{"id":1054,"date":"2019-11-07T17:13:16","date_gmt":"2019-11-07T17:13:16","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/?page_id=1054"},"modified":"2019-11-07T17:13:16","modified_gmt":"2019-11-07T17:13:16","slug":"samuels","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/?page_id=1054","title":{"rendered":"Suzanne Samuels"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Profits of the Heart<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

The brass bells tinkled as I opened the door, but my dad was too busy behind the counter to notice. The pegboard above the gift-wrapping table\u2014the one that held the shelves stocked with gift boxes and bins of hand-made bows\u2014lay in pieces on the floor. In its place, a shiny yellow and black rack with KODAK emblazoned across the top. It was so fancy that for a moment I felt embarrassed for the handmade signs: \u201cSTAMPS SOLD HERE!\u201d and \u201cFREE GIFT WRAPPING!\u201d taped to the wall beside it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I closed the door. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, hello, Suzy Q!\u201d my dad called out. \u201cHow was school?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The same question, every afternoon. I shrugged and mumbled it was okay. Thankfully, my dad was so focused on windexing the Plexiglas front of the KODAK rack that he didn\u2019t ask any more questions about school. After several circuits of spraying, swiping, and inspecting, my dad stepped back from the rack. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow do you like it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cUh, it\u2019s nice,\u201d I stammered, taking in the tiny boxes with markings I didn\u2019t understand. 100. 200. 400. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFilm,\u201d he said. \u201cOur new business.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Just after New Year\u2019s, my dad had discovered that a CVS would be opening in the strip mall down the road.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey got Hallmark,\u201d he said quietly when he delivered the news at dinner that night. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Getting Hallmark\u2019 had been our crowning achievement, when we\u2019d first opened, years ago. Holding the letter from Kansas City headquarters in his hands, my dad had decreed that it was a \u201cfeather in our cap.\u201d \u2018Getting Hallmark\u2019 was what set our store apart from other card stores. That five-point gold crown in our window. That slogan: When you care enough to send the very best. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now CVS would have all of that. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Along with three times as many square feet. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And parking. A freshly-paved asphalt lot with rows and rows of spots. No one there would have to hunt for a space and hope they had a nickel for the meter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I headed toward the back room to hang up my jacket and book bag, past the Russell Stover Candy rack, its top two shelves loaded with half-price hearts from Valentine\u2019s Day. When I returned to the counter, my dad was dabbing price stickers onto the sides of each roll of film. The pegboard lay on the floor, next to the hammer and a crowbar. I tried not to think of my dad, struggling to remove that board from the wall. The cardiologist had warned that physical exertion might bring on another heart attack. I felt that old familiar ache in my throat. But no. He wasn\u2019t grimacing or clutching his chest, like he had the morning of his last heart attack. He was smiling, like he\u2019d created a work of art. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll need to tell our customers,\u201d he said, gesturing grandly toward the rack. \u201cKODAK film. The real deal. We sell and develop film.\u201d My dad looked out into the distance, at something I couldn\u2019t see. Then he tucked The New York Times<\/em> crossword puzzle under his arm and headed toward the back room. In a few minutes, he\u2019d be asleep, head on his chest, arms hanging limply by the sides of the chair. This happened more and more these days.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 \u201cIt\u2019s the wave of the future, Suzy Q,\u201d my dad said as he was leaving. \u201cThe wave of the future.