Paul Robertson - According to Their Deeds

“Yes, dear.”

Charles stood for a moment at the weighty oak door. There would be no chess game this time.

He rang the bell. The door opened.

There was no granite foyer table. No oval mirror on the wall above it.

He smiled. “Hello. I’m Charles Beale.”

“Come in. I’m Lucy.”

The foyer walls weren’t gray-green. They were light yellowish tan.

“Thank you.”

The floor wasn’t white and black marble. It was bleached pine. It was the only wood in sight. There was no mahogany, no cherry, maple or even oak; there was no Chippendale, no Hitchcock or Windsor; there was no inlay or carving; no pediments, corbels, medallions, ball and claw, egg and dart, or any molding; the rococo trace work was gone; there was no dark blue or burgundy or umber or ebony; no silk, velvet, leather, tapestry; no statuary, nothing framed, no crystal-the list of what there was not was too long.

“Make yourself at home,” she said.

Rattan. Everything. Yellow and white. The House of Bastien had become a Florida beach rental.

A poster of a palm tree hung where the mirror had been.

“I will.”

He followed her into the front room and sat with a scrunch on the yellow cushion of a whitewashed wicker chair.

“Lemonade?”

“No, thank you.”

Lucy perched on her own chair. “It looks like you’ve been here before.”

“Yes.” He forced his eyes back toward her. “A few times. It’s quite different.”

“That’s what I wanted.” She was not tall or thin. She was wrapped in beige and her long, dark, rough, graying brown hair was tied with a yellow ribbon.

“It’s very light,” he said.

“Finally. I can finally breathe.” She took a deep breath to prove it. “You sold him books?”

“Antique books.”

“Everything was antique around here. Fourteen books for twenty-seven grand?”

“Thirteen.”

“I looked at the list. It said fourteen.”

“The list?”

“He kept a list of everything he owned. He kept lists on everything. It had fourteen old books on it.”

“I only bought thirteen. I’ll need to check my computer.”

“Whatever. Did you come here often?”

“Ten or twelve times over the years. I’m surprised I’ve never met you.”

“Nobody’s met me. I saw precious little of Derek, let alone his precious friends.”

“I’m sorry I never had the pleasure.”

“Blame Derek. That’s what I do.”

Charles took in his own breath, and nodded, and made a show of looking again around the bright room. “Well, then, thank you for letting me meet you now. I really didn’t have a specific reason to come, even. I think I just wanted to see what you were like.”

“Just like this. This is what Derek’s wife looks like in her natural state. Released from captivity and readjusting to the wild.”

“I’m sure it must be an adjustment.”

“I’ve done it before. It’s not hard.”

“Done it before?”

“Derek wasn’t the first husband I’ve buried. He was number two, not that he tried any harder.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

“It doesn’t matter. I married for love the first time, and money the second. What’s left?”

“I’m still on love,” Charles said.

“Marrying for money gives you a lot more time to watch television. The shopping’s better, too.” There was a sigh in her cynicism that rang it hollow. “What’s it like to sell old books?”

“It’s wonderful.”

“Do you have a store, or do you just call on rich widows?”

“I have a shop. I’d be honored to show it to you sometime.”

“Not likely, Charles. I don’t ever want to see another antique as long as I live. So are you getting what you want out of meeting me?”

“Oh, yes. I couldn’t even imagine what Derek’s wife would be like.”

“I sure couldn’t,” Derek’s wife said. “Or him either.”

“Yes. Quite a failing on his part. Why was that, do you think?”

“Well, you know, I just don’t collect dust very well, and that was sort of a requirement of anything he had.”

“He had quite a few friends, and they weren’t the dust-collecting types either.”

“You’re about the first one I’ve met.”

“And the strange thing is,” Charles said, “you seem like just the interesting type of person he would have collected. Did you ever talk with him?”

“Not in years. I’d just see him around the house once in a while, and he’d say hello. Maybe I should have introduced myself.”

“I am just amazed,” Charles said. “It seems so unlike the Derek I knew.”

“Well, you’ll have to tell me about him sometime.”

“Really?”

“No. I don’t really care. And I’m just starting to get tired of talking now, if you get my drift.”

“Of course. I do appreciate your time. You’re a very interesting person, Mrs. Bastien.”

“Cloverdale.”

“Cloverdale?”

“Forget the Bastien. I made a mistake, so why should I be stuck with it the rest of my life?”

“I agree,” Charles said. “Why be stuck with an old mistake for a whole life? Mrs… Cloverdale.” Charles stood and Lucy didn’t. “I hope we have another opportunity sometime.”

“Why would you want that?” she said.

“Because I think I deserve a second chance.”

She had still not thought of an answer as he left the yellow world for the multihued one outside.

Trees were green, streets were black, the sky blue, and tucked between, in signs and flower boxes and cars, were red and orange and purple and white. There was no need for more yellow.

He set off with a brisk pace, passing large houses, fenced yards, aged trees. As the distance between him and Lucy increased, the dignity of the neighborhood decreased. It was a very nice day for a walk.

Charles tacked across Reservoir Road to Wisconsin Avenue and let the wind take him to M Street. The yards narrowed, then disappeared, and took the trees and gardens with them. The townhouses of Georgetown started.

Thirty minutes from the ruins of Derek’s world to the oddities of Norman Highberg’s.

“Mr. Highberg, please.” Charles waited, for not too long. An amethyst horse that had been in the front window Tuesday had galloped away to greener pastures. Now there was a stained-glass, framed mirror.

“Charles? What are you doing here?”

“I have every right to be,” he answered.

“Not around here,” Norman said. “Nobody’s got any rights. You want to put up an awning? You don’t have the right; you’ve got to get permission. You want to put up a bigger sign? You would never get permission.”

“Do you want an awning?”

“I want an awning. Too much sun in the front window. So I’ve spent the whole morning on the phone with city hall. The sun’s going to burn out before I can get enough permits to do anything. I should move to Montana or someplace.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Fifteen years. I bet they don’t have architectural review boards in Montana.”

“You wouldn’t have many customers either.”

“I could sell antiques and cow food. What do they feed cows, anyway?”

“I think you should stay here,” Charles said. “I was in the neighborhood and I thought of another question for you.”

“Everybody’s got questions. Cane’s got questions, the FBI guy has questions, now you’ve got more questions. Why is everybody asking questions?”

“It sounds like you have questions, too.”

“It must be contagious. So what’s your question this time?”

“You said there was a man who had been sitting beside you at the auction Monday, and he left just before I arrived.”