Pretend that Nothing Isn't There

The gunshot woke them both: Carrol in her room off the kitchen and Auntie Meme in the master upstairs. Carrol ran the length of the wainscoted hallway, her weak leg nearly spilling her. Moonlight fell through the Palladian windows of the landing, catching the oak staircase. She glanced up, saw no movement, and went on to the foyer, where slivers of light spilled through the open door. "Who's there, Carrol?" Auntie Meme called, her voice quivering. Carrol did not turn toward it.

Movement in the foyer, at the hall's end. A woman crouched in the dark. Carrol approached. Then she saw the bodies. The woman lifted a black bag from the floor. As she rose, their eyes met—long enough for Carrol to mark the slight smile on her lips. Then she was gone, out the open door.

A car door slammed. The engine caught, and the car pulled away. Carrol stared at the scene. Warren lay on the floor, not moving, blood dripping down the side of his face. Next to him, her uncle bled from his midsection. A fireplace poker lay between them.

They were to leave at dawn. Why had he come in the dead of night, early, armed and with another woman? She had given him the key. The details of the house. Everything he needed.

Auntie Meme called out again, louder this time. "Carrol, Carrol, are you there? I'm frightened. What's going on?" Carrol looked toward her aunt's room, made to speak, but did not.

Jewelry lay scattered on the floor. She grabbed what she could and stuffed it into her pockets. She returned to her room, took the packed bags that were waiting there, and returned to the foyer.

"Carrol, oh my God, help me, dear God." It was the last thing Carrol heard as she left her aunt's house.

Carrol sat at the bus stop, her mind racing. She needed money, quickly. She sat fidgeting with her long skirt, straightening it over her weak leg to cover it up. The pawnshop was only a block away and opened at nine. This plain—not ugly, just plain—girl could wait until then.

Carrol entered with her luggage, hesitated, then limped tentatively toward the back. She stopped, and Lady Beauvie awoke in her head. "Heel to pavement, toe to air, pretend that nothing isn't there." She continued, now with a steady, practiced stride. The man in the cage looked up at Carrol, carrying two pieces of expensive leather luggage, and readied himself for the first customer of the day.

"What can I do ya for, miss?" the wizened owner asked.

Carrol stopped. Set down her bags and held out one of the pieces Warren had given her.

"I would like this appraised."

"Appraised? You want to pawn it or sell it?"

"Which gets the most?"

"Depends. But usually folks sell if they really need cash."

"Sell, then, I guess."

"Let's see." He took the piece, handled it, pressed it against his lips, and set it down. "Sorry, miss. This is paste. Costume jewelry. Almost worthless."

"Are—are you sure? Don't you need that, that thing to be sure?"

"See the worn facets?" he said. "The tarnished foil back, seeping at the rim. Cheap metal."

"Please, can you just double-check? What about these?" She placed all the pieces Warren had given her on the counter. She recalled the special occasion attached to each. Their first date, first kiss, the first time they…

The man sighed, took out the loupe, set it to his eye, and methodically tilted each piece to the light. He then touched each one to his lip, shaking his head afterward.

"Real diamonds are cold to the touch. That's why they're called ice. These are warm. Besides, some of the bubbles in the glass are visible to the naked eye. Don't need the loupe. Costume jewelry. Sorry." He slid it all back across the counter.

"But there are seven in all. They must be worth something."

"I can't help you."

Carrol was stunned. She paused, then brought out one of Auntie Meme's pieces.

"What about this?"

He felt the heft, and his eyes lit up. He pressed the loupe to his eye and assessed the piece, slowly this time, then set it down.

"Can't help you."

"You mean it's fake too?"

"No. I just can't afford to pay a fraction of what it's worth."

"What do you mean? What is it worth?"

He sized Carrol up. "None of my business—but how come you got cheap junk mixed in with this?"

"The same person who got me all of these got me that one. Last night."

"Listen, sweetheart. I don't know where you got this, and I don't want to know."

"Oh." Carrol looked down. He looked her up and down, then leaned in.

"I want it. And I know you want to unload it. Say I call some people. People that don't ask too many questions—"

"No. I need the money now!"

"Like I told you—"

"Give me what you can. Five thousand. Give me five thousand—but you take them all. All of it."

The man turned, rifled cash out of two drawers, glanced back, then squatted to reach a cabinet out of view. He straightened and counted the crumpled bills onto the counter.

"Here you go."

Carrol grabbed the bills, lifted her suitcases, turned, and with a hitch in her step, ran for the door.

A half-sheet clung to the back of the exit door, pasted up by the pawnbroker for two free passes. Across the top date strip, bright red ink announced that today was Sells-Floto's final performance in town. The lithograph promised elephants, aerialists, and an Escape from the Daily Grind.

Carrol paused, her eyes locked on the red strip.

"Tremendous show," the pawnbroker called from behind the counter, noticing her stare.

Carrol didn't answer. She pushed open the door and stepped out onto the street. Behind her, the poster promised escape. Ahead, the show was leaving town, and she meant to be on it.