The Sasquatch Hunter's Almanac (9 page)

“As right as rain,” the woman said. “Really, it's impossible to damage any of our goods. They are”—she gave a careless wave at the shelves—“invincible.”

“I'm so relieved,” Gladys said. “You have no idea. With the week I've had, I just couldn't have added a murder to the list.”

Gladys laughed too loudly. An awkward silence fell. The shopkeeper watched her carefully. Gladys found the shopkeeper's face ravishing, so waxen smooth and pure, although she seemed by her stiff carriage tremendously old.

“Please,” the shopkeeper said, her hands primly clasped before her waist. “Look around. Enjoy.”

“Oh,” Gladys hurried to say, “I just wanted to step inside and welcome you to the area. I hadn't noticed your shop before! How long have you been here?”

“How kind of you,” the shopkeeper replied in her calm, steady voice. “We've been here a good forty years now.”

“Forty years?”

“A little over.”

“Funny, I've never seen you,” Gladys marveled. “I've shopped this street for half my life.”

“People pass us by until they need us,” the woman said.

She gave Gladys another charming smile. It cut through the wan darkness of her face like lightning. And then she walked over to the cash register, bobbing up and down like a large chicken. She bent behind it to withdraw a wide blue feather duster, which she began to wield around the dustless room, passing from aisle to aisle with her awkward gait. The feather duster shook and giggled like a tickled child.

“What a marvelous thing that is!” Gladys said.

“Yes, isn't it?”

“How does it work? Batteries?”

The woman shrugged.
Of course
, Gladys thought,
she doesn't want to reveal any secrets.

“The wooden box, too, is miraculous. And the bird was like flesh and blood! It's a trick of the light?”

But she remembered, as she said this, how her fingers had grazed the bird's feathers. Maybe her imagination, she considered. After all, she hadn't been feeling well today. Quite dizzy and out of sorts.

“Not a trick, no.”

Gladys felt, standing in this strange shop beside this paradoxically old and ageless woman, that she herself had regressed in years. The hard shell of her body was lighter now, filled with energy. She felt excited and open to the world.

“It's as though,” she said, “these things are enchanted.”

The shopkeeper hummed to herself as if she hadn't heard, working the giggling feather duster around the room. Gladys stopped trying to converse and began, again, to wander.

What marvels the shop carried! A stuffed frog that belched gold coins when she patted its head. A baby's mobile that, when wound up, issued not only song but also enticing aromas of roasting meats and stews. In a cage tucked near the back, a live weasel stared at her with deep-red eyes. It had glossy black fur and an uncanny way of chirping; it sounded as if it were speaking French. It occurred to her that her husband would enjoy this shop, and she thought how she would bring him here the very next weekend if he returned, and maybe they could take a picnic lunch in the countryside if the weather permitted and how rejuvenating that would be for them, how such a splendid afternoon, a splendid moment, could make them feel deeply in love again. Oh, how she wanted this to happen.

This was when Gladys found the patchwork cap.

It rested on a mannequin's head, a wooden mannequin whose half-carved features were familiar to Gladys, although she could not quite place the face. She reached out and touched the cap.
There is nothing enchanted here,
she thought. If anything, it looked old, overused, the patches dull in color, the stitching coming undone on one side—but when her fingers grazed the fabric, she was electrified by a surge of confidence. She pulled her hand away. The shopkeeper moved beside her soundlessly, looking at her with the same unreadable expression, her head bobbing very slightly up and down.

“It's a wonderful cap,” the shopkeeper said. “Very powerful.”

“It's an ugly sort of thing,” Gladys said, although now, she saw, there was a lovely shine to it. Perhaps it was not so dingy and worn, after all.

“My grandmother made it years ago. Stitched it herself from her favorite garments. It has sat on many heads—some quite famous, others not.” The shopkeeper gazed at the cap affectionately.

“And what,” Gladys laughed, finding herself inexplicably jealous of these previous hat wearers, “are its special powers?”

“Whoever wears the cap is irresistible to her heart's desire.”

