Copyright Angie Holbrook and Mara Kirsht, 2003. All rights reserved.
THE SHOP AT THE END OF THE ROAD. Part 1 by Angela Holbrook.
There was a shop on the outskirts of town, one of those magical little places that seemed to sell nothing but half-remembered dreams and broken promises. It sat at the end of a long forgotten cul-de-sac, nestled amongst the elms and maples, idling away its days in a seemingly eternal springtime. Its only customers were small children, fallen teenagers and forlorn lovers, all seeking answers to unspoken questions.
The answers were supplied by a dark-eyed woman who sat behind an ancient cedarwood counter. She greeted her clientele with an indulgent smile, her lips curving in a startling, gloss red crescent, a gilt-edged deck of tarot cards splayed beneath her lacquered fingertips. As young and ageless as a waxworks gipsy, she watched in tacit amusement while her visitors foraged through the racks and shelves at the back of the store. Few could explain precisely what they sought, but each knew the moment they found it, squirreled away amongst the books and bells and Halloween masks.
Sometimes they might search for days, drawn inexorably back to the shop with its country-fair collection of everyday marvels. Opera glasses and china dolls; pocket watches and baseball cards; black satin gloves and the sweet, mocking lies of a beautiful woman. It was a museum of the strange, the exotic and the wonderful, housing a thousand scattered fragments of a thousand scattered lives. Trade was never brisk, but no one who entered the premises ever left empty handed. The Shop at the End of the Road sold everything. The cost was naturally excessive, but then again, happiness never comes cheap.
Happiness comes at a price very few could afford - and which none could ever resist.
Robin Lindale walked in the deep green shade at the edge of the road, thirteen years of late September sunshine in the body of a child not quite his age. He strode the verdant lanes with a light, easy step, meeting the world with a gaze that could calm an angry sea. Fair and slight and willow thin, he possessed a naive beauty that drew the eye of everyone who saw him. Many would turn to remark on his lush, Autumn features, thinking him a girl hiding beneath a boy's careless denims. Their unsuspecting whispers often brushed the truth, although no one would have guessed what lay concealed below Robin's alabaster countenance.
He was on his way to The Shop at the End of the Road, treading a path he'd followed since early childhood. A life-long devotee of the arcane and the inexplicable, Robbie had become the Shop's sole regular customer. Its dark, aromatic interior had held him entranced from the moment he'd stepped through its leadlight doorway half a decade before. His once-intermittent journeys were now a regular pilgrimage, a ritual he observed with an almost Catholic devotion. Like most children his age, Robbie was a creature of custom and ceremony. The Shop was a great unspoken mystery in a grey pedestrian world, and his life would have been incomplete without this weekly dedication.
He approached the store through a grove of pines clustered around the front entrance. In previous centuries, the Shop had been a small parish church with bluestone walls and mahogany floorboards. Stained-glass windows lent it a surreal quality much in keeping with the owner's Gothic personality. Robbie had always found this melancholy atmosphere vaguely menacing, like the moaning of the wind through a moonlit graveyard. He trotted up the front steps, inhaling an intoxicating mixture of Indian Rose and pine resin.
He paused just inside the threshold, adjusting his vision to the perpetual night inside. Dim, looming shapes gradually resolved themselves into art deco lampshades and glass-topped display cabinets. Nothing looked familiar; the merchandise altered from day to day like the colours of an April sunset. Robin stood silhouetted in the wide Victorian doorframe, savouring the fresh aura of mystery.
Then: a distant, nocturnal voice, drifting through the darkness:
"Hello Robbie."
The woman behind the counter waited in a pool of indigo shadows, silently reading the inscrutable cards with her long, spiderling fingers. She didn't need to look up to know who had entered her store. She divined the future the way the blind read braille, and was rarely - if ever - caught off guard. Long accustomed to her enigmatic presence, Robin approached her with the careless trust of a five year old.
"Hi Felicity," he replied, using the name she'd told him to use, which wasn't her name at all. He halted before the counter, glancing absently down at the Tarot cards. Her finger hovered over The Queen, an image which held a special significance for the boy. It always turned face up whenever he entered the store.
