“For this?” she said, poking it, rather insolently, he thought.
“For that, yes.”
She picked it up and turned it in her hand a few times before setting it down and sliding it across to him. “Does it blow?”
He frowned. “Of course it does.”
“And you really believe it materialized from out of the past? Mysteriously?”
“I didn’t exactly say that.”
“You didn’t exactly not say it.”
“Well, how else do you explain it? What other explanation could there be?”
She shook her head sympathetically. “Gary, Gary, that imagination--”
“Wait wait wait. At first I thought like you, that maybe it’s a company still around and somebody there decided to humor me.”
“Isn’t that logical?”
“Until I looked in the phone book. Hohner’s still around but the company I ordered through doesn’t exist anymore. I even asked my grandmother about it and she remembers the place-- a friend of hers used to work there. She said it was shut down at least twenty years ago.”
“Gary, I know how exciting this is to you and I really hate to burst your bubble, but did it ever occur to you that some mail-order company now uses that address-- you did say the building is still there, didn’t you?”
“No, but I did look it up and it is.”
“So? Somebody there just took your order and filled it. Why make a mystery of it?”
“As far as I know, that building’s been empty for years. But if I have to, I can go down and see for myself.”
“That wouldn’t prove anything. The post office could have forwarded your letter to wherever they moved.”
He slipped the ad from his shirt pocket and shoved it in front of her. “Here, look for yourself.”
“Why, it’s just an ordinary ad.”
“Well, it’s not. It’s from a 1939 newspaper.”
“All right, I’m impressed. But what does that prove?”
“It proves I’m telling the truth.”
“I never denied you were.”
“But don’t you see? It’s a Hohner. That’s a famous German harmonica maker, a reputable company. You don’t get those for a dollar, not these days.”
She smiled. “Does it play any music, or only German music?”
“C’mon, Shelley--”
She laid her hand over his. “Oh, Gary, Gary,” she said, stroking his hand, “can’t you see how crazy this all sounds?”
“That’s why I’m not telling anyone except you.” He pulled his hand away. “I thought you of all people would believe me, especially after seeing the ad and the harmonica itself.”
“Gary, the harmonica may say Hohner, but is it a genuine Hohner? What do they call it, bootlegging? when some country duplicates the same product and passes it off as the real thing?”
“And no tax, no sales tax, what about that?”
“I don’t believe it’s required if the business headquarters is out of state.”
Crestfallen, he jammed the harmonica in his pocket, sulked awhile, then straightened up. “Okay, we’ll see. Time will tell who’s right.” A wan smile crossed his lips. “And how’s the term paper going?”
She brightened. “Oh, this?” she said, riffling through a sheaf of notes. “I’m getting there, little at a time, I suppose. ‘The Psychology of Money and Its Effect on Minorities.’ Sound thrilling?”
“Which reminds me,” he said, digging into his pocket, pulling out a handful of coins and laying them on the table in front of her. “Pretty, aren’t they?”
She picked up a coin. “A dime. So?”
“Look close. That’s no ordinary dime that’s been minted after 1964, which is really nothing but a slug. It’s a 1943 Mercury dime, with real silver in it. How ‘bout that?”
“I’ve seen old coins before. Dad had some.” She examined it, set it aside and picked up another. “They’re nice, but I’d expect them to be shinier. How much did you have to pay for them?”
“Not a cent, not an Indian Head cent,” he said, pushing a penny toward her. “That one’s an 1882. I found them all about a week ago while I was scavenging through some old dresser drawers in the attic. I already have a bunch and there could be more. I’m going to keep looking.”
“How much are they worth?”
“I’ve been meaning to find out, I don’t know, I’ll have to check them out…. Look at this silver dollar, 1922. Isn’t that Liberty Head on it beautiful?”
“Do you always carry these around with you?” she said, lightly rubbing her thumb over the surface of the coin.
“I love to hear the jingle. Real silver jingles, not like the counterfeit junk in your purse.”
“Heavy, too,” she said, bouncing it on her palm.
“Because it’s the real stuff,” he said, snatching it away and sweeping it up with the other coins. “I have a few more at home.”
She studied his face. “This sort of thing really gets your heart pumping, doesn’t it, Gary?”
“Not as much as you do,” he said, reaching over and squeezing her hand. “Why, does it show?”
“Is water wet? When doesn’t it show? Your nostalgia, I mean. What I don’t understand is, people usually long for their own past, but you, you seem to be nostalgic for times before you were even born. I always thought nostalgia was for old people.”
“Maybe that’s why I’m a history major. I can’t help it, Shell, I just love anything old-- old movies, old books, old songs, things mostly of this century, though. Not that I’m not interested in the more distant past, but… somehow, it’s almost as if, as if….”
“As if.…?”
“I don’t know, Shell. Let’s just say it’s sort of a hobby. A little more intense than what other people feel about their hobbies, all except maybe golfers.”
“Like my brother Bob.”
“Like him, yeah, and all the other addicts like him. It doesn’t bother you, does it, that I’m hooked on this… this hobby?”
Her smile splashed on him like sunshine.
