“It was three blocks!” Hardly anything by New York City standards.
“ – now we’re going to move boxes. You need to call me when you want to go somewhere.”
“I’m not that fragile.” I tugged on Nick’s jacket sleeve, slowing him to a stop at his rear fender. “I’ll be fine. How heavy can a garment box be?”
Nick shrugged. Neither of us knew the answer to that.
A few minutes later, we found out.
Garment boxes were heavy. Very, very heavy.
“Why does every box seem like it’s filled with metal-toed construction boots?” I wrestled a cardboard box that could have fit two microwaves inside onto the tailgate of Nick’s truck.
Nick easily slid the same size box onto the truck bed. “I told you I’d carry them.”
“I asked you to help, not do the job yourself.” I was sweating. I’d shed my jacket and pushed up the sleeves of my sweater. My hair was probably a halo of frizz around my face.
Meanwhile, Nick looked as fresh as he had this morning. He still wore his jacket and his blue knit cap. Not a drop of sweat on him.
“It’s going to take at least two trips.” Nick pushed his box forward, and then did the same to mine. “We should stack whatever boxes we can on top of each other, so we don’t have to take a third trip.”
“Hey, guys.” Tim walked up the driveway and right past us toward the garage. He carried a backpack and had probably just gotten out of school.
“Uh, hey, nothing.” I grabbed hold of my little brother’s arm. “We need help.”
“Sorry, I’ve got to game in fifteen minutes. And I still need to eat.” He tried to free himself. “You do know people pay to watch me play online. Can’t disappoint my fans. Hey, let go.”
“Nope.” Little did my baby brother know that my grip was strengthened by hanging on to the ceiling bar on various subway trains during rush hour. There was no way I was letting him go.
“Listen, Tiny Tim.” I tugged him closer to the truck. “You asked for my help with Mom. Give us five minutes. You’ll still have time to microwave your Hot Pocket before your scheduled video game session. Deal?”
“Funny.” He slung his backpack to the ground. “I remember you as being nicer than this.”
“I’m very nice when I’m not dealing with a Mom-situation.” I climbed into the truck bed and wrangled the boxes around in a live version of Tetris.
Ten minutes later, our first load was tied down. Nick and I were on the short drive to Mom’s shop. We got lucky. Nick was able to back his truck into two empty, adjoining parking spaces. And then I got lucky, because Dad came out to help Nick unload.
Mom lingered behind the counter of December Dry Cleaners, looking like she was hiding. It was a hard image to reconcile against the woman who’d pushed me to achieve great things.
I entered Mom’s boutique and began opening boxes, curious as to what she’d bought.
The first box was full of what looked like mother-of-the-bride dresses – conservative cuts, heavy interior lining, and colors with rhinestone accents. I hung them on the farthest rack back, reasoning that they wouldn’t draw customers in. All those sequins and dress lining had added to the overall weight of the box. The second box was packed with an assortment of purses, all leather and name brand. The packing list in both boxes itemized the wholesale cost of each item.
I squinted at the figure.
This was wholesale?
I was beginning to see where all the family money had gone. If I’d only known about Mom’s endeavor, I could have filled her store with New York knock-offs for a fraction of the price.
“Your dad and I are going to get the next load,” Nick told me. “Did you know you have a hand truck at home?”
“Nope.” A dolly would have made moving the boxes easier.
“Yup.” Dad nodded. “It’s in the back of the garage by the water heater.”
“Where it is hidden and will obviously do the most good.”Not.I smirked at my father. “You two have at it. I’ll keep unpacking here.”
They left, talking about the Denver Broncos chances at a post-season.