"Earlier than usual," Felicity commented indifferently.
"Yeah, I thought I'd drop in before the place got too crowded," Robbie replied ingenuously, unaware that such a comment could easily be misconstrued as the grossest sarcasm. Felicity dealt another card, whicker-flicking it into place with a dark, effortless grace.
"Seven of Cups," she remarked, unsurprised. Mystic numbers and the search for meaning.
"Cool," Robin nodded as if he understood the first thing about the Tarot, then looked towards the back of the shop. Like everyone who came here, Robbie was searching for something - though he wasn't sure how to describe what it was at this point. It was kind of silly, kind of embarrassing, now that he stopped to think about it. Maybe if he just went out back and had a look round ...
"Felicity, would it be OK if I -" he began, inclining his head towards the old Lady Chapel. A crumbling, circular alcove packed with skirts, trinkets and hat-boxes, it was sure to house the object of his desires.
"Of course," the woman agreed in a subtle, knowing tone Robbie was too young to recognise. He was thirteen, and a boy; guile was an artform beyond his understanding. He strutted into the rear of the store, passing a framed poster advertising a French magician named Robert-Houdin (Suspension Chloroform, the legend read). He felt confident that he'd locate his prize out in the Lady Chapel or some other part of The Shop. That was the true enchantment of Felicity's place; nothing was ever out of reach if you sought hard enough.
It was odd - as a little boy, he'd thought the Shop was a shrine dedicated to lost toys. Week after week he'd fossicked through the shelves, discovering things he imagined only existed in his dreams - matchbox cars and Radio Flyers and Ty Cobb baseball cards and Screamin' Demon motorcyles. A million fabulous treasures he'd never seen before but knew he couldn't live without.
Recently, he'd begun to notice a more adult content lining the shelves; the memories and snapshots of a vanished generation. Crystal perfume atomisers with big, squishy bulbs. Vintage cash registers. Pin-up calendars from the late fifties. Gold plated Dunhill lighters. Norman Rockwell prints from the Saturday Evening Post. A signed copy of Carl Sagan's Cosmos. The Beatles' Sgt Pepper's album in its original sleeve. An endless stream of postwar trivia which never ceased to fire his imagination.
Today, of course, Robin was after something completely different.
He was no longer a child. He was growing up. Baseball gloves, Sandman comics and pressed vinyl had lost their appeal. He'd uncovered a well of fantasy in the depths of his mind; a shadow world swarming with moist, sultry images. They were things he'd spied here a hundred times in the past but had never really noticed until now. Silk scarves. Lace gloves. Glossy black stilettos. Long satin evening gowns that clung to the body like a gleaming second skin. Signature Dior stockings with French heels and seams running up the back.
It was a parade of the sensual, the feminine and the seductive, one which frightened and captivated him in equal degrees. This fascination had built up over the last six months, forming in the centre of his being like a ball of liquid silver. It had haunted his sleep, hounded his waking hours. And the strangest thing was -
Something had happened last week, something which had released all the pent-up heat simmering in the pit of his belly. It wasn't the first time it had happened, but the experience had never been so intense. It had occurred in the space of a few moments, striking him with the force of a biblical revelation, altering his perceptions at the most intrinsic level. And although he didn't realise it, this change had been coming for as long time - almost since the day he was born. Like all teenagers, Robbie yearned for things he couldn't name, couldn't understand, couldn't escape. Mirages in the desert, shadows he could see but simply couldn't touch.
Which was all that The Shop had ever sold, ultimately.
He hunted through the Lady Chapel for over an hour, heart pounding with excitement as he glimpsed his prize lying just beyond the next hanger. Invariably, the 'prize' turned out to be a delusion, a trick of the dim, stained-glass light and days of unresolved fantasies. Sighing with frustration, Robbie moved on to deceive himself yet again, wading through tier upon tier of glistening silk. The Chapel appeared much bigger than he'd originally thought. He could have wandered through the racks for weeks, inspecting every
dress, skirt and blouse by hand. Everything he found seemed to mock his efforts, tormenting him with its blatant, overstated femininity.
