Accessories Included

He didn’t think it was worth that much.

Forty-year-old Sherm Schlossberg leaned back in his desk chair and gave another incredulous sigh. He’d finally put the bane of his collection up for auction: a Jeffrey Dahmer action figure, brand-new in its box (if a little dusty). It even came with accessories—a blue barrel, a bottle of liquor, and a tiny freezer full of plastic guts.

It had been part of a white elephant gift exchange he’d done with the guys down at the gaming shop two winters ago. Kev must’ve thought it was hilarious when he bought it, but it sat on the top shelf of the bookcase Sherm used to display his other figures, turned away and out of sight. A week ago he’d finally photographed the damn thing and listed it for $200 online; most of the bids inched up by ten dollars every few hours. The last day of the auction appeared to be more of the same, but when 11:59pm rolled around, Sherm checked the listing again and nearly fell out of his chair when he saw the winning bid: $20,000 even.

He didn’t need the money. He made a comfortable living as a chiropractor. The modest house he shared with his daughter, of whom he had full custody, didn’t need any repairs or renovations. He was diligent with his finances and never allowed himself to fall too far into debt. What was he going to do with twenty grand besides file it away for the future?

He headed up the stairs from his basement office and paced the main floor: “Phoebe?” Nothing. “Phoeb, you home?” Evidently not.

How was he going to tell her? Would she have any clue what to do with the money? Teenage girls, so the trope goes, love to shop—but Phoebe was more of a thrift-store kid. Didn’t mind driving a beat-up old Honda, didn’t care for expensive jewelry. She collected used DVDs the way he collected action figures.

Sherm turned on the TV and left it quietly on the shopping channel as his eyes drifted around the living room. As he sat on the couch, he noticed a few crumpled pieces of paper on the floor, torn out of a half-open black notebook. It didn’t look like Phoebe’s; all her notebooks were brightly colored and festooned with stickers. Gently he opened the front cover of the black book in search of a name, perhaps a number.

Scrawled on the inside of the cover was the word (or perhaps acronym) DAFF. Finding that useless, he turned another page. Then another.

One page was dedicated to what looked like a meal plan. Rice, beans, eggs, pasta, bread. Juice, not fresh fruit. Keeps longer. Having been through college, Sherm recognized the cheapest and most filling items in any given grocery store.

He turned another page to find a list of motels in the area. $71/night. $62/night. $80/night. Pay by week?? At the bottom of the page were a few scrawls, in a different ink as if they’d been added later. Celtic cross, sterling silver. Rings x2, gold and ruby. Violin. Next to that list, the name, address, and phone number of the pawn shop downtown. Whoever owned this notebook needed money, and a lot of it.

The front door opened with a creak and closed with a gentle slam. Sherm heard his daughter kick off her boots. Phoebe had tiptoed halfway up the stairs when she heard her dad’s voice: “Phoeb? Can you come here for a sec?”

She trudged into the living room, head hung as if expecting a talking-to about being out late. Instead, she saw her father with the black notebook in his lap, a look of quiet concern on his face.

“There it is! Gimme that notebook. Daphne’s been freaking out looking for it.”

He knew Daphne Mallon, his daughter’s best friend since freshman year. Tall, gangly kid with messy, done-at-home blue streaks in her fair hair. “Does she go by Daff?”

“Yeah. Can I have the book? I can run it back over to her.”

“Phoeb, is she all right? I was looking for a name to see whose notebook it was, and this—I mean, I don’t mean to pry, but why does she want to pawn her violin?”

Phoebe’s brown eyes widened. “You read it? Dad, what the hell? That’s private!” She reached out to grab it, but he pulled it back.

“I’m not upset with either of you. I’m worried.”

“Okay.” Phoebe sighed and sat on the arm of the couch. “Daff’s parents found out about her girlfriend last night, and they kicked her out. They’re threatening to change all the locks and throw out all her stuff. She has until the end of the week to grab what she can, and she’s living in a motel a few miles away. I was helping her move some of her things.”

“Oh my gosh,” Sherm replied. “That’s terrible.” He nodded towards the easy chair. “Can I tell you something?”

Phoebe moved to the chair. “Sure.”

“So you know the Dahmer figure I’ve been trying to get rid of?”

She rolled her eyes. “Accessories included? Yeah.”

“I listed it a week ago. The auction just ended at midnight and, uh…”

“‘Uh’ what?”

“Well, let’s just say there’s a true-crime nut out there with a lot of disposable income.”

###

It took nearly a week to move Sherm’s office from the basement into the spare bedroom. He allowed Phoebe to take the time off from school and gave her, as Daphne’s best friend, creative control of the space. The basement was a nice spot due to the open floor plan and the attached bathroom; Sherm also had the idea to put in a simple kitchenette. Meanwhile, Phoebe scoured department stores and home-improvement outlets for décor that fit Daff’s 1980s-chic style. A simple white dresser with mismatched neon knobs, a Madonna poster, pink and teal paint for the accent wall.

Every day Daff texted Phoebe: Why aren’t you in school? Are you OK?

And every day Phoebe replied: Mental health week. Let’s hang out tonight.

