The narrow-faced shop sat quietly among older stores on a side street jutting off the main avenue. People rarely visited this section of town secreted from the more popular, quaint shops found on Center Street and its well coiffed downtown. There, neighbors and even tourists strolled, casually pointing to window displays and occasionally opening a door with an overhead bell. Designer fashions and vintage clothes were staged around garden urns, antiques, or paintings and books in windows. Shoppers would stop and imagine wearing these outfits to luncheons or garden parties, but after trying them on, would think about salads and exercise.
Late afternoon and early evening brought sharp, artificial light into the night sky. Across town, near a highway, stores battled for attention with neon blazing against the stark glare of security lights from factories that now were just guarded shells of buildings.
This particular shop was on a slow-paced section of the older community where walkers would occasionally stroll leisurely at the end of a workday. People could amble and chat, but were not likely to shop, for the stores were service-oriented, not sales.
On one side of the shop was a barber whose pole had been broken for over thirty years. No repair had ever been attempted on the red and white stripes, and no woman had ever entered the establishment comfortably. Its brick façade matched its neighbors as though family, but estranged over time. The red geometry was chipped and worn with some browner stones pushing outward like bad teeth.
A wooden door on the other side of the shop opened into a dust-filled room crowded with electronic equipment waiting for repair. Rarely seen, the owner had a habit of keeping his lights dim and his door locked, choosing instead to tinker in isolation. The sign in a window offered a clock face that suggested the owner would be back in an hour, but that time had passed day after day for two decades.
These neighbors had been steady fixtures over the years and the small frame shop sat neatly sheltered between. One window of the small frame shop was a leaded-glass, diamond window that appeared to have never seen a cleaning. Smudged with fingerprints and road dirt, it obscured the lighted shop’s interior. The opposing window was a single paned, glass front that allowed any viewer to explore the store’s inner core. Neither large nor small the window, much like the shop itself, was unassuming. A small, aging sign graced the glass with the words, The Frame Shoppe. As if to give proof to the words, a low wooden shelf in the window’s view housed misplaced wooden frames piled upon each other. A partially assembled model sailing vessel leaned in the corner, neglected. Deep shadows of dirt draped the once white canvas, marking the time that had passed since hands stroked its wooden hull. The name Smooth Sailing was painted on the hull in faded gold paint.
In the florescent light two men could be seen working over tables, each intent upon his task. An older man was sanding slowly away at a smooth oak frame. His hands knew the wood and worked each stroke with a fluidness and rhythm that only time and practice could teach. Reading glasses were perched low on his nose in an almost uncomfortable fit. Occasionally, he would move the frames upward with the middle of his arm leaving sawdust on his cheek and the lenses. A monotonous ticking could be heard from the corner of the room from a glass-framed clock. It stated the obvious; it created the tone and mood of the shop.
“So when would you be leaving, Arnold?” The taller man had known his younger partner for four years and had never called him any shortened version of his name. It was not his way. The older man stopped sanding for a moment and looked up. Even after all this time, he occasionally expected to see his brother. Stanley had died of lung problems 11 years ago and had been the other half of the shop. Arnold had purchased that half from Stanley’s son. The boy had no want of the business, but plenty of want for the money. He had coldly turned down his uncle’s smaller offer.
“I am very sorry to leave you with such short notice, Marc, but my ex-wife had to go into the hospital immediately. I will need to fly out to Oregon next week and watch my kids. It will be better this way; they need to stay close to her.” His low voice never demonstrated his feelings.
Marc studied the downcast face for any sign of emotion. The younger man was pinning a picture frame back on a heavy black and red monstrosity. Some Italian woman wanted her two tiny children framed in Mediterranean furniture, so that is what they gave her.
Marc worked well with the younger man. Arnold was never rude to any of the customers; as a matter of fact, he rarely interacted with them at all. But he was good with his hands, and for a man who began his career as a car salesman, he showed a lot of talent with wood.
