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Pocket Change

By Debbie Archer

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Pocket Change



Chapter 1

“The twinkle lights are perfect. Let’s get the coffin and put Bo in it.” I shouted to make myself heard. From the parking lot, I cocked my head and examined the two sparkling bay display windows of Pocket Change, my brand-spanking-new business. The glittery cob-webbed scarecrow nestled nicely in the antique rocker. I rubbed my arms and fussed for not grabbing my jacket before coming outside. For mid-October, the wind had a bite. The thermometer strained its little mercury to stay on thirty-nine. Touching forty was evidently out of the question. My gaze shifted to the bay window to the left side of the front door. It screamed “perfect spot for Bonesie!”, our resident skeleton. I gave Mama an okay sign through the window then headed for the door, slowing when a movement to my right caught my attention.

With a sideways glance, I stopped in my tracks. All thoughts of the brisk cold disappeared when a pair of broad shoulders and a head of dark brown hair stepped out of a pea-green Chevy truck parked in the next lot. Had a tropical front moved through? The temperature was on the rise. I quit rubbing my arms and squinted. Multi-tasking is not my strong point. Applying mascara and forming an O with my mouth at the same time is about all I can handle.

I moved to the privacy of the big oak tree in front of our brand-spanking-new shop. Mama had named the tree Mabel. When asked how she knew it was a female, she told me she thought all oaks were female. They were strong, protective, and loved to reach for the sky. Couldn’t argue with that.

“Oh, Mabel, would you look at that?” I muttered, praying Mabel’s crimson autumn splendor would camouflage my own red hair and freckles. From my vantage point, I could view the new arrival walking around to the other side of his truck, where he pulled a green toolbox from the front floorboard and sauntered into the back of the old building next to mine. Once a bait store, the rustic clapboard structure sat lonely and locked up.

Until today. Now a muscled-up man tromped around inside. I aimed my phone, focused, and snapped two pics. My private Businesses Around Town board was kinda skimpy. Truth be told, there weren’t many businesses of any kind in my little hometown anymore. I hoped to change that.

Still spying on broad-shouldered, brown-haired-cute guy, my ears picked up a persistent tapping noise. Mama stood in the window and pecked on the glass. That crimp in her brow was a good indicator she was aggravated. Even with reinforced storm windows between us, I could clearly hear her voice. “Mary Clare, what are you doing?”

I hurried back inside. The tropical breeze passed, and I was pretty sure the goose bumps made my freckles look 3-D. “Okay, let’s go to the storage building, Mama.” If I could get her sidetracked, maybe she wouldn’t ask me about my mini-spying expedition.

She pushed her sleeves up higher on her arms, which meant a heavy-duty tug job was inevitable. “Wait just a minute.” She blew a few wisps of chestnut hair out of her eyes. “Let me put the finishing touch on that armoire with a few more sparkles, and we’ll tackle the coffin.” She scurried off to the other side of the store, a glittery spider web in hand.

“The casket will set just the right tone.” I sidestepped over to the area where we would park the casket and looked at the lettering for the display. R.I.P., which stood for Read in Peace, had been Mama’s idea. Cozy little crannies made up of gadgets, puzzles, and puffy pillows gave the store a homey feel.

I don’t know who was more excited about our new business venture, Mama or me. I’d named the shop Pocket Change as a play on words, but it meant much more. I needed to succeed at this. Lord knows there’s a whole list of things I’m not good at, but maybe I could do something to help our town. Pocket Change stood for the changes we hoped to set in motion in our tiny metropolis of 1,235. People would be employed because of our little venture, and while it wouldn’t change international economic forecasts, it might boost the little municipality of Pocket. I stuck my phone in my bra and breathed a sigh of satisfaction.

Every item in the store had a story all its own. Each odd antique held its own mystique. Every book contained that elusive smell of paper, ink, and inspiration. I realized paper books might soon be considered vintage, but I didn’t care. I mean, I like my e-reader, but I like cuddly paper-printed books too. It’s important to preserve some things.

Like books. Traditions. Friendships. Recipes.

The pride of a little town.

That was a biggie. We wanted to make Pocket, Arkansas a town of delight again and not the place known only for its ten-mile-long monthly yard sale.

For now, though, getting the shop ready ranked as top priority, so everything had to be right.

The shop glistened. We’d shopped right up until last night, when we’d attended an auction in Mountain Home. Our haul from the night before, Fenton glassware, now sparkled in the mirrored cases. The vast collection sparkled beneath the cases’ spotlights. Ruby red vases, milky white birds, and creamy pastels of the ornate pieces took my breath away. Bling at its best.

We scarfed up everything the auction offered. When the evening sun shone through the leaded glass side windows, the display of Fenton flashed with flare and brilliance. Their prisms of color saturated the nearby primitive church pew and threw shards of color everywhere.

However, the skeleton and coffin in the window would cap everything off and steal hearts from the street, luring them to partake of the store’s boundless offerings. The plan included Bonesie, Bo to his friends, to sit propped up in the coffin, a book in one hand and an old magnifying glass in the other. Somewhere Mama located a tattered Sherlock-looking hat that would be his crowning glory.

“Ready?” Mama slid into her jacket.

“Actually, I thought a break might be nice.” My stomach rumbled. After all, a girl can only slave so long without a Coke and a Snickers. We’d been working since sunup. I pulled out my phone and checked the time. Most of the morning had vanished. I took a step toward the kitchen. You’d have thought I wanted to pierce my knees.