While the Schlossbergs’ basement morphed into a whimsical little apartment, Phoebe spent her evenings at the $62-a-night motel Daphne had settled on and gave her the cash to stay there through Friday. As the week her parents had given her to collect her things ticked away, Daphne’s voicemail inbox grew laden with furious tirades and slur-ridden monologues from everyone she shared DNA with—even her siblings. Aunts and uncles, too. She filled her motel room with as much as she and Phoebe could carry, and her heart ached with a combination of nervous anticipation and teary-eyed dread.

Early Friday afternoon, the last of the heavy-duty renovation was finally done. The kitchenette was fully functional, the carpeting plush under Phoebe’s feet, and the bed was freshly made and piled high with pastel pillows and stuffed bunnies (Daff’s favorite).

“Phew,” Phoebe sighed as she lay back on the bed. “How’s it look to you, Dad?”

Sherm tested the faucets in the kitchenette and the bathroom. “Looks pretty good,” he replied. “You think she’ll like it?”

“Oh, one hundred percent.” She pulled out her phone, checked the time (1:58pm), and texted Daff: Let’s hang out at my place after school.

###

Phoebe picked Daphne up from school and arrived at her (soon to be their) house sometime before 3:30. Sherm was in the kitchen cutting up cantaloupe for a fruit salad; Phoebe joined him while Daff excused herself to the bathroom.

“Hey, kiddo. How’s she doing?”

“Pretty good, all things considered.” She peeled a clementine and popped a piece into her mouth as she thought. “Y’know, twenty grand could’ve bought a lot of stuff.”

“Do you think we should’ve done something else with it?”

“No. Oh, god, no. I’m just saying, I don’t think it’s the stuff we spent it on. It’s more than that.”

Sherm paused. “Y’know—I never knew Daphne was… I never knew she had a girlfriend.”

“Yeah,” Phoebe replied as she turned to hide a blush and a shy smile, “she’s pretty nice, too.”

Daphne wandered into the kitchen. “Hey, y’all.”

“Hey, Daff! Can I show you something for a sec?” Phoebe beckoned her towards the basement stairs and they began their descent. “This is the project I’ve been working on all week. I think you’ll like it.”

As Phoebe flicked on the light switch, gentle blue and purple string lights illuminated the room. Daff covered her mouth with both hands as she approached the bed—full-size, with a down comforter and a colorful array of squishy pillows and stuffed animals. She sat politely on the edge, unsure that it really belonged to her. Still she covered her mouth and let her wide eyes water as she absorbed her surroundings. A bathroom, with a tub and everything? Even a little kitchen?

“C’mere.” Phoebe led her by the hand towards the dresser and opened the top drawer; she’d filled it with t-shirts, some emblazoned with band logos, some festooned with the Muppets, some simple florals and stripes.

Daphne finally took her hands away from her mouth and picked up a green shirt that bore the likeness of Kermit the Frog. She held it up to her cheek and finally allowed herself to sob into it. “Oh my god,” she whispered, “oh my god.”

Phoebe leaned on her shoulder. “Dad also put some money in a savings account. For your college.”

Sherm’s footsteps plodded down the stairs and he joined them. “We can head to the motel soon and grab all your stuff.”

She leaned against the dresser, still weeping into the t-shirt, and nodded.

###

That evening, Daphne helped Sherm put together a taco bar in her new kitchenette. Phoebe brought some of her CDs downstairs and arranged them on the bookshelf adjacent to the bed. Daff’s violin, in its case, leaned against the dresser.

As Phoebe handed her a soda from the mini-fridge, Daphne’s phone rang. The caller ID read ‘Mom.’

“What do you think?” she asked the room. “Should I answer it?”

Sherm shrugged. “Why not? What are they gonna do to you?”

“Hm.” Daff answered the call: “Hi, Marlene. What’s up?”

Phoebe and Sherm could hear Mrs. Mallon’s shrill voice: “What kind of inconsiderate bitch do you think you are? Where’s your phone been? We’ve been calling and calling—are you with your lesbo girlfriend right now? We’re finished with you—where do you think you’re gonna go now? Who even cares about you now?”

At that last statement, Sherm crossed the room and gently took the phone from Daff’s hand. “Don’t talk to her like that,” he snapped. He’d never met Marlene Mallon. He didn’t need to or care to now. “Daphne is safe, loved, and well cared-for where she is. Stay away from her and don’t you dare call this number again.” He hit ‘end call’ with a flourish and handed the phone back. “We can block all those numbers if you want.”

Daff nodded and pursed her lips in thought. “Mr. Schlossberg—I—how did this all happen? How—?”

“Well, see, I had this action figure…”

As Sherm and Phoebe recounted everything from the ill-conceived white elephant gift to the Dahmer enthusiast who dropped twenty-K on an action figure, Daff giggled through dry sobs. “I guess I’ve got… a tiny Jeff Dahmer to thank for my new life, huh?”

“Don’t forget the accessories,” Phoebe added.

“Oh, right.”

That night, Daff Mallon fell asleep cushioned in the safety and hope funded by a little blue barrel, a tiny bottle of liquor, and a miniature freezer filled with plastic guts.