All the Lovely Blossoms and Cracks

When I was fourteen I had a summer job at the local antiques/video rental/burger shop. According to my dad I was “too old to sit around all day, but too young to drive wheat truck”. Which was interesting since he spent an awful lot of time sitting around. Of course, he wasn’t supposed to drive wheat truck or anything else either, on account of the DUI’s. But we aren’t talking about him, we’re talking about me. Or rather, about Mrs. Sylvia Hanson, proprietor of said antiques/video/burger shop.

Mrs. Hanson was a local character in Madson when I was a kid. We’d be out riding bikes, on the way to some adventure or another, and she’d be puttering up the middle of the road on her Rascal scooter, sometimes with an unfortunate car trapped behind her. I remember once I came out of Madson Drugs with a pack of Bubble Yum and saw a tiny parade of four cars, tooting and rolling four miles per hour, led by grand marshal Mrs. Sylvia Hanson. A few locals waved and clapped.

I never knew a Mr. Hanson, but Shilo Mordry told us that he overheard old Janus De Vries telling his dad over beers that he’d been to the Hanson house once and it was packed floor to ceiling with old furniture and vases and dusty wooden crates with foreign words stamped on the outside. He couldn’t understand everything through the old man’s thick accent, but the tone was unmistakable: he was scared, and maybe angry. Shilo could be pretty dramatic, always telling stories about witches and aliens, so I didn’t pay much attention at the time.

Anyway, that summer my morning and afternoon job moving irrigation pipes dried up, so, at Dad’s insistence, I rode down to Mrs. Hanson’s shop, where she’d put up a “Help Wanted” sign, next to a shaky handwritten sign “Coming Soon: Juicy Burgers!”

“Timeless Treasures” was on Oak, tucked just around the corner from Main Street, which doubled as Highway 32. During Frontier Days, Oak was closed to cars and filled with food and craft vendors, but in the early summer it was just a wide, empty street like every other street in Madson. I dropped my bike on the sidewalk near the weathered brick wall and pushed through the glass door. The bell tied to the inside handle tinkled.

I was already familiar with Timeless Treasures, not because of the scattered mix of antiques in the back, but the wall of VHS tapes in the front. Me and all the other kids in town had spent countless hours staring at the covers, little pieces of tantalizing art, neatly organized by genre. The closest movie theater was almost an hour away, and Mrs. Hanson had been the first person in town to satisfy the raging desire for Hollywood entertainment. She even had a small collection of beta tapes for the folks who couldn’t face the reality that they’d guessed wrong.

“Good morning,” came a sweet voice from the back. Mrs. Hanson lounged in a wingback chair, a longhaired orange cat on her lap, under a glaring white light. I learned later that she installed special jeweler’s lights in that part of the shop to reveal “all the lovely blossoms and cracks” in the teacups and armoires, lamps and paintings, vases and figurines.

“Nice day for a movie,” she said, stroking the cat. I didn’t remember this one; it seemed like she had a different cat every time. Its eyes were closed in ecstasy.

“Actually, I was wondering if you still need help.”

She tilted her chin and raised her eyebrows, then eased to her feet. The cat resisted but finally hopped to the wooden floor. Grabbing the four-footed aluminum cane stationed at her side, she shuffled slowly out of the bright artificial light into the natural light pouring in through the front window and door. I don’t know how old she was, but she was large and clearly struggled getting around. I waited, aching with her every step, until she stopped right in front of me. Too close. She was tall for an old lady. Even stooped, she looked me directly in the eyes.

“Well, well,” she purred. Her breath smelled of cinnamon and cloves. “Steve Harriman. Monty and Crystal’s boy. Have you heard from your mother?”

Old people don’t care about others’ tender spots. Maybe it’s because they’re built of tender spots.

“Not in a while.”

“Is your father working?”

I shrugged. “Sometimes.”

Mrs. Hanson considered. “So young,” she said. Then, turning, she flourished her free hand like a conductor with an invisible baton. “Which one do you like?”

Was it a test? My eyes skated across the array of objects, looking for the right answer. Did she want me to pick something especially old, or strikingly beautiful? Something that was still useful despite its age? As these thoughts coalesced, I realized my eyes had snagged on a teacup displayed on a massive, dark-stained credenza on the side wall.

“Bring it,” she said, so I did. It was creamy white, painted with vibrant purple and green violets and rimmed with gold. It had a matching saucer with a tiny chip on the edge. Grandma had a set of teacups with violets; my mom loved them, and used to say they’d be in our house someday.

Mrs. Hanson made a tray of her hands, balancing without her cane, and I set the pieces on it. She smiled, her eyes unfocusing. After a moment she handed it back and grasped the cane handle.

“What do you feel?” More intense staring into my eyes. I tried not to look away.

Another test? “Um, cool, smooth…delicate?”

Tilting her head, she reached out to hover her palm over my chest. “What do you feel?”