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I tried not to see how thin his face was or how wasted his once-strong arms. There\u2019d be a future, I told myself, and my dad would know how to navigate it. After all, he\u2019d been a business executive before he got sick. And our store was still afloat, even though the other card shop in town had gone under. Bankrupt, <\/em>I\u2019d heard my dad\u2019s mortician friend Tim whisper. Bankrupt <\/em>meant you were forced to sell everything. The cards. The gift wrap. The stuffed animals. Bankrupt<\/em> was a CLOSED sign that no one ever flipped back OPEN. An EVERYTHING FOR SALE sign taped across the front window. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe sell film now,\u201d I said to my first customer, a woman with two whiny kids. They clung to her as she tried to wrest her wallet from her handbag. One of them spun the rack with the porcelain animal figurines on it; the other pawed at the Russell Stover caramel bars on the counter. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I flipped the cards over and started to add up the prices. 35 cents + 25 cents + 35 cents.  95 cents + tax.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat comes to $1.02,\u201d I told the woman. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou did that in your head?\u201d From the way she raised her eyebrows, I could see she didn\u2019t trust my calculations. So I wrote the numbers on the scratch pad we kept by the register. One long column of numbers with a total at the bottom. Like the ledger I\u2019d seen my dad hunched over at the kitchen table that morning, the reds bleeding onto the page. Since the CVS had opened last month, there was less and less black. No one had to tell me that red ink wasn\u2019t good. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c$1.02,\u201d I said, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice. The woman pressed her lips tightly together and reached into her wallet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe sell film,\u201d I said, louder now. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The brat spun the rack hard. One of the tiny lambs went airborne. The woman tossed a buck on the counter and grabbed hold of the kid\u2019s hand. A moment later, they were gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I had just retrieved the lamb, with its now-broken foreleg, when the next customer approached the counter. A woman about my mother\u2019s age, with dark circles under her eyes. It looked like she hadn\u2019t brushed her hair in days. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe sell film now,\u201d I said. But she didn\u2019t even look at me. She put two cards onto the counter. One sympathy, one blank. 66 cents. She fished around in her bag. After a few moments, she pulled out a credit card.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Without thinking, I looked back at the small sign next to the KODAK display. Credit Card $15 Dollar Minimum<\/strong>. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know how to run the machine,\u201d I lied. I\u2019d been practicing with the machine and hoping for just this opportunity. To slip the credit card into the slot. Cover it with the carbon copy sales slip. And slide the imprinter over it, the sound, a satisfying KERCHUNK. But there was the matter of the minimum. The credit card company charged seven percent for every sale. My dad said we needed to make enough profit for the transaction to make sense for us to do.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I called my dad. He looked at the register display with its .66 TOTAL SALE and the credit card on the counter. Without saying a word, he lifted the metal credit card machine from its box, placed the sales slip on top, ran the imprinter over it, and wrote 66 cents<\/strong> onto the bottom line. The woman signed her first name. She seemed to hesitate before adding her last name, as if she wasn\u2019t sure what it was. I watched my dad watching her. When she was done, he handed her credit card back to her. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHave a good day.\u201d He smiled gently. \u201cTake care.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Finally, the last customer of the day. A cranky old lady who asked me to read Sister Birthday cards to her. Each and every one, even the 50 cent cards that we both knew she\u2019d never buy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As I rang up her 15-cent card, I gestured towards the KODAK display.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe sell film now,\u201d I said, sliding the card into the bag. \u201cAnd we develop it, too.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