Gladys grew very serious. What a silly thing to say about a cap. What nonsense. But she could not wrest her eyes from it.

“The thing is,” she began, more to herself than to the shopkeeper, “I'm a doctor's wife. I say it as a fact, you see. I'm not trying to gloat. I'm only saying it to prove how very odd it is that I want this cap. I've never been compelled to buy a used cap before, especially one not so very … well … used.”

But she smiled at the cap as she said it, her eyes flirty.

“Try it on,” the shopkeeper encouraged, carefully releasing the cap from the mannequin's head, which instantly became unrecognizable now that it was naked. “See for yourself. It will fit beautifully. It always does.”

Gladys wrinkled her nose at the fabric's musty smell, but it dissolved quickly, and she felt the cap tighten itself around her skull. It wrapped around her head the way a warm, affectionate cat might curl itself onto its owner's lap. The smell became pleasant, reminding Gladys of her grandmother's house when she was a small girl, the soft smell of laundry, of fresh-cut herbs, of old settling wood, even of Eli's musk. For the first time in years, Gladys felt relaxed and handsome.

“How much is it?” she asked, opening her purse.

The woman told her she would sell it for twenty-five dollars.

She handed over the money immediately.

“Now,” the shopkeeper said, her tone suddenly fierce, “there is one simple rule you must follow to achieve the best effect from our product.”

Gladys snapped her purse shut.

“You must never, ever, take it off.”

Gladys's head shot up, meeting the woman's bright and serious eyes.

“If you do, the spell will be broken, and you'll find your love greatly compromised.”

“Are you saying I must never, ever, remove this cap from my head?”

Gladys's head radiated a pleasant warmth, as though the sun were caressing her bare scalp.

“Exactly. As long as you want its powers to work, do not take it off. Not for bathing. Not for hairstyling. Not for eating. Not for anything you might wish to do without it.”

“And is there a return policy?”

“All sales,” the shopkeeper said, “are final. As it states on your receipt.”

How cheap to not allow returns,
Gladys thought.
Ah, well.
She bid the shopkeeper goodbye and exited the shop, returning to the bustling avenue. She remained, despite the admonition of the shopkeeper, very pleased with her purchase. The patchwork cap fit her head wonderfully. It fit her better than any item she had ever before worn, as though it had been forged specifically for her skull. It rested on her ears not like a cap but like a good friend who had only nice things to tell her. What confidence it gave her! She held her shoulders back as she ambled to the parking garage, her chin riding high.

She passed a group of other doctors' wives. There they all were, her friends and enemies: the cardiologist's wife, the neurologist's wife, and the slender, stylish wife of the gynecologist. They sat outside at a café, drinking coffee and eating croissants. It did not bother Gladys that she had not been invited to their outing. She congratulated herself for not being too sensitive about the matter, as she normally would have been. She told them good morning sincerely and then continued to her car.

(After she passed, the wives giggled to one another about the silly cap, which was a horrid little thing and clashed with Gladys's fine blouse and skirt. And hadn't she smelled strange? The gynecologist's wife mentioned the stench of overcooked bacon. And yet, after the laughter had subsided, the cardiologist's wife admitted—and all of them were quick to agree—that Gladys hadn't looked so well in years. She carried herself like royalty, as though what sat on her head was not a patchwork cap at all but a bejeweled tiara. Yes, the neurologist's wife concluded, she must have had some work done on her face. She must be using a good cream. The gynecologist's wife said that she would seek Gladys out and ask what, exactly, was her secret. The cardiologist's wife remembered how Gladys had once been a beauty queen in central Washington. Here they were, eating croissants, drinking coffee, and discussing again, as they once had, Gladys's beauty secrets. The neurologist's wife said they should have invited Gladys to brunch. “Stupid cap and all,” she said.
Yes,
they all agreed, laughing,
next time we will invite her, stupid cap and all!
)

Gladys, meanwhile, had found her car and was gliding home. When she pulled into the driveway, she saw her husband's car parked before their stately brick house, rather sloppily, as if he expected only to run inside, grab something, and return immediately. Gladys parked in front of the garage and touched the patchwork cap, just so, before rising to find him.

