At one-thirty a couple came in. He was from the university, from one of the science departments. Arabella did not know him. He and his wife looked around in that silent, respectful way of middle-class people in museums. He held his hands behind his enormous camel-hair overcoat and she kept her arms folded in front of her, placing her weight on one foot while studying the quilts and the metal sculptures and then going from one wooden plaque to the next. Both of them were self-conscious; both more interested in looking at things in the right sort of way than in the things themselves. At one particular moment when the woman was studying the middle panel of Newby’s set, she held her fingers to her chin and pursed her lips in an exaggeration of discriminating thought.
“You certainly have some interesting pieces here,” the man said. “Unusual.”
“If they weren’t so…” the woman said, “…so exaggerated.”
Eddie looked at her. He knew how Deeley Marcum felt about women and he felt that way now. “That’s folk art for you,” he said.
“I guess so…” the woman said. Then she smiled with forced brightness. “We’ll be back. Thank you so much.” The man nodded apologetically and they left.
“Deeley could make her out of bumpers,” Eddie said when they had gone.
But the couple had started something, for other people began to come in. Arabella had reheated the coffee, and she served it in plain white mugs and gave them croissants with butter on plastic plates. It was while there were six or seven strangers in the gallery that Roy and Pat Skammer came in, both in puffy down coats and heavy scarves.
“Fast Eddie,” Roy said, “your talents never cease to amaze me.”
“It’s easier than nine-ball.”
“How’s it going?” Pat said. “Have you sold anything yet?”
“Not yet.”
“The cheapest thing we have,” Arabella said, “is four hundred dollars.”
“I’ll take it,” Roy said. “What is it?”
“The quilt next to the bathroom, with the flowers.”
“We don’t have enough money to pay the heating bill,” Pat said.
Roy smiled benignly. “We can sleep under the quilt.”
“You’re being an idiot,” Pat said in exasperation. Then she looked at Eddie and smiled. “We just dropped by to look you over and wish you luck.”
It wasn’t until five-thirty that a dean from the college of education came in, studied the Marcum sculptures for several minutes and then said to Eddie, “I’d like to buy the Las Vegas Model if you’ll take a check.”
It was as simple as that. Eddie figured the sales tax, took the man’s check and helped him load the piece into the back of his Volvo across the street. The price Eddie had put on the sticker at the base of the sculpture was nine hundred fifty dollars; he had bought it from Marcum for less than four hundred. Their profit was well over five hundred dollars.
On Monday and Tuesday there were no buyers, although several people seemed interested. On Tuesday morning, a woman from Channel Three called; and at two in the afternoon, while a few customers were looking over the things, she came by with a camera crew and spent a half hour making a tape for the Monday-morning talk show. She had her cameraman pan the room and then do close-ups of the quilts and sculptures while she did a commentary into the microphone. Her manner varied from earnestness to superciliousness. She called the quilts “items of Americana” but raised her eyebrows helplessly when the camera was on her and Olive Oyl together. Then she had the camera make a quick pan of the eight wooden plaques and did an interview with Arabella. Arabella was pleasant but reserved; her British accent seemed more pronounced than usual. When the woman asked her about Marcum’s pieces, she said they were indigenous American folk art; that they were comic, satirical and original. Eddie stayed out of it, liking the way Arabella handled the woman. He did not want to be asked questions about how a pool player could become an art dealer.
Eddie had seen the kid hanging around. The day before they opened, he stood in front of the window a long time, staring at the display. Another time he stood across the street for nearly half a day. But he had never come in the shop before. A gloomy-looking young man with fiercely black hair and eyebrows, he had the pale skin and hairy forearms of a certain Appalachian type. You saw them at country gas stations, with the sleeves of their green workman’s shirts rolled to the elbow and the black hair on their arms distinct against the white skin. They drank Orange Crush and R. C. Cola.
Eddie had just come back from lunch and was parking the car when the kid came bursting out of the shop and slammed the door behind him hard enough to break the glass. Eddie watched him head down the street, turn and go from sight.
Eddie went on in and hung his coat up. Arabella was standing by the cash register, her face cloudy. He walked over and put his hand over the back of hers. “Something wrong?”
“That damned kid.”
“I saw him stomping off. What happened?”
“He wanted me to meet him for a drink when I close up.”
“He looked pretty young.” Eddie did not say anything about Greg, who had not been much older.
“That’s what I told him,” Arabella said, “but he was persistent. He said age didn’t matter to him as long as everything else was right. That’s when I told him to get lost.”
Eddie got a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it. “Don’t worry about it. You did the right thing.”
She reached into the pocket and took a cigarette for herself. She smoked rarely, and only when upset. “I suppose so,” she said.
The morning show on Monday gave them six minutes. Eddie timed it. The pictures of Marcum’s women looked bright and good, and when Arabella came on she was very professional, smart and relaxed. It should help a lot.
By eleven there was a good crowd of people there—at least a dozen. Several mentioned the TV show, and a few seemed interested in buying, saying they would think about it or mull it over. But nobody bought anything. By six the shop was empty, and at six-thirty Eddie and Arabella locked the door and left. He was beginning to feel worn out.
“Well,” Arabella said, “we’re merchants. Two weary merchants.”
“Let’s eat at the Japanese place,” Eddie said. “I’m not ready to go home.”
The restaurant was two blocks away; they left the car in front of the gallery and walked. After dinner they decided to go to a movie and then they walked around downtown for a while. It was eleven before they got back to the car. As they crossed the dark street to the gallery, Eddie saw something on the window; it became clearer when he got closer.
Using white spray paint, someone had covered the glass over the gallery sign and then written below it, in glossy white, KENTUCKY FUCK ART GALLERY.
“Son of a bitch,” Eddie said between his teeth. “That goddamned son of a bitch.”
“I’ll call the police,” Arabella said.
The police were no help, although the sergeant who came by a half hour afterward said he’d have his men keep an eye on the place. Eddie was able to get the paint off with a razor blade, and since the gold lettering was inside the glass, no real harm had been done.