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Louise was a thief, but she didn’t look it. She fingered a
silk scarf, watching the older woman (late fifties,
precision haircut) examine a cashmere sweater. The stranger
wore a smoky blouse, a storm-colored raincoat slung over
her arm.
The glossy, burnished leather handbag was so deep a cherry
that it pretended to be black. The woman set it at one end
of the cash desk and moved away to inspect a bracelet.
Louise moved slowly, but with purpose. She picked up the
purse, and forced herself to stroll towards the escalator,
as if she had nothing but time, pausing to try on a pair of
sunglasses.
Her expression would have appeared somewhat vacant as she
tried to look the part of someone so preoccupied, or so
medicated, that she mistook the bag for her own. On these
excursions she never carried a purse herself, thus avoiding
the suspicious eccentricity of walking off with two.
In the safety of the car she relaxed. Crossing the freeway,
she drove several blocks. Eventually she stopped at
Volunteer Park and opened the windows to the fragrance of
mown lawn, the promise of rain.
She savored the anticipation of this treasure. A calming
moment of slow, full breaths. Then she turned to her prize,
inhaling the scent. Top-grade leather and a trace of good
perfume — Jill Sander, maybe.
Louise’s memories of her mother were fragrant, but dim and
shadowy. Just like the light in that upstairs room where
she lay for months, fading.
She closed her eyes and slipped a hand inside, exploring
the pleasure of texture uncomplicated by sight. The
wallet’s obvious shape was not what she was after.
Her mother was usually too tired to read, or even talk
much. When Louise went up to visit, she gave the little
girl her handbag and let her examine its secrets. Lipsticks
and linen handkerchiefs, but also unexpected things. A
battered old postcard of Niagara, a stick of cinnamon, a
piece of candle stub.
A blind excavation of the cherry bag’s contents revealed a
predictable tube of lipstick. Also a soft oblong packet,
with a light powdery scent — facial tissue? Then her
fingers encountered something cold and hard, flat and
smooth.
She left it in the bag, excited. Opening her eyes, she
examined the more predictable objects. The lip color: soft,
blossom pink. A bit too girlish, thought Louise. The
wallet: some cash and a substantial amount of platinum
credit. The name: Madeleine Montgomery. She studied the
driver’s license photo. If her mother had lived, she might
look something like this.
That left the flat, metallic thing. She brought it out for
a proper look. A cigarette case, brushed silver, simple in
design, rounded corners. Not the ultimate find, but it
showed promise. Few people used them anymore, particularly
in the health-obsessed Pacific Northwest. Louise opened it,
expecting an exotic brand, something imported.
But never this.
Skinny with twisted ends, the scent was green and faintly
skunkish. Familiar, not unpleasant. Certainly unexpected;
she would never have taken that dignified woman for a pot
smoker. The deceit of appearances, she thought, enjoying a
smile of irony and liking Madeleine Montgomery. They could
be friends.
As the case moved in her hand, she heard something rattle,
taunting. Pills? Louise worked her index finger inside and
retrieved something small and hard.
A nugget. Translucent green. An unlikely gumdrop begun to
melt, then harden again? No. Glass. Beach glass, its edges
rounded by sand and sea and time.
Something fleeting and bittersweet puzzled Louise as she
tried to remember how long it had been. The ocean was a ten
minute drive from her house, yet she couldn’t recall when
she last walked its beaches, and took the time to examine
seashells, pebbles and glass.
She squeezed the object, the expedition’s real score. She
tucked it inside the lace of her brassiere, its smooth
surface cool against the curve of her breast.
Then she pushed in the car’s lighter and set fire to the
joint. Her eyes watered and she choked a little with her
first inhale. She hadn’t smoked since law school, and only
then at the occasional party. But she couldn’t resist
forming this link with Madeleine Montgomery.
She watched the texture of the sky gather. Countless
variations of color striated the cloud. She imagined that
she was a copy editor for a cosmetics line. Dove, smoke,
oyster, gunmetal, bruise. Who could have imagined there
were so many shades of gray?
Perhaps she remembered an ashy satin bed jacket, or a
slate-colored teacup. The only certainty was a scent, like
old roses and vanilla mixed with something faintly sour.
The combination of rose oil and vanilla, even now, could
bring tears.
Properly stoned, she decided to put the remaining half
joint back in its case. Pot was said to be a lot stronger
these days, and she decided it was true.
She started the car anyway and made her way back to
Barneys. Through a pleasant timeless blur she drove, then
rode the elevator, then strolled. She found the security
office. Without laughing, trembling or sweating, she handed
over the purse. Her expression was serious as she explained
where she found it, left by a sink in the ladies’ room.
She never stalked the same store twice, would never be
noticed as someone who with suspicious regularity finds
discarded handbags.
After her mother died, Louise asked her father for the
purse. But it had gone to charity, with boxes of clothing
and costume jewelry, and Louise felt the loss of her mother
a second time.
She smiled now, imagining Madeleine Montgomery’s confusion
at the return of her handbag, all but intact. Her cash and
cards as she left them, and the remaining half of a joint.
She might not miss the sea glass, might not remember it was
ever there.
The glass was the treasure that Louise would add to her
hoard. But she liked to think that the shared smoke made a
bond between them.
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