“Wow, check it out,” he said. He reached out, touching the pocked metal of the machine. “This is seriously vintage. I know a place in Brooklyn that would pay a fortune for it.”
“I doubt it’s for sale,” I said. “If it’s like everything else, it’s been here for generations.”
“Family business, huh?”
“Since the turn of the last century.” I nodded towards a back door. “It’s only about ten steps to their house from here. See?”
Sure enough, visible through the screen was the white clapboard of the Gertmanns’ place. Just like most every night, a light was on in the living room. In one window, a girl sat, head bent, working on something at a table.
I went over to a nearby cooler, taking out a water. The floor creaked beneath my feet as I moved, making a sound like a moan. “You want anything?”
Theo shook his head and I let the door drop shut and started up to the counter. Mr. Gertmann looked up at me as I put the water down. “How’s your mom, Emaline?”
“She’s good. How’s Rachel doing?”
He punched a couple of buttons on the register. Behind him, on the TV, a row of army tanks was rolling down a road. “About the same.”
I nodded, quiet, as I slid two bills across to him. While he made change, I said, “My friend here is filming a documentary about Colby. You know, the history and all of the area. We were wondering if maybe he could shoot a little bit of footage of the store?”
I felt Theo’s surprise as I said this, since I’d not mentioned anything about it to him. “Don’t see why not,” Mr. Gertmann said, handing me my change. “We’re not exactly busy right now.”
I looked at Theo, who was already taking out his camera. “Thanks so much,” he said, turning it on. “This will really provide some great local color, a sense of the staying power of local businesses, and . . .”
He trailed off as Mr. Gertmann turned back to the TV screen, clearly more interested in whatever he was watching than the living history around him. I gave Theo an encouraging look, and he set off towards the Coke cooler. As he began to film it, I pulled over the small ceramic dish that sat right by the register, a sign taped to it. HANDMADE BRACELETS, it read. $7. TWO FOR $12. Inside the dish were about six bracelets similar to mine, woven from thin rope and dotted with beads and shells. As I picked through them, I could hear Theo walking around, the floor making its wheezings beneath him.
“Wow,” he said after a few minutes. I looked up to see him peering closely at a stack of plastic milk crates, piled up just by the front door. “Do these . . . does this really say Craint Farms?”
I pushed the bowl back where it had been and walked over to see. “Looks like it. Why?”
“Because . . .” He shook his head for a second. “They’re prominently featured in one of Clyde’s contrast pieces. One of the early ones. But most critics have assumed the name was intended to be meaningful. Like a metaphor.”
“Craint?” I said.
“Cray,” he corrected me. “It’s French. Means ‘feared.’”
“You think he was afraid of milk crates?”
“No,” Theo said, shooting me a look. I smiled as he squatted down to look closer at the stack, which, judging by the cobwebs around it, had been there for a while. “The most accepted criticism is that it represents how the agricultural world feared the encroachment of urban industry. But because the piece had both worlds overlapping and, therefore, interdependent, the fear was necessary, and, actually, shared.”
Whoa, I thought. Before I could reply—or even begin to think of something to say—Mr. Gertmann said, “The Craints farmed out off of William Crossroads for years. Sold to a developer about five years ago. Condos going in there now.”
“So the Craints were a real family?” Theo asked him, shooting footage of the crates from one side, then leaning in closer from another. “With a real farm?”
Mr. Gertmann looked at me. I shrugged, making it clear Theo was on his own, wherever he was going with this. “Doubt it’s a farm anymore. Think they at least got it perked before the bubble burst.”
Now it was Theo who glanced my way, wanting a translation. “They started building,” I explained. “Then ran out of money. Pretty common around here in the last few years.”
“It has been written that Clyde might have worked on a dairy farm when he was in high school. But if this is a connection that clear, it’s pretty amazing. Ivy’s going to freak.” He looked back over at Mr. Gertmann. “Any chance these might be for sale?”
“You want to buy my milk crates?”
“He’s from New York,” I told him, like this explained everything.
“Maybe just one of them?” Theo said, ignoring me. “I’ll give you fifty bucks for it.”
Mr. Gertmann looked at the stack, taking his time. Finally, he shrugged. “Why not. Doubt the supplier will miss it.”
“Great,” Theo said, a big smile breaking across his face. He walked over to the counter, pulling out a wad of bills from his pocket. Mr. Gertmann and I both watched as he peeled off a few twenties. He was just about to hand them over when he saw the bowl of bracelets. “Oh, and, um . . . one of these. Actually, I’ll take two.”
“Milk crate and two bracelets,” Mr. Gertmann said, punching buttons. “Sixty-two even.”