The Cost of Memories

In Which I Return A Memory With Interest

"Mrs. Miles," I say, looking up from the ledger where I am working on figuring out which of my customers are past the two-week mark, "I wasn't expecting you for another couple of days. How can I help you this morning?"

The petite woman laboriously makes her way up to the counter. Once there, she sets down a bag with a heavy sigh. "Morning, Mae. I think I managed to scrounge up enough money to buy back my item."

I take in the heavy shadows under her eyes weighing her down as much as the child growing within her. While I do not know all of her stories, I know enough of them to understand why each coin that I pull out of the bag is wrapped tightly in cloth. Much like the grandma and her heirloom vases, Mrs. Miles needs all the help that she can possibly get, but she refuses to take any kind of handout. Even my carefully-worded advice is often ignored.

"Well, it looks like everything is in order," I tell her, carefully brushing the money beneath the counter before she has to stand there longer.

"You're not going to count to make sure that the amount is there," she asks.

I shake my head slightly. "We have done enough business that I trust you aren't trying to trick me. I'll meet you in the back in a second if you want to get settled."

As she walks away, I notice that her shoes are starting to split, and I look down towards the pile of cloth-wrapped coins. I could tell from the moment that I emptied the bag that there weren't enough there to cover the amount that we had agreed on. However, for a woman that life has already taken so much from, I can't bear to be yet another cruel figure. Once she is out of sight, I carefully pick through the pile and slide one of the coins back into the bag.

Mrs. Miles is standing next to the shelves, staring wide-eyed at the bottles. I have found that no matter how many times my customers come back here, they are still amazed at the display. In fact, I often find myself awestruck by the different bottles, the colors that they emit and the shifting shapes that occasionally take on a recognizable form.

I start down the aisle where I know that her jar resides, determined to not make her wait any longer than she already has. I don't know if she has realized that I am in the room until her voice drifts towards me.

"How many do you have in here right now?"

Carefully moving a couple of the jars aside to reach hers, I think about her question. "Probably about four hundred in this section. The ones behind it have about three hundred, but those ones are all unclaimed ones that people haven't come back in the two-week deadline to retrieve them."

She stares at me with childlike hazel eyes as I emerge, the faint blue light of her jar highlighting the shadows of her face further. "That sounds like a lot of work for you, Mae. Yet the shop always seems so empty."

I gently steer her to the chair, setting the jar on the table next to her. "Most of the people who deal in this business either come in through the alley entrance, or they conduct their business at night. They find it easier to hide when the dark has settled over the city than when the sun is high in the sky."

"Should I start to come in the back then?"

Pulling on a pair of gloves, I shake my head again. "Mrs. Miles, as long as this is not the only business you have with me, I don't ever want to see you come in any door but the front door. The people who pass by here frequently know that you often help me do inventory in the front of the pawnshop, and there is no need for them to know that you are doing anything else here."