Rob Scott - The Hickory Staff

Hanging from the ceiling of the enormous showroom was a banner: GOING OUT OF BUSINESS SALE, EVERYTHING MUST GO, in large red letters. In one corner someone had written in black marker 50%+ off all marked prices.

‘This is the place,’ Steven thought as he watched several dozen customers working their way through crowded aisles. He could hear Viennese waltzes piped in from above; Strauss, he guessed, played in awkward jangly strums on an autoharp or a zither. It reminded him of a Joseph Cotten film he had seen in college; he couldn’t remember the plot, something convoluted about the post-war black market, but he did recall the autoharp, because the annoying refrain had been so prevalent throughout the movie. To him it sounded like the Tyrolean version of a circus calliope.

Steven joined the fray, working his way towards the back of the showroom where a group of china cabinets had been corralled together. As he spotted several mahogany cases that looked in excellent condition, his hopes rose: he was bound to find the perfect gift for his sister here.

‘Can I help you find anything?’ Steven turned to find a saleswoman smiling at him warmly. She wore glasses on a long cord around her neck and carried a clipboard with a yellow legal pad filled with item numbers and price figures. She was tall, and dressed in a long skirt and tennis shoes with white socks. Greying blonde hair fell about her shoulders and her eyes sparkled. She was strikingly attractive; Steven estimated her to be in her late fifties.

‘No thanks, I’m just looking right now,’ he answered.

‘Take your time; either Hannah or I can help you if you need anything at all.’

‘Are you the owner?’ Steven asked. ‘I mean, are you Ms Meyers?’

‘Sorenson. Jennifer Sorenson. Dietrich Meyers was my father. He opened this place when he moved here in the late forties. He died a couple of months ago.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Steven could think of nothing else to say.

‘Please, don’t be. He was ninety and had a very happy life. I’m just sorry I don’t have the time to keep this place open. Anyway, let us know if we can help.’

Steven watched as she moved, graceful despite her obvious fatigue, towards the front of the store.

It was nearly 6.00 p.m. and most of the customers had left when Steven finally decided on a Duncan Phyfe cabinet from the turn of the twentieth century; undamaged save for a small crack in the rear panel. He had been in the shop for three hours and was tired, hungry and hot from moving various pieces to get a better look. Steven felt better now he’d found an almost perfect match for his mother’s cabinet, and he thought of his sister and her reaction to such a wedding gift. He was glad he had taken the time.

Starting suddenly, he walked around the piece, then laughed. ‘Sonofabitch… how am I going to get this in my car?’ He looked over the large wood and glass case and continued, ‘Jesus, how am I going to get this to California?’

‘Well, I can help you get it to the car, but getting it to California, you’re on your own with that one.’ The unexpected voice made Steven jump.

He turned quickly, backing himself against a large bookcase. ‘Damnit, you scared me,’ he admitted.

‘I’m sorry. It’s just that we’re getting ready to close for the night and I wanted to see if I could help with anything. You’ve been so hard at work. I apologise, I haven’t been able to get back here sooner. We’ve been busy today.’

Steven only half-heard what she was saying. He was amazed. It was as if Jennifer Sorenson had travelled back in time, thirty years in the past three hours. The young woman standing before him was staggeringly beautiful. She wore her hair in a long ponytail pulled over her left shoulder, a utilitarian hairstyle for working all day in such a hot and crowded setting, but it displayed the perfect line of her thin features. Her light brown skin glistened slightly from the heat and she smelled faintly of lilacs. Her smile brightened her face, and caused three tiny lines to pull at the corners of her brown eyes, a detail that even the world’s greatest sculptors would never be able to duplicate. She wore a long skirt, similar to her mother’s, and a blouse with the cuffs rolled up her forearms. She had the narrow hips and slight figure of an athlete, a runner or a cyclist. Steven’s head swam as he looked at her.

For the second time in one afternoon, Steven Taylor found himself at a loss for words. ‘Uh,’ he muttered, his breath catching in his throat, ‘what’s this music?’

The young woman laughed. ‘Oh, that was my grandfather’s doing. He loved this stuff. It makes me a bit crazy in the mornings, but after a while, I manage to ignore it. Do you like it? I think it’s Lawrence Welk after a triple helping of spa?tzle.’ She made a quick adjustment to her glasses and looked questioningly at Steven. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Uh, yeah, I’m fine… It’s just that it’s hot in here and I… uh… I’ve been moving all these cases.’ Steven wiped several beads of sweat from his forehead as his mind raced for something interesting to say. ‘Actually, I really like this cabinet. It’s for my sister’s wedding. She’s marrying some guy I don’t know very well and I wanted to get her something special.’

Why was he telling her all this? He couldn’t stop himself. ‘She moved away several years ago and not having her around has helped me see that I could’ve been nicer to her when we were younger.’ Now he really was rambling. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have room for it in my car. I’ll need to come back, maybe tomorrow, to pick it up. Is there any way you can keep from selling it until tomorrow?’

He wished for a massive, exploding aneurysm to haemorrhage and kill him on the spot.

‘Well, I do plan to lock the door behind me, and you are the last customer here. So I don’t think that will be a problem.’

‘Oh, great, thank you. My roommate has a pick-up and I don’t have to work most Saturdays, so if that’s okay, I’ll be back in the morning.’

‘I hope so.’ She smiled again and Steven’s heart pounded in his chest. He was certain she could have seen it moving his shirt from across a stadium parking lot. She went on, ‘A lot of people say they’ll be back tomorrow, but they don’t come back. It’s okay if you don’t, but I hope you do. My mother and I are hoping to have everything sold off in the next couple of weeks-’ she gave a quick glance around the storefront ‘-it’s a lot of stuff, though.’

‘No. I really will be back. I have a bit of a drive from up the canyon, so it may be later in the morning before I can get down here.’

‘Well, don’t worry. I won’t sell this piece.’ She reached over and gave his forearm an amiable squeeze. ‘I’m Hannah.’

Steven watched as she removed her hand from his arm. His breath came in short gasps and he thought how embarrassed he would be if he passed out at her feet. He struggled for composure and introduced himself: ‘I’m Steven Taylor.’

‘Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, Steven Taylor,’ Hannah said as she turned and began walking him out.

Meyers Antiques opened at 8.00 a.m. the following morning. Steven was parked out front by 7.15. ‘So much for getting here late,’ he said to himself as he walked along South Broadway Avenue looking for a place to get coffee. He had thought about Hannah all night, remembering that moment when she reached out to touch his arm. He was so excited about seeing her again that he had found it impossible to sleep, and was on his way in Mark’s truck by 6.20. Was she married? Engaged? He had seen no ring on her finger yesterday. Was she involved with someone? Would it be too soon to ask her to dinner that evening?

Steven was determined to linger over breakfast for at least an hour so he didn’t appear too eager to see her. She was so beautiful: he found it hard to think straight when she was there. He was a little afraid he would look like Quasimodo begging for a glimpse of her through the windows if he showed up right on the dot of 8.00 a.m.