Marilyn had grown up thin and blonde, and it was on account of these two things that people always thought she’d have an easy life. Now, people looked at her with a mixture of confusion and concern. In recent weeks, her shop had had more visitors than ever (she couldn’t call the customers, because they never bought anything). As far as Marilyn could figure, her life was easy. She still had her shop, she still had her cat, Gerald. She could still see the ocean from her kitchen window. 

Marilyn brushed her straw broom across the floor’s uneven wooden planks, working her way around the shop. She kept the broom leaned against the wall by the counter, which had prompted more than one local grade-schooler to speculate that Marilyn was a witch. Her frizzy blonde hair was wild and stuck out at all angles, adding to her witchy-ness. Today, the sky would be the deep kind of cloudy, and the bluish morning light washed over Marilyn’s artifacts. The shelves of her shop had become something of a maze over time—her inventory had never stopped expanding since the day she opened. 

Marilyn dealt in oddities. Among her current inventory were earrings made of recovered seaglass, pennants made of neck ties, chains of tissue-paper doves, and sprouts of plants potted in pill bottles. Marilyn believed that a thing’s worth did not decrease after its initial use. Repurposed silverware, patched cloth, and re-folded paper lined and hung from the shelves, walls, and ceiling. She’d heard her store described as kitschy, and though she knew people often thought of kitsch items as things that were fraudulent, lying about their worth, Marilyn knew that kitsch art in its origin made people happy. It was cheap and accessible for the sake of cheer and friendship, and what was more authentic than that? The doorbell jangled and Marilyn, who had been staring into her dust pile, looked up with a smile already on her face. 

A man wearing a button up and slacks stepped inside carefully, closing the door behind himself gently as though the shop was a room full of sleeping creatures that must not be awoken. Marilyn’s smile dampened. 

“Good morning, Andrew.” 

The man smiled sheepishly. “Good morning, Mrs. Jones. How are you today?”

“I’m well, thank you.” She rested the broom against a shelf and placed her hands on her hips. She did not ask Andrew how he was doing today. He shoved his hands into his pockets, looking around the shop as he had a few days before, the way most people did. The children who came in always asked her lots of questions. Adults never did. People would enter thinking it was a seaside souvenir shop, walk around in growing confusion, and leave her with a limp wave and a dazed smile. Once, Andrew had been one of those curious children. But he was an adult now.

Gerald the cat, who had been stationed at his perch on the counter, leapt down and came to stand beside her in solidarity. He watched as Andrew greeted Marylin, smiling sheepishly. Marylin did not smile back.

“Mrs. Jones, please. If you’re holding out for more money, I can make that happen for you. The hotel needs this land to start construction, and they’ll pay you a lot more than what it’s worth.”

“And what is it worth, Andrew?” She asked quietly. Andrew looked at her again, mouth opening in an apology he was unable to form. Marilyn sighed. “Look, Andrew. You’re a good boy. I’ve always liked you, and your parents. Your mother has always been very kind to me. She’s been bringing me lots of lasagnas. Lots of people have been bringing me lasagnas, actually. But I’ll tell you what I’ve been telling everybody else who’s come to visit me. I need for nothing. Not lasagna, not a place to stay, not hotel chain money. I am fine.” Andrew looked at the ground, where her dust pile had been disrupted slightly.

“Mrs. Jones, I just want you to be taken care of. I know this is hard for you. You and Dennis lived in that apartment upstairs for longer than I’ve been alive. It was your place, and you want to hang on—”

“Andrew, I’m going to stop you right there. As I told you, I don’t need any help. As for my dear husband, I’ll ask that you leave him out of this conversation and do not mention him again.” He stared at her, looking lost. 

“I’m sorry,” he said at last, and slipped out the door, shutting it hurriedly behind him. Marilyn watched the lace curtain over the door’s window sway and settle into place. Then she grabbed her broom and began to push her dustpile toward the entrance.  

Flinging the dust through the door, Marilyn stepped outside and turned slowly to face her shop. The original sign over the door, which read “Crab Shack,” was still firmly intact. She’d decided to keep the name, even though she knew it would confuse people. Sometimes, she thought, people needed to learn a lesson about appearances. When she looked up now, she saw that someone had marked the sign with red spray paint so that it now read “Crap Shack.” 

Dennis would have thought that was funny. Marilyn wasn’t a cryer, never had been, but her throat swelled now, imagining his chuckle. The same grumbly sound that had floated toward her as his gurney was wheeled around the corner toward the operating room. She’d told him, “It’s just triple-bypass surgery. Don’t lose heart,” and he’d chuckled all the way down the hall.

Marilyn closed her eyes, breathing deeply the salty air. She had never cared what people thought. She didn’t now. People said she’d lost everything, and that simply wasn’t true. She scooped up Gerald, who had followed her outside. Inside the shop, she wandered through the maze of shelves, Gerald still in her arms. At the center of the maze, she stood in the dust-swirled, shadowy air, surrounded.