if they haven’t quite woken up yet. I wrap my scarf tighter around my neck, gritting my teeth both against the morning chill and at the stabbing memory of last night’s slipup. That shall serve as my warning to limit my interactions with Nathan as much as possible. Miss Sweetie must remain a lady of mystery.
Most businesses, like English’s, are closed on the weekends. But not Buxbaum’s, whose signage reads,WHENYOUNEEDIT,WEHAVEIT. Abraham Buxbaum himself doesn’t work on the Jewish Sabbath but employs a healthy cadre of young men to run the store for him. The two-story brick building spans half a block, with glass windows that showcase furniture, footwear, sewing machines, and even ladies’ undergarments, as bold as petunias in a box planter.
I swing open an ornately carved door, ringing the bells. The store’s central furnace kisses my frozen cheeks, and I soak up the heat, my face upturned to the flock of light fixtures displayed from the ceiling. Maybe one day I’ll have enough money to snag one of those birds, but I’ll need to get my own ceiling first.
On one side of the store, the head clerk demonstrates an umbrella for some customers in a hearty voice that carriesacross the room. I start toward him, but then a familiar figure stacking bottles behind a counter catches my eye. “Robby?”
“Morning, Jo.” Robby shines a smile at me. A clerk’s apron in practical brown hangs as straight as a cupboard over his pin-striped jacket. “Looks like your scarf ate you for breakfast.”
I unwrap my face. “I’ve got this scarf well-trained. It won’t pull the wool over my eyes.”
“I suspect not many can do that.”
“I thought you were back on the cart.”
“Mr. Buxbaum hired another man but caught him snoozing on the job. He asked me to fill in again until he finds a replacement.”
“From where I’m standing, that clerk’s apron looks just your size.”
“It’s a shame clerks don’t come in the color brown.” He squeezes out a smile and bumps a fist against the table. “Guess you heard about our latest purchase.”
“It is a fine bicycle,” I say half-heartedly. When the situation calls for comfort as opposed to advice, I am remarkably inept. Old Gin would know what to say. The rest of us struggle to find the words, whereas he just plucks the right ones out of the air, like dandelion fluff.
Robby squares a stack of cigar boxes on the counter, and then shines up a brass cash register with a rag, lean arms moving with efficient strokes. “I knew she wanted a baby, I just didn’t expect it to come with pneumatic tires. The thing is, Jo, we need Noemi’s wages. A deliveryman’s income ain’t enough for both of us.”
He folds his rag into a square. The door opens, letting inmore customers. Robby glances toward them, and then says, “Better give me your shopping list and your bag.”
I hand him my shopping bag, which I sewed myself out of a damask curtain. “I need a half gallon of kerosene, soap, matches, a dozen candles, and your cheapest pair of ladies’ gloves, size small. Also, what do you know about Pendergrass’s Long-Life Elixir?”
“Mr. Buxbaum says we can’t keep it on the shelf. Let me check if there are any in the stockroom.”
He disappears through a doorway. I study a display case of beaded patches and premade bows. Prefabricated adornment is the rage. The modern woman wants a quick and inexpensive way to deck herself out. A daisy made of chicken feathers sells for three cents. Banditry! All it takes is a little glue and a windy day by your local farm.
The front door opens once more to the ringing of bells, and a chill seeps through the worn spots in my coat. High-heeled boots clap like thunder across the floorboards. The monkeys of mischief have been eavesdropping on my worries.
Billy Riggs saunters toward me.
