much,” I told him, returning to the car.
“Well, no matter how slim the pickings, I’ll find something.” Mr. Westervelt bought something at every auction, out of sympathy for the family. That day he bid on sealed cardboard boxes labeled Kitchen, Dining Room, and Bedroom.
Back at the store, we worked as a team, sorting the flotsam and jetsam from the cartons. He perched on a step stool while I spread the contents out on the table in the garage for his inspection. It was mostly junk. But he said, “For every sock there’s a foot.” He priced the saleable merchandise, writing neatly with a fine tip felt pen. I found each piece its spot, like with like, in choir loft, sanctuary, or basement. The dregs, like an electric curler set missing some rollers, went to the picnic table under the garage eaves. Help Yourself said his hand lettered sign. These offerings always vanished, the way giant zucchini disappear overnight from give-away produce stands.
Finally, only little things remained on the sorting table, too good to give away, too insignificant to sell. Old fashioned white gloves. A pair of dice. Souvenir pens and pencils. Macramé plant hangers. Packages of complimentary greeting cards from charities. Hotel soaps, shampoos and body lotions. Plastic toys from fast food meals. He used these leftovers like crackerjack prizes to fill empty shoeboxes, labeled in his neat block printing: Boy’s Surprise Box; Girl’s Surprise Box; Lady’s Surprise Box; Gentleman’s Surprise Box. Each cost a dollar, and his sign beside them read, “The odds are good, but the goods are odd.”
His surprise boxes were special favorites in summer when the campgrounds by the lake filled with families out from Pittsburgh. He let sunburnt children heft each box before choosing. “No shaking, and no peeking, until you’re out of the store. No refunds, and no returns—unless you find I’ve put in a hundred-dollar bill by mistake,” he warned the small customers. The children would hand over crumpled dollar bills and race outside to crouch at the foot of the stairs and open the cardboard treasure chests.
Now, he selected items for next summer’s boxes with tender concentration and tied the lids shut with twine. A diaper pin with a pastel plastic clasp shaped like a duck caught my eye; I slipped it in my pocket.
The next week, scouting at another auction, I found a bride’s dress: size eight, tags still on from Kaufmann’s in Pittsburgh. The veil was there too, wilted on the hanger. And a pair of satin pumps, soles pristine. I went out to the car where he was waiting.
“A bride’s dress, never worn.”
“The wedding must have been called off. Like mine,” he said, surprising me.
“What happened?”
“We’d have to ask the bride, and she’s not here.”
I mean what happened to you, I wanted to say.
He limped over to the folding chairs set up in front of the auctioneer. I sat beside him.
“It’s a lovely dress,” he said, when it came on the block, and bid on it, surprising me again. There was no competition. Antique dealers were not interested in a bride’s dress only a few seasons out of fashion.
“The two of you planning to tie the knot?” the auctioneer teased.
I blushed. Mr. Westervelt shook his head and smiled.
At the store, I unloaded the ivory satin dress, tulle veil, and pumps along with the more usual cargo of dishes, ice skates, and old National Geographic magazines. In a carton of books there was a battered copy of Dr. Spock’s Baby and Child Care. I started to read. Trust yourself. You know more than you think you do. Soon you’re going to have a baby. I dropped the book back in the box.
He priced the dress, veil, and shoes last, as a package: twenty dollars. Putting down his pen he said, “Think I’ll take a lie-down. Go on home, thanks for your help.”
“I’ll stay and finish putting the stuff out.”
“If you want, thanks.”
He walked through the door behind the pulpit into his apartment.
I busied myself, finding places for the new items, like with like. My eye fell on the bride’s dress, gleaming in the jumble. It was unlike anything else in the store. I supposed it should go to the choir loft, where the old clothes were. I stroked the folds and picked it up. The gown filled my arms, heavy and smooth. I started upstairs then sat on the steps, cradling the dress, the lustrous satin pooled on my lap. The shop was quiet, mid-week quiet. No one would come in. I went upstairs and laid the dress down gently on the floor. In the dim loft, the gown shone like moonlight on water, tempting me with the promise of smooth satin on my skin. Kicking off my sneakers, I stripped out of my jeans and T-shirt. I stepped into the dress and pulled it up. It was stiffer than I had expected; I could not fasten the tiny buttons down the back. Holding up the full skirt, I walked downstairs to see my reflection in the full-length mirror beside the pulpit. The white satin dress transformed me the way snow hides and heals the everyday world.
The door behind the pulpit opened and Mr. Westervelt stepped into the shop.
“Oh, Margaret. Aren’t you lovely.” He held out his hand to me. “May I have this dance?”
I followed him into the kitchen. He put Fascination on the phonograph and took me in his arms, his hand warm on my bare back where the dress gaped open. We waltzed around the kitchen until the song ended.
“You will be a beautiful bride one day,” he said. I drank in his words like a blessing and a promise, as though he could forgive me for the sin he did not even know and foretell a happy ending.
I changed in his bathroom, reluctant to take off the dress and put on my ordinary clothes. I carried the heavy armload of satin back to the shop. Mr. Westervelt was standing by the cash register.
“Bring down Esmerelda. Let’s have a bridal display,” he said.
I dragged the mannequin from the choir loft. He brought a washcloth, towel, and bar of soap from the apartment and washed her blind, scratched face.
“You dress her, for decency’s sake,” he said, smiling.
She was built like a giant Barbie, pointy bust, wasp waist, and arched feet, perpetually on tiptoe. Stretching her out on the floor, I wrestled the gown on, then tipped her upright. The veil covered her baldness, softening her pocked face. I propped her up by the pulpit under the stained-glass window.
The bell on the church door jingled. A girl came in. I recognized her; she sold pies at the bakeshop by the turnpike exit near town. She looked about my age. Her red hair was scraped back from her high forehead in a tight ponytail, pulling tissue-paper thin skin taut.
“Hello there. Thanks for stopping in,” he said.
She glanced at the mannequin and turned away.
“Do you have any plain dishes? I’m looking for Corelle ware.”
“Take a peek upstairs. Might be some,” he said.
The stairs squeaked as she went upstairs. Then it was quiet again, except for muffled clinks from the choir loft. She came down with a couple of place settings of white dishes and took them to the cash register.
“You don’t have any pots and pans, do you?”
“In