She sneered at me. \u201cWhat do I need that for?\u201d She grabbed the bag from the counter. \u201cI got nothing I want to remember.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I thought of that sappy Kodak ad on the television. It opened with an old woman standing in front of a house with a SOLD sign on the lawn. As that song, \u201cRemember the Times of Your Life,\u201d played in the background, the picture got blurry. The woman appeared again. First, she was a bride. Then a mother. And a grandmother. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Those were the customers we needed. The ones KODAK could bring in. People who\u2019d buy lots of film. And 50 cent cards. And the biggest Russell Stover hearts \u2013 the ones that cost $14.95. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

After the old woman stormed out, the brass bells banging against the door, my dad came out of the back room. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow\u2019d we do?\u201d His eyes scanned the KODAK display, looking for any empty slots. I saw him blink, hard, the only sign that he was disappointed. I wanted to explain. I\u2019d told all of them about the film \u2013 the mother with her spoiled brats, the mean old lady, and the sad woman with her credit card. None of them was interested.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My dad hitched up his shoulders. \u201cIt\u2019s all right. It might take a little while. But once people know we have KODAK, they\u2019ll come here for their film and photos.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Yes, I thought. With enough of those KODAK grandmothers, our shop would survive. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

*****<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Just after St. Patrick\u2019s Day–a minor holiday in the card and gift business, meriting only a few rows of cards and a small spinning rack of \u201cKiss Me I\u2019m Irish\u201d pins and shamrock-beaded necklaces–our film business surged. I came in one afternoon to find that we\u2019d sold four 200s. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

My dad was excited. The real money came in developing the film, he\u2019d said, not in the initial sale. For this reason, we\u2019d put foil labels with Village Card and Gift Shop on the bottom of every box of film. As if the film would find its way back to us, like a technicolor homing pigeon. My dad had worked out the profit for the developed film on the scratch pad. A buck seventy-five per roll; seven dollars for all four. We couldn\u2019t go bankrupt if we were bringing in almost two dollars a roll. With over 100 rolls on our rack, that would mean $200. If we developed that much film — every month, or maybe even every few weeks \u2013 our little store would stay afloat. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I thought it would take a week or two for that customer to shoot their four rolls of film. But a few days later, I arrived to find the KODAK bag by the register, with all four rolls of film nestled inside, handwritten receipts rubber-banded around each. I struggled to make out the customer name. MIKE (Screaming Eagle) JOHNSON, in my dad\u2019s familiar handwriting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My dad smiled as he held up the bag. \u201cThis is a good sign,\u201d he said. Yes, I thought. A good sign.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A few days later, the canary-yellow KODAK delivery truck pulled up outside our store, and the delivery man handed over the developed photos. My dad reverentially tucked these into the otherwise empty expanding file folder marked \u201cAWAITING CUSTOMER PICKUP.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I wasn\u2019t there when Mike Screaming Eagle picked up his photos or when he dropped off the next batch of canisters to be developed. But Mr. Eagle\u2019s business must have confirmed my dad\u2019s faith in KODAK. He affixed the Kodak sticker to our front window, next to the signs for HALLMARK CARDS and RUSSELL STOVER CANDIES. I worried the sticker was premature. Except for two or three other sales that month, Mike Screaming Eagle was our only KODAK customer. Most other people seemed to ignore the KODAK ads my dad had hung next to the yellow rack \u2013 the ones that commanded READY, AIM, FLASH, and pronounced KODAK America\u2019s Storyteller.<\/em> <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was at the counter the day Mike Screaming Eagle came in for his latest batch of photos. He was the tallest person I\u2019d ever seen. He wore a pleather jacket with sleeves that were too short. There was a tear above the left breast pocket that had been repaired with electrical tape. His fingertips were stained brown; the skin on his face looked dusty, faded. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He pulled a small strip of paper from his shirt pocket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy film back?\u201d he said, placing the paper on the counter. His voice was cool. When he looked at me, it seemed he wasn\u2019t seeing me at all. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

There were three envelopes in the \u201cAWAITING CUSTOMER PICKUP\u201d folder. Rubber-banded together and labeled Mike Screaming Eagle.<\/em> <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cUh. Mr. Screaming Eagle?\u201d I stammered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He nodded. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

My dad had told me how to ring up photos. Subtract the fifty percent deposit from the total due. Put the money into the KODAK pouch next to the cash register. But Mike Screaming Eagle hadn\u2019t paid a deposit. Stranger still was that my dad had scratched out the price next to TOTAL DUE and penciled in another price. So instead of owing $10.50 \u2013 which would have been $3.50 a roll, with Kodak and us splitting the profit \u2013 Mr. Eagle owed only $7.50.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was still puzzling over this when the doorbells jingled and my dad returned from the drug store, a  Delco Drugs bag tucked under this arm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMike.\u201d My dad\u2019s voice was friendly. \u201cDid you see your photos? The lighting seems to be better. The lab said it did the best it could.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mike Screaming Eagle was pulling the photographs from one of the envelopes. He said nothing about my dad looking at the photos first. He flipped through the photos without saying a word. One pile after another, his brow furrowed. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo, what do you think?\u201d my dad asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Eagle handed him the photos. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

