Page 60 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
“I won’t say a word,” I say conspiratorially, letting him know I’ll keep the skull-is-local secret, but I’d really like to know why this quirky old shopkeeper was somehow waiting for us to arrive early on a Saturday morning.
“Martha was Poor Yorick up on Forty-Second Street for quite some time.” He cups the skull in his palm, brandishing her like Hamlet holds the skull in Shakespeare’s greatest play. “A number of these were. She did her service for the bard.”
Presley flashes a smile as he sets it down. “Your collection is lovely. Is it a family collection?” She speaks with the practiced air of a pro, someone who’s used to asking careful questions to elicit delicate answers.
“Some of it is. Some of it comes from the Caribaldis, some from the Valentinas, and some from the garages of whoever’s home I find interesting.” He cranes his neck, regarding a moon-pie sign. “That was from a shop near Wall Street. Back in the day. Roaring twenties. My dad found that one.”
Presley’s gaze flicks to mine, her irises lighting up. The man is a walking, talking name-dropper.
“So you’re Jack’s son?” She practically radiates hope. “Jack Caribaldi, Jack the explorer, Jack the circus owner?”
“Well, he’s not Jack with the beanstalk. Yes, I’m Pat Caribaldi. Been running this shop for too long. Since I was a teenager, I swear,” he says, extending a hand. “But we own it. We have forever, and no one can take it away from us.”
I shake, and Presley does too, then I clear my throat, trying again to learn how the hell he knew we were coming. “You said you were expecting us, sir?”
His wrinkled brow furrows. “I did.”
“Why?” My desperation thickens the air. I need to know what’s going on. “Why were you expecting us?”
Slowly, he turns toward a grandfather clock then points to the time. “It’s not even nine. Every now and then, someone comes by before the shop opens. Pounds like a madman, like you did.”
“I don’t think I pounded like a madman,” I protest.
One gray eyebrow rises. “I beg to differ.”
“But that’s why you were expecting me? Because every now and then you have random visitors at odd times?”
He parks his hands on his hips, his lips curving down in indignation. “Was I wrong to expect you? You’re here now. So it seems I was right.”
I persist, despite the way he’s dancing around the question. “But why me? Why us?”
“Someone’s always looking for something.” He points a gnarled finger at me. “You’re looking for something, aren’t you? You came here looking for something you need badly. I can see it in your eyes. I was like you. Looking for something. Needing it badly. Sound about right?”
I don’t know what to say, now that he’s shifted from quirky shopkeeper to Yoda-esque philosopher. I don’t know what to make of him or the way he studies me, stares like he knows everything about me.
In the span of my silence, Presley takes a small step forward, setting a hand on my arm. “We do want something, Pat. We want it badly.”
The man smiles again, all wrinkled lips and crinkled eyes. “I thought so. I thought you’d want something badly. They always do.”
“Who’s ‘they’?” she asks gently.
“Those who come looking. Like you. Now, what are you looking for? A sign from the 1920s?” He gestures to the metal moon-pie sign. “A butterfly hair clip?” He points to a turquoise hair accessory. “An antique silver hairbrush?” He waves his fingers at a collection of brushes with silver handles blurred by time. “We have all the best ones.”
Presley smiles and says, “Thank you for the suggestions. They’re so helpful, especially since I’m a historian and we’re cataloging the Valentina estate. We’ve been researching the family, sir, and by extension, the Caribaldis. They’re fascinating, with such rich stories to tell, much like the items in your shop. They all seem like they must have elaborate tales behind them. Are there any that stand out to you? Any we should know about?”
Ah, so she’s trying a new tactic to figure out if he knows more than he’s letting on. I wait, watching her work.
“Of course they do. That’s why I have them,” he replies.
“Is there something here that was owned by either of those families?” I ask, trying again to get closer, to figure out what the hell we’re looking for.
He narrows his eyes. “You don’t look stupid, young man.”
I step back. “Excuse me?”
He flubs his lips, shaking his head. “But you’re acting stupid. Of course this stuff was owned by the families.” He parks a hand on my shoulder, manages to point me toward the shop sign. “Car-i-bal-di’s Cur-i-o-si-ties.” He says it slowly, as if he’s spelling the words. “Read it. See? That’s me. That’s my family. That’s what I sell. Stuff my family and the Valentinas have amassed over the years. The long years.” He turns around, muttering as he heads toward a door at the back of the shop. “Young people. They don’t know what’s in front of them.”
