Amnesia in Autumn, Part 3

A bright and shiny October morning, as full of promise as a freshly struck penny, Honest Abe winkin' at me. Nothin' but blue skies do I see.

Then I spy Mrs. Guy slip into her little shop, Ye Olde Curios. She flicks on a light, but it's still dark and dim. It's always, at least, a little dark and dim in Ye Olde Curios. I've learned she likes to arrive early and attend to paperwork at the front desk. I'm not stalking her, not exactly. But my early morning strolls lead me to cross paths, to notice patterns. I like to observe.

A pale green radio sits atop her desk, but she won't turn it on. For now, peace and quiet wrapped in solitude. In a bit, her new assistant, Carla Hahn, will arrive, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as only a co-ed can be. Or rather, as a sidelined co-ed can be. Economic disruptions, otherwise known as an abrupt lack of do re mi, derailed her college days. Carla, a good kid with the right attitude, rolled with the punches, hit the ground running, returned home to Trottsville, ready to turn lemons into lemonade. As she says, "Well, it's not so very important that I get a degree. I'm a girl!"

Ye Olde Curios is located on the north of the town green, Route 28 traffic about a half-block away. On the other sides: shops, the Presbyterian church, homes. In one of these homes, sits Roger Hahn, Carla's father. He's the captain of a small industry, Hahn Manufacturing. Or was before a partner hightailed with the company's treasure. For now, Roger cools his heels at home. He isn't a man used to idling, but he has to wait for the lawyers to do their job. He has no doubt that the rascal, Bryan Evans, will be found guilty. Evans had been nabbed in May-hee-koh, spending the ill-gotten loot, on a spree of wine, women and song. Roger shook his head. "That's what I get for hiring an Ivy Leaguer. Should've kept it close to home. Well, live and learn. But I should have known! Dammit!" He cracked his knuckles and lit his pipe. "Courts be damned, what I wouldn't give to punch Evans in the kisser, just once." He puffed his pipe until the tobacco glowed red, and thought, "And to top it off, to give him a good swift kick to the keister! That'd be the cherry on top. Better yet, string the ess oh bee up, let him swing from the limb of a mighty oak. But we live in a civilized society, blah, blah, blah. So I'll just have to sit tight and let the wheels of justice grind however slowly." He punched his palm and declared, "What I wouldn't give for a little frontier justice!"

"Roger, what did you say?" chirped Emme, his spinster sister, from the pantry, where she was busy dusting and arranging spices, putting jars in alphabetical order.

"Oh, nothing. I was just fuming out loud, to coin a phrase."

Emme had moved in with Roger and Carla after the death, just a few years ago, of Katy, Roger's wife, the mother of Carla. It was a good fit. Emme kept the home shipshape, allowing her brother to tackle the big stuff. Mornings often found Emme on the front porch of their Victorian sweeping the steps and the front sidewalk, especially these days as autumnal leaves cascaded.

The phone rang, and Roger picked up to hear, "Hi, Rodge!"

"Hi, Mike! What's the good word?"

"I just thought you should know, scuttlebutt says the union's getting restless, they mean to picket the plant next week unless you reopen. And, I'm told, they plan to demand a 40 percent pay increase. And more benefits. It could get ugly!"

"What on earth can they expect of me! I'm in a legal bind! I cannot move forward until the case is settled! That could take months! We're closed up tight as a drum for now! And beyond that, before this brouhaha, we were operating close to the bone! I'm up against the big boys!"

"Yah, tell that to Wankowicz! And his thugs! Baseball bats and bricks are at a premium, a little bird tells me." Roger moaned. Window replacement on a grand scale is expensive. And insurance won't cover vandalism.

A minute or so early, Carla entered Ye Olde Curios, the bells above the door announcing her arrival. The radio now purring, Mrs. Guy looked up and said, "Mornin', Carla!"

"Good morning, Mrs. Guy!" Carla hung her blazer and muffler on the coat rack.

"Well, any day without snow is a good day, as far as I'm concerned! And we've got sun, acres and acres of God's good sunshine!"

"What's on the schedule today?"

"How about a trip to Brownsville Station? I've got some packages to retrieve, china from Clifton Tableware, very fragile, I'd rather not have them ship it. You know how postal workers are, a bunch of careless union bums!" Mrs. Guy's tiny fist hit her desktop! "And we pay through the nose with our taxes for these lousy goldbrickers!" She scowled, then brightened. "On the rebound, you can stop at the Hostess Bakery outlet store for day-old this and that. I know you folks are on a budget, and as long as you're in the neighborhood..."