My dad leafed through the stack. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI think this one looks particularly good.\u201d He handed Mike Screaming Eagle one picture. The others, he placed on the counter. I glanced down at the pile. On top, a picture of Mr. Eagle in full headdress, the feathers like a crown around his head and cascading over his shoulders. The photo seemed off-center, like whoever was looking through the viewfinder didn\u2019t know exactly where to point the camera.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis one\u2019s good, too,\u201d my dad said, holding up the photo. Here, Mike Screaming Eagle was looking almost directly at the camera. \u201cYou did this yourself?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Eagle nodded. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow do you like it?\u201d my dad asked, his voice small. I was suddenly so weak in the knees that I had to grasp the edge of the counter to keep myself from falling. I wanted to be strong \u2013 no, I needed to be strong — because my dad was so weak. So I did what I could do. I clasped my hands behind my back and prayed for the kind of magic that would make those photos perfect. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Eagle grunted. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

My dad slipped the KODAK ledger from the shelf beneath the register and opened it. Running his finger across the row, he said, \u201cWith the discount for re-doing the film, it comes to $5.25. How does $5 sound to you?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mike Screaming Eagle tossed a five-dollar bill on the counter. Tucking the photos under his cracked pleather-clad arm, he left the store. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

After Mike had gone, my dad smoothed out the bill and placed it, almost reverentially, into the KODAK return envelope.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\tIt wasn\u2019t my place to ask. But I couldn\u2019t stop thinking about the red ink on the ledger. \u201cDad,\u201d I asked, quietly, \u201cWhat about our profit?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo profit on reprinting.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I wanted to say that the reprinting was the lab\u2019s fault, not ours. If anyone should eat the profit it should have been KODAK. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

But before I could anything, my dad waved away my concerns. \u201cHe\u2019s a good customer. American Indian. The real deal. And it\u2019s hard to take a photo of yourself. He really wanted one in that headdress.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I imagined Mr. Eagle alone in his house, trying to snap his own photo. While my dad was here, combing over roll after roll of photos, hoping for the one good photo. Without a penny to show for it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked around my store. The tin ceilings with their elaborate patterns. The way the light played on the glass shelves, casting dozens of tiny rainbows of color across the figurines and glassware. The speaker we flicked on just before we opened, and the Musak, our store\u2019s soundtrack. The expectancy that came with every UPS delivery. All the \u201cThank yous\u201d and \u201cHave a good days.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 If I hadn\u2019t seen that ledger, I never would have guessed that my little store was dying. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

*****<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWrap each in pink or yellow foil,\u201d my dad had said, pointing to the metallic rolls on the desk. \u201cA bow on top. You know how to make it look nice.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was two weeks before Mother\u2019s Day. I\u2019d been in the back room all week, making bows. Winding the thin, pastel ribbon around the metal arm of the bow-maker; punching the hole and affixing the curling ribbon that held it all in place. On the floor were fifty hyacinths and tulip plants. The smell was so overpowering that it made me a little sick to my stomach. But Mother\u2019s Day. Bigger even than Christmas in the card and gift game. My dad decided we should sell plants for the big day. He\u2019d found an old flower cart at the dump and spray-painted it white. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

As always, he\u2019d done the calculations. If we sold each plant for $2, we\u2019d make a $1 profit. But that didn\u2019t count the cost of the bows, which we sold for 35 cents each, or the foil wrapping or ribbons. And it didn\u2019t account for the time it took to find and paint the flower cart, or to buy and assemble the plants. All that should figure into the bottom line. But of course, it hadn\u2019t. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

After I\u2019d assembled the first six plants, I brought them to the counter. My dad was talking with Dave, a gangly, red-headed man who, despite his 6-foot-3 frame, reminded me of a leprechaun. A loud, creepy leprechaun. Dave came in once or twice a week. I can\u2019t remember if he ever bought anything. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy mother. Uh, my mother. Not feeling good.\u201d Dave jerked his head back and forth. Despite the warm weather, he was wearing a winter parka. He wrung his knit beanie cap between his super-sized hands. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

