"I'm sorry," she said, "I was thinking about shoes."
They were driving towards Schuylerville to have a small outing: a trip to the Salvation Army store; a visit to a gallery where their friend Cecily's last mosaic was being shown; and then lunch at The Flowerpot, a new vegan eatery Daisy wanted to check out.
"Shoes?" he asked. Daisy was no fashionista. Her style was simple — she owned maybe nine pairs of shoes — an assortment of winter boots, spring mud shoes, two pairs of black sneakers, three pairs of Crocs, and 1 pair of rugged hiking sandals. No high heels, nothing really sexy.
"Yeah, I've never bought a pair of used shoes."
"I have."
"I remember, after the fire, we found two pairs of boots for you at Sally A's."
"God, the fire," he said. "You know it's been two years since then — actually, wait, it's two years today, this very day."
"Weird," she said, and she touched his shoulder.
He looked over and smiled. "You."
She smiled. "You."
And they drove on. The roads were clear. Frozen snow, turning grey, lined the edges, but the forecast was clear. And cold, very cold. What a winter it had been and here at the end of February they both had cabin fever, hence this outing.
"I'm going to look for a new sweater," he said, "and some of those flannel-lined jeans."
"Good luck with that. Especially in your size." He was tall and thin. "Maybe that store on Water Street sells them new, " she said.
The store she spoke of was an old fashioned clothing store that reminded her of the 1950s. They sold a lot of outdoor wear and a fine selection of shoes for all seasons.
"Fat chance," he said. "All of the winter gear is gone now. I"ll bet they are selling cruise wear and spring dresses."
"I'll bet you a nickel they'll have a sale table with a pair of red-flannel-lined jeans in your size. Half price," she said.
"A nickel? You're on." And they both smiled.
Schuylerville was an attractive little town, not too far from Wittsfield. It sat at the bottom of a long lake and was famous for wineries along the lake's edges, and the Italian Fest held every summer. It had the best Salvation Army store and two fantastic junk stores — not antique stores — junk stores — which Daisy and Billy both preferred.
But they'd promised each other to try to steer clear of both stores. They didn't need any more stuff in their house. If anything, they should whittle down what they did own.
One place, the better one, was called Weeds. The owner was a very large older man who gave everyone who entered his store the stink eye. "You Break It, You Bought It" was written on a large sign over the cash register. This guy, his name was James Jamison the 3rd, sat morosely in an overstuffed purple armchair, holding a very large fluffy orange cat in his lap. The cat had one blue and one yellow eye and it growled if anyone came too close to its owner — who also spoke in a low sort of growl. "Look But Don't Touch," was another sign, posted on the wall behind the pair, but Daisy felt that that applied to the cat.
The store took up two floors in an old building and unless he had surveillance cameras, the old man couldn't possibly see whether his customers actually touched the inventory — which of course they did.
Old tools, china, knickknacks, woolen blankets, pots and pans, books, magazines, flower pots, horrible paintings and prints — even a moldy Elvis on black velvet — lots of dirty stuff, some broken stuff. It went on and on and sometimes Daisy and Billy would want to go there just for the fun. They called it The Broken Down Museum and they'd always find at least one, if not three, things to buy. Of course everything was overpriced but neither of them felt up to the task of haggling with the grouchy old man.
"No junking today," Daisy said, as they parked a few doors down from Weeds.
"Probably not," Billy said, and he pulled a joint from his pocket. Daisy smiled. Weeds was especially fun to peruse when stoned.
"You're bad," she said. The street was empty so she took the joint and lit it. "One hit," she said, as she held in the smoke.
"That's all it takes," Billy replied, in the same fashion.
She pulled two pieces of spearmint gum from her purse, and they were off.
At the Salvo, Billy found two sweaters — a black wool one for himself and a lovely green cotton sweater for Daisy, which she actually liked. Then he looked at boots where he found nothing; then he headed for the long racks of men's pants.
Daisy headed for the housewares. She couldn't help it. After a lifetime of working in kitchens she still craved more stuff. Now she told herself she was looking for Gillian and Stephen, who were setting up their own kitchen. She found a lot of Pyrex — bowls, baking pans, custard cups, a decent medium-sized cast iron frying pan, and what looked like a brand new rolling pin, heavier than her own. She would love to get it for herself. Owning two rolling pins was practical, she thought. Sometimes she and Billy would cook together, and this way he could roll out empanadas while she made a chocolate pecan pie. Maybe they would do that later, she mused.
She looked around and saw her man across the store. He was going down the pants rack, checking every damn pair. She smiled. How lucky can a girl get, she thought — a slightly stoned reverie.
She saw a young mother and daughter walk by, heading for the children's clothing section. "You get over here now," the mother yelled to a bigger boy, running across the store.
Daisy's reverie ended and she walked over to Billy. "Any luck?" she asked. Billy held up a pair of pants, very faded jeans with a red flannel lining, in his size. The knees were shot but they could easily be patched.
"I know! I'm the luckiest man on earth!"
And they laughed for a long time while people in the store stared at them.