Whatever the test was, I had failed. “Sorry. Nothing, sorry.”

She dropped her hand, and her eyes softened. “Honesty. I can work with that.”

I started working at Timeless Treasures that same day, in the afternoon. I worked four hours most days that summer, from 10:00am to 2:00pm. When I wasn’t renting out videotapes, I dusted them, and everything else in the store. I mopped and swept, and after a couple of weeks I had my Food Worker Card and learned how to cook “juicy burgers” in the Presto Burger. We also sold chips and candy, and drinks from a minifridge under the counter.

Mrs. Hanson was usually there, most days with a random cat (I’m honestly not sure how they got in and out). She managed the antiques section of the store, which didn’t get much traffic. Whenever I dusted and swept back there, I felt her eyes on me, little tingles on the back of my neck and my earlobes. At first I thought she was worried I would floof too vigorously with the old-fashioned purple feather duster and break something, but she didn’t seem anxious. Once, after she’d helped a willowy middle-aged man from out-of-town select an anniversary clock, and after he’d toddled out, hugging it to his chest like a newborn child, Mrs. Hanson waved me over.

“What do you think of his choice?” She leaned in like we were discussing a shameful family secret. The black cat on her lap squeaked.

I shrugged. “Nice clock.”

She squinted, her eye wrinkles deepening into a spray of sunbeams. “Yes, nice, they’re all nice.” She sat back. “But was it the right choice, Mr. Harriman?” She emphasized the “Mis” in “Mister” like a drill sergeant in an old war movie. “Was it true?”

I didn’t know what to say. It was the most expensive anniversary clock we had, but I knew that’s not what she meant. “He seemed happy.”

“Happy? Yes?” Eyebrows up, nodding.

“And…calm? Like he’d figured out the answer to a puzzle.”

She grunted lightly. “Puzzle. I like that.” Across the shop, the bell tinkled. “Ah, you have a customer!”

That man was not the only out-of-towner that summer. Come to think of it, a lot of the antiques customers were not locals. Maybe most. How they found their way to Madson, and then into Timeless Treasures, I’ll never understand. We didn’t advertise, except in the weekly Madson Sentinel, and there was no internet back then. It got so I could spot them even before they opened the door. A certain leisurely walk, like they were out for a stroll and thought, “Oh! Here’s an antiques shop!” Like they hadn’t just pulled their car off the highway into a side street in a random small town and parked right outside.

Sometimes kids would come in to get a movie or a burger and just hang out. We ended up moving a couple of the small tables to the front, and added some folding chairs. We put a radio on the counter next to the fan and tuned it to Spokane’s pop station. She even had me set up one of the old pachinko games at the end of the last movie rack so bored teens could do something with their restless hands; the rattling of the tiny metal balls as they cascaded into the plastic tray scratched an itch I didn’t know I had. There weren’t many indoor places in Madson where teens could hang out and be their obnoxious selves. They definitely kept me busy making burgers; in early July, Mrs. Hanson upgraded me to the Presto Burger 2 so I could double my output. Once I even tried to use both at the same time to make three burgers; it blew one of the old building’s fuses and cranky Mr. Tomkin yelled at me.

Many adults wouldn’t like their shop to be the popular teen hangout, but I think Mrs. Hanson enjoyed the liveliness they radiated. She’d come over to meet them or say hi. She knew most of their parents, of course. In Madson everybody knew everybody, practically. She didn’t like all of the kids, though. Sometimes she’d get a sour or sad look and retreat to the back of the shop. She didn’t kick them out or anything. I don’t think anyone noticed but me. Once this kid Nash—we used to be friends when we were younger—came in with his sister Shelby. They ordered burgers and were laughing at the horror rack. Mrs. Hanson was happily scooting in their direction when her smile dropped and she turned around. After they left, she sent me home and closed the shop early. She wouldn’t talk to me about it.

One day in August she said, “Let’s close up for an hour. I’ll hop on Rudolph and we’ll go to the house. I need your help pulling new stock.” I remembered what Shilo had said about Mr. De Vries, and nodded silently.

Rudolph was the name of her Rascal scooter. Once I’d made a joke about it guiding her home in the fog, and she laughed and said, “Not the reindeer! Rudolph Valentino, the Latin Lover!” Then she cackled something about getting to ride him every day and that shut me up.

That day, like every day, she cruised up the middle of the street. I rode my bike behind her, nervously glancing over my shoulder every few seconds. Locals knew to detour at the next block to get around her, but it was a state highway, after all.

Her house, an enormous powder blue Victorian with a wraparound porch and a checklist of deferred maintenance, loomed over the street. I parked on her cracked front walk while she rode Rudolph up the ramp someone had built for her. She parked in the only open spot on the porch—it was otherwise packed with mouldering boxes and broken furniture—and eagerly invited me in. Emerging from hidden places, two cats dashed, crisscrossing in front of me as I crossed the porch.