My dad spoke so quietly that I couldn\u2019t hear what he was saying. I felt like I was intruding. I cleared my throat. My dad glanced up. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDave,\u201d he said, gesturing toward the flowers I was holding, \u201cwhat do you think of our new business venture?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh. Nice,\u201d Dave stammered. \u201cPretty. Oh. Flowers.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

My dad picked up the biggest tulip plant on the tray. \u201cFor your mother,\u201d he said, handing the pot to Dave.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The blood was rushing in my ears. The whole point of those plants was to make more money. To save our store from bankruptcy. But now my dad was just giving them away. I clenched my fists and dug my fingernails into my palms to keep myself from saying anything. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dave stood there, his mouth silently opening and closing. Like one of the fish they kept in the tanks at the fish market around the corner. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe\u2019ll like this,\u201d my dad said. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dave didn\u2019t seem to know how to respond. After a moment, he pulled his scrunched-up hat onto his spikey hair. The tulips trembled in his hands. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

After Dave had gone, I followed my dad outside to the newly-painted cart. I had to admit: the flower-covered cart looked good in the entryway, standing in front of the black and gold HALLMARK sign. We loaded the plants onto the cart. Bigger tulips on the bottom shelves; hyacinths on top. The pink and yellow foil shimmered in the sunlight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe\u2019re gonna do well with this,\u201d my dad said when we were done. \u201cCards, candy, flowers. One stop shopping.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*****<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My dad and I were walking from the car into the Acme Supermarket when I saw the plant display: 2 for $3. <\/em>Tulips and hyacinths. Even bigger than our flower cart plants. My heart was beating so hard I thought it would explode. I didn\u2019t want my dad to see the plants. So while he went to get the shopping cart, I stood with my back to the display like a human shield. But of course, he saw.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\tMaybe it was because of those Acme flowers that my dad decided to open the store on Mother\u2019s Day. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA smart move,\u201d he kept saying in the week leading up to the big day. People would stop by after church or before heading to their brunches or dinners. The truth was that we had so many plants left, and time was ticking. They\u2019d already reached peak bloom. Nobody would want them once their flowers had dropped. On Mother\u2019s Day morning, I\u2019d overheard him talking with my grandfather. He would drop the plants to half price. \u201cOr 2 for $3,\u201d he said. I wondered if he\u2019d been thinking of the supermarket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But when I got to the store that Monday, I saw he hadn\u2019t sold even one plant. The tulip petals were drooping and the hyacinths were turning brown. When I put my nose to the clusters, they smelled faintly of decay. A total bust. I started to calculate our loss, then stopped. I couldn\u2019t bear it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was there the next day when Tim the Mortician came in. \u201cHow ya doing?\u201d he asked, reaching across the counter to shake my dad\u2019s hand. He was younger than my dad, his beard perfectly trimmed, not a hair out of place. Like an Irish Tony Manero from Saturday Night Fever<\/em>. I think I had a crush on him. What did I know? No one close to me had died yet. I had no idea what Tim did for a living.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They chatted and laughed \u2013 about the new Garfield comic and an ad Tim had seen for an edible chocolate Monopoly set. After a while, Tim buttoned his overcoat. Before he turned to go, my dad pointed at the wilted flowers on the stand. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThose are the flowers I was telling you about.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Tim nodded. \u201cNice.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThink you can use them?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSure. I\u2019ll plant them near the parking lot. Next year, it\u2019ll be nice to have some spring color back there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGreat. I\u2019ll bring them to you tomorrow morning.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They shook hands again. Tim left the store, the bells gently tinkling behind him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDads and Grads,\u201d my dad said, pointing in the direction of the front window. It was my job to decorate the window for each holiday. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I took apart the Mother\u2019s Day display, unclipping the Hallmark Cards that hung on the clotheslines across the window and putting back the milk-glass vases, the mother and child figurines, and the display boxes of Russell Stover candy. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

