“And Emaline’s been amazing!” Theo added, once bolstered by a quick shot of oxygen. “She took me some places I never would have found otherwise.”
Clyde glanced at me, and I tried not to cringe. “Really.”
“Oh, yeah,” Theo went on. “The fish house, for starters, and also this local market, where we found this milk crate that was, like, huge in terms of your history.”
“A milk crate,” Clyde repeated. I kept waiting for him to get visibly annoyed, but instead he seemed almost amused. “Huh. How so?”
“Well, it was from Craint Farms,” Theo explained. “And, of course, it’s well known the word craint was prevalent in some of the collages in the Metal/Paper series of 1997. All the writing on the subject has assumed this was a reference to the French word for fear, denoting your feelings about how agriculture felt in the face of industry.”
Clyde was just looking at him. It occurred to me that this had to be beyond bizarre, having your own work interpreted and analyzed by a total stranger. In Big Club.
“But then when I bought the crate,” Theo was saying now, “the owner of the store said the Craints used to farm around here. So it’s possible it was based on a real name, not a translation. Which is just—”
“Wait,” Clyde said, holding a hand to stop him. “You actually bought a Craint Farms milk crate?”
“From Gert’s,” I explained.
“It’s a huge find for the film,” Theo added, “not to mention to the collection of your papers and interviews. Ivy said it really singularly confirms everything that brought us here. The sense that this town did shape you and your work, more than anyone realized.”
Clyde looked at me again. “Old Gert must have thought you guys were nuts.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But he got fifty bucks out of it, so he wasn’t exactly complaining.”
“He does love a dollar,” he agreed.
“You have to let us interview you,” Theo told him, his voice suddenly grave, serious.
“Theo,” I said, “I don’t think—”
“What you could add to this film, with your input and cooperation,” he continued, “would take it to a whole other level. I know you haven’t exactly had good experiences with journalists in the past. I mean, we all remember that piece in the magazine of the Times in 1999.”
“We do?” I said.
“But if you would just give us a chance,” he went on, ignoring me, “we could in turn give you, and your legacy of work, the respect it deserves. Just meet with Ivy, give her a chance to explain her vision for the film. Please. I am begging you.”
I could literally see him sweating now, he was so excited. Good Lord, I thought. No wonder he got beat up in high school. If a locker had been around right then, I would have pushed him into it, if only for his own good.
For a moment, we all just stood there, no one saying anything. In the silence, I found myself thinking of the other toaster oven, back at Sand Dollars. Perfectly fine, in good working order. If only it had that adjustable dial. It takes so little to change everything. If you really thought about it, it would scare you to death.
“All right,” Clyde said finally, so casually you would have thought he was agreeing to a cup of coffee. “Set it up with your boss, name your place and time.”
“Oh my God!” Theo said. Now he was damp, breathless, and shrieking. I put my hand over my face. “Thank you! You won’t regret this, I promise. Just give me your number, and—”
“No.” Clyde nodded at me. “Set it up with Emaline, have her contact me.”
Me? I thought. But then Clyde was waving and walking away, just as easily as he’d turned up, down the wide aisle towards the paper plates.
At first, Theo and I just stood there, watching him go. Then he said, very quietly, “Please, for the love of God, tell me that did actually just happen.”
“Think so,” I said, readying to push the cart towards the registers. “Can we go now? I have other clients waiting for towels.”
He turned to face me, a smile slowly spreading across his face. Behind him, toaster ovens and microwaves were stacked up high over us, facing mini fridges on the other side. And it was there, surrounded by low-priced appliances, that Theo suddenly stepped forward and kissed me. In a bulk store, with high ceilings and vast quantities, more of anything than you could ever really need. And the weirdest part was that in that moment—after feeling so small all morning—the tug I felt in my heart as I kissed him back was suddenly, inexplicably, very big as well.
10
“PICK A CARD. Any card.”
This was how Benji greeted me at the door. No hello; just a command. I looked down at the playing cards, spread in a fan between his fingers, and reached for one in the middle. His brow furrowed.
“Not that one,” he said. I drew back. “Pick another.”
I did as I was told. This time, he just shook his head, looking frustrated.
“How about this,” I said. “Let’s just say that, in the interest of time, you give me some direction.”
“More to the left,” he told me. “Far left.”
I picked the last card, a queen of hearts. Happy, he folded up the rest. “Okay,” he said, then cleared his throat, closing his eyes. A beat. Then, “Your card is . . . the queen of hearts.”
I flipped it over. “You’re right! Wow. That’s impressive.”