The Stationery Shop(66)

The cashier’s head bobbed up. She was probably in her late sixties, not that much younger than Roya. She had dark-blue eyes and soft gray curls. Roya worried she’d offended this woman by denigrating her fellow employees. But the cashier smiled.

“Don’t I know it. They’re good kids though. We constantly get new inventory. Can you blame them?”

“Of course. It’s just so . . . huge,” Roya murmured.

“Oh, this place is great for some. Got everything! Moms love it for back-to-school shopping. But it still dizzies me sometimes when I walk into work. Let me tell you”—she leaned in and whispered—“at the end of the day, I’m a small-neighborhood-shop gal myself. Don’t tell my boss!”

Walter fumbled for his wallet and slipped out a credit card, swiped, and waited for his receipt.

“Those days are gone,” Roya said. “The small neighborhood shops.”

“Oh, there’s one or two mom-and-pop stationery shops left here and there,” the cashier said, bagging the paper clips and hand sanitizer while Walter loaded the paper shredder back into the shopping cart. “I’m not talking drugstores, now, with their stationery supplies in one aisle—cheap spiral notebooks and such. But you know. Old-school. Real shops. Like the one in Newton on Walnut Street. Best fountain pens there. Inkwells! Don’t know how much longer they can stay open with all the competition from stores like ours. And online. But that one is a throwback, let me tell you.”

“Well, thanks. Now, you have yourself a good day,” Walter said, and signed the receipt and quickly steered his cart away from the cashier. He had no interest in her recommendation.

Roya felt a sudden pull toward this kind lady. “Thank you so much.”

“Now, you have yourselves a good rest of the day,” the cashier mimicked Walter, and winked at Roya.

Roya winked back and then followed Walter into the cold parking lot.

“She was an odd one,” Walter groaned as he hauled the paper shredder into the car trunk.

“I thought she was very helpful.”

“Poor lonely old bat,” Walter said, and then added quickly, “I’m kidding!”

They drove home through the icy streets with the paper clip jar and the hand sanitizer in a plastic bag on Roya’s lap.

The message on their answering machine was from Walter’s podiatrist’s office.

“Did you hear that, Walter?” Roya said. “You need new molds made for your orthopedic shoe inserts.”

“New molds for the inserts. The fun never ends!” Walter said.

“That it doesn’t,” Roya said as she got out some fish sticks to bake. She was too tired to make Persian food so much these days. Some things just had to go in your seventies.



The following week, Roya waited with Walter in the orthopedic clinic. They always went to the clinic in Belmont, but it was under renovation and the podiatrist’s secretary had directed them to a new clinic near the Newton-Wellesley Hospital instead. Roya shifted in her seat. It seemed like every high school athlete and obnoxious child from the suburbs had an appointment that day.

“You don’t have to wait here. Go get some fresh air, Roya. We finally have some nice weather,” Walter said.

“I can wait with you. I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to. Poke around the shops. Grab a coffee if you like. I’ve got my reading to keep me company.” Walter patted a law journal. “This could take a while.”

Roya was relieved to get out of the stuffy waiting room with its noisy children and teenagers glued to their phones. Outside, the air was almost pleasant. Walter was right: it was the warmest it had been in months. What a rare day in the middle of January! She hadn’t been able to walk outside for weeks. And why you don’t just leave that freezing place and move to California is beyond me, Sister!

Roya walked the blocks outside of the orthopedic clinic carefully. Last thing they needed was for her to lose her balance. Thank goodness she had her good shoes on: the thick-soled gray ones with the small bows on top. After a few blocks she reached the heart of the neighborhood center. Behind the glass of a bagel shop, a cat lounged and gazed lazily at her. Outside an old-fashioned cobbler’s, shoes stood in rows next to tins of polish. She liked this part of Newton. It was less fancy than the other shopping centers and felt more authentic. No big-box stores here.

As she walked past a tiny pizza place, the smell of sweet tomato sauce tempted her to stop and get a slice. She was pondering whether she should go inside and indulge when a sign down the block caught her eye. From a second-floor trellis hung a sign with gold lettering on a black background. Spelled out in curlicue letters were the words THE STATIONERY SHOP.

Best fountain pens there. Inkwells! The words of the cashier from the big-box store rang in her head. Was she on Walnut Street? She must be. Propelled by a force she couldn’t explain, she headed toward the sign.

When she opened the door of the shop, a familiar chime rang out. It had been a long time since she’d been in a store with one of those bells. My goodness, all those old-fashioned bells sounded the same.

It took a few beats for her eyes to adjust to the slightly dark, musty interior. But when they did, she saw shelves filled with colored journals and notebooks in all shapes and sizes. On her left was a table stacked with gifts and gadgets: alarm clocks, puzzles, tea mugs, fancy soap. In the middle of the shop, pens and pencils of all kinds sat in small boxes on the shelves. She walked through the aisle of writing utensils. People had tried out the pens with multiple squiggles: hellos and doodles were scribbled on the sides of the small cardboard boxes holding the pens. Old-fashioned sharpeners and fancy new pencil cases lay in neat rows.