FIVE JARS OF TAFFY
by Rob Lichter, inspired by a title by Amy Stabler



Taffy’s jars resided in a handmade wooden box that was built into the wall. The box was more like a cabinet, really. It had two, wide doors with glass panes so the four jars were visible inside, two through each door. The doors were locked with a large, metal padlock. The jars looked identical, but Taffy would tell you that each one was unique as a soul.
“They may look the same, but I can see what’s inside,” she used to tell me. She told me how she built the cabinet with her own hands when she was younger. She bought the wood herself and put it together, just like that. She’d never taken any woodworking classes or anything. She just knew this cabinet needed to be made, so she just got down and made it. The jars themselves were made of some sort of porcelain or baked clay.
The cabinet was high up on the wall, almost touching the ceiling. Nobody could possibly reach it without standing on a ladder. Once, when she wasn’t looking, I got right underneath it and stretched myself out and jumped real high, but I didn’t even touch the bottom of it with my fingertip.
Everyone had a different idea about what was in the jars. The most common theory was some variation of the same thing: dead people. Some folks said it was her babies that all died when they were born. I also heard a lot of people claim that it was her family’s ashes and it weren’t no big deal. I believed it was something much more special than the lifeless remains of previous human beings. I couldn’t quite make it out in my mind, though. It was like seeing something through a shower curtain; I could almost make it out but not quite. I just knew they were special and one day she’d tell me. When I was grown up, maybe.

I used to go to Taffy’s after school most days. It was pretty much on my way home and I liked it there. A lot of kids I knew didn’t like the smell of the place. I admit, it was kind of musty or smokey or something, but it made me think of another place; another time. All the stuff she sold was old and most of it was from across the ocean. There was this one giant wooden Indian that she kept behind the counter. He was from America, but I don’t think anything else was. Whenever I came to the shop, the first thing I said was, “Howdy, Chief.” I meant it as a greeting to the giant Indian, but at some point I got to thinking Taffy thought I was calling HER Chief. By then I’d been doing it so long that it would’ve been awkward to bring it up, so I just kept it up and didn’t worry about it. In fact, it made me giggle to think of calling Taffy “Chief.” Sometimes I aimed the greeting at Taffy in my mind just to make myself laugh.
We had a strange relationship, Taffy and I. She was older than my parents, but she never asked about my parents and I never asked if she had kids. I guess that’s what I liked about the place. It was insulated from the world. I told her things about boys in my class that I never told anyone else. She was never shocked or judgmental. I could tell her anything and she took it in stride. She never yelled at me, but she wasn’t afraid to tell me the truth about anything. If I heard a rumor at school, I always ran it by Taffy. I was the one to tell the school that you don’t get pregnant from kissing. Course, Taffy was the one to tell me. She treated me like an adult; an equal, even when I was real little. By the time I was twelve, Taffy had helped me through my first period and plenty of other intimate, puberty-related moments. I felt special because of her. I felt like I had an inside wealth of knowledge that my peers did not. I also felt that I had an outlet. If I was mad at my parents, I knew I could call them horrible names to Taffy and she wouldn’t care. Cussing wasn’t a sin in Taffy’s place. Not with me, anyway. Funny thing, though. She almost always made me see my parents’ point of view. I usually left her place feeling like I understood them just a little bit more. When me and my friends were in high school, they were always fighting with their parents. I rarely did. I tried to talk to my friends about how their parents were only human, and they did what they did for a reason. This rarely made any difference to my friends. I didn’t have Taffy’s gifts. Not yet.
