some town and ran my finger over the satiny wood frame.
“That’s a lithograph of Stratford-upon-Avon,” Madge said as she waited for someone to answer her call.
“Like in Shakespeare? In England?”
She nodded.
“It must be really old.”
“Not as old as Shakespeare, but old.”
“Huh.” I wanted to ask if it was worth money, but she held up a finger and began talking into the phone. I continued looking at her other pictures—dried flowers arranged in pretty patterns, two other lithographs, watercolors, and a weird one with the design all in dried beans—now who would ever want something that ugly?—until I heard her mention those Coke boxes. Then my ears perked up.
“I’ve got three of them for you, Sally. Two are in excellent condition; the third is a bit dinged.” Madge listened. “Sorry, I’ll need at least—”
And she named a price that surprised me because I’d have paid maybe a dollar. That much for old and empty wooden boxes? I looked at the jumble of things in the room. How much money did this old stuff represent? I was studying the dolls, all carefully arranged on a shelf, when I saw a funny-looking doll in a box. The figure sort of looked like Barbie, and she was wearing a black-and-white striped, strapless bathing suit, but the face was different from any Barbie I ever saw. And the texture of the hair was different.
“That’s a very old Barbie doll.” Madge came up behind me. “Way back in 1962 or 1963. How do you like the pearl earrings with the bathing suit?”
“That’s Barbie? Her bangs are all curly and weird. And she’s got a ponytail.”
“She’s a collector’s dream.” Madge picked up a plastic bag lying on the shelf. “And here are some uncut vintage Barbie paper dolls.”
“I didn’t even know there were Barbie paper dolls.” I looked at the funny dresses, so like the ones my grandmother wore in old photos.
Madge turned them over and pointed. “See the ‘Whitman’ printed there? They were licensed to make the Barbie paper dolls back in the sixties and seventies.”
“And people want things like this?”
Madge nodded. “People love things like this. See that doll with the porcelain head? She’s very old, in very good condition, and some doll collector will grab her up.”
I stared at the doll. She was certainly pretty, but I had no compulsion to grab her up.
“There’s a world of collectors out there, Libby. It’s my happy job to provide for them. Someone will love this baby doll of no specific heritage.” She lifted down a doll in a long white nightgown trimmed in delicate lace. “Her moderate price will find her a happy home.”
I walked to a table covered with piles of ratty-looking linens. I slid my hand under a discolored piece of needlework. “How about these things? Who wants them?”
“That’s a tatted tablecloth, and I think it’s about one hundred years old.” She gently ran her fingers over it. “Isn’t it lovely?”
“So that’s tatting.” I looked more closely at the intricate workmanship.
Lovely
didn’t seem the right word to me. Maybe stained or ripped or just plain old, but what did I know? I thought all dolls came from Toys “R” Us and Santa Claus. “I’ve read about tatting in books, but I never saw it before.”
“It’s a dying art, I’m afraid. When’s your baby due?”
“August,” I said automatically. “I think.” Then I heard the question and my answer, and I stared at Madge, appalled. How would a religious fanatic like her respond to my being pregnant and unmarried?
“The dad?” Madge busied herself arranging some cut-glass vases that arced little rainbows onto her hands.
I made my fingers loosen on the tatting before I tore it. “He’s gone.”
“As in left town?”
I shook my head. “As in left me. I know where he is. I see him at school all the time.” When I went. I couldn’t make myself say he was now dating my twin.
“Is that why you bagged today and so many other
“That’s a lithograph of Stratford-upon-Avon,” Madge said as she waited for someone to answer her call.
“Like in Shakespeare? In England?”
She nodded.
“It must be really old.”
“Not as old as Shakespeare, but old.”
“Huh.” I wanted to ask if it was worth money, but she held up a finger and began talking into the phone. I continued looking at her other pictures—dried flowers arranged in pretty patterns, two other lithographs, watercolors, and a weird one with the design all in dried beans—now who would ever want something that ugly?—until I heard her mention those Coke boxes. Then my ears perked up.
“I’ve got three of them for you, Sally. Two are in excellent condition; the third is a bit dinged.” Madge listened. “Sorry, I’ll need at least—”
And she named a price that surprised me because I’d have paid maybe a dollar. That much for old and empty wooden boxes? I looked at the jumble of things in the room. How much money did this old stuff represent? I was studying the dolls, all carefully arranged on a shelf, when I saw a funny-looking doll in a box. The figure sort of looked like Barbie, and she was wearing a black-and-white striped, strapless bathing suit, but the face was different from any Barbie I ever saw. And the texture of the hair was different.
“That’s a very old Barbie doll.” Madge came up behind me. “Way back in 1962 or 1963. How do you like the pearl earrings with the bathing suit?”
“That’s Barbie? Her bangs are all curly and weird. And she’s got a ponytail.”
“She’s a collector’s dream.” Madge picked up a plastic bag lying on the shelf. “And here are some uncut vintage Barbie paper dolls.”
“I didn’t even know there were Barbie paper dolls.” I looked at the funny dresses, so like the ones my grandmother wore in old photos.
Madge turned them over and pointed. “See the ‘Whitman’ printed there? They were licensed to make the Barbie paper dolls back in the sixties and seventies.”
“And people want things like this?”
Madge nodded. “People love things like this. See that doll with the porcelain head? She’s very old, in very good condition, and some doll collector will grab her up.”
I stared at the doll. She was certainly pretty, but I had no compulsion to grab her up.
“There’s a world of collectors out there, Libby. It’s my happy job to provide for them. Someone will love this baby doll of no specific heritage.” She lifted down a doll in a long white nightgown trimmed in delicate lace. “Her moderate price will find her a happy home.”
I walked to a table covered with piles of ratty-looking linens. I slid my hand under a discolored piece of needlework. “How about these things? Who wants them?”
“That’s a tatted tablecloth, and I think it’s about one hundred years old.” She gently ran her fingers over it. “Isn’t it lovely?”
“So that’s tatting.” I looked more closely at the intricate workmanship.
Lovely
didn’t seem the right word to me. Maybe stained or ripped or just plain old, but what did I know? I thought all dolls came from Toys “R” Us and Santa Claus. “I’ve read about tatting in books, but I never saw it before.”
“It’s a dying art, I’m afraid. When’s your baby due?”
“August,” I said automatically. “I think.” Then I heard the question and my answer, and I stared at Madge, appalled. How would a religious fanatic like her respond to my being pregnant and unmarried?
“The dad?” Madge busied herself arranging some cut-glass vases that arced little rainbows onto her hands.
I made my fingers loosen on the tatting before I tore it. “He’s gone.”
“As in left town?”
I shook my head. “As in left me. I know where he is. I see him at school all the time.” When I went. I couldn’t make myself say he was now dating my twin.
“Is that why you bagged today and so many other
Similar Books
