Chapter 9 - The Store Everyone Nearly Let Die
Hartley’s Corner closed for twelve days.
This time nothing terrible had happened.
Josie closed voluntarily.
She replaced the squeaking roll-up door.
Repaired the broken window properly.
Installed new refrigeration.
Repainted the walls.
Repaired the roof.
She did not replace Margarite’s crooked-produce table.
She sanded it lightly and left every scratch.
The old sign was cleaned.
Not repainted.
The faded letters remained.
Being misshapen doesn’t mean being ruined. Just take a bite and see.
When a designer suggested creating a new sign with a modern font, Josie asked him to leave.
Bethany apologized to the man outside.
Enzo refused.
“He deserved it.”
“You cannot encourage her,” Bethany said.
“I encourage excellence.”
“You encourage violence against graphic designers.”
“No violence occurred.”
“Because he ran.”
For the first time since childhood, Josie and Bethany laughed together without grief immediately following.
The sisters spent evenings sorting Margarite’s recovered records.
Most were ordinary.
Invoices.
Recipes.
Customer lists.
Notes.
But one box contained photographs.
Margarite behind the original counter.
Bethany at seven holding a watermelon almost as large as her torso.
Josie at three sitting inside an empty produce crate.
Mr. Delgado in his security uniform.
Mrs. Okonquo with hair still black.
A much younger Enzo Ferrante standing near the entrance with Margarite.
Josie held up the photograph.
“You had terrible hair.”
Enzo examined it.
“I was twenty-six.”
“That is not a defense.”
Margarite stood beside him laughing.
On the back she had written:
Enzo finally bought the ugly peaches after complaining for ten minutes.
Josie handed him the picture.
Enzo stared longer than expected.
“She wasn’t afraid of you.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I never gave her a reason.”
“People say everyone was afraid of your family.”
“Your mother had poor survival instincts.”
Josie smiled.
“You liked her.”
“Everybody liked her.”
“That must have driven Sylvia insane.”
Enzo did not answer.
He looked toward the potted fig tree.
It had grown nearly a foot.
Several new leaves stretched toward the window.
“When are you planting it?”
“After winter.”
“Where?”
“The same place.”
“The city removed the planter.”
“I own the sidewalk frontage.”
“The city may disagree.”
“I know someone dangerous.”
Enzo looked at her.
“You spend months forcing me to obey municipal law and now you want help with an illegal planter?”
“I contain contradictions.”
“You contain problems.”
“So I’ve been told.”
The market prepared for Hartley’s reopening as though it were a festival.
Josie objected.
Nobody listened.
Miss Bianke donated flowers.
Chef Rowan supplied food.
Reyes printed flyers.
Mr. Delgado somehow acquired folding chairs from a church basement.
Mrs. Okonquo sewed green aprons embroidered with HARTLEY’S CORNER.
Josie complained the embroidery was unnecessary.
Mrs. Okonquo told her to be quiet.
The night before reopening, Josie remained alone in the store.
Almost alone.
Enzo entered at 10:20.
“You missed dinner.”
“I ate.”
“What?”
She pointed toward an apple core.
“That is not dinner.”
“It was large.”
Enzo set a paper container on the counter.
“Rowan sent pasta.”
“You sent Rowan.”
“Technical distinction.”
Josie opened the container.
Steam rose.
She ate standing.
Enzo wandered toward the wall.
The framed rent notice hung beside photographs of Margarite and Howard.
Marianne had given permission for Howard’s picture to be displayed.
Below it, Josie had placed his letter inside glass.
Not all of it.
Only one line.
Please forgive an old coward for waiting too long.
Enzo read it.
“Cruel.”
“What?”
“To display his apology forever.”
“It’s not punishment.”
“What is it?”
“A reminder.”
“Of what?”
“That waiting has a cost.”
Enzo nodded.
Josie put down her fork.
“Why did you never tell me about Mom before?”
“You never asked.”
“I didn’t know you knew her.”
“You never asked that either.”
She glared.
He almost smiled.
Then Josie became serious.
“Did you ever think about helping us after she died?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Sylvia told me to stay away.”
“And you listened?”
“She was your legal guardian.”
“That never stopped you from anything else.”
Enzo looked toward Margarite’s picture.
“I thought respecting her family was respecting her.”
“You were wrong.”
“Yes.”
The simple admission surprised Josie.
Enzo continued.
“I checked twice. Sylvia said both girls were well. Bethany was in school. You were working at the store.”
“I was twelve.”