Once, when I was getting ready to graduate high school, I went to Taffy’s with a strange sense of power. I was getting read to graduate, as I said, and I felt like a real grown up. I felt entitled. I felt powerful. I strode into the place, said Hi to the Chief. I told Taffy all my plans for after graduation. I talked about traveling, starting my own little place in France, maybe a café or a flower shop. I talked about all the wonderful things coming my way. She listened in silence and then proceeded to pop every one of my dreams. She pointed out my parents’ lack of money, my failure to know another language, my lack of knowledge and experience running a business. She wasn’t being mean, mind you, just honest. I couldn’t hear that part of it. All I knew was I was mad. I yelled at her. I belittled her. I mocked her store. I mocked her solitude and I mocked her stupid jars. She took it all without a sound, until I mentioned the jars. She just said, “If you got a problem with my jars then we got nothing to talk about.” and she turned around and went into the back room. I was alone and impotent. I wanted to smash something, but I really didn’t. I couldn’t. I left and went home, thinking about what I had said to Taffy, the truest, best friend I ever had. The truest, best friend ANYONE ever had.
The next day, I went back in. I was trying to decide if I should just act like nothing had happened the day before or open with an apology. I thought about it. If I ignored it, it would be the same as saying I was comfortable with what I’d done. I couldn’t have Taffy thinking I was proud of the way I acted. I walked in. “Howdy, Chief.” Taffy was at the counter. She looked up at me, silent. “I’m sorry, Taffy,” I said, “You didn’t deserve to be treated like that. I got angry and I tried to hurt you. I feel terrible and I want to keep coming here. Is that OK?” Taffy stared at me as if looking for something. I looked back, hoping she’d forgive me. Finally, she smiled and invited me to sit down with her. She asked me about my day and we were back to our routine.
The years went by and I grew up and moved away. I wrote to Taffy a few times, but it wasn’t the same as being with her. Eventually we lost contact with each other. I ended up falling in love on my trip to France. He name was Maurice. Still is, in fact. I had no problem relocating to Europe. We both come home to visit on holidays, and when we do, I make sure I stop in to see Taffy. I told her about Maurice, but I never introduced the two of them. Taffy was like an imaginary friend to me. A secret. I never shared her.
One morning, a few months after Maurice and I got married, I received a phone call. It was a lawyer. He told me Taffy had died. It felt very strange. It was as if someone told me the Atlantic Ocean had just vanished. I suppose I really did feel like she was imaginary. The lawyer told me that I was the sole heir named in her will. I had never heard Taffy mention her family by name, but I assumed she still had one. Apparently I was wrong. I flew back home the next day and met with the executor of Taffy’s will. She left me her shop and everything in it. That was it. That was everything she owned. I asked about a house. Not because I wanted a house, but it seemed odd. There was no mention of one. Taffy’s will stated that she would be cremated and put into my possession. There was no funeral.
I went to the shop for the last time. The door was unlocked. I went inside. “Howdy, Chief.” The Chief stood there, motionless as always. I looked around the place. It was silent as a tomb. I went up to the counter where I’d sat a million times, running my fingers along the edge. I was a grown up, Taffy was dead, the shop was mine, yet I was scared to go behind the counter. But I did. On a shelf hidden from customers (what costumers?) there was an envelope with my name on it. I picked it up and walked into the back room, which I had never seen before, either. It consisted of a bathroom, a refrigerator and a bed with a nightstand. I guess that answered the house question. Still holding the envelope, I went back up front. “This is mine,” I thought. I didn’t care. This place was nothing without Taffy. I had no emotional or nostalgic attachment to the building or the stuff inside it. It was the life that it held that I desperately missed.
That’s not entirely true. I didn’t want to admit it then, but I didn’t miss her in the traditional sense. I was used to her. But I had…not outgrown her, but not needed her anymore. Because she had taught me everything I needed to know to live my life and, armed with that knowledge, I lived.
The letter was short and unemotional. It was written some time ago, I can’t be sure how long. She reiterated the instructions regarding her cremation and the fate of the shop. The only other content of the envelope was a small, brass key.
I sold the shop and everything in it at an auction. I don’t know how much it went for; I instructed the auction house to give the money to the orphanage. The only thing I took back home with me from the shop was Taffy’s jars. I had the four from her shop and the one with her ashes. When I get home I’m going to build a cabinet for them.