“Don’t worry about it, Arnold. Bobbie will help out. She always covered when Stanley got sick. Besides school gets out in a couple of days, and she will have plenty of time to help.”
Bobbie noticed the lock right away. It took her pushing against the door with her shoulder to turn the key. “Marc, you should fix this lock. I thought I wouldn’t be able to get the key out.”
He smiled. Having Bobbie in the shop would wake things up a bit. She had more energy now than when she met him forty-two years ago.
Already all the lights were on and Bobbie was making coffee while she wiped down the coffee machine. Marc sat at his worktable ready to read the morning paper, and as the paper landed in front of him, wind devils danced sawdust across the oak scars and stains. “What a mess!” Bobbie shook her head in wonder. “Men!” Marc could hear the water running into the bucket in the back room; a strong scent of pine cleaner assaulted his nose and he knew her cleaning would be hours, if not days.
The radio began to play; Bobbie knew better than to expect Marc to keep up a conversation all day, so classic rock sang out with Bobbie in harmony. Their relationship was one of long companionship and understanding, and those years together had provided them a comfortable, pleasing haven from the outside world.
Bobbie pulled on rubber gloves and started cleaning from the back corner of the shop: pulling boxes from wall shelves, tools from bins, and empty stain cans from everywhere. She wiped down useful and needed products and discarded those that had hardened into rock at the base of a container. Months of dust from the room’s edges were vacuumed; the missing chuck key was found, as were two Phillips-head screw drivers; she found receipts, a check for twenty-three dollars, and a soured container of milk. Humming as she worked, she only paused to sip her coffee. Marc occasionally watched her work, as he stained some maple moldings. Bobbie mesmerized him; she always had. Her beauty was in her personality, and it sang out with each tune she mirrored. It was nice having her here and he knew it.
“What’s for lunch, boss?” Dirt dressed her face and cobwebs were in her hair as she bent over the table examining his work. Her blue eyes repeated the question.
“What do you feel like, Bobbie?” Marc was used to a sandwich he brought from home.
“Chinese.” She had made up her mind.
“Sounds good to me.”
The shop door opened as the bell rang. A young couple walked inside talking excitedly.
“The schooner in the window, did you make it?” A young woman addressed Marc, but included Bobbie with her eyes.
“Why, yes, I made that a number of years ago.” Marc wiped his hands with a rag from the table as he walked forward.
The woman smiled at her companion. He looked a little lost for words, but excited. “Do you ever teach classes?”
Marc studied the young man’s brown eyes. “What do you mean? Model ship building?”
“Yes,” the woman spoke, “Charley always wanted to do models as a kid, and he needs something to do while I am taking classes at the college. I don’t drive.” She looked apologetic.
Charley had walked over to the schooner, and was fingering the mast. “Can I pick it up?”
Bobbie had followed him to the window and carefully placed the piece in his hands.
“Marc used to make these things all the time, but you know how it is – work seems to take up all your time and energy. What type of classes are you talking about?”
Bobbie had taken over and at the end of the hour, Charley had signed up for a six week night course on model ship building. They agreed on a price, and the young man asked if he could bring a friend.
Bobbie was beaming. “I am putting a sign in the window. This is a great idea. You could offer classes and stay open two nights a week. I would help you and we could earn enough to go on vacation.”
There was no stopping her. By the end of the week, the shop was immaculate and in order. The window sign had brought in three more students and two were female. Bobbie had purchased doughnuts for the first night of class, but no one stopped to eat them. Bobbie moved from student to student helping when Marc was busy with another. He saw her true talent was teaching and knew then how great she must be with her third graders. Each of the five students left smiling and laughing, pleased with his or her accomplishments. Charley asked if Marc would purchase sailcloth for resale. Bobbie answered with a firm, yes. Her salesmanship was almost natural.
Arnold called on Friday. His wife was hospitalized with cancer, and there would be no way to leave his children. They had no idea when she would come home, and he was needed there. Marc assured him that all was well and never mentioned the classes.
