Afterthoughts

In the city where I grew up, there were two downtowns: the current one and the older one. The older one used to comprise the main thoroughfares before being supplanted by the hipper, more upscale version. For some reason (and I’ve verified this with others who have shared similar observations about their towns) the older, faded downtown is always south of the newer, brighter one. Progress always move north, I suppose. 

Nothing is nice in this older downtown. The sidewalks are crumbling. The street signs are old. Even the grass and trees look tired. 

A lot of storefronts in these shadow downtowns are vacant. An abandoned building won’t stand forever, though. If it doesn’t succumb to gravity or the wrecking ball, it might get a new lease on life. But there’s only a certain type of establishment that will set up shop in this part of town: Those with bad reputations. Those with a taint. Pawn shops, second-hand furniture outlets, thrift stores.

The newer downtowns eventually gave way to the suburbs and shopping malls, reducing them to the same fate as the ones they displaced. But today a lot of downtowns are experiencing a rebirth of sorts, as the younger generation is discovering that it would be neat to live and work and shop all in the same area, as though it’s never been tried before. But this rebirth doesn’t happen to the older downtowns: Their time has come and gone. 

When I was a young girl, there was a thrift store in this other downtown, south, of course, of the prosperous one, that we would occasionally visit while on our way home from somewhere else, usually as an afterthought. That would have been a good name for it: Afterthoughts. I don’t remember if it even had a name—I just called it the junk store. 

Back then, thrift stores weren’t like the well-lit Goodwill stores you see today. They weren’t yet fashionable. This particular one was especially unfashionable. It was a maze of narrow aisles, shelves piled high with debris, a repository for things broken, worn out, no longer wanted. It smelled musty, ancient—a mix of old books and mothballs and cobwebs. 

As a girl, I knew it was important to save money but I also liked to shop. I eventually arrived at a compromise, whereby I would only buy things that: 1) were absolutely necessary, 2) furthered my education, or 3) tickled my fancy. I was very proud of myself for coming up with number three, seeing it as a nice loophole, but would come to regret it. Numbers one and two were fairly straightforward, but with number three I had inadvertently set a very high bar for myself. 

As soon as we walked through the door, my mother would tell my sister and I to behave as we ran to the back of the store. I would humor her and play hide-and-go-seek among the cluttered aisles, eventually moving on to more serious matters, namely finding that one object that might tickle my fancy. After much agonized searching, what I found would invariably be out of my price range. Even though the prices were cheap, my fifty-cent per week allowance didn’t go far. 

My sister would usually have an armload. My mother would stoop down to carefully sort through the items with her, casting aside the broken toys until the pile was winnowed down to a single item, usually a ragged stuffed animal or a naked doll.

I noticed, in a little space carved out amongst the rubble, that the same lady always sat behind the checkout counter. She was a stout woman with gray stringy hair. She always wore a sleeveless floral-print dress and was always smoking a cigarette, a Pepsi can serving as an ashtray. 

One day I purchased an old National Geographic magazine. On its cover was a picture of the Hope Diamond. I solemnly handed the lady behind the counter a quarter. As a child, even the smallest acts are imbued with great importance. As she plopped a nickel and a dime in my hand, she said, “Thank you, dear.” 

She spoke with resignation, without looking at me. If I had spent ten thousand dollars instead of ten cents I don’t think her expression would have changed. 

She had a raspy voice. I knew it was from all the smoking. I wished she would stop—surely she knew how bad it was for you. 

I wondered where she went when they closed for the day—I couldn’t imagine her being anyplace else.

On the way home, I asked my mother if it was rude to ask someone their name. My mother was so inured to my many questions that she usually didn’t stop what she was doing to answer. But I think she knew this question was important, so she stopped walking and turned to face me. “Whose name do you want to know?” she asked.

“The lady in the junk store,” I replied. “Do you know her name?”

“Why, I guess I don’t. But I think it’s fine to ask someone their name. It shows you care.”

So with that, I decided I would ask the lady behind the counter her name the next time we visited.

A few weeks later we were walking up the steps to the junk store. My mother was a teacher—5^th grade—and was looking for an aquarium for her classroom. As we walked in, I caught her eye, her ever-present cigarette smoldering atop a Pepsi can. She didn’t acknowledge us, having that faraway look when you’re either thinking of nothing at all or something of great significance.