After I\u2019d put together the window \u2013 a m\u00e9lange of mortarboards, #1 GRAD mugs and BEST DAD plaques \u2013 my dad came outside with me to look at it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis\u2019ll bring them in.\u201d He smiled. The fading light playing on his gaunt face and neck. \u201cA masterpiece, Suzy Q. As always.\u201d Still looking at the display, he murmured, \u201cThis is something CVS doesn\u2019t have.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I felt like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, the ground beneath my feet beginning to crumble. Because 15-year-old me could see, even if my father couldn\u2019t. It didn\u2019t matter if we had a nice window display. Or Hallmark. Or KODAK. We\u2019d never be able to compete. It was a terrible knowledge to have. I wanted to take his hand and gently tell him. He needed to know. But I was terrified he\u2019d collapse on the street, his heart broken beyond repair. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Later, after my dad couldn\u2019t navigate without that portable oxygen tank, he tried to sell the store. There were potential buyers, at least at first. But when they considered those ledgers \u2013 lined up neatly on the shelf in the back room \u2013 they saw all that red ink. We\u2019d been barely breaking even, all those years. They understood, even if my dad didn\u2019t, that the Village Card and Gift Shop, all 2000 square feet of it, would never be a profitable business. We closed quietly. No bankruptcy. No EVERYTHING FOR SALE sign across the window. My dad just turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED one last time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

