Authors: Jonathan Carroll
A few steps across the threshold, both Dean and Vanessa Corbin stopped, paralyzed by what they saw. It was so impossible and completely wrong that Vanessa instinctively moved closer to her husband for protection, although against
what
exactly she didn’t know.
The name of Dean’s business was “Benn Corbin.” Before it became a luxury men’s store, it was one of the town’s two magazine and candy shops. People bought their daily newspapers there, cigarettes and pipe tobacco, chewing gum and chocolate bars. Kids were always loitering around the store looking at the car, sports, music, or movie magazines while waiting for something more interesting to happen in their lives. The previous owner decided to retire about the time Dean and Kaspar began looking for a commercial space in the middle of town. The sale was arranged quickly and to everyone’s satisfaction.
But the partners felt real sadness when they gutted the place to turn it into “Benn Corbin.” Both men prized the funky vintage 1950s feel of the store. The uneven, deeply scratched and scuffed pumpkin pine floors; fifty-year-old cast-iron wood-burning stove; the cheap magazine racks and metal shelves the color of oyster shell carrying an array of disparate objects no one wanted but which nonetheless had never been moved or taken down because the owner was too lazy or he wasn’t even aware those things were still on display. Things like six-year-old comic books and dull Hallmark greeting cards, yellowed and bent paperback novels by the likes of Fletcher Knebel, Calder Willingham, and Roderick Thorp. The small faded red-and-white cardboard display that still held two cheap yellowing Timex watches on it. And a slightly sinister-looking toy kangaroo that, when wound up, banged furiously on a tiny drum. There were Wiffle balls and bats, and a large plastic Revell model of the aircraft carrier USS
Forrestal
. Dean got a kick out of the fact old Ayres, the previous owner, had painted the brick walls white to brighten up the place rather than spend a few dollars more to install good lighting.
After buying the store, the men had the wooden floors sanded and sealed until they glistened and glowed a deep rich honey brown. The white was stripped off the walls, returning the bricks to their original terra-cotta color. Finally, the new owners paid thousands of dollars to install state-of-the-art lighting so everything in there, especially the clothes on display, looked exceptional.
Ayres was invited to the grand opening of Benn Corbin, but shortly after walking in and seeing what they had done to his store, it was plain the previous owner was at first dismayed and then genuinely upset at the transformation.
“Everything’s gone, even the smell. You took away the
smell
of my store!” The old man didn’t have to say anything more. Dean and Kaspar knew exactly what he was talking about.
Ayres’s news store had had a distinct aroma all its own. Whether it was nice or not was debatable. A combination of fresh printer’s ink on newspaper, mildewed cloth, decades of tracked-in mud and dirt (depending on the season), candy, summer dust, winter slush, body odor, cigar and cigarette smoke, hot sulfur from just-lit matches, and an array of other unidentifiable but strong ingredients. All of them had accumulated, accreted, and emulsified in the store for decades, creating a distinctive odor instantly familiar to anyone who frequented the place. For better or worse it was a smell you knew in an instant.
When Dean and Vanessa walked in that morning, the aroma of Ayres’s store was the first thing to meet them. The delicately delectable smells of the various Diptyque scented candles used in the swank Benn Corbin were no longer there. They had been blotted out completely by the signature stench of the old news store.
More surprises were waiting for the Corbins, many more, but the fusty odor was the first clue. It was as strong and pervasive as it had once been; it hogged all the air in the room. Of course such a singular smell did not belong in the home of handmade suits from Naples and Scottish cashmere scarves costing as much as a small car.
After the seconds it took their brains to identify the tang, the couple was faced with the next impossible fact: Benn Corbin no longer existed. The store had somehow transformed back to old Ayres’s newspaper shop.
Dean had glimpsed it through the front window over Vanessa’s shoulder when they’d stood outside on the sidewalk arguing. Naturally he couldn’t believe what he saw, so he pushed his wife aside and opened the door to investigate.
Everything was gone—the luxurious clothes, the custom-made mannequins from Antwerp, the antique walnut display cases, the Mission furniture, the overall
lightness
of the store they had so carefully planned and created. Instead, the Corbins were now surrounded by a dark, dank, dumpy dated shop that sold stale Hershey bars and three copies of
Road & Track
magazine a month.
