Hands at your sides, my grandmother warned Ruthie and me, Be careful where you walk and most important of all, don't touch anything!
The concept of hoarding hadn't been invented that foggy summer afternoon in Digby but you'd have to have been blind not to see that the little shop was monumentally cluttered. The windows were done up in stained glass, wind chimes hung from the rafters by the dozens, every counter and shelf was precariously crammed with china, glassware, ceramics and bric-a-brac. A thin veil of dust covered most everything and there was barely enough room to walk the narrow aisles. Ruthie almost stumbled on an old leather trunk with brass trimmings and I avoided a collision with a rocking chair by no more than a whisker. We were both thinking that this was a musty, maybe even dangerous place, that there was vague treachery in the air.
Nana was a woman on a mission, following the scent of coffee all the way to the rear of the dismal little shop where there was a tea table set up in a relatively cleared out corner. Four dressing table chairs with funny round seats and spindly backs and legs were pulled out and waiting and in one. a woman in a taffeta dress and button down shoes was pouring tea from a silver pot.
Girls, this is Miss Althea Finnigan, my grandmother said by way of introductions, Miss Althea has owned this shop for fifty some years and is an old friend. She knew both your great grandmothers so you'll be obliged to mind your manners.
A curtsy seemed called for and now I understood why Nana had insisted we wear "Sunday clothes" rather than our usual overalls. Ruthie and I somehow each managed to execute a proper curtsy and then delicately took our seats.
I'm very pleased to know you, Miss Althea croaked with a hint of British aristocracy in her raspy but precise and perfectly articulated voice, Do help yourselves to the watercress sandwiches and the tea cakes. I made them myself this very morning.
One each, Nana warned us, No need to spoil your supper.
It wasn't until she stood to clear the table that we realized Miss Althea wasn't quite what we expected. I'd been paying attention to her face which was wizened and a little misshapen and her hands which were liver spotted and blue-veined. When she stood, I saw that not only was she old as the hills, but she only came to my grandmother's elbow. We were having tea with a midget or dwarf - I wasn't sure I knew the difference - and it was only when Nana gave me a sharp pinch that I realized I'd been staring.
Manners! she hissed at me under her breath but Miss Althea just laughed and waggled one swollen, bejewled finger at me.
Shut your mouth, child, she said cheerfully and without the slightest trace of a British accent, You'll catch flies!
For whatever reason - surprise or nerves, who knew - Ruthie suddenly began to giggle and quick as a wink, my grandmother reached past me and gave her a sharp rap on the knuckles. Miss Althea, now engaged in lighting a cigarette in a long, slim black and gold holder, just looked tolerantly amused.
They're children, Alice, she said mildly, No cause to fret. She exhaled a cloud of smoke, waved it away with one pale, leathery hand and gave us a squint-eyed look. Maybe they'd like to see the toy room.
Ruthie and I exchanged a quick glance, communicating in the way that young children who are the best of friends do and then we nodded. A toy room, we each thought, was intriguing and bound to be preferable to the stuffy little shop. We followed Miss Althea who hobbled off in a swish of taffeta and a swirl of cigarette smoke - it conjured an image of spiders on sandpaper for me and afterward Ruthie would confess that she thought of a bird trapped in a chimney - down a shadowy hallway to a red wooden door with a heavy brass padlock. The little woman produced a key from a chain around her neck and gave us a grin.
I'll come for you after a bit, she said, you may play with anything you find but don't break anything.
If we hadn't been so young and so curious, we might have noticed the door swinging so silently shut behind us. If we'd been less anxious to get away from this peculiar little woman, we might have heard the key turn and click in the lock with a nasty whisper. We might even have had second thoughts about the unmistakable chill in the window-less little room and with any luck at all, we wouldn't even have come across the sheet-covered mirror in the darkest corner.
The room was small, weirdly shaped with walls that seemed to ebb and flow depending on where you were standing, and misty-bright. We spent several minutes trying to work out where the light was coming from then Ruthie looked up and saw the opaque panels in the ceiling. Skylights! she said in surprise, I seen them in the Spiegel catalogue! Some slick! I kept it to myself but couldn't help wondering if the Spiegel catalogue skylights had the swooping and diving shadows above them. Gulls, I told myself firmly, but I was thinking crows. Big, black, hungry crows with open beaks and razor sharp talons. The thought sent shivers down my back and I was glad when Ruthie grabbed me and pointed excitedly to the wall. Look! she cried, Puppets! A whole wall of puppets!
They're not puppets, I said a little truculently, They're marionettes. And if you ask me, they look mean.
Well, ain't nobody asked you, she fired back, spoilsport!
We made our way past painted rocking horses with braided yarn manes, a stack of Parcheesi games that came almost to our waists, cardboard boxes full of dolls and doll clothes, several pairs of ice skates, a rack of Halloween costumes. There were train sets and toy soldiers, stuffed animals by the dozens and milk crates overflowing with 45's in faded paper sleeves. The wall facing the marionettes was end to end bookcases, all a jumble of childrens books. There were painted music boxes and a couple of tricycles propped up against a table, cellophane wrapped magic kits and a single set of Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls. We'd poked and prodded our dazed way to the very end of the back wall but still wouldn't have seen the mirror except that Ruthie tripped and banged her shin on the Radio Flyer wagon as she was reaching for the six shooters and rubber tomahawk combination pack. When she bent over to inspect for a bruise, she saw the patchwork quilt hanging like a shroud over an unknown object. There was no air stirring but she swore she saw a corner of the quilt flutter and without thinking, she snatched at it and pulled it off, exposing the glass. The wooden frame was crusted with age, the glass wavy and discolored around the edges. Ruthie's reflection was distorted, it rippled and wavered like the lava lamp Nana had gotten one Christmas. And then it disappeared. Just winked out like a light bulb gone bad. For a very few seconds we both froze and then I found myself reaching my hand toward the shimmery glass and Ruthie was suddenly shrieking NO! and slapping frantically at my elbow while tugging me back. RUN! she screeched and we ran like rabbits toward the red door. It swung open at the last minute and we careened into Miss Althea and my grandmother like twin runaway trains.
Here now, what's all this? Nana demanded but we hadn't the breath to tell her even if we'd dared. We were shaken and scared down to our white ankle socks as much by Miss Althea's placid smile as by the horror of the mirror.
I came from an alcoholic home, Ruthie from a sexually abusive one. If there was one thing we both knew, it was how to keep secrets so for the rest of that summer and all the summers that followed, we told no one about the mirror. We wouldn't have been believed if our lives had depended upon it - as, we sometimes thought, they might well have for a desperate second or two - and in time we laughed about the wildly improbable adventure and blamed it on imagination and flawed memories.
Good friends sometimes do just that.
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