My sister complained that I let her find me too easily, but I was too nervous to play games. Most kids are scared of adults, and until now I thought I was that rare exception. I grabbed a random National Geographic out of an enormous pile and brought it the counter. It was misshapen and smelled mildewy but I didn’t care—I needed a reason to talk to the lady behind the counter. I had a dime but gave her a dollar, giving me more time to get up my nerve as she counted out the change. I hoped she wouldn’t be irritated.

She took my dollar without speaking and opened up the cash register. My heart was beating so fast I thought it might explode. She began taking change out of the little compartments. I had practiced what I was going to say so many times I had it memorized, but still I was sure I would freeze up.

As she dropped the coins in my hand I blurted it out. “I’m Maxine, but my friends call me Maxie. What’s your name?”

At first I thought she didn’t hear me. Finally, she said, “I’m Caroline.”

She offered no other information, her face betraying not a flicker of emotion, as though the words came solely from the left side of her brain. 

I excitedly told my mother what had happened on the way home. I had made her promise to stay in the back with my sister as I made my purchase—I couldn’t bear to have her hear me make a fool of myself. My mother listened intently as I relayed my story. When I was finished, she asked, “What will you ask her next week?”

“Next week?”

“Since they didn’t have an aquarium I will need to check back, maybe one will come in. So you can ask her another question, get to know her. People love talking about themselves.” 

I hadn’t thought about asking her anything other than her name. I spent the whole week pondering what to ask her next. 

When the next week rolled around, I had my question prepared. 

I first told her I had a younger sister, figuring if I shared something about myself she would be more willing to share something about herself. I then asked if she had any brothers or sisters. She regarded me for a moment without speaking. I thought she might rebuke me for being so nosy but then her features relaxed. “I’m one of eight,” she said softly.

Pressing my luck, I asked if they were boys or girls. “You do ask a lot of questions,” she said. I gulped—I had pushed too far. “I have six sisters and a baby brother.”

“Do you ever see them?”

She hesitated before answering. “Not really, no. Better go catch up with your mama, dear.”

I decided I would limit my questions to one per week. More than that seemed to stress her out.

When we returned the following week (my mother had still not found an aquarium), I thought I detected a slight smile from the lady behind the counter—Caroline—but it might have been my imagination. I smiled back. No longer as nervous, I took my time finding an item that might tickle my fancy. I found a nice little vase, made of thick glass tinted cobalt blue. 

When I made my purchase, she was as gruff as ever, but I didn’t take it personally: We had a special connection. After handing me my change, she leaned back, as if expecting another question.

I had a good one. I sensed it might have been a delicate subject, so used more tact than usual. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but do you have any kids?” 

She had that faraway look in her eyes again, and took longer than usual to answer. I thought she wasn’t going to answer at all. “I had a daughter,” she said, “but she died.” She might have wiped away a tear. 

I didn’t ask any more questions that week. I said I was sorry and ran out of the store. Surely I had upset her. I had gone too far.

My mother said that even though people found it sad to talk about loved ones who have departed, they still needed to talk about them. It was important not to forget. She suggested I ask her what her daughter’s name was.

My mother was likely right—she had told me her daughter had died without my asking. It was the first time she had volunteered any information. 

The next week, when I asked her, she told me her daughter’s name was Louise. I thought she was going to say more but she didn’t.

I learned a lot about Caroline that summer. She was from Rochester. Her favorite color was blue. She lived alone, in an upstairs apartment two blocks away. She had a cat—its name was Boots. When she was young she wanted to be a seamstress and move to Paris. She loved to sew. 

One day we came in and she wasn’t there. A different woman was behind the counter. She was perched on a stool. Even though she was younger, she had that same vacant look. She wore pajama pants, pink and stained; her belly hung out from under her shirt. She was reading a paperback with a picture of a man and a woman on the cover—the man wasn’t wearing a shirt. A half-bottle of Mountain Dew sat on the counter.

I asked her where Caroline was. She looked up from her book and looked at me, as though deciding if I was worth expending the energy to tell me. “You a friend of hers?” she asked.

Without hesitation, I said that I was.

“Died. Last week.” She seemed irritated. She went back to reading her book. 

I hated this woman. Being a young girl at the time, I couldn’t quite articulate, even to myself, the reason for such strong distaste. But kids are perceptive, and have a sixth sense about people. I’m sure I felt disdain, disgust, for this person who acted superior to me but who I knew was in every way inferior. 

But I didn’t act on those feelings. I started to walk away, vowing to never come back. But then I turned around and marched right up to the counter. 

I asked the woman her name.