He finally emerged from the alcove, shaking his head in bewilderment, his face a mask of distraction. In all the years he'd frequented The Shop, he'd never walked away disappointed. Today, however, his goal had eluded him over and over, fading through his fingers like a will-of-the-wisp. He sauntered back through the store patting the dust off his shoulders, casting baffled glances around the shelves.
"Didn't find what you wanted?" Felicity asked, her tone more statement than question.
"No, I didn't ..." Robbie agreed, confusion etched on his innocent, doll-like features, "I was sure I'd find it back there somewhere ..."
"Answers are never where you first look for them," she commented, dealing another hand. The Tarot was laid out in a straight line across the counter, the cards face down and absolutely mute.
"I wasn't looking for answers," the boy replied without thinking, "I was just looking for - "
Felicity's eyes flashed up, huge and predatory: the eyes of a vengeful barn-owl, the eyes of a hungry jaguar.
"Yes?"
I - well, I wasn't ..." Robin stumbled through his response, his complexion darkening several shades. What was he doing, blurting out his story like some little kid with a secret too big to hide? He was practically dancing from foot to foot in consternation. How could he tell her what he really wanted? He doubted he could have told anybody.
"I wasn't looking for anything," he finally explained, knowing how lame that must have sounded. Hands thrust into bottomless pockets, he lowered his gaze to the floor.
"Really?" Felicity enquired with some amusement. Whicker-flick: two more cards from either side of the deck. Two seconds passed. Four. Then:
"Yeah, OK, I was. But it isn't here."
"Isn't it?" Whicker-flick, whicker flick, the sound of Christmas beetles taking flight.
"No, it's not," Robbie frowned unconsciously, "at least, I don't think it is.
Another brief lull, punctuated by the soft clip of cards on a woodgrain surface. Robin fidgeted uncomfortably, feeling cold tension building up around him like static electricity. He waited out the taut moments in an Alpine sweat, knowing there was more to be said, more to reveal, more to confess.
"Allright," he said helplessly, "I guess it's here somewhere. I ... I just wasn't sure how to ask for it." That wasn't exactly the truth, but it was close enough (he hoped).
Felicity nodded, as if expecting no more from him.
"Bring that stool over here," she said, leaning back from the counter, "it's time I read your fortune. When was the last time you turned the cards, Robbie?"
"I dunno. Never, I suppose." He felt around in his pocket for loose change, wondering how much she was going to charge him. Being thirteen, he was pretty much skint from stem to stern. Maybe coming down here today hadn't been such a great idea after all. You probably couldn't buy the meaning of life with four dollars worth of plugged nickels, even in a place like this.
"Don't worry about that now," Felicity said, absently reading his mind, "you've come here every Saturday for the last five years, so we can afford to settle the accounts later." Robin nodded, not really understanding what she meant, but feeling absurdly flattered, nonetheless. He watched in dawning fascination while her fingers skittered over the cards, rearranging them into a perfect Vegas fantail. She flipped the last one with a kind of spontaneous expertise, the result of decades of training. It housed the picture of a young man dressed in medieval costume, blond locks hanging down to his shoulders.
The Youth.
"A child's desires are easily satisfied, Robbie. They change by the hour, flowing like treacle over the tongue. Warm and sweet, but empty of all substance. First time you came here, the shelves were lined with toys and baubles. All you saw for three years were gameboys, skateboards and catcher's mitts." She paused, grinning at some private joke, then concluded: "Snips and snails and puppy dog's tails - that's what Robbie's dreams are made of."
Robin blinked several times, sensing an undertone of taunt in the woman's chirping nursery rhyme. Her hands sparrowed over the cards once more, upturning an armoured figure astride an angry black stallion. The Knight of Swords.