“What
is
this?”
“I don’t know.”
“What
happened
here?”
“I don’t know, Vanessa. I don’t … know.”
“Where are all the clothes? Where is your
store
?”
He didn’t answer because he had no answer. Instead, Dean walked into his store and began looking around, looking at various objects in there, looking for answers and clues, possible reasons for why and how this had happened.
Vanessa was too afraid to move. She stayed right where she was, a few feet into the shop, close enough to the exit so if something worse happened she could flee fast.
Dean kept moving, touching things and sniffing the air like a curious animal on a scent. As always he seemed unruffled. Watching from a distance, Vanessa loved his ability to stay calm and resolute when all she wanted to do was scream and run.
Out of nowhere she remembered a note Dean had written to her years ago after they’d first begun sleeping together. “There is the morning and there is you. On the good days, the best days, I have both.” She didn’t know if she loved her husband anymore, but
parts
of her still loved parts of him, and isn’t this love too? Does it have to be everything to qualify for that holiest of words? In this particular situation there was no one on earth she’d rather have been with than calm, clear Dean Corbin, life’s premier problem solver.
“We’re leaving. I don’t even begin to understand this. Let’s find Kaspar. Maybe he’ll…” Dean took out his phone and gestured for Vanessa to wait while he dialed. He stared at a white wall while waiting for the call to connect, but it didn’t. Looking at the telephone screen, he saw there was no signal. He tried again but the screen still said no. “Okay, let’s just go. I’ll call from outside.”
Vanessa was close enough to the door so all she had to do was turn, take three steps, and her hand was on the knob. Turning it, she opened the door and stepped outside. But Dean didn’t follow. Looking over her shoulder, she saw he was looking across the room. A man came into view from the back of the store, wiping his hands on a cloth.
“Hello. Can I help you folks?”
At first she didn’t know him. Then she did: it was Whit Ayres, the former owner of her husband’s store. She hadn’t recognized him because this man was thirty years younger than the old grouch she used to buy her newspapers and fashion magazines from when they first moved to town. But this Whit Ayres had a full head of spicy red-brown hair sprouting willfully out in all directions. He was sort of handsome in a 1960s hippy,
Whole Earth Catalog
way. To fit the part he even wore a plaid flannel shirt and brown Carhartt work pants. In contrast, the old Ayres she knew always wore the same outfit—a threadbare tweed jacket, chambray shirt, and black jeans faded almost to gray.
The Ayres she knew also had a face as wrinkled as an unironed handkerchief and a mouth that said no without ever having to say it. A grumpy fussbudget, a peek-sneaker at your breasts when he thought you weren’t looking; the old guy never deigned to say hello or thank you for anything.
“Sir, were you looking for anything in particular?”
“Are you Whit Ayres?”
The man’s face changed. It softened when he heard his name spoken. “Yes, I am. Do we know each other?”
Dean ignored the question. “Can I ask how long you’ve been here? How long you’ve had this store?”
Ayres looked toward the ceiling a few seconds as if calculating and then said, “Twelve years.”
“
Twelve
years? Only twelve?”
“Correct. Why do you ask? And how do you know my name?”
Dean stared at him in silence. Ayres smiled but said nothing either. The silence went on until it became uncomfortable. Vanessa tugged on her husband’s sleeve. “Come on, honey, we’ve got to go.” She’d never called him “honey” in their entire married life.
At last Dean started to move but stopped again to pick up a copy of
Esquire
magazine on display nearby. He looked at the cover, looked some more, and then held it out for Vanessa to see while he pointed to the date. It was thirty years old. Putting it down, he picked up a copy of a
Field & Stream
magazine and again pointed to the date on its cover—thirty years ago.
Vanessa shook her head. How was it possible? What did it mean?
“Could you tell me the date today, please?”
Ayres looked at
a New York Times
beneath his hand and said, “February 3.”
“And the year?”
“The
year
? It’s 1979.”
“Right. Well, thank you. We have to go now, but we’ll be back.”
“You didn’t say how you know my name.”
“The sign over your front door: ‘Newsland—proprietor W. Ayres,’ right?”
