“Closing Time”
by Ron Breazeale, Ph.D.
It was a cold and gray afternoon. Night was falling. She hated the dark. It came so early this time of year. The weather forecast was for rain, but it looked like snow to her. She usually didn’t open or she closed early on holidays by 5, not 6. This day would be no different. But it would. It was the last day of the year. Why she had opened the store, she wasn’t completely sure. She had always been open on New Year’s Eve for 30 years. She guessed she wanted today to be no different.
Business was slow. It was to be expected. Children’s books and toys, people had had their fill of both by New Year’s. But that had always been okay. So what if the last week of the year was slow. The sales of November and December had always been strong and carried her through. At least in the past that had been true. The holidays had always brought people to the Old City. By New Year’s Eve she could sigh a sigh of relief. She had survived another year. And that’s what it had felt like for the last few years.
This year, like the two before, had not been good. Oh, the Old City had been filled with people like it always had. But they bought less and they were searching for something different. They weren’t looking for a toy or a book for their child. They were looking to forget that these, like so many, were things that they could no longer afford. So they didn’t come into her shop. They went to the bars in the Old City. The bars seemed to many a good place to forget about the job they didn’t have or the mortgage payment they couldn’t make.
Joanne told herself things would get better. But they hadn’t. She had pulled through hard times before. There had been other recessions in ’02 and ’08. This wasn’t the first one she had had to weather. But each one had taken a little bit more out of her, both emotionally and financially, and it seemed that little bit had not been put back when the recovery, at least that’s what they had called it, when it came. That was certainly true of her savings which were gone. A month before she had sold the last bit of stock she had left after the crash. The last of her inheritance from her mother who had died 12 years before.
Her attorney had told her to close the store before the New Year. She had just spoken with him this morning. A nice man, and competent, and giving good advice, she was sure, but he didn’t understand. The store had been her life, her dream. She had done it, lived it, breathed it, loved it. Few people she thought really understood how important it was to her. Her sister understood and Lee. He would understand. They had been together when she had opened the shop. But she had focused on her shop and he on his career, and they had eventually gone their separate ways. He had married. She had not. But life is strange, she thought. She had gotten a card, a Christmas card from him just the week before. Strange, indeed. She hadn’t heard from him in years. He asked how she was. She replied immediately with a New Year’s card that wished him well and said that all was fine with her. But it wasn’t. How did he know—or did he? She thought back to the life they had had before the shop. Laughter and loud voices from the street outside filtered through the windows of her shop. She shook her head. This was not the time to think about the past. She had things to do before she...closed.
Her shop was empty. The last customer, a couple from Massachusetts, had left an hour earlier. They had bought her last copy of Goodnight Moon for the daughter of the friends they were visiting. A small purchase like all the rest that day. They had wished her a Happy New Year. She had smiled.
She moved toward the door, but hesitated. She should close now before some drunk came in saying he was looking for a book for his kids. They usually never bought anything. They were just lonely and wanted company. Someone to talk to. She hadn’t minded in the past, but tonight—tonight was different.
She opened the front door of her shop, took down the “Open” flag, and pulled the sandwich board in. She locked the door. She began straightening up the shelves. Why people couldn’t put things back where they came from she never in 30 years had understood. She shook her head and smiled.
She put the receipts of the day away. They were small, as they had been for most of the season. She pulled the vacuum out from behind the counter. It was the last thing that she did each night before she turned off the lights and left. She stopped. She told herself she wasn’t going to cry. She flipped on the vacuum switch and moved down the middle aisle. Her eyes began to fill with tears. She turned off the vacuum. She would finish it tomorrow. She would do the inventory tomorrow. She would finish it all tomorrow.
She put on her coat, tied her scarf tightly around her neck and took one last look at her shop. The tears came again. She picked up her purse, turned out the lights and closed the door. She stepped on to Market Street. The wind off the Bay was strong and cold. It was starting to snow.*
* Story based on the character Joanne from the novel, Reaching Home.