"A man's desires are equally vain. Visions of wealth and conquest; the power to prove his courage. His masculinity. His innate superiority. They still come in here now and then, blustering like feudal lords, demanding respect they've never earned. Know what they see? Easy solutions. Pheromone sprays, MK-20s, platinum visacards. Shortcuts to happiness, or what they believe is happiness. For some it's an unlimited supply of viagara. For others, its the keys to a sixty-three Mustang. Anything to bolster their pathetic male egos.
"But that's not what you're looking for, is it Robbie?"
He shook his head. Whatever he wanted, it had nothing to do with validating his masculinity. Felicity smiled again, exposing brilliantly white, even teeth.
"No, of course not. Being neither child nor adult, your interests are more intricate. They're mysterious, esoteric, unresolved. Things you can neither name nor touch, except in the deepest part of the night, when you drift between the waking and sleeping worlds." Her fingers hovered over another card, centre of the spread. "What were you looking for, Robbie?"
The boy opened his mouth to answer, to spill out his burden of shattered hopes, but fought back the words with all his strength. Years of secrecy and self-denial shackled his tongue. This was a facet of his personality he'd been concealing all his life, one he could barely admit to himself. How could he discuss this with her, with anybody? He drew back in an agony of self-defeat, unable to even glance in her direction.
"I can't tell you," he whispered in a small, drowning voice.
THE SHOP AT THE END OF THE ROAD. Part 2 by Mara Kirsht
A frigid silence fell between them as Felicity transfixed the boy with an ebony stare. Looking up against his wishes, Robbie withered in that arctic gaze. A deep carmine flush invaded his features. Felicity shook her head and began gathering up the cards with an air of dismissal, her expression one of weary distaste.
"We have nothing further to discuss."
Robbie felt a surge of panic. What had he done? She'd been trying to help him, to offer him a solution, and he'd missed his chance. His window of opportunity had closed - probably forever. Worse than that, he'd insulted her in some obscure way he didn't quite understand. He could see that now, see it in the sharp angle of her spine, the harsh set of her features. She was the one person who might comprehend the doubt and confusion he'd been feeling - and he'd pushed her away with a few careless words.
"No, wait," he cried (a little more desperately than he'd intended), leaning half-way over the counter, "you don't understand, Felicity. I ... I can't talk about this, really I can't! It's too embarrassing, too -" he groped for the word - "humiliating. Whenever I think about it, I feel all dirty and sweaty, like I was -" touching myself, he was going to say, but let the sentence trail off into oblivion. He tried to start over: "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to -"
"Do you trust me Robbie?" Felicity asked, cutting him off.
"Yes," the boy nodded, hesitantly.
"Then listen carefully. As I said before, the answers are never where you first look for them. Sometimes you have to take risks, venture into places you'd rather not go. Places that frighten you, the way a child fears a darkened room. The problem is; you're no longer a child, Robbie. No one is going to hold your hand now. If you want to explore that darkened room, you have to enter alone ... and face whatever waits within."
Robin nodded, saying nothing.
"You came here today because you wanted something," the woman continued, "something so magical and terrifying that you can't bring yourself to ask for it by name. And here you face a paradox, Robbie. Because what you want - what you need so desperately - has no real name."
And she was right. There were words - alien, clinical words he'd read in textbooks and heard on documentaries - but they couldn't begin to describe the complicated emotions he'd experienced in the preceding weeks. Transvestite. Transgendered. Transsexual. Sterile, technical, lacklustre terms. Robbie knew precisely what they meant, but the meanings themselves were irrelevant. As she'd said, what he wanted had no real name.
"What can I do?" He asked, teetering on despair.
"Give it a name."
"I can't. I ... I don't know how to put it into words."
"You don't want to put it into words Robbie. You want the answer, but you don't want to ask the question. You want the cake but you don't want to cook. You want the gain, but not the pain. Like all men, you want The Easy Solution." She measured him with a dry, levelling glance. "I thought you were different."
"I am!" he almost wailed. This wasn't right, she wasn't being fair. He was different, he'd been made to feel different from the moment he started school. Rejected and ostracised from day one, he'd endured the contempt and loathing of virtually everybody he knew. The big kids in the playground. Mr Grady, his gym coach. Mrs Lorris, his homeroom teacher. The old geezer who mopped out the hallway back in grade school, the one who used to call him 'Rosebud' under his breath. Jesus, his own parents gave him grief, practically every day of the week. How could he explain that to her, make her see what an ugly, pointless waste his existence had become?