“Riiiiight, but how did you know the ‘W’ meant Whit?”
Dean waved at him and took Vanessa by the arm. “A lucky guess. Thanks again.” He hurried them both out of the store and onto the sidewalk. As soon as they were there Vanessa freed her arm from her husband’s tight grasp.
“How did you know about the sign?”
His back to the store, Dean pointed over his shoulder and up with his thumb. Above the front door was a long white rectangular sign with forest green lettering:
NEWSLAND—PROPRIETOR W. AYRES
. “We almost kept his sign on a wall in the store after we renovated. But Ayres wanted it back.”
Vanessa glanced at the sign, then at her husband. “But how did you know it was there?”
“It was up when we bought the place. If the old store is back the way it was, I assumed his sign would be too.”
“What are you going to do now, Dean?”
“Find Kaspar and hope maybe
he
knows what the hell is going on here.” Dean took out the phone and called his partner’s number again. Nothing. “Maybe he’s having breakfast. He usually is around this time of morning, which means he’ll be at the diner. Let’s go there first.” Without another word Dean walked away. Vanessa hurried after, not given time to think if his abrupt departure was an insult or just that he was preoccupied.
A few minutes later they left the diner after having learned Kaspar had been there earlier and was probably at Bill Edmonds’s house now. They walked back toward Dean’s car.
“Do you know this Edmonds? I think I know him from the bar.” Vanessa was two steps behind her husband as they moved down the sidewalk. Keeping up with his quick pace was always difficult.
“I’ve heard the name before, but I’ve never met him, no. This is about to change.”
They passed Dean’s store on the way to the car. He stopped and stared in the window. It looked the same as it had minutes before. Ayres was out of sight but inside it was still dark, full of dusty jumble and junk and magazines dated 1979.
“You see what’s in there don’t you, Vanessa?” Dean pointed at the store window. “You saw what it was like in there before, right? I’m not nuts? What I saw was real and I’m not just hallucinating?”
Vanessa nearly didn’t recognize her husband’s voice. It was needy and perplexed at the same time. It asked but also demanded to know—you saw the same things I saw,
right
? His tone of voice clearly indicated Dean was afraid she might say no, I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re the only crazy person around here, husband.
“Yes, Dean, I saw it too. Your store is gone. Ayres
was
young. I don’t understand any of it either.”
He nodded, clearly relieved. “I passed here this morning on my way to sledding. I drove by and looked at the place as I always do—my little visual hello. Everything was all right then. Everything was as usual.”
“Let’s go find Kaspar, Dean. Maybe he does know something that’ll help. Come on.” She spoke gently while tugging on his sleeve.
“Yeah, okay.”
This time Vanessa led the way. She kept hold of Dean’s jacket as he followed behind, sometimes looking back over his shoulder to make sure his store was still there.
Jane Claudius loved this part of her run. The long glide down Stadionkade Road, ’round a wide soft corner at the bottom, then hit the straightaway, usually not worrying about traffic because few cars came out here at this time of morning.
The frigid invigorating air was full of an array of winter’s best smells—woodsmoke, wet earth and stone, a moment’s heavenly whiff of something baking nearby. She pictured the baker hot and sweaty from her work, throwing open a window to let in a rush of icy air to cool the kitchen. Jane inhaled it all in grateful gulps and gasps.
She had found her right rhythm now. Her breathing and footfalls were in synch, her arms sawing easily back and forth as she jogged home from the mall with the new skating helmet in her backpack. Of course she would have preferred to be on Rollerblades, but the roads were still covered with snow and wicked patches of ice hid everywhere, so she jogged in her winter boots, which always made Felice smile and call her G.I. Jane.
As was often the case when she exercised, Jane felt bulletproof. Even if a car were to come out of nowhere now and hit her square on, she had the feeling she would fly unhurt through the air like a trapeze artist, land gracefully on her feet again, and keep running: yet another reason why she loved to exercise. It was really the only time of day when she stopped thinking altogether and just
felt
. If she was feeling right, if her body was loose and frisky, she was wholly content. Felice joked it was the only satori a middle-class woman in a pair of sneakers could ever achieve. As soon as Jane stopped moving (skating, jogging, speed walking) her brain began chattering again and immediately took over full operations.