Morgan's Passing - Anne Tyler [17]
For most of the morning he sawed and sanded and hummed, occasionally pausing to push back his hat and wipe his face on his sleeve. His office stairs made a fine sawhorse. At the front of the store a trickle of shoppers chose their single purchases: a mousetrap, a furnace filter, a can of roach spray. Morgan hummed the “W.P.A. Blues” and chiseled a new point on his pencil.
Then Butkins went to an early lunch, leaving Morgan in charge. Morgan had to rise and dust off his knees, regretfully, and wait on a man in coveralls who wanted to buy a Hide-a-Key. “What for?” Morgan asked. “Why spend good money on a little tin box? Do you see the price on this thing?”
“Well, but last week I locked the keys inside my car, don’t you know, and I was thinking how maybe I could hide an extra key beneath the—”
“Look,” said Morgan. “All you do is take a piece of dental floss, waxed. Surely you have dental floss. Thread your extra key on it, double it for strength, tie it to your radiator grille and let the key hang down inside. Simple! Costs you nothing.”
“Well, but this here Hide-a-Key—”
“Are you not standing in the presence of a man whose wife perpetually mislays his car keys for him?” Morgan asked.
The man glanced around him.
“Me, I mean. She loses all I own,” Morgan said, “and I’ve never had a Hide-a-Key in my life.”
“Well, still,” the man said doggedly, “I think I’ll just go on ahead with this here.”
“What is it?” Morgan asked. “You don’t have dental floss? Never mind! I tell you what I’ll do: you come back this same time tomorrow, I’ll have a piece for you from home. Free, no charge. A gift. All right? I’ll bring you in a yard or two.”
“For Christ’s sake,” said the man, “will you let me buy one cruddy Hide-a-Key?”
Morgan flung his hands up. “Of course!” he said. “Be my guest! Waste your money! Fill your life with junk!” He stabbed the cash-register keys. “A dollar twenty-nine,” he said.
“It’s my dollar twenty-nine, I’ll waste it however I like,” said the man, pressing the money into Morgan’s palm. “Maniac.”
“Junkie!”
The man rushed off, clutching his Hide-a-Key. Morgan muttered to himself and slammed the cash register shut.
When Butkins came back, Morgan was free to go to lunch. He went to the No Jive Café; he liked their pickles. All the other customers were black, though, and they wouldn’t talk to him. They seemed to spend their mealtimes passing tiny wads of money to the counterman, and then mumbling and looking off sideways under lowered lids. Meanwhile Morgan slouched over his plate and chewed happily on a pickle. It really was a wonderful pickle. The garlic was so strong it almost fizzed. But you only got one to a plate, alongside your sandwich. He’d asked time and time again for an extra, but they always said no; he’d have to order another hamburger that he didn’t even want.
After he finished eating, he thought he’d take a walk. He had a regular pattern of places he liked to visit. He zipped his parka and set off. The day had not warmed up much; the passers-by had pinched, teary faces. Morgan was glad of his beard. He turned up his collar and held it close and proceeded almost at a run, squinting against the wind.
First to Potter, the used-instrument dealer, but Potter had someone with him—a gawky, plain young woman trying out a violin. “Father Morgan!” Potter cried. “Miss Miller, meet Father Morgan, the street priest of Baltimore.