Thanks to jo for editing.
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In dreams and in love there are no impossibilities.
- Janos Arnay
Frankie's walk to the subway each morning was a routine that she usually did half aware. She rarely looked up at other commuters and rarely noticed the neighborhood that she walked through. The six block walk from her third floor apartment to the subway station was a blur. Only when she was safely at her desk did she come out of her stupor and focus on the world around her. She felt safe at her desk. She felt safe in her apartment. It was everything in between that was a problem.
You see, Frankie was a border-line agoraphobic. Actually she had several border-line phobias. Fear of open spaces, more specifically fear of leaving safe spaces, was just one of them. And these insecurities controlled her life. They dictated where she lived and worked, they made her hyper-aware of everything she touched or ate, and they even prevented her from having close friends. On a rare occasion she could steel herself and work past one that prevented her from doing something that she especially wanted, but normally she went through life like the silver ball in a pinball machine, bouncing from bumper to bumper before falling into the slot at the bottom.
When she got to work she was invisible. Only when nature called did she venture from her cubicle and go out among her coworkers. She was comfortable at her desk doing her job. Everybody in the office knew that she was a little 'quirky' and left her to do whatever she did. Women didn't come over and talk to her about the horrible date they went on over the weekend or what sale was coming up at Macy's or any of the usual girl-girl chatter in every office. The men in the office gravitated toward the more attractive and fashionably dressed women and Frankie was definitely no slave to fashion so their attention went elsewhere. Her usual fare was non-descript clothes that accented her non-descript hair style that went with her lack of make up, and a pair of old ugly glasses. Nobody's head would turn to look at her when she walked by. So, in effect, Frankie went through life invisible. But she preferred it that way.
On one of her out-of-focus walks from the subway to her apartment something yanked her back to reality long enough to notice the world around her. She was standing in a crowd waiting to cross the street when a glint of light caught her eye. It was the reflection of the sun off of something in the window of the building next to her and she turned her head toward it. The light was blinding and she instinctively put her hand up to protect her eyes. That's when she noticed the building for the first time since she moved there four years ago. The sign over the window said O'Reilly's Antique Shoppe. The cluttered front window contained a collection of old radios, hats, toys, books and a mannequin wearing a 1920's Flapper dress. It was something behind the junk in the window that reflected the sunlight, something that from the curb looked like a large pile of gold that caused her to hold her hand in front of her eyes.
It wasn't like Frankie to do something out of her routine but she broke from the usual and walked over to the shop window and peered in. When her eyes focused on the large pile of gold she saw it was the headboard of an old brass bed. It was tall and ornate and the brass was dull with age. The only clean spot was on one upright post and it was responsible for the sun in her eyes. She just stood at the window looking at the old bed thinking back to the one in her grandmother's attic. When grandma died everything she owned was scattered among the family. Frankie really wanted her grandma's brass bed but one of her aunts snatched it away before Frankie could find the courage to say anything. Since that day she's always wanted an old brass bed of her own. "It must be very expensive," she thought as she stared through the window. Convincing herself that she couldn't afford it she turned and continued her half-aware walk to her apartment.
Every day for the next ten days Frankie broke her work-to-home routine and stopped at the antique shop and looked at the old brass bed through the window. Every day she convinced herself that she couldn't afford it. Every day she walked on. On the eleventh day she got up the nerve to open the door and walk in.
"Hello miss, can I help you?"
The disembodied voice scared Frankie. She looked around but couldn't find its source. She reached for the door to leave when voice spoke again, "I'm up here. Look up."
Frankie turned and looked up toward the ceiling and saw a little old man sitting on a little old chair leaning over the rail of the balcony over the counter.
"I'm sorry I didn't mean to frighten you," replied the old man. "I just didn't want you to go away. Wait a minute and I'll be right down."
Frankie cautiously walked around the shop and stopped in front of the bed. She ran her hand over the smooth metal and found it coated with dust, now coating her fingers too.
"You don't see workmanship like that any more," the old man said as he hobbled through the maze on a pair of canes. "It was made in the 1920's by a manufacturer here in New York that went out of business during the depression. It's a very unique style and you couldn't find another like it outside of a museum. We got it about two years ago from the estate of Geneva Fitzgerald. Ever hear of her?"
"No," Frankie answered.
"Oh Geneva was one of New York's wealthiest women, a high society lady who had more money than she knew what to do with. She had huge, lavish parties and traveled all over the world collecting art and furthering women's causes. She gave money to the arts, built hospitals, and owned several large businesses. Heck, even one of the Staten Island Ferries has her name on it. Geneva died about ten years ago at the age of ninety-nine. She'd had an interesting life to say the least. She was born into one of the wealthiest Connecticut families and married into the Tyler manufacturing fortune. Now Carlton Tyler was an old man when they married and he died after a few years and left his vast fortune to her. Her second husband was a bootlegger who died just after they repealed prohibition. I can't remember his name but I understand he met an untimely demise at the end of a shotgun. She married into the Fitzgerald family just before World War II. Together Samuel Fitzgerald and Geneva turned a large fortune into an immense one with scrap metal during the war. She was the quintessential high society lady. There were even rumors of her having a number of lovers over the years."
"Thank you, but I want to know how much is the bed?" Frankie sheepishly asked.
"I'm sorry I didn't mean to bore you with ancient history. Sometimes it gets a bit quiet in here and I like to hear myself talk and meeting a charming woman such as yourself only makes me talk more."
Frankie blushed and looked down at the floor. She wasn't used to hearing compliments.
'Well let's see, I think I can give you a good price. It's all here, the footboard is over there and the rails and slats are beside that bookshelf there. With a little work it would look as good as the day Geneva had it made."
"How much?" she asked again.
"Well, I can't take a penny less than three thousand."
"Wow! That's a lot. I can't afford that much. It is a beautiful bed but that's way too much for me. Thank you for your time."
As Frankie turned to leave the old man piped up and said, "Now wait a minute here. You didn't even try to dicker with me. You're supposed to bargain with antique people, I don't mean old people like me I mean people that sell antiques. We live for that. Now, since you're new at this, I'll help you out a bit by starting it off. I'll come down on the price a little just to give the bed a good home; just so you can have it. What do you say to twenty-five hundred dollars?"
"That's still a lot. I don't think I have that much in my savings account."
"Well, just to be honest with you it does have a history. I've sold this old bed twice before and each time it's been returned. They wouldn't tell me why but they looked kinda strange when I asked how they slept, almost scared. And since it seems to come back each time I sell it I'll give it to you for two thousand, as long as you promise not to return it."