“I know.”
“You could have asked me.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Enzo looked at her.
“Because people like me become accustomed to believing our involvement makes things worse.”
“Sometimes it does.”
“I know.”
“But sometimes staying away does too.”
He nodded.
Josie realized this was the closest Enzo Ferrante came to apologizing.
She accepted it.
“Tomorrow, don’t make a speech.”
“I wasn’t planning one.”
“Good.”
“I hired a band.”
Josie stared.
Enzo’s expression remained perfectly serious.
“You did not.”
“Seven musicians.”
“I will kill you.”
“There’s the criminal influence everyone warned me about.”
She threw a dish towel at him.
He caught it.
The following morning, Hartley’s Corner reopened.
There was no band.
Enzo had been lying.
There were, however, approximately three hundred people.
Josie nearly closed the door again.
Bethany blocked her.
“No.”
“I hate all of you.”
“I know.”
Mr. Delgado stood near the entrance.
Mrs. Okonquo wore one of the green aprons.
Reyes had brought his younger brother.
Chef Rowan placed a basket on the counter containing the first restaurant payment under the new annual supply contract.
Marianne Brennan stood near the flowers.
People from the neighborhood came.
Some had avoided Josie after the scandal.
Some had watched the market humiliation.
Some had lifted phones.
A few approached individually.
“I’m sorry.”
Josie heard it again and again.
At first she answered, “Thank you.”
Then she stopped needing an answer.
One woman began explaining why she had believed the rumors.
Josie interrupted gently.
“You don’t have to convince me you were a good person while doing something bad.”
The woman looked startled.
Josie handed her a bag of oranges.
“Just do better next time.”
By noon, half the inventory was gone.
At two, Chef Rowan ordered more herbs.
At four, Reyes announced they had broken the store’s single-day sales record.
Josie thought he was joking.
He showed her the register.
She sat down.
Bethany leaned over.
“You okay?”
“We sold this much?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“People bought things.”
“I understand commerce, Bethany.”
“Do you?”
Josie laughed.
That evening, after everyone left, she counted cash twice.
Bills could be paid.
The cooler repair was covered.
Reyes’s hours were covered.
There would even be money left.
For years Josie had measured survival in weeks.
Five weeks.
Three months.
Until Friday.
Until rent.
Until the next supplier called.
For the first time, she could measure something else.
Future.
In March, Reyes started classes.
In April, Bethany rented a small apartment three blocks away.
She no longer needed to live with Josie.
She stayed for dinner four nights each week anyway.
Marianne Brennan volunteered with a legal-aid organization helping elderly people review property documents.
Mr. Delgado continued receiving breakfast bags.
Now he paid one dollar.
Mrs. Okonquo refused free pears and instead altered Josie’s clothing at prices suspiciously close to zero.
Enzo remained Enzo.
Feared.
Complicated.
Occasionally infuriating.
When a vendor failed to pay a debt, Josie once asked what Enzo planned to do.
“Discuss it.”
“With words?”
“Mostly.”
“Define mostly.”
“No.”
She decided some mysteries could remain.
Then spring arrived.
The potted fig tree was finally large enough to plant.
Josie applied for a sidewalk planter permit.
It was approved.
Legally.
Enzo appeared disappointed.
They chose a Saturday morning.
The entire market gathered.
Josie hated that too.
But she had learned there were some battles one could lose gracefully.
She lifted the young fig tree from its pot.
The roots had become thick and white.
Alive.
Bethany held the trunk straight while Josie filled soil around it.
When they finished, the tree stood less than three feet tall.
Nothing like the original.
Mr. Delgado looked at it.
“Small.”
Josie wiped dirt from her hands.
“So was the other one once.”
Enzo stood behind them.
In his hand was an orange.
Josie pointed.
“You stealing now?”
“I bought it.”
“From whom?”
“Reyes.”
“Then he stole it.”
Reyes shouted from inside, “Employee discount!”
“You don’t have an employee discount!”
“You do now!”
Enzo peeled the orange.
Josie looked at the young tree.
Eleven years after Margarite died, something she planted had returned to the sidewalk.
Not the same tree.
That mattered.
Replacement was not restoration.
A scar did not return skin to what it had been.
A repaired family was not an untouched one.
Howard could not return to Marianne.
Bethany could not reclaim eleven years.
Josie could not erase the market floor.
But new roots were still roots.
May you like
Sometimes survival was not getting the old thing back.
Sometimes survival was deciding what deserved to grow next.