He was in his study, fumbling through the files and cursing under his breath as though running very late.

“Hello, dear,” Gladys said. “What are you doing home?”

“I've gone and forgotten my notes,” the doctor said hurriedly, “and I just wanted to pick them up and head back out for the woods. I can't find them here. So the day is not going well.”

“I'm sorry,” Gladys said. “Can I make you a sandwich?”

He glanced up then. “What is that
thing
?”

Gladys touched her cap reverently.

“Did you lift it from the Army Surplus? From a Dumpster? Really, Gladys. Your taste is slipping. The smell! God! It's like burnt flesh.”

Gladys was crushed. How stupid she was to listen to that mendacious shopkeeper. She had a thought to tear the cap off her head, but when she moved her fingers to her scalp, she found that she could not bring herself to do it. Her arm dropped to her side. She was overcome with pure rage.

“How dare you,” she told him, straightening. “How dare you insult me, Eli. I'll dress however I please. After all, my taste should not be in question.
You're
the one. Leaving us for an ape. Leaving us for an
imaginary monster
. Hominid or hominin or whatever you call it. Shame on you, Eli.”

The doctor gaped at her. Then he cocked his head. His wife, he thought, looked markedly different, and he found the difference alluring. She reminded him of her aloof younger self, the self he had met and married all those long years ago, the young beauty queen from Omak, Washington. Even her skin had taken on a youthful ruddy hue.

“Perhaps,” the doctor said, putting down his papers, “I will take a sandwich, after all.”

“Then make it your damn self,” Gladys said, turning on her heel and stalking away, the scent of burning meat trailing after her.

That was all it took. The doctor—if not exactly in love again—was intrigued. He followed her down the hallway like an old dog, all the way to her room, where she had slept alone for several years now, per his request, and stood at the door in substantial agony when she slammed it in his face.

In her room, ignoring her husband's whining pleas for entry, Gladys sat before her vanity and admired the sight of the patchwork cap. It was working! She wrapped her palms around it and gave it—and her head—a squeeze. She would kiss her cap if she could, but then she would have had to remove it.
No,
she thought,
I won't ever remove you!
She found it odd that earlier in the day she had balked at the very notion.

And so her new life began. She came to breakfast in the cap and arrived to dinner in the cap. She wore the cap in her car, in the shower, and in the garden. She appeared in it at social gatherings and at the hairdresser's. When the hairdresser began to remove it, Gladys gnashed her teeth and told her to leave it be.

“Just style the hair around it, please,” she demanded, and the poor hairdresser complied, styling Gladys's sleek black tresses around the cap's faded fabric. In the end, the effect was a lovely one, like a plain of shining onyx beneath a pretty rainbow.

After this excursion, Gladys, feeling every bit as lovely as a goddess, walked down Main Street. The patchwork cap made her head itch, and she scratched at it absently as she walked. Odds and Ends stood with its French doors thrown open to the avenue, and yet, once again, it was empty except for the preening birdlike shopkeeper, who was mopping the floors with a lavender-perfumed liquid.

“Hello there,” Gladys sang out, not wanting to catch the shopkeeper off guard.

The woman glanced up, her head bobbing slowly up and down, not at all surprised. “Mrs. Roebuck. You're looking well.”

“Thank you. I've just been to the hairdresser.”

The shopkeeper scowled. “I hope she didn't—”

“Oh, no!” Gladys said, touching the cap. “I've followed your directions perfectly. The cap hasn't left my head for even a moment. You know, it's funny, I can't imagine taking her off now. She's glued on to my head, as far as I'm concerned. Although I do sometimes worry about the smell.”

The shopkeeper smiled. “There's always a drawback to the good things in life, wouldn't you say, Mrs. Roebuck?”

This struck Gladys as infinitely wise. “Oh, yes,” she said.

“And how is your husband?” the woman asked. Her nostrils expanded as she spoke, a greedy hunger smoking her eyes. Gladys nearly recoiled, frightened by the shopkeeper's countenance, but the very next moment there was only kindness in the woman's face, a benign interest.