Chain of Connection

I have a monthly habit I refer to as the "Good Will Tour": each month I hit up the five Goodwill stores in the five mile radius of my house. I have it down to a science and can complete the circuit in under 2 hours. 

The first two, heading out clockwise, are in my neighborhood or neighborhoods which exist at my social level - middle-class white color tech jobs or middle-class federal jobs for the most part. The central stop exists in a neighboring town where people making a quarter million dollars per year struggle to maintain their lifestyle. The final two, returning closer to our starting position, are in neighborhoods that feel less city and more comfortable single-family hoes my lower-middle-class childhood remembers. From the 80s. There hasn't been a lot of updating until the last few years where people seem to be shuffled out and larger buildings with 10-foot walls replacing them. 

It is the fourth store where you must rub any metal pitcher. You expect a monkey's paw the be hidden among the stuffed animals in the children's corner. Generations of families leaving a house brings out the hereditary magic we all pretend doesn't exist. 

One rainy Saturday I started out widdershins, dropping my daughter off at her friend's house very close to the normally-number-five shop. 

I was lucky to find three pairs of pants in my son's lanky size. Not just that would fit him, but that he would actually wear! Miracle of miracles I considered turning around and let my blessings rest. But I really enjoy this trip and was hoping for some books, which in an too-highly-educated area like mine, is always a good haul. I call Goodwill my second library, since I usually re-donate the books back, feeling the price of supporting this organization worth the few bucks I spend on a few books.

Normal-number-four, magic-antique shop, had a lovely selection of dresses I would happily wear for church. I selected 2 out of the 5 I would have happily brought home, perused the books but found nothing I needed. 

In line, as always, I admired the jewelry and old fountain pens (Medium friends I know the green one is the magic pen that will make everything you write gorgeous and exciting - if only you'd agree to write all your drafts by hand). On the second shelf, under a surprising amount of dust for the otherwise clean shop, was a gold pocket watch, exactly like my father's. 

I leaned down a bit further and could make out what easily could have been DBD, the middle B large and dominating against the two Ds - my dad's monogram. I doubt there are many monogrammed pocket watches still around, especially with the ridiculous initials he'd been saddled with. 

As the attendant rang me up I considered asking about the watch, but, further away from the piece, it felt a little silly to even mention it. How exactly would a pocket watch lost 20 years ago in Massachusetts have made its way to Northern VA?

I was still hoping for a good summer read for our vacation - something light with "Girl" on the cover that would make me laugh at the ridiculousness of my own life as some male detective uses the death of a woman with her own wants and dreams to fulfill his desire to make captain next year. Or maybe another mildly racist detective novel involving magic and baked goods. So I headed to stop number three, the midpoint. 

No one discards books quite like the well-off people surrounding this stop. It makes me sad because this used to be the absolute best place to find clothing - barely worn seersucker for the hot months, expensive sweats for the not-so-hot months. They've stopped selling anything other than books and are becoming another local hub. The remaining clothes are being sent to stops two and four, and another stop off the beaten path. I haven't yet decided whether a ten-minute detour is worth the shining, still-tagged items.

Aside from another cookbook I didn't need, I came up empty. But, there, behind a thick Stephen King tome, I was weighing against the complaints my husband would lodge over how heavy my suitcase had suddenly become I saw it. As though it had fallen while the moved out the paperless items, a gold pocketwatch, monogramed curves glinting in the Stand-less space. 

I replaced the book and left the store. 

In my car, once again away from the strange ticking wafer, I realized I was being silly. Obviously it was just a coincidence. The last item must have just been some strange medallion. And while Donald Dale is a strange name combination to be saddled with, the alliteration must have made it interesting enough for some other mother with a last name starting with B to at least consider it for her WWII-era son. It may not even have been those three letters I saw. 

I continued on, hoping for a better selection of books in the final two stops. I laughed a little to myself for the trick my brain was playing on me. 

But as I pulled up to the penultimate shop I found the store window mannequin had been made up in military uniform. 

He was looking at a pocket watch. 

It glinted as the lights from my car hit the window as I pulled a quick U-ey. 

Phoebe Bridgers blaring from the stereo, trees rolling by, I once again was able to convince myself it was just a weird coincidence. Some early Veterans Day display. And I really hate worrying about library books on vacation. So I took the final turn to the last Goodwill, the one our own stuff was most likely to turn up in. 

Doris Kearns Goodwin had a whole display, I figured if I was going to take any sign from my father, the books he most liked to read wouldn't be a mistake. I picked up The Bully Pulpit and squealed when I saw it was hiding the next of The Alphabet Mysteries I hadn't yet read. It felt like an apology. 

Mission completed, I made for the cashier. 

"Guy just bought this for you," they said. "Said it suited it." 

I held out my hand and felt the cool metal which so perfectly fit in my palm. 

"Thanks," I said. "I've been looking all over for one of these." 

The watch must have been wound recently, as it still ticked down the hour. As I opened it up to find the picture of my four-year-old self smiling my goofy grin, I watched the curly haired man disappear through the edge of the display window.