I know as well as anyone that it’s challenging for a medical supplier to create an attractive storefront, that bedpans and insulin kits don’t make for a naturally scintillating display, but with a little effort and creativity it’s not long before you can come up with a window that is almost pleasing to look at. And while I never expected customers to flock into the store because of such attentions, I don’t know how many times someone poked his or her head in to compliment me, saying, “Pretty as a picture,” or “Best on the street,” or “You’ve got some kinda style, Doc.”
Three years later, however, the store still has the very same display from the last Easter window I made up. Really, it’s a sad sight for the eyes. Everything’s been ruined by time and light. The petals of the nylon tulips are dingy with dust and crumbling, and the blue plastic eyes of the stuffed rabbits have faded to a glazed, watery gray, the fur unevenly tufted and bare and generally feeble-looking. The only thing different is that the window’s merchandise has long been reclaimed: the gowns unpinned from the walls, the potty now gone, and finally, left matted in the plastic grass, the faintest impression of a pair of orthopedic shoes.
I finally decided the other day to call on the new owners, just to see how they were doing. I take a walk of some length daily, part of my retirement routine, and so it’s no trouble to make my way down Church Street, which is the main thoroughfare of the town. For the first month or so after I sold the business to the Hickeys, I’d make sure to drop by regularly, perhaps two or three times a week, to check on them and see if they needed any help or advice.
Initially, I know, they were quite happy whenever the bell on the door tink-tinkled and they saw me step inside, especially Mrs. Hickey. The Hickeys were both new to the business, not just to selling medical supplies but to selling anything, and their one tenuous qualification for the work was that they were formerly EMS workers, partners in fact, driving an ambulance together down in the city.
I worried, of course, that the Hickeys were gravely inexperienced, and that they’d probably borrowed enough money that their monthly payments were dangerously high, and that with a young child in tow, they would find the demands of running a retail business more severe than they had ever anticipated. I didn’t speak about these concerns, as I did feel it was finally time to sell the store. But I was concerned. So whenever I visited them, I would do whatever was needed, calling on any past-due accounts at the county hospital and area retirement homes, negotiating with suppliers, and even checking the store books, reconciling inflows and outflows. I must admit that after the new days of inactivity, I found it pleasurable doing the work again, talking (and invariably joking) with former business contacts, appraising new products and brochures, and then taking my deli sandwich and pickles at my old desk with a mug of green tea, a canister of which I always brought with me on those days I thought I might drop in.
Mrs. Hickey would always greet me warmly and immediately ask how they ought to do this thing or that, and I’d set to work right away, until before I knew it, more than half the day had passed. It was Mr. Hickey, in retrospect, who was sometimes reticent, as he would look up and nod wanly when I entered the store, and after a few weeks I’d first check to see if Mrs. Hickey was there before deciding to go inside. And so it happened quite unexpectedly one day, when Mr. Hickey asked if I might let them run the business themselves, that it was what they had paid me for and if I would finally honor that.
I was confused for a moment, mostly by his tone, because it seemed I was merely there at their own wishes, but I realized that he was telling me in his own way that they had received orientation enough. Mrs. Hickey looked mortified and excused herself to go look for something in the storeroom, and Mr. Hickey politely held open the door for me, not saying anything more, and I resolved then not to disturb them again until they found it necessary to contact me directly, when I should be happy to contribute in any way.
Which they hadn’t asked me to do, I admit, a few days ago when I stopped by. But the sorry state of the window case, and the sobering talk I had recently heard from some Church Street merchants about the illness of their son made me feel that I ought to call on them at least once again.
When I entered the store I found, to my surprise, no one there. The shelves were stocked, though somewhat lightly, and the desk and counter were haphazardly covered with volumes of papers and carbons, the unmanned cash register appearing particularly exposed. The aisles had not been waxed in some time. About the whole place there was the sense of a dwindling, the feeling you get when you enter a house people are moving out of, an alarming spareness and disarray that almost seems to be the cause of the leaving, when of course it’s just the result. I said hello a few times toward the back storeroom, but I got no answer. Then I heard voices, muffled, coming from what one might see as a closet door but was actually the back stair to the second-floor hall, where the two rental apartments were. The doorway was behind the counter, and naturally I went around, and then I cracked open the door, to hear who might be talking. For a moment, I had the alarming idea that the Hickeys were being robbed, and had been taken upstairs to be bound and gagged.
But of course what I heard was their voices, speaking softly to each other in a low, weary drone, as if they had been arguing at length and now suddenly weren’t. They were talking, I could tell, about their son, Patrick. Mrs. Hickey was saying something about getting on Medicaid, now that there was no point in struggling anymore. Mr. Hickey didn’t answer, and I understood she was talking about the store and business. I thought I should leave then, for I suddenly didn’t like the feeling of eavesdropping on them, when the shop telephone rang out. The sound froze me for a moment, and before I could get on my way, I heard a heavy gallop descend the short stair, and Mr. Hickey opened the door just as I swung myself around the end of the counter.
When he saw me he glared, raising his finger to say something, but the telephone was ringing and he said to me instead, “You hold on,” and he picked up the handset, his eyes unwavering in their fix on me. Mrs. Hickey came down, too, and when she saw me she broke into an easy smile. Her face was wet, her nose and cheeks hotly flushed and rosy, and in spite of this it was wonderful to see her again, to remember what an attractive and pleasant young woman she was, with such genuine warmth of spirit.
“Doc Hata,” she said, wiping her nose with a tissue. “It’s so nice to see you again. Gosh, I’m sorry I’m like this.” She blew her nose. “That’s that. Now, how have you been? You haven’t been by in so long.”
“Forgive me,” I said, “but you know how busy people are, when they have nothing to do.”
She laughed lightly at this and said, “For a while I wondered if maybe you had moved to Florida or someplace. But then I thought about it and I knew better. You’re not someone who would leave his home so easily.”
“You’re absolutely right,” I replied. “Besides, that kind of heat has never agreed with me.”
“Do you still go on your two-hour walks?”
“Every day,” I answered. Mr. Hickey was still quiet, holding the handset to his ear. I said to her, “Why don’t we go together sometime? I head up through the state park these days, on the trails there, which are very pretty with the leaves full and shading. It’s hilly, but not so hard. What do you think?”