October 16, 2007
Elena spread the revised display plan across her bookshop counter and moved the pieces as though she were arranging a dinner where two guests should not sit together.
“This is too much writing for a window,” she said.
“I thought people should understand why we changed it.”
“Which people?”
I looked at the labels. Most of them seemed to be addressed to my daughter, my brother, or a father who could no longer answer. The visitors would have to stand in the street while I finished an argument with the dead.
Elena handed me a pencil. “Tell them what the object is. Tell them what you know. Save the rest for the person who needs to hear it.”
We cut the introduction in half. We removed a paragraph about the difficult nature of memory. We kept Ruth's plain description of making the color layers fit.
The smaller display would still need fresh labels, invitation cards, and backing boards. I had hoped to use what we already had at the shop, but some sizes did not fit, and the old invitations carried the heading I had crossed out. Elena recommended a nearby printer and gave me an envelope in which to carry the samples.
The quote was not a fortune. That almost made it harder to explain why I stood outside the printer's door calculating groceries against paper. Closing a family business could produce an impressive list of things sold without leaving much money for the people doing the closing.
Peter had already paid for packing materials and the extra labor Sam needed to move the equipment. I could have asked him for the reprinting cost. He would probably have paid it, and then the correction would become another errand he had carried for me.
At home, the boxes were stacked where I had planned to put the wooden flat-file cabinet still standing at the shop. Dad had bought it used when I was a child. Its shallow drawers smelled of dust and old board. I could remember sitting on top of it, kicking my heels while he promised we would go home after one more job.
The cabinet was too large for the corner I had planned. To keep it, I would have to move my sewing table out entirely. To keep it in the shop, I would have to make it somebody else's problem.
I called Sam and asked whether he wanted to look at one more piece.
“The cabinet you marked family?”
“Yes.”
“Your brother said you were keeping that.”
“I was.”
I met Sam at the shop that afternoon. He checked the drawers, pointed out a warped runner, and offered a modest amount that covered the printing with a little left for boards. I did not mistake a practical offer for a rescue. He wanted a cabinet. I wanted room and a corrected display. We could help each other without being grateful forever.
Before he left, I asked for a day to empty it.
Peter arrived as Sam was going out. He looked from the cabinet to me.
“You don't have to sell that.”
“I know.”
“Dad wanted you to have it.”
“He wanted me to have a place to work. Those aren't necessarily the same thing.”
Peter ran his hand along the top. I thought he might offer to take it himself, and I prepared to accept. He withdrew his hand instead.
“Tell Sam to add it to the collection list. Don't let it become another trip.”
When he had gone, I opened the top drawer. There was a small paper ruler inside, yellowed and creased, with half the measurements worn away. I kept that. It fit in my notebook.
The next morning I carried the revised files to the printer. I paid for the materials and a proof, with the finished labels held until Leah and Ruth had approved the wording. The printer wrote that condition on the order. I read it before signing, then took my copy with me. There was still work to do before anything could be printed for the window.