A Patchwork Planet Read Online Free PDF Page B

red lid,” she said, “and the ornaments should be nearby, but I’m not sure exactly where. I haven’t used them lately, because last year I went to my daughter’s for Christmas, and the year before … Now, what did I do the year before?”
    “Never fear, Mrs. A. We’ll track those suckers down no matter where they are,” I told her.
    “Mind you don’t step through the ceiling, though.”
    “Would we do a thing like that?”
    The way Rent-a-Back operated was, we tried to send each client the same two or three workers again and again. So Martine and I already knew our way around Mrs. Alford’s house. We knew how to get upstairs, and we knew more or less where the pull-down ladder was, above the second-floor hall. But I don’t think either of us had ever been in her attic before. We clambered up—Martine on my heels, nimble as a monkey—into a hollow of cold air and darkness. I groped overhead till I connected with the lightbulb cord, and then all this junk sprang into view: trunks and suitcases and lamps, andirons, kitchen chairs with no seats, electric fans so outdated you could have fit a whole hand inside their metal grilles. None of it any surprise, believe me. I had toured a lot of attics in my time. I said, “Well, there’s flooring in the middle, at least,” and Martine said, “White box, red lid. White box, red lid,” meanwhile maneuvering past a console radio, a standing ashtray, an open carton full of doorknobs. “Here it is,” she said.
    But I had caught sight of something else: a dress form, over by the chimney. It wasn’t an ordinary dress form; not a canvas torso plumped with padding. This was a life-size wooden cutout, head and all, flat as a paper doll. The face was oval and astonished—round blue eyes, two dots for nostrils, and a pink O of a mouth—with brown corkscrew curls painted in at the edges. The arms stuck out at a slant and ended above the elbows; the legs stood in a brace arrangement that kept the figure upright. “Why! It’s a Twinform,” I told Martine.
    “Hmm?”
    “It’s a Gaitlin Faithful Feminine Twinform! Invented by my great-grandfather.”
    Martine glanced over. She said, “Well, how would that be useful, though?”
    “Listen to this,” I told her. I read from the little brass plaque on the base. “ ‘Gaitlin Woodenworks, Baltimore, Maryland. Patent Applied For.’ ”
    “How would you know how big around to sew your dresses?”
    “It’s not for sewing dresses. It’s for putting together your outfit before you wear it. Like, if you’re planning to go to a party or something … Well, it does sound kind of dumb. But once upon a time, you could find a Twinform in every bedroom. Now they’ve disappeared. I’ve never seen one in person before.”
    “Those old-time inventions slay me,” Martine said. “People used to try so hard, seems like. Used to aim for the most roundabout method of doing things. Could you come give me a hand here, Barn?”
    I turned away from the Twinform, finally, and went to help her.
    The Christmas tree carton was a manageable size, with holes at each end to hang on by, but it turned out to be fairly heavy. I said, “Oof!” Martine, though, didn’t make a sound. (Both our girl employees behaved that way, I’d noticed—kept their breaths very even and quiet where a guy would have openly grunted.) “Better let me go first,” I said when we reached the ladder, but Martine said, “What: you think I can’t handle it?”
    “Fine,” I told her. “After you.” And then had the satisfaction of watching her pretend it was no big deal when sixty pounds of Christmas tree hit her in the chest as she got halfway down.
    Mrs. Alford was waiting for us in the living room—her cardigan thrown aside, her speckled hands twisting and pulling and itching to get started. “Oh, good,” she said. “But what about the ornaments, I wonder?”
    I said, “Half a minute, Mrs. A.,” and we lowered the carton to the rug.
    “You did see