Chiyo felt tears welling. She remembered how her mother’s body had shrunk during illness, her limbs so thin they curled to her torso, leaving not so much as a dent in the mattress. She’d become weightless; Chiyo had no trouble lifting her into the tub to bathe her during her final days. Her mother had looked at her from the soothing water and cried. She had looked at Chiyo with love.

Carry tiger to mountain.

Chiyo reached into her pocket for a Kleenex and dabbed at her eyes. Her attention was caught by a sheet of paper newly posted on Marvin’s noticeboard:

GRIEF DISCUSSION GROUP

Meetings were Tuesdays at seven. Chiyo had no classes Tuesday evenings and was free to attend. She tore a strip from the bottom of the notice and shoved it into the pocket of her windbreaker. She checked her watch and headed for the store exit. A teacher should not be late for her own class. She stuffed her damp Kleenex into a garbage container on her way out, and lowered her head to the wind.

An Act of Love

TOM

Tom dropped his son at departures and headed home, a two-hour drive. Will had told him not to bother coming inside and then stood at the curb, luggage in hand, until his father drove away. What was different about today? Tom had always gone into the airport and stayed until Will was ready to go through security. Maybe his son was concerned about putting him to extra trouble—having to drop him off, park the Jeep in the lot, find him in a crowded lineup at a check-in counter. Maybe Will thought his father was getting old. Or maybe he wanted to work on his laptop while filling in the time before boarding. Simple as that.

Tom switched on the radio and scanned channels until he found music he liked. Joe Cocker was singing “With a Little Help from My Friends.” Will had stayed four days this time, tacking the visit on to the end of a business trip in eastern Canada. Now he was on his way home to his own family in Edmonton. Will worked in IT, a troubleshooter, on the road half the year. Tom wondered what that sort of job did to—or for—Will’s home life, marriage, health. The job brought in plenty of income, that was certain. Probably more than Tom earned buying and selling antiques for Rigmarole, the shop he’d owned for half a century in Wilna Creek’s south end. At Rigmarole, some years had been better than others. Sales depended on what he could find to buy and sell. Collectors’ items slipped in and out of fashion, the swing of the pendulum ever a consideration. Even so, loyal customers showed up at his door when they wanted to sell, or called when they had an estate to get rid of or were searching for a special item.

Tom had made a pretty good living picking, unearthing, swapping, selling a wide range of curiosities. He’d also begun to tell himself that he would sell the business someday soon. There were two other antique stores in town now. One was more of a junk shop, but both were competition. He’d also heard that a consignment shop might be opening. Even more competition. Still, he loved the hunt and the interaction with collectors. Every piece he acquired had its own provenance; his job was to track the information, set a value. He was challenged by the work and didn’t want to quit while his knowledge was ever-expanding. The thought of retiring, of separating from his business, was not a simple matter. Even though the reality was that young couples were not much interested in antiques. They wanted dishes that could be put through a dishwasher. They were not attracted to heavy claw legs, bone china or early pine. But for the time being, there was enough business to keep the shop going. He wasn’t being forced to make a decision to find a buyer. Not yet.