The summer went quickly. Bobbie set up three more sets of sessions and each filled quickly. People were relaxed with Marc and Bobbie’s easy rapport and word spread through town. The students bought supplies and came in during the day if they had a problem with a home project. The deliverymen and mailman started coming into the shop and even had some coffee. Marc finished and buffed Smooth Sailing to a luster, which demonstrated the possibility of dedicated craftsmanship.
Marc was amazed at the life the little shop had acquired since Bobbie’s arrival, and even though he had always enjoyed working quietly with his partner, the change suited him. Both Stanley and Arnold were comfortable as old shoes and the shop reflected their quiet air, but Bobbie was vital and Marc found that he enjoyed this also. But he knew this of himself: as long as there was no controversy, he was content.
Marc felt guilt each time Arnold called and asked of the shop. Neither the classes nor the increased patronage to the shop was ever mentioned. He didn’t know why, but as the days progressed, it became more difficult to tell Arnold anything about the changes.
Arnold’s wife passed away at the end of August. He would be returning east with his two children and moving into a larger home. When he finally returned to the shop, Marc felt the tension between his partner and wife immediately. Arnold seemed to find problems with all of Bobbie’s changes, and would leave his dirty coffee cup on the worktable. The garbage went uncollected and often Arnold’s workspace would be cluttered and unclean. On the way home in the car, Bobbie would list Arnold’s faults, expanding upon each until Marc’s ears hurt from the sounds of her complaints.
Day after day, Bobbie continued coming to the shop even though Arnold had returned. She stayed with Marc in the evenings through the classes and workshops and reveled when students complained of Arnold’s coldness when they shopped during the day. Each day Bobbie dusted Smooth Sailing and placed it on the counter for everyone to see. Sometime during the day, Arnold would quietly replace it in the corner of the shop’s front window. Neither Bobbie nor Arnold discussed the problems they shared. They never spoke. They simply acted out their cold war. Lines had been drawn, territories establish, and each voiced complaints elsewhere.
Marc couldn’t stand the discomfort. He observed them play little cruel games each day. Bobbie would dump Arnold’s freshly poured cup of coffee; Arnold would leave a mess for Bobbie to clean up; cigarettes butts began piling up on plates, table edges, and a freshly swept floor. The mailman stopped coming into the shop and the deliverymen left packages outside. The classes eventually dropped off until Charlie and the two women were the only students left.
School was to begin on the Tuesday after Labor Day, and for the first time Marc could remember, Bobbie wasn’t excited to return. She spoke of retiring and working full time at the shop. He would remind her of her pension and her health care package, which took care of them both. She became sullen and skulked off to bed without saying a word. It was about this point that the stress at the shop began to escalate. Each day Arnold or Bobbie would stab at the other in some petty manner that would set the tone for the day. Each day Marc wondered if he should interfere, but didn’t.
On the evening of Charlie’s last class, Bobbie decided to walk downtown for some doughnuts. It was a beautiful end-of-summer evening and the streetlights were just lit. Arnold had left the shop early, and she had immediately moved the schooner back to the front counter and went behind it for her purse. Passing Marc, she kissed him briefly on the neck, as he was bent over a project on the table. The bell rang above the door, and Bobbie felt a quiet peace fill her as she stepped down on the old slate sidewalk.
No one remembered seeing the car that sped down the quiet street and hit Bobbie. She had careened off the front of the vehicle as the car raced away leaving her bleeding heavily on the roadway. Bobbie’s last smile was for Charley as he bent over her calling for help.
The two men worked quietly in the dimly lit shop. They seemed oblivious to the snow falling outside. Sawdust lay on the counters and clutter moved into the room from the walls and corners. The older man sanded slowly at an oak frame. The younger whistled softly as he brushed stain across a section of pine. In the front window leaning in a darkened corner was a schooner covered with dust.