tree. Her mother started seeds in the greenhouse. The aspen and birch were just opening up, shuddering off the cold.
Secondhand
She wakes just before her alarm goes off, stretches her arm over the pillows and cat to reach the clock. The crows woke her, in the trees outside; they slipped into that place between dreaming and waking. The crows in the trees outside her window flew into the thrift shop. A whole murder of them landing on the clothes, making a racket in the fluttering dresses. Her recurring dream: finding a small vintage shop set in the side of a decaying building; rows and rows of old clothes to get lost in. She was trying on a blue wool coat, a Pendleton or maybe a London Fog, perfect for walking in the fall, by the tall houses on an Amsterdam street. Then the
crows; then the coat disappeared and she felt the dream escaping, tried to conjure it back. Crows. She burrows her head under the pillows, stretches her warm legs into the cool, vacant places in the sheets.
Thereâs no use resisting the morning now; sheâs awake. Cat nudging her shoulder. Garbage truck outside, accompanying the crows. Isabel scratches the catâs whiskers and rubs her head with her palm.
Youâre such a good cat, she says. And then she says it again, such a good cat , because she tends to say things twice to animals.
She sits up, throwing her legs over the edge of the bed, and the cat jumps down, underfoot all the way to the kitchen. The early morning sunlight warms a patch of linoleum, and she lets her feet bathe in it while the kettle heats on the stove.
Â
I think Iâll buy a new dress for the party tonight, she tells the cat. A new dress, she says, thinking
of her dream, and all the other times sheâs had the dream, and how odd it is to dream again and again of thrift stores.
In some of the dreams, the store is run by knowledgeable older ladies who worked in the theater in their younger lives. In others, she finds herself in junk stores and church shops, where she finds a stash of coats and dresses, all the former property of some meticulous, stylish dame who passed away with several decadesâworth of fashion archived in her closets. In many of these dreams, Isabel becomes disoriented, or suddenly loses her glasses and canât see, or she realizes she doesnât have any money and she has to leave it all behind. Or sometimes, as sheâs trying on a dress, feeling the satin lining slip over her skin, she falls into a narcotic sleepâa dream of sleepâand wakes upâactually wakes upâin her bed, with her striped sheets and the cat grooming herself, and the crows outside, and the garbage trucks.
What a symbol, she thinks, to have running around your head.
But there it was, every so often, making her want things. The way she hungered for things when she woke! Secretary blouses, silk dressing gowns, houndstooth skirts, beaded cardigans. She has a closet full of old clothes; still she dreams about them.
She looks around her kitchen at the accumulation of yearsâworth of seeking out church rummage sales and small town junk shops: the mismatched teacups and saucers in the cupboard, the faded aprons hanging from hooks on the door, the Vera tea towels in a basket on her tiny kitchen table, between the rooster and hen salt and pepper shakers.
In her old apartment, on the top floor of a ninety-year-old house, these things do not look out of place, but as she gazes at them, Isabel realizes that these things were all new, once. They were purchased and carried home in boxes or department
store shopping bags. Perhaps they were given as gifts. Their value was their newness, once, and none of these things would have gone together in a kitchen of any decade before now. A new bride would have wanted a set of matching china, complete with serving platters and gravy boats. The rooster and hen of the 1940s would have looked hopelessly old-fashioned next to the bright geometric-print linens of
Secondhand
She wakes just before her alarm goes off, stretches her arm over the pillows and cat to reach the clock. The crows woke her, in the trees outside; they slipped into that place between dreaming and waking. The crows in the trees outside her window flew into the thrift shop. A whole murder of them landing on the clothes, making a racket in the fluttering dresses. Her recurring dream: finding a small vintage shop set in the side of a decaying building; rows and rows of old clothes to get lost in. She was trying on a blue wool coat, a Pendleton or maybe a London Fog, perfect for walking in the fall, by the tall houses on an Amsterdam street. Then the
crows; then the coat disappeared and she felt the dream escaping, tried to conjure it back. Crows. She burrows her head under the pillows, stretches her warm legs into the cool, vacant places in the sheets.
Thereâs no use resisting the morning now; sheâs awake. Cat nudging her shoulder. Garbage truck outside, accompanying the crows. Isabel scratches the catâs whiskers and rubs her head with her palm.
Youâre such a good cat, she says. And then she says it again, such a good cat , because she tends to say things twice to animals.
She sits up, throwing her legs over the edge of the bed, and the cat jumps down, underfoot all the way to the kitchen. The early morning sunlight warms a patch of linoleum, and she lets her feet bathe in it while the kettle heats on the stove.
Â
I think Iâll buy a new dress for the party tonight, she tells the cat. A new dress, she says, thinking
of her dream, and all the other times sheâs had the dream, and how odd it is to dream again and again of thrift stores.
In some of the dreams, the store is run by knowledgeable older ladies who worked in the theater in their younger lives. In others, she finds herself in junk stores and church shops, where she finds a stash of coats and dresses, all the former property of some meticulous, stylish dame who passed away with several decadesâworth of fashion archived in her closets. In many of these dreams, Isabel becomes disoriented, or suddenly loses her glasses and canât see, or she realizes she doesnât have any money and she has to leave it all behind. Or sometimes, as sheâs trying on a dress, feeling the satin lining slip over her skin, she falls into a narcotic sleepâa dream of sleepâand wakes upâactually wakes upâin her bed, with her striped sheets and the cat grooming herself, and the crows outside, and the garbage trucks.
What a symbol, she thinks, to have running around your head.
But there it was, every so often, making her want things. The way she hungered for things when she woke! Secretary blouses, silk dressing gowns, houndstooth skirts, beaded cardigans. She has a closet full of old clothes; still she dreams about them.
She looks around her kitchen at the accumulation of yearsâworth of seeking out church rummage sales and small town junk shops: the mismatched teacups and saucers in the cupboard, the faded aprons hanging from hooks on the door, the Vera tea towels in a basket on her tiny kitchen table, between the rooster and hen salt and pepper shakers.
In her old apartment, on the top floor of a ninety-year-old house, these things do not look out of place, but as she gazes at them, Isabel realizes that these things were all new, once. They were purchased and carried home in boxes or department
store shopping bags. Perhaps they were given as gifts. Their value was their newness, once, and none of these things would have gone together in a kitchen of any decade before now. A new bride would have wanted a set of matching china, complete with serving platters and gravy boats. The rooster and hen of the 1940s would have looked hopelessly old-fashioned next to the bright geometric-print linens of
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