February 1902
I have never seen a grey sky like this one.
I have seen grey skies that hung like a blanket, smooth and heavy and formed from misty air. I have seen crisp grey skies that spoke of the promise of first snow, the clouds telling stories of shifting seasons. I have seen electric grey skies, sparking and tinted with deep blue, the tiny hairs on your arms upright and swaying to its rhythm.
And then, there is this grey.
It doesn’t hang in the air, and it doesn’t deliver electric promise. It just moves around me, ominous and inexhaustible, permeating air and breath and bone. Inching inward until my heart squeezes. Until my lungs are threatened.
It’s a grey that has been stretched thin with time, but somehow, still embodies the same density it did on that day.
I had never seen a grey sky like this one. But now, it never leaves.
The time is half past four. The in-between. A day nearly gone by, but not quite. An evening peering from beyond the horizon. The only color outside of the monotone is the starchy movement of my midnight blue petticoat, brushing the cobblestone. The only sound the heels of my boots with their clank, clank.
Clank, clank.
I’ve lived in this town for most of my life. An eighth mile stretch of road contains every storefront on Main Street, and I know every fissure in every exterior wall, every octave of bell that rings over every threshold, every smile from every store clerk and what each one holds. Because a smile is always much more than a smile.
Mr. Hutchinson’s is the smile I am on my way to see, but how I wish he wouldn’t offer it up. It is filled with far too many of the things we don’t say, try to smother behind curved lip. The General Store had been propped up on a small hill at the end of the road since as far back as I can remember. Mr. Hutchinson has always been there. Didn’t miss a day for the birth of his daughter. Or his son. Has not missed a day during these dark times, and we all wonder if his superior work ethic somehow keeps him safe. Resilient. But I think it is something more than that, somehow.
Mr. Hutchinson had always been kind to us. The ring of the bell over his door has always been the most pleasing, with a hum to it that is nostalgic. When it rings this time, he looks up. Smiles.
“Ms. Juliette. What a pleasant surprise.”
He places his wrinkled palms flat down on the aged wood countertop and holds them there.
“Good to see you, Mr. Hutchinson.” I nod my head and once
inside, pull the hood of my petticoat down.
“It has been a while,” he says, making his way around the counter, taking one of my hands between both of his. “Will it be the usual?”
It stings when he says it and we just let it hang there. Will it be the usual? He’s said that same thing, maybe hundreds of times. Every time. But this time, nothing is usual, and we both know it.
Mostly, we’d just come to look. Find joy in the small shop, the kind man behind the counter who we called a friend, the eccentric little treasures that would make their way on trade from small villages much further away than we’d ever travel. This was the usual. It was usual for us.
Now, there is no us. There is only me.
I take my hand back and return the kindness with a small smile of my own. My face feels rusty, however, and I immediately regret it. I walk to the counter. There is a rectangular alcove covered by glass that lines its center, and inside, I see it—holding the light just right.
I move my finger slowly over the glass. “I’d like to purchase this.”
Mr. Hutchinson’s skin bunches up and brings his eyebrows to the center of his forehead. “Purchase it, Ms. Juliette?”
“Yes, please.” I step back, giving him room to unlock the glass enclosure. I dip my hand into my pocket and the coins make a jangling sound as I gather them. “I have enough,” I say, opening my palm and offering them up.
He cups his hands as I drop them in and stands there for moments, unsure of how to proceed. I nod, shaking him from his trance, and he moves to retrieve it, just as he did the last time.
He lifts it gingerly, because anyone could see how tender the moment is for me. He drapes it over my outstretched fingers, and for a
moment, it dangles there, suspended in its in-between—what once was and what would be.
Mr. Hutchinson is gazing silently as I gather the necklace in my palm in a heap of delicate metal, touch it with the tip of my index finger and watch the hair-thin golden threads move around each other.
“Mr. Hutchinson?” I look up, eyes hollow, but still, reflecting more life than they have in some time. “I wonder if you might be able to help me with something else.”
He nods. “What can I do for you?”
I dip my hand into my pocket. Hold it there.
“I’d like to add a gemstone to this necklace. I know you have an expert hand.”
He bites the inside of his mouth. “I have not worked with such delicate gold in some time. Have you considered journeying into the city center? The jewelers are most trustworthy. I have met them all myself.”
I walk closer to him, my voice a whisper. “Trust is what I am looking for, most of all. And that is why I’ve come to you.” I pull my hand from my pocket, grasp a small black pouch. I place the necklace down on the counter to free my hands, and open its drawstring, carefully extracting the treasure. I hold it at first between two fingers, and then let it rest on my outstretched palm.
Mr. Hutchinson’s eyes widen, and then turn into small slits, inspecting the iridescent item that rests there.
“It can’t be,” he says. “How?”
“I found it. I know it’s hard to believe, but I found it, down
by the creek.”
“Do you have any idea?” he asks me. “Any idea how rare this is? And not just in these parts.”
I move my palm slowly from side to side, watching the colors swirl in its marbleized off-white sheen. “I have some idea.”
“They are mighty rare, Ms. Juliette. Hardly any to be found to begin with. And then they were hunted to smithereens. Why, that’s fit for a queen, I tell you. I bet it’s worth more than this whole town and the two towns over. All the homes and shops and streets and gems combined.”
My eyes mist over, my throat clenches. “It’s worth more than all of it, to me.”
Mr. Hutchinson quiets, softens, his eyes knowing. He shakes his head slowly, from side to side, and exhales in his gentle way. “It’s a
miracle. That’s what it is.”
“She wouldn’t have it any other way,” I whisper.
He gestures me forward, stretches out his own hand. “May I?”
I nod, placing my whole Universe there on his palm.
“Trust me, Ms. Juliette. Your secret is safe with me.” I hand him the pouch, and he places the pearl carefully inside. “I will give this all the soul I have,” he promises, and I know that he will.
