Junk.

It was all junk.

In a marriage that had had its fair share of disagreements, this was a thing Sam and Hillary had always agreed on. Garage sales, consignment shops, antique stores -- it was nothing but rubbish.

Points of contention? They’d had many: where to hold their wedding, preferred pizza toppings, the utility of premium gas. They couldn’t even compromise when it came to painting their bedroom. In the end, they’d split it down the middle: burgundy for her side, cornflower for his.

But when it came to forking over money for somebody else’s castaway Tupperware or a dog-eared edition of the 1996 Guinness Book of World Records or a thermos with Thurman Munson’s face on it, there was no equivocation. They never spent a single dime on any of it and not a single thrift store sweater, vintage knick-knack, or tchotchke found a way into their home. At the very least, when they split up and had to do the difficult work of divvying up all the things that had made their way into their home, not having to figure out what to do with a dozen original mason jars made things easier.

“Who would want a quilt like this? Where would you even put it?” Hillary murmured to herself, fingering the fabric with contempt.

“And who needs a lamp shaped like the USS Constellation? Especially one that doesn’t work.”

She had tried turning the knob once or twice before giving up, more than content to chalk it up as another hunk of junk, not at all interested in seeing that the lamp hadn’t been plugged in.

“Oh, great,” she rolled her eyes, “Shirley Temple dolls. Authentic. With a certificate and all.”

“Only made 215 of those, I hear. And only about half of them are still around today after a fire took out the collector’s cabin where the other batch was kept. A real tragedy, I say. Sure did drive up prices for those of who still had a few laying around.”

She had been so absorbed in mocking the place that she hadn’t noticed the avuncular, handle-bar mustachioed man following diligently behind her. He hadn’t minded a single nasty thing she’d said. Heck, most of it was true.

“That moth-ridden blanket? Pure rubbish. The boat with a light bulb on it? Kitsch. But, ma’am, you take another look at these dolls because you’re going to have trouble finding anything quite like them. Unless you don’t mind your dolls showing water damage from the 15,000 gallons the fire department had to use to put the conflagration down, that is.”

“Junior Bathashunas is the name and --”

Hillary ignored his outstretched hand and barreled through his introduction. He had scared her half to death and she didn’t like his hard sell.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

“I don’t need any dolls, Junior.”

“Not even limited-edition ones?”

He held his smile unwaveringly, like the flag on the moon. Hillary shook her head no.

“Oh, well, I don’t need dolls, either. Couldn’t hurt to move a little of this junk before the place closes down for good, though. Be nice to get a couple of bucks and send a dumpster or two less to the dump, but, what do I care? What’s your name, anyway, and where are you from?”

Hillary checked. He still had his hand out. He couldn’t be said no to. He wouldn’t hear it.

“Junior, leave her be. If she wanted to get to know you, she’d have found some kibble and a chew toy.”

Hillary turned to see a very good facsimile of Junior walk their way, albeit a female one. Instead of a mustache, she had a pearl necklace, though both were the same color. And instead of suspenders, she wore a kerchief in her hair. Otherwise, though, they might as well have been twins.

“We’re twins, sugar,” the woman said, “he was born seventeen minutes after me and, the thinking is, suffered from a lack of oxygen in the womb.”

Junior chuckled.

“Althea likes to suggest that I was born the dumber one, even though I was the first to get a driver’s license, graduated two spots ahead of her from high school, and scored better than her on all those college admissions tests.”

“You’ll have to forgive my brother. All of his greatest achievements happened forty-five years ago. It’s been a steady decline ever since he started developing acne.”

Hillary didn’t know what to make of the two of them and didn’t care to find out.

“Look, I’m not here for dolls or doilies or…,” diplomas, she wanted to say, since she didn’t give a hoot about what either of them had done in high school,”...anything you have for sale here. I’m looking for Barry Holzinger. He owned Holzinger’s department store which used to be at this address.”

Junior clicked his tongue.

“The thing about Barry is that you’re about eleven years and two heart failures late. I can tell you where he’s buried though if you’d care to have a word.”

“And Holzinger’s? You’re looking at it. What remains of it at least. The third-finest antique store in Calumny is the last legacy of the grand dame that was Holzinger’s Department Store. Third-finest and not very long for this world, thank God.”

Hillary didn’t know which one of them she might make headway with. She was having doubts she could do much to contend with either, frankly. Nor could she count on Sam or Dat Vinh for help, either. They were off in another corner of the store, and it wasn’t to look at vintage Victorian-era perambulators, either. Hillary knew Dat Vinh was trying his darndest to worm his way into Sam’s favor, thinking that might be the trick to swaying Hillary. It wasn’t hard to tell: Dat Vinh was in Sam’s ear every other minute. Little did he realize that Hillary was more likely than not to do the exact opposite of whatever Sam thought made sense.

“Of course. No, of course, he’s still not around---”

“Heart just went pop!”

“Like a balloon being sucked into a vacuum.”

“Or a grape getting run over by a steamroller.”

“Right. Of course. I understand,” this was, undeniably, untrue, but the best Hillary could do was pretend she was on the same page as the twins. She didn’t even know whether she was in the same book. “I should have known Barry had passed. The report I have, I mean, it’s from decades ago. I didn’t know the store was gone, though I suppose I could have looked that up. Tell me, though, is there anyone in town who knows anything about Barry Holzinger?”

“Sugar, here’s the thing. Everyone in town, they think they know all there is to know about Barry.”

“But me and Althea, we might be the only two who actually do. On account of being his last living kin.”

“On account of being his daughter and son.”

“Son and daughter.”

The repartee was enough to give her motion sickness.

“I’m remiss in not knowing Barry Holzinger had kids. It wasn’t in this old report, of course.”

“Well, Barry Holzinger, he didn’t have kids. The first thing you ought to know is that there was no such person as Barry Holzinger.”

“Barry Bathashunas, on the other hand, we know all about it. And let me tell you, his name wasn’t the only thing he lied about. Now, do you want to talk about that alien he says he saw?”