When Shilo told me about this house, I pictured the massive warehouse from the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, but it wasn’t tidy and orderly like that. Head high stacks of boxes and other containers, newspapers, books, furniture, appliances, and overflowing trash bags defined a vague path from the front to an arched doorway at the other end; the side doors were blocked. I couldn’t name the smell, sweet but somehow wrong; it made my nose crinkle.

“Don’t mind the mess.” Her voice was muffled, absorbed. She hobbled along the trail. I’d never seen her move so briskly, like she was drawing energy from the house. “I have some organizing to do,” she chuckled. “So hard to find time.”

We passed through the arched doorway. To my right, remarkably clear stairs extended upwards. Ahead was the kitchen, counters piled high with filthy dishes and discarded food containers. Somehow it felt worse than the front room, more unnatural.

Suddenly, my breath hitched, my temples felt tight. Tears muddled my vision. I stopped.

Mrs. Hanson examined my face. “Oh dear boy.” With her free hand she cupped my cheek; I leaned into the warm, firm, utterly smooth nest.

“All this stuff,” was all I could say.

“Overwhelming, I know,” she said, looking left and right. “So much work to do.” Her eyes met mine. “Thank you for helping me.”

“It makes me sad. For you.” I felt my cheeks bloom.

She tilted her head. “You’re a sensitive boy.” She patted my cheek. “I’m fine.”

I wiped my eyes and took a deep breath. Reset. “Why all this stuff?”

She pondered. “Objects can be sensitive, too.” At “objects” her eyes flared wide. “Sometimes people and objects find each other, and when they do…” Her eyes fluttered shut and she drew a long, slow breath. “It’s special. A connection that can sometimes even transcend life.”

My scattered thoughts converged, snapped into focus. Feeling more grounded now, I said, “I work at a haunted antiques shop?”

“No, you work at a haunted antiques, video rental, and juicy burger shop!” She laughed, then jerked her head to the side in faux alarm, gasping, “Who’s there?” She cackled so loud something slid off a pile on the counter. “But no, not haunted. Timeless. I try to find them, preserve them, help them find their true home. There are so many, I’ll never be able to do it all. It’s my mission. And I’m not the only one.”

She released her cane and grasped my upper arms. “Steve, can you please bring me a box from upstairs? It’s so difficult for me these days.”

“Sure. Which one?”

“Whichever you like.”

The carpeted steps creaked as I ascended. Although it was much hotter, the second floor felt less claustrophobic than the first. Still overfull, but with orderly rows of boxes rather than piles of detritus. It helped that the windows were not blocked; the early afternoon sun shone in the south windows. It occurred to me that maybe she hadn’t been up here for years.

I scanned the boxes nearest the stairs, seeking…I didn’t know what. I tried to stretch out with my feelings, but I was no Jedi. I’d had to accept that years ago. Resolved, I blew the dust off a medium-sized cardboard box with a moving company logo, dodging my head back to avoid the cloud I’d raised, and slid it from its stack. I descended the stairs and held it out to her.

“Thank you, dear. You can take that one to the back porch. There’s a pile on the left. Bobby comes by every month or so to haul a load to the dump.”

I’d failed another test.

She must have read my mind because she said, “Steve, I adore working with you. You’re a sensitive soul, just sensitive in a different way. The world needs all kinds. Now: get on, we’ve got work to do.”

For the next hour I brought her boxes and she directed me to add them to the left side or the right side of the back porch; Bobby would deliver the ones on the right side to the shop in the morning. Then we called it a day and I rode home, dusty and achy.

The rest of the summer passed quickly. I served juicy burgers and rented out videotapes, and out-of-towners occasionally drifted in, dreamily, spoke with Mrs. Hanson in soft whispers, and left happier. But it was never quite the same after that day at her house. We both knew I wasn’t the one she was looking for. Our fondness wasn’t erased, but we could both see the edges of the blackboard. On my last day, the day before I started high school, she shooed a cat off her lap and hugged me.

“Juicy burgers were a big hit! Maybe next summer I’ll add one of those arcade games!”

I never worked at Timeless Treasures again. I went in sometimes, of course, at least until the grocery store started renting movies. Starting the next year I got a full-time farm job, and eventually moved away for college. I’ve only been back to Madson a few times since then, once to clean Dad’s things out and sell the house.

Last week I had to cross the state for a work event and found myself on Highway 32, and then in Madson, and then on Oak, and then at the door of Timeless Treasures. It’s still there. No longer selling juicy burgers, but actually expanded into the neighboring part of the building. The new owner, a dapper man about my age, told me Mrs. Hanson died years before. I shared that I worked there when I was fourteen. He smiled and said, “Yes.” Then he turned and said, ‘Which one do you like?”

Now I’m sitting at my dining room table, my family laughing at something on the tv in the other room. I’m cradling the violet-adorned teacup with its chipped saucer, which Mom would have loved.

It found its true home.