She already knows.
The thought flashed across his mind like summer lightening: she knew. She'd always known. She'd known from the morning he'd stepped across The Shop's tiled threshold five years ago. Even then, she'd known everything about him, known him better than his own Mother. Every hair, every pore, every flickering eyelash. The Tarot had told her, whispered his story through her gliding fingertips, slowly disrobing his fragile soul until he was left naked and shivering in the night.
"You already know what I want," he said, his voice wavering on the verge of tears.
"Yes." Her tone was calm, unperturbed, almost serene. Robbie gaped in surprise. He'd expected a laugh, a denial, a knowing smirk; anything but indifferent confirmation.
"Then why won't you give it to me?"
"Because you're not a child, Robbie. As I told you before: if you really want this, you have to ask for it. By name." She started rearranging the cards once more, laying them out in a rough semi-circle. "There's an old saying, no doubt you've heard it: Money can't buy happiness. It's true. Money can buy anything except happiness." The cards now formed a tight, gold-rimmed crescent moon, the horns pointing in Robbie's direction. "But that doesn't mean happiness comes free."
"I only have five dollars," he said automatically, not really understanding what she'd meant.
"Four ninety eight," she corrected with a throw-away gesture, "but that doesn't matter: your money's no good here, as they used to say back in Vegas." A fond, nostalgic look passed over her face, as if she were recalling a dear, years-lost friend. She went on: "You can't buy what you want, Robbie, not anymore. The price is more than you could possibly afford. Bill Gates couldn't afford what you want, trust me."
"Then how - ?" Robin began, his voice quailing with anguish. Why was she doing this, why was she torturing him with these lying riddles? She was playing with him, a cruel, teasing game he felt compelled to play against his will. His head was reeling with the contradictions: yes, I have what you want, but no, you can't have it. Yes, you can buy it, but no, you can't. Yes, I'm going to help you: no, I won't. What was going on? Felicity had never treated him this way before. She was offering him false hope in one hand and an empty promise in the other. He felt cheated, tricked, betrayed.
I thought you liked me, he thought, feeling his heart sink with lonely, child-like hurt.
"I do," Felicity told him, as if he'd spoken the words aloud (which he had, without realising it), "that's why we're having this conversation. I like you quite a lot, Robbie. Very few of my customers have shown such dedication over the years. Unfortunately, I can't simply give you the answer to all your prayers. There are rules about these things. I'm not a genie, I don't grant wishes. Get that part absolutely clear in your mind. This is a place of business, Robbie, which means we have to strike a bargain."
"A ... bargain?" The boy replied uneasily. The conversation was taking on rather a macabre tone, as if he was bartering for his soul. Reading his expression (or maybe his mind, let's get it out in the open), Felicity flashed him another wolfish, predatory smile, freezing the blood in his veins.
"A deal, anyway. Reach an agreement, negotiate a contract. Make an exchange. The way things were done back in the olden days, before there were books or banks or money."
"What else can I give you?" Robbie asked in the tiny, strangled voice he'd used earlier. Knowledge crept over him in a slow revelation. She had trapped him, backed him into a corner with her wilful deceits and manipulations. Why in God's name was she doing this? What could she possibly gain?
Felicity's hand drifted over the cards.
"Tell me what you were looking for, Robbie."
The boy opened his mouth, attempting to reply, but the words refused to budge. They caught in his throat like fish in a net, struggling to escape back to the depths. He didn't want to tell her, didn't want to abase himself before this strange, fathomless woman. It would be an ordeal beyond endurance. But what choice did he have? She had deprived him of all options, all alternatives.
Inhaling a deep, calming breath, Robbie forced out his answer:
"I was looking for a dress."
To Be Continued email us for more:
angieholbrook2001@yahoo.co.uk marakirsht@yahoo.co.au