like a thin burger in a bun. Eric peeked through the space separating the big âEâ of âSHOEâ from the âRâ of âREPAIRâ lettered on the smudgy display window and saw that no customers were waiting in the narrow space in front of the counter. The bell jingled as he pulled open the door, producing a brief shout of acknowledgement from the depths of the shop, unintelligible over the whine of one of the machines.
âItâs only me, donât hurry,â Eric shouted back. He leaned his elbows on the scarred wooden counter, smoothed over and dark with multiple coats of varnish. Waiting for the whine to give way to the flapping sound that meant the machine was idling, he shut his eyes and drew a deep, analytical breath of the pungent atmosphere. Leather, of courseânew and old. Machine oil. Shoe polish. A hint of French fries, probably left over from Mr. Leeâs lunch, always sent in from ShariâsSandwich Express next door by his wife, who was Shari. And something like glueâmaybe all those plastic sacks encasing arch supports and things, hanging from the pegboard at his elbow. Anyway, lots of smells for Jimmy.
âWell, if it isnât my pal Eric,â said Mr. Lee, coming around the half-wall from the rear of the shop, leaving the machine panting like a big, noisy dog with its tongue lolling out and its tail thumping. He was a short, wiry man with big hands and black curly hair going a little thin in front. âWhatâll it be, more shoelaces already?â
âNo, I was just wanting to ask you somethingâabout your cigar boxes that you showed me once. Did you ever have any tin ones? Or do you only like the wood kind?â
âTin ones?â Mr. Leeâs dark eyes got the little spark in them that meant he was interested. âYou donât mean Between the Acts? Little flat hinged box, gold-colored, about so square, with six holes in a circle in the bottom, red lid with black lettering, light blue revenue stamp?â
âIâm not sure about the holes,â said Eric, trying to visualize Angelâs box. âI only saw it for a minute, and it was full of cocktail picks.â
âFull of cocktail picks? â echoed Mr. Lee with a bark of laughter.
Eric explained Angelâs use of the box. âShe said she found it at her Grandpaâs.â
âIâll bet she did. In the attic at that. Those boxes went out just about the time I was cutting my teeth. Second World War stuff. What dâyou think sheâd take for it? Now, donât say cocktail picks.â Mr. Lee heldup a palm. âIâm not a drinking man and if I was I wouldnât set foot inside any rip-off cocktail bar.â
âWould you pay money for that kind of box?â asked Eric, holding his breath.
Mr. Lee thought about that a minute. âWould she take a dollar-fifty?â he asked Eric.
Ericâs expectations deflated. âI donât know.â
âTheyâre not worth moreân two bucks according to the list booksâtrouble is, I never yet come across one to buy. Tell you whatâIâll give her betterân that in work. She need any shoes reheeled?â
âI guess not. She always wears tennis shoes, same as me.â Eric sighed. âShe might not want to give that box up anyway. I tried to get it for you yesterday and she wouldnât listen.â
The little spark came back into Mr. Leeâs eyes and became a fanatical little light. He drummed on the counter with his stubby, work-grained fingers. âListen, Eric. Talk to her, will you? Sound her out. I wonât deny Iâd like to have that box.â
âShe usually does the talking,â said Eric doubtfully. âBut Iâll try.â He turned to go, then whirled back. âOh, I nearly forgot. Mr. Lee, have you got any little scrap of new leather youâd give me? Or an old shoe-polishing rag?â
âAn
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley