Ten-Cent Outpost
An amateur might think of it as panic, but Estelle Marks didn’t. She knew better. She was seasoned. There would always be second guessing just before a show, but a successful competitor took it as an opportunity to remember the solid foundations of her thesis.
Estelle washed her breakfast dishes, a plate, a bowl, her coffee mug, one spoon. She dried them and put them away, too, because on days she had go out, she preferred not to leave anything in the rack.
Without panicking, she was thinking about the library. The focal point of the house. Yes, viewers were meant to linger there. To contemplate the shelves plus the piles on the coffee table, desk, floor. To wonder who would read so many hundreds of romance novels.
Here was the question, though: would a library like this be readily, ingenuously exposed to anyone who dropped by? Or would someone who had only ever read romances be more likely to hide the collection away a little self-consciously? Estelle owed it to herself, to the project, to consider relocating the whole thing, every volume, to the back. Visible maybe only through the rear mudroom windows. Secret.
She knew these were the big ideas the judges would be expecting. The competition at Ontario Miniature Enthusiasts regional finals was always intense, the jury severe and smart, and while they certainly rewarded attention to physical detail–the creases in curtains, the linens stacked in closets, the position of the soap in the soap dish–it was the consistency of the story your house told that would win you the ribbons.
But, no, Estelle decided in the end, there up front without shame, that’s where the books should be. This house wasn’t meant to be welcoming to visitors anyway. Plus, there was no time.
As of three years ago, in accordance with the directives of the province-wide organizing committee, all regional finals had been classified as “unoccupied.” Before that, the competition was called “unpeopled.” But when Marjorie Beane, then four-time champion, showed her Bones for Dinner Again tree fort inclusive of a family of golden retrievers, one setting the table and two staring longingly out the window, the administration circulated a clarification. Unoccupied: no people, no dogs, no living beings of any nature. Because anyone could be swayed by characters, empathize with them, and therefore overlook any number of shortcomings in the project.
The point is, the house should speak for itself. It should be as if all of its occupants just popped out to run errands. Or were on vacation. If the jury could surmise who was living there, who might be home soon, who had vanished, that was a success.
The irony was Marjorie Beane didn’t even need those dogs; Bones for Dinner Again would have won without them. Admittedly, Marjorie was pretty talented.
The evidence of animals featured in every one of Marjorie’s projects. It was her signature. She and her husband Philip had always owned dogs, and currently had a wire-haired fox terrier, a runt they rescued from a breeder who would never have made money off him. The poor thing was tiny, even for a terrier, and often fell when he ran, couldn’t climb the stairs and had to be carried, but what a great life he had, a whole life he wouldn’t otherwise have known, which Marjorie didn’t mind talking about any chance she got. It was heart-rending, the little thing following her around. Also, holier-than-thou a bit. Marjorie had a way of lording things over you in an intolerably kind fashion, in Estelle’s opinion.
Who knew what Marjorie would be coming in with this year. It was a fool’s errand to try to outdo her from the start. The only thing Estelle knew was there’d be no overlap. Estelle’s own projects were devoid of animals.
Estelle had never worked harder on a project than she had on this one. The idea struck her at Greyson’s one afternoon, as she rummaged through her change purse for a quarter to unlock the grocery cart. She remembered her first date with William, forty-two years before. How he took her to the waterfront.
She’d had money in her purse then, too. Mother had insisted. There should never be any presumptions, she said. A girl must always be prepared to pay her own way. But Estelle didn’t have to spend anything. She and William walked all afternoon. And later he bought a couple of lemonades, and for her a soft-serve cone. She remembered the jingle of coins in his pocket.
And there was a mime walking around, trying to embarrass people, make them laugh. Older couples and college kids were dodging him, watching the ground. When he did the classic box trick right up in front of them, Estelle was surprised by William’s good sportsmanship. While she herself shrank away, Willie played right into the whole thing, tried to help the mime out with a fake key. Tossed a dime in his hat as they left. Some musicians were setting up at the bandshell, but they never heard them play.
It was easy, being with William. As though he were a driver who knew all the roads and was in no hurry, so she could close her eyes and rest her head against the cool of the window.
He never understood Estelle’s interest in the miniature projects and teasingly called them doll houses, though he knew the proper nomenclature. Nevertheless, once she got more serious and started entering the local contests, he built a carrying crate into which she could place custom-cut foam. He helped her lug each house around, in and out of the car, lord knows how many times, breaking nothing.
Years ago he was driving her to a competition, just before Thanksgiving, and on the turnpike, under the bridge, a pigeon flew into the road and there was no way to avoid it. Estelle hoped they might drive right over top of it and leave it unharmed, but its feathers flew up, and when Willie looked in the rearview, he said, Oh no. Ah. Poor guy. We got him alright. A few minutes later, she noticed he was crying.
As she got increasingly nervous about the regional finals and the things she might have forgotten, she went to check on Willie. Okay, I’m off this afternoon, then, she said. She tried to straighten the oxygen tank beside his bed but the cord seemed suddenly too short and she managed to pull the tube across his face. Estelle straightened it, trying not to startle Willie, trying not to touch his cold, grey skin.
This was the only room in their house she couldn’t keep tidy, with the nurses coming in and out, with the machines and the constant laundry. If she had a room like this in her project, there would be a system in which the machinery could be tucked away in a cupboard, or affixed to the wall. The tubes would be untangled and tied with a tiny zip tie. The sheets would be pressed. And nothing would mess it up.
Wish me luck, she said to Willie. I should be back by 5:30.
Estelle put her white blazer on over her cornflower blue blouse, and ensured her hair was set right. She picked a small black thread off her cuff. Her pants were too tight. Her body had become as soft and heavy as water these past few years, and she was always fighting against it. She struggled to cram the case into the hatchback, hoping she wasn’t creasing her outfit. She dropped into the driver’s seat and pulled down the sunshade, cleared her throat and whispered, Please.
Regional finals were held at the Convention Centre, Hall B, which was the smallest of the halls but still square and empty despite being full of people, and unwelcoming. Everyone’s voices lifted up into the ceiling and came back strained and impersonal. The cheap swirl-patterned carpeting in blue and gold created static electricity every time Estelle walked over it and she kept shocking herself on the steel backs of the chairs.
There were twenty-seven entrants, all expectant and worried, which made Estelle feel a kinship with them she hadn’t expected. The judges moved around the room slowly and silently with spiral notepads. She had thought there might be something more formal in the scoring at this level. Marjorie looked over at her from a couple of tables down and held up both hands with crossed fingers, smiling sweetly.
When the jury awarded Estelle’s Ten-Cent Outpost second place, the head judge had this to say about it: It makes me want to be alone. It makes me think of a suitcase, in a way. Or a hotel room. And the judge gave a special nod to Estelle’s craftsmanship vis-à-vis the books, all four hundred and fifty, hand-crafted, printed and bound, displayed alphabetically, including the entire oeuvre of Barbara Cartland, whom the head judge herself admitted to having read, long before, with relish.
In an upset, Marjorie’s Damn the Expense, a series of pre-fab pods with an apocalyptic feel, dusted with the fur of a cat who appeared to have gone berserk, took third, behind both Estelle and a newcomer, Geraldine Forsythe. Geraldine was a cheery redhead whose entry was a loyal replica of the farmhouse from Little House on the Prairie, the twist being its futuristic, white fibreglass exterior. Not such a surprise, maybe, since at least a couple of the judges had grown up on afternoon tv as the latch-key kids of working moms in the ‘70s. Nostalgia played a part, certainly.
Geraldine seemed nice enough. She seemed like someone who might play accordion in earnest, genuinely eccentric. Her blouse was stretched at the buttons, leaving little gaps between, and at one point Estelle thought she might have seen the skin of Geraldine’s pale belly. She also noticed a cluster of scabbed-over scratches on Geraldine’s right hand and wondered if her body, too, was betraying her.
“Proud” or “happy” wouldn’t be right exactly. Estelle was more bewildered at the results. As though something was crooked, slanted. How sometimes the arrow pointing down comes on and you get in and press the button, but even still, the elevator takes you up.
As everyone was leaving, Marjorie came over to Estelle’s car to say congratulations. And how’s William, she also wanted to know.
He’s the same, thank you for asking. I guess we’re not expecting any change from here on.
Oh, Estelle. Marjorie said. That’s so hard. And she patted her back awkwardly. She added, without a trace of bitterness, Here’s to your great showing, though. Truly.
Estelle didn’t feel too badly for Marjorie. She’d come back next year, no doubt.
Estelle thought in the odd glow of her success she might be able to touch Willie when she went in to tell him. Brush his hair or hold his hand. The nurse said he seemed to be in pain when she had arrived earlier, but she had adjusted his drip, and now he was calm. Estelle thanked the nurse and watched her go.
One summer a few years before, Willie had bought some sandals. While he usually didn’t shop on his own, especially for shoes, he said he saw them in the Stratton Shoes window and thought they’d be a good idea, it being so hot. He took them out of the box, which he left in the front hall, and tried them on for Estelle, saying, Well, what do you think? Do they look good? And she laughed at him. They’re fine, honey, she said. Really. They’ll be nice and casual, she said, thinking he looked as though he was wearing a costume of someone who was comfortable in sandals and enjoyed summer. His stubby feet and ankles were white where he had no tan. He loved those shoes though, and wore them until they were falling apart.
Willie’s bed was freshly made, the afternoon nurse had changed the sheets, but the room still smelled like urine and bile, sweat also. With talc over it all. The skin of Willie’s face was ashen. Briefly, lightly, Estelle put her hand on his brittle shoulder.
Second, Willie. We won second.
Her voice sounded loud inside her head. She looked at the satin ribbon, then turned it to his face. We beat Marjorie Beane.
She laughed a little, as though he’d whooped with applause. Then she touched the palm of her hand to his. But it was cold. And she feared he would groan, or struggle to move, or throw up. It was that bad, sometimes, now. The other nurse would be in soon to change the IV and prepare him for overnight.
Love you, Willie, she said. But she was relieved to leave the room.
Estelle unpacked Ten-Cent Outpost in her workshop and put the ribbon in the display case next to a smattering of Ontario Miniature Enthusiasts Association Participant badges.
She had a cheese sandwich for dinner, and a glass of Riesling, and wondered briefly what Marjorie and Philip would be eating, if he had poured her a consoling drink, with that beatific dog lying under the table oblivious to the scraps falling all around him.
Later, by habit, she untucked the covers at the end of her bed, because Willie never liked having his feet pinned inside the sheets. Then she noticed the mystery novel on his bedside table was askew. She figured she had jostled it with the duvet. She crawled across the bed and returned the book to right angles. Even though Willie would have left it that way, tossed.
She found it hard to sit in that messy room with Willie. She was afraid, she supposed, that she’d have to clean up after him or that he’d die right in front of her. In particular, she found it hard to touch him. His body so strained and unfamiliar.
It dawned on her though, something she could do. She could read the rest of his mystery novel to him. She could go down there and sit in a chair just apart from his bed. She decided she would try that very night. Because that’s what he would have done if she were the one lying there sick and alone. He would have read to her so she could know the end.
