TRINKETS: By Joseph J. Patchen
Monday, November 21st, 2011
My husband and I like livin’ out here. We’re close enough to town if we need something and far enough away in case there’s trouble. It’s only an hour’s ride, and we have two young, strong horses. The sky is wide out here and the land plentiful, so the trip is certainly an easy pleasure.
We do have some neighbors - down the road - who’ll do in a pinch. And over that ridge, there’s what’s left of that Indian tribe. I can’t quite pronounce their name, but they’re friendly and helpful folk. Most of them were wiped out durin’ the war - first raided by the South,then by the North, then the South again and so on. There’s so few of them left, I swear the government’s forgotten all about them. That’s why they’re here and not on a reservation.
It’s a nice life out here. We’re ‘holden to no one but ourselves, theland, and, of course, the Lord. Our house sits facin’ the main road and in many ways I feel like we’re gatekeepers between the two worlds. In the cooler weather in spring and the warmer weather in the fall. On cooler days in spring and warmer afternoons in fall, I like to sit out on the porch and watch for the wagons of salesmen and missionaries.
One day I might buy dress makin’ cloth, another, a broom or a book. Oh sure, my husband may complain over some of the money I’ve spent or the things I’ve accumulated in the house, but isn’t that all men?
I love jewelry the best. I love those long, dangly things that I can hang from my ear lobes and drape ‘round my neck. I can stand in front of the reflectin’ glasslike a little girl for hours and play dress-up. Oh sure, my husband may complain some that I’m wastin’ time, but isn’t that all men?
One of my favorite salesmen is Mr.Crone, “The Trinketeer”. He’s been comin’ by these parts for as long as I can recall. My mother, even my grandmother, remembers him. And in all that time, he never seems to change: his long, lean form dressed head to toe in red, his white horse pullin’ that black wagon. People from all ‘round here just flock’ round to see what wonderful and unusual things he has to offer. He’s always takin’ a likin’ to me, ever since I was a little girl. The same for my mother and grandmother. He’s already takin’ a shine to my little Emma.
I guess you can say then he’s always been a friend of the family. That’s why I guess I always get a preview when he comes to town. My husband doesn’t have much use for him, says he brings nothin’ but junk. But I always find somethin’ nice. And then again, my husband’s always complainin’, but isn’t that all men?
Our weddin’ anniversary’s comin’ up. I told Mr. Crone ‘bout it the last time he was here. I told him I wanted somethin’ extra special - somethin’ memorable, an heirloom - I can hand down to my Emma. That’s why I’m particularly excited for him to stop by.
The mornin’s mist and dew haven’t quite been steamed off by the sun. I hear cocks a-crowin’ and it seems a little warmer than usual ‘round here. In the distance I can make out his form -long jacket down to his ankles, stove pipe hat, he stands out so against the black and the white. By the time I make in downstairs and out the door to the road, he’s already pullin’ up.
He’s smilin’ - He’s always smilin’. And when he takes my hand I can feel a locket in my palm. It’s gold and gilded, with roses and lilies. It shines brighter than the sun.
“Open it, Jane.” His voice is soft - always been soft.
It’s wondrous. Inside to the right, looking back at me, is the tiniest portrait I’ve ever seen. It’s me as a small girl - My blonde hair in curls, myeyes wide and blue. The colors are so alive, the details like nothin’ I’ve ever seen.
“You painted this?”
“Jane, I made the entire piece. It’s a gift from me to you. It’s what you wanted.”
And to the left, there danglin’ is my husband’s severed head, shrunken down to the size of a prune. But not as shriveled. Each hair is in place, his eyes as steely and grey as they were this mornin’, and there’s the queerest smile on his face.
“Happy Anniversary Jane.”
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©2011 Joseph J. Patchen
