“Harry and I could always get on,” she told Mrs. Carmel. “Harry and I never had a word.”

She was gratified to hear that Mrs. Carmel respected Harry, and that she agreed with Grandma that Lois was too hard on everybody. Mrs. Carmel reminded Grandma that Lois had always tried to stand in her way, and hoped Grandma kept in mind that the Cleveland venture was all Mrs. Carmel’s idea.

“I’m a business woman myself,” said Mrs. Carmel. “I recognize a talent for business and you’ve got it. Your daughter doesn’t see it.”

Grandma was so flattered that she saw no need to mention Lois’s required contribution to her business success.

Mrs. Carmel ran a millinery store in East Cleveland. She was a gaunt, dark woman always draped in innumerable black shawls, capes, veils, rustling skirts all blowing out like bat wings when she scuttled down the streets. She held her elbows stiffly out as if tacking to the wind for speed, but actually this posture was to secure many bags, large black ones, crocheted or velvet, all stuffed to capacity with old letters, ancient canceled bankbooks, receipts and recipes, gumdrops, sewing kit, samples of brocade, bone hairpins, tangerines, Butterick patterns, keys to long-forgotten rooms in long-lost houses, photographs of owlish children naked on bear rugs or heavily muffled up on bamboo chairs, but in either case long since grown up, addresses, stamps, obsolete coins, streetcar tickets, ribbon remnants, pincushions, and many other useful objects which could not be left in bureau drawers for thievish servants. Mrs. Carmel veered and zoomed around street corners as if wound up by the toymaker and liable to be stopped only by direct collision with an immovable object, and the curious motor noise she made as she zoomed was her mutterings to herself with parched lips smacking and false teeth clacking. These mutters were as documentary as the contents of her bag, “May Company, Baileys, Taylor Arcade, Woodland car, half a cup of sugar, picture postcard,” passersby would catch as she poised on a curb before flight to another corner, and often they took a second look at the eagle’s beak under the black veiled bonnet, the sturdy wart with curling tendrils on her chin, the beetling black brows and restless beady eyes. Some superstitious strangers even crossed themselves or made a wish as she brushed by, but for all this strange appearance and behavior Grandma stated that Mrs. Carmel was as bright as a dollar, with a heart as big as all outdoors. Her girls worked their fingers to the bone for her and were rewarded in their “bad times” by a nice nip of gin which Mrs. Carmel herself was obliged to take medicinally to keep up her strength. It was amazing that Mrs. Carmel made a living, amazing that any customer could be found in any walk of life for the bonnets which she gorged as generously with odds and ends as she did her pockets.

The shop was so tiny, it was squeezed out of existence by two larger stores. Inside there was only one counter, and that as well as the shelves was stacked with hats of all ages for all seasons. A large bin in the corner held untrimmed felts, and in spite of the overpowering smell of camphor, fat dingy moths waddled comfortably in and out of this perpetual banquet. The darkness of the showroom and the smallness and dullness of the mirror aided sales undoubtedly, and since Mrs. Carmel never bought new stock but churned her old frames and ribbons about seasonally, the overhead could not have been great. Some people, including Grandma, were certain there was a secret treasure hidden in one of the black bags, indeed were so convinced of this hidden security that they gladly handed over the fifty cents or so Mrs. Carmel requested, usually after a busy clawing through her purse and the preface, “I seem to be a little short of cash.”