“Mary Clare Casteel, we don’t have time for a break. The UPS guy will be here any minute with that big shipment of books for the Children’s Chamber.” Mama yanked a nubby scarf around her neck. Its thickness matched her tone. “We have to get Bo settled and the rest of this display finished, so we can tackle that tonight. If we’re going to open Pocket Change on schedule, we have to get the lead out!”

I opened my mouth to argue but realized it would be useless. One simply doesn’t do that with Lilly Casteel when she’s on a roll. So, being a good daughter, I muttered my O.S. P. (old standby prayer), put all thoughts of sugar out of my mind, stashed my phone, and sashayed out behind Mama.

I peeked next door. No sign of broad shoulders. We passed Uncle Ardmore. From the looks of it, he was planting a dollar bill at the side of the shop. “Mama.” I jerked my head in Uncle Ardmore’s direction. “He’s doing it again.” I’d long ago figured out money did not grow on trees as my Uncle Ardmore insisted it did. He is my uncle on my daddy’s side and was never “quite right,” according to Mama. Something about a bolt of lightning and the steel plate in his head. To this day, Uncle Ardmore plants at least one dollar bill in the back yard of every family member. He tends to them faithfully and feeds them Miracle Grow every month. He once grew a handsome cocklebur plant that reached five feet tall. The local paper came and took pictures, but the only thing he got for all his effort was a mess of cockleburs the size of Pittsburgh.

“Honey, he plants dollar bills all over town. You know that.”

“What’s he doing now?” I squinted into the morning sun.

“Watering it.”

“Oh, my goodness!” I yelped, hearing the tell-tale zip. I opened my mouth for a second yelp when he turned and loped off across the yard, shaking his left leg. “Was Daddy like that?” I stared at my uncle’s retreating back, a little worried about my daddy’s side of the family. Everyone said I remind them of him.

“No. Your daddy was just about perfect.” A wistfulness in her voice made me sorry I’d asked. “Ardmore wasn’t like this until that lightning storm.” She shook her head. “He’ll be back in a few minutes to put Miracle Grow on it. Just go with it, honey. Think of it as his house warming gift to you.”

I huffed out a quiet sigh. There were worse gifts.

Maybe.

“He means well, Mary Clare.”

I glanced back at the corner of the structure and shrugged. Uncle Ardmore ran a rake over the damp ground and sang. How do you stay miffed at a guy who hums “This Little Light of Mine?”

Mama’s soft spot for Uncle Ardmore began when he was twenty-four, when Daddy died. I was four. Uncle Ardmore stood beside Mama and me as they lowered my daddy into the ground. He saluted him then held both our hands all the way through the service and never left our sides until we got home. He took one look at all the food people had brought and started to cry.

At age four, I didn’t understand why people brought cake at birthdays and when someone died too. I don’t think Uncle Ardmore did either. But the array of cakes, pies, and casseroles that ended up in our kitchen boggled my mind. People tried to get us to try a bite of whatever goodie they brought.

Sometimes having an above-average memory isn’t a good thing. I wish I didn’t remember biting Pearlie Washburn’s finger when she tried to stuff a piece of her raisin pie in my mouth. Pearlie just wanted to make me feel better. To this day, when I smell cooked raisins, I think of Pearlie sticking her bitten finger in her mouth and trying to suck the hurt out. I chomped down pretty hard. But Pearlie should have known the same thing Uncle Ardmore and I knew. No pie or cake or casserole can fill up that part of our heart that’s hurting.

I glanced back at Uncle Ardmore, who dipped the rake like a skinny dance partner then went back to drawing it over the ground then blew a kiss our way and trotted off. By some miracle, I wished just one time he could have a good bumper crop of dollars pop out of the ground. He deserved that much.

We hurried to the large storage shed, and I flung the door wide. Mama marched over to Bo and lifted him carefully from his partially bubble-wrapped cocoon. “Mary Clare, let’s go ahead and put Bo inside now. I don’t think I can steer this casket and carry him at the same time.”

I nodded, turned, and admired the coffin. Not that I am in the habit of admiring caskets, but this one couldn’t be ignored.

It was one of the rare Victorian types with a breathing tube inside. Evidently, back in the day, it was common for some poor souls to be accidentally buried alive, and these caskets came along before embalming. Anyway, there was a small breathing tube which doubled as a passageway for a bell string. The loved one’s family would attach a string to the finger of the person in the casket. In theory, should the departed not actually be departed, he or she would awaken and ring the bell. Guards were posted in the cemeteries to listen for ringing, although they couldn’t pay me enough money for that job or that of a rescue team that would exhume the casket, hopefully before the person actually died of fright.

In any event, the caskets were difficult to come by. Yet here I was, getting ready to tuck Bo inside one. Fingers chilled to the bone, I carefully pried the top open and lifted it with a loud grunt while Mama hurried to retrieve Bo from his plastic-wrapped home. A gasp shot from my lips as the air sealed my throat as tightly as any steel-girded coffin.

“Uh, Mama.” The chill in my body no longer sprang from the cold. “I don’t think he’s gonna fit.”

“Of course, he will. We measured.” She scowled over her shoulder to the rattle of bones.

“No. Trust me on this.” I was quite sure the rattle of Bo’s bones had nothing on my own, because everybody in the South knows you don’t put two in a casket.

And this casket was already occupied.

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