By the next spring, my dad was gone. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was at his wake that I got a sense of what he may have meant that June day, as we stood outside looking at the GRADS and DADS window. We did have something that CVS didn\u2019t have. It wasn\u2019t the cards or gifts, or the candy or the film. The customers came for something they couldn\u2019t buy at CVS, or maybe anywhere.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My dad didn\u2019t know all their names. But so many of them were at his wake. The little old ladies, who pressed their faces to guest book to sign their condolences. Mike Screaming Eagle, in a polo shirt and slacks, no sign of that headdress. Dave, fidgeting in the back row. And Tim, gently laying a hand on my dad\u2019s casket. While in a bed outside the funeral home, my dad\u2019s tulips and hyacinths bloomed.  
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Suzanne Samuels\u2019<\/strong> fiction and essays have appeared in print and online journals. She is currently at work on The Engraver, <\/em>a historical novel set in early twentieth century Sicily and New York City. Suzanne has also authored a nonfiction picture book set on the US\/Mexican border, and a hybrid fiction\/nonfiction chapter book about platypus twins. She has also written a book about the youngest person to swim across the English Channel and Catalina Channel, and around the island of Manhattan. Suzanne has been Artist-in-Residence at Brush Creek Foundation for the Arts, Denali National Park, and Gullkistan (Iceland).  
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Profits of the Heart The brass bells tinkled as I opened the door, but my dad was too busy behind the counter to notice. The pegboard above the gift-wrapping table\u2014the one that held the shelves stocked with gift boxes and bins of hand-made bows\u2014lay in pieces on the floor. In its place, a shiny yellow and black rack with KODAK emblazoned across the top. It was so fancy that for a moment I felt embarrassed for the handmade signs: \u201cSTAMPS SOLD HERE!\u201d and \u201cFREE GIFT WRAPPING!\u201d taped to the wall beside it.  I closed the door.  \u201cOh, hello, Suzy Q!\u201d my dad called out. \u201cHow was school?\u201d  The same question, every afternoon. I shrugged and mumbled it was okay. Thankfully, my dad was so focused on windexing the Plexiglas front of the KODAK rack that he didn\u2019t ask any more questions about school. After several circuits of spraying, swiping, and inspecting, my dad stepped back from the rack.  \u201cHow do you like it?\u201d \u201cUh, it\u2019s nice,\u201d I stammered, taking in the tiny boxes with markings I didn\u2019t understand. 100. 200. 400.  \u201cFilm,\u201d he said. \u201cOur new business.\u201d  Just after New Year\u2019s, my dad had discovered that a CVS would be opening in the strip mall down the road. \u201cThey got Hallmark,\u201d he said quietly when he delivered the news at dinner that night.  \u2018Getting Hallmark\u2019 had been our crowning achievement, when we\u2019d first opened, years ago. Holding the letter from Kansas City headquarters in his hands, my dad had decreed that it was a \u201cfeather in our cap.\u201d \u2018Getting Hallmark\u2019 was what set our store apart from other card stores. That five-point gold crown in our window. That slogan: When you care enough to send the very best.  Now CVS would have all of that.  Along with three times as many square feet.  And parking. A freshly-paved asphalt lot with rows and rows of spots. No one there would have to hunt for a space and hope they had a nickel for the meter. I headed toward the back room to hang up my jacket and book bag, past the Russell Stover Candy rack, its top two shelves loaded with half-price hearts from Valentine\u2019s Day. When I returned to the counter, my dad was dabbing price stickers onto the sides of each roll of film. The pegboard lay on the floor, next to the hammer and a crowbar. I tried not to think of my dad, struggling to remove that board from the wall. The cardiologist had warned that physical exertion might bring on another heart attack. I felt that old familiar ache in my throat. But no. He wasn\u2019t grimacing or clutching his chest, like he had the morning of his last heart attack. He was smiling, like he\u2019d created a work of art.  \u201cWe\u2019ll need to tell our customers,\u201d he said, gesturing grandly toward the rack. \u201cKODAK film. The real deal. We sell and develop film.\u201d My dad looked out into the distance, at something I couldn\u2019t see. Then he tucked The New York Times crossword puzzle under his arm and headed toward the back room. In a few minutes, he\u2019d be asleep, head on his chest, arms hanging limply by the sides of the chair. This happened more and more these days.  \u201cIt\u2019s the wave of the future, Suzy Q,\u201d my dad said as he was leaving. \u201cThe wave of the future.\u201d  I tried not to see how thin his face was or how wasted his once-strong arms. There\u2019d be a future, I told myself, and my dad would know how to navigate it. After all, he\u2019d been a business executive before he got sick. And our store was still afloat, even though the other card shop in town had gone under. Bankrupt, I\u2019d heard my dad\u2019s mortician friend Tim whisper. Bankrupt meant you were forced to sell everything. The cards. The gift wrap. The stuffed animals. Bankrupt was a CLOSED sign that no one ever flipped back OPEN. An EVERYTHING FOR SALE sign taped across the front window.  \u201cWe sell film now,\u201d I said to my first customer, a woman with two whiny kids. They clung to her as she tried to wrest her wallet from her handbag. One of them spun the rack with the porcelain animal figurines on it; the other pawed at the Russell Stover caramel bars on the counter.  I flipped the cards over and started to add up the prices. 35 cents + 25 cents + 35 cents.  95 cents + tax. \u201cThat comes to $1.02,\u201d I told the woman.  \u201cYou did that in your head?\u201d From the way she raised her eyebrows, I could see she didn\u2019t trust my calculations. So I wrote the numbers on the scratch pad we kept by the register. One long column of numbers with a total at the bottom. Like the ledger I\u2019d seen my dad hunched over at the kitchen table that morning, the reds bleeding onto the page. Since the CVS had opened last month, there was less and less black. No one had to tell me that red ink wasn\u2019t good.  \u201c$1.02,\u201d I said, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice. The woman pressed her lips tightly together and reached into her wallet. \u201cWe sell film,\u201d I said, louder now.  The brat spun the rack hard. One of the tiny lambs went airborne. The woman tossed a buck on the counter and grabbed hold of the kid\u2019s hand. A moment later, they were gone. I had just retrieved the lamb, with its now-broken foreleg, when the next customer approached the counter. A woman about my mother\u2019s age, with dark circles under her eyes. It looked like she hadn\u2019t brushed her hair in days.  \u201cWe sell film now,\u201d I said. But she didn\u2019t even look at me. She put two cards onto the counter. One sympathy, one blank. 66 cents. She fished around in her bag. After a few moments, she pulled out a credit card. 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