"Sounds terrif! Thank you, Mrs. Guy!"

This wasn't the first time Carla had been entrusted to take Mrs. Guy's station wagon to run a mission. She enjoyed the responsibility, and the trust Mrs. Guy extended. "By the by, my dad says we should get rid of all unions, especially government unions. Let the free market decide the value of things!"

"Roger Hahn is a wise man!"

I stepped into the shop. "Hiya, girls!"

"Hi, Mr. Engels," they warbled in unison, as if rehearsed, then looked at each other and laughed.

The phone rang, Mrs. Guy picked up. "Hello! Ye Olde Curios! Oh." She looked at me. "It's for you, Jim! How'd they know to find you here?"

I shrugged. "No idea!" But I had an idea of the voice I would hear.

"Jimbo! How's it going, lad? Here's a thought: When Carla goes off to Brownsville Station, volunteer to go along, help with the lifting. Those boxes of china will be heavy. A big lug like you can make himself useful. Like in Okinawa, papasan." Click, bzzz.

Per usual, I did as instructed. His voice, whoever he is, is gentle, yet authoritative. I don't dare disobey.

Settled into Mrs. Guy's station wagon, we pulled away from the curb. "Gee, Mr. Engels, I sure appreciate the help!"

"My pleasure, Carla."

"By the way, not to be out of line, but what do you do? We see you around, free as a bird. But you're much too young to be retired. I hope I'm not prying..."

"Y'know, last night I had the strangest dream. I was at a wedding, held in a cathedral. All the men were in suits, of course. And the ladies in nice dresses, of course. But I was the only one in black tie. I felt proud, swanning up and down the aisles, waving to some, smiling, nodding. Neither smug nor sententious, I felt benevolent, kind royalty to the peasants, hoped to be setting a good example: This is how ya do it! Then I looked down and noticed I was wearing a pair of brown penny loafers! Mortified, feeling a fool, I fled the hallowed hall, to the bustling city street. I hopped into a parked car, a black sedan, a Lark. No sooner did I close the door, it began to roll backwards! Approaching a brand spanking new Porsche! I stepped on the brake. It kept rolling! I stepped on the brake with both feet, using every ounce of my strength! It kept rolling! Then, at the last possible second, it stopped. Breathing a huge sigh, I turned the key and drove away, coasting along the boulevard, searching for a shoe store. But then the car lights began flashing and a recorded voice announced, loudly, very loudly, 'THIS CAR IS BEING STOLEN! THIS CAR IS BEING STOLEN!' Over and over and over! Panicked, I pulled into a small lot, hopped out and raced across the street, dodging cars! Then I ran down a ramp, and came to a dead end, a cement wall! An angry mob had formed behind me, with baseball bats and bricks!"

"Gosh! What then, Mr. Engels!"

"Then, thank goodness, I woke up!"

Crossing the town line to Brownsville Station, Carla focused on finding Clifton Tableware. She'd been there once before, but only once. Absorbed, she forgot all about what I actually do. Afterwards we got a bite at the local diner, my treat. Then to the bakery outlet. I sat in the car while Carla shopped.

I stepped out to stretch and enjoy a smoke when an elderly woman dressed in black, walking with a cane, marched right up to me and said, "You were at Minister Van Der Hofner's last Sunday!" Her iron gray hair was in a tight bun, a shawl across her slim shoulders.

"Why yes, yes I was! We weren't introduced, but I remember you! I'm Jim Engels, new to town..."

"Yes, yes, all very well and good, young man. But I think you should know something!"

"Yes?"

"That woman you were with, a Miss Fairchild."

"Yes?"

"How old do you think she is?" The old woman's voice was shaky yet certain. She stared at me through rimless glasses, one eye squinting, the other right on target. Her eyes were a wintry steel gray.

"I haven't asked her, but obviously, early-20s," I replied with a tolerant smile. So what if I'm a decade older? I happen to find Miss Bonnie Fairchild exquisitely scrumptious, and the fairest of fair game.

"Yes. Well, I knew her when I was a toddler. That was a very long time ago, Mr. Engels. And back then—the previous century, sir!—she was in her early-20s, or so it seemed.” I chuckled, looked aside as I tossed my cigarette to the gutter, cleared my throat, took a sec to think of a nice way to say, "horse feathers." I was about to address the crazy old bat, but she was gone. I looked this way and that, and again. I scanned the horizon. Not a trace.

The day that had begun cool bright azure was now storm cloud black, blustery, cold. Carla stepped out of the bakery, a brown paper bag of goodies clutched. She looked as if she were 1000 miles away.