Free Antiques Fruitcake by Barbara Allan Page A

latter. After graduation, Joe joined the army and fought in the Middle East, while I married an older man in Chicago. On some level, we were both getting away from our mothers.
    And now, veterans of our various wars, Joe and I were both back home, more or less where we started, including living with our mothers. To varying degrees, I suppose, we were both damaged goods. If you’re wondering, we weren’t an item. Joe showed no signs of interest in sex, either female or male.
    Mother was saying, “Dear, I wonder if we’re making a mistake, entrusting our shop to that poor troubled soul. One day it may come back to bite us in the you-know-what.”
    She was wearing a new Breckinridge summer outfit—pink slacks, and pink-and-white checked blouse; the only out-of-date aspects of her ensemble were the huge-framed magnifying eyeglasses.
    I shrugged. “Joe did all right at the shop while we were in New York.”
    I had on my fave DKNY jeans and a gauzy floral shirt by Joie, an Internet steal.
    We had left Joe in charge for two weeks, and received nary a customer complaint. His sales had been respectable, too.
    â€œYes,” Mother said, then qualified her nod. “But it’s just about that time .”
    She was referring to Joe’s summer “drug holiday,” when his doctor took him off his antipsychotic meds for a few months, because of their potency. The problem was that my friend then reverted to Marine status, and went into full survival mode, often camping out in the caves at Wild Cat Den State Park.
    Hiding out was more like it.
    The front door opened and Joe stepped in, wearing his desert camouflage utilities. (Once—okay, maybe a couple of times—I have referred to his attire as “fatigues” and caught heck for it.) He wore no helmet or hat, and thankfully wasn’t carrying any military weapons.
    â€œReporting for duty,” he said crisply.
    I exchanged wary looks with Mother.
    â€œJoe, dear,” Mother said in the kind of voice a negotiator uses to talk someone down off a ledge, “do you think you might be able to stand watch here at the shop for a few hours? Brandy and I need to attend the swap meet.”
    â€œRoger that,” he said. “You’ll return at . . . ?”
    I checked my watch; it was ten now. “Oh-two hundred.” Then added, “Give or take an ‘Oh.’ Would you like us to bring you lunch?”
    â€œNegatory.” He patted a tan bag slung over a shoulder. “Packed my own rations.”
    Leaving Sushi behind, Mother and I made our uneasy exit. Outside, I asked, “You think Joe will be all right?”
    â€œAs in, is he up to handling a few customers without scaring them silly? Or, how likely is it he will take them hostage and wait for air support?”
    â€œI was thinking more like . . . will he court-martial anybody with slippery fingers?”
    I blinked away the image of middle-aged Serenity ladies lined up for a firing squad.
    Mother raised a finger of her own. “My last instruction to the boy was to uphold the Geneva Convention!”
    â€œI’m sure that was helpful.” I sighed. “No chemical or biological warfare, anyway. Does our liability insurance cover post-traumatic stress disorder?”
    â€œIn him or us, dear?”
    Parked in front of the shop was Mother’s vintage 1960s black Caddy convertible (more about that later), and I climbed in behind the wheel, Mother riding shotgun. She had lost her license due to numerous infractions, including but not limited to: taking a shortcut through a cornfield to make curtain time for a play she was starring in; running down a curbside mailbox shaped like an openmouthed spotted bass; and driving with a suspended license (to get chocolate-mint ice cream in the middle of the night).
    I drove the short distance to Riverfront Park, which was across the railroad tracks. The park had been recently beautified by a