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Unbeknownst to Nelson Bacon, the rear of his collar was sticking out. He had been waiting on the park bench outside of Mastermind for some twenty odd minutes last Thursday while Claire shopped through the store for just the perfect gift for their niece, Susan, and in all that time, he hadn't felt that there was anything amiss. The whole of Nelson's attention had been directed toward the fact that he was sitting on a park bench, and he had never before realized that park benches have little business inside a mall. Why should he have not noticed this before? He and Claire had been coming to The Town Centre for some twelve years. Maybe more. During their ten years of marriage and at least two years before that while they dated. But in all that time, and the many times he must have sat himself down at one of the many park benches that were placed in pairs back to back throughout the mall before last Thursday, Nelson had never once questioned the logic.

Perhaps it was because of the mood he was in. Little Susan's tenth birthday party for family and friends was that coming Saturday, and before setting off for The Town Centre early that Thursday evening, Nelson and his wife Claire had discussed what would make the perfect gift. Nelson thought a stuffed animal, Nelson thought a pretty dress, and Nelson thought a hardcover gift set of six Nancy Drews, but apparently, he had no idea what a ten-year-old girl wants. Susan wasn't that kind of ten-year-old girl, Claire told him over the dinner table, and again in the car, and twice during the two hours they walked around The Town Centre. Each time he picked up an item in each store that they walked through, Claire repeated the same phrase again. Not that kind of ten-year-old girl. When he picked up his final item, an acid pink lava lamp in the It Store that was, admittedly, a sad last chance guess at just the perfect gift, Nelson broke down and asked just what kind of ten-year-old girl Susan, in fact, was. The kind who wants a brain puzzler or chemistry set from Mastermind, Claire said, and so the couple set out to find Mastermind.

Wary of yet again choosing the wrong item in yet another store, Nelson sat himself down on the park bench facing Bata Shoes while his wife went for just the perfect gift. A pyramid of loafers and wing-tips blocked easy exit from the shoe store, and Nelson sat watching as each of the exiting and entering shoppers maneuvered themselves around the precarious display. One knock with one shoulder purse or shopping bag could have sent the whole structure tumbling, but as each shopper deftly steered, Nelson lost interest and instead turned his attention to the tip of the fern leaf that was touching the tip of his Hush Puppy at the end of his crossed left leg. Ferns have as little business being in a mall as park benches, yet there were two pots of potted plastic ferns in full bloom at either end of the back-to-back benches. Odd that he never noticed the ferns before, he thought. Odd that he never noticed the park benches, he thought. And with such thinking, he wasn't likely going to notice that the back of his collar was sticking out.

Another explanation for Bacon's complete obliviousness could have been the nature of the shirt itself. It was a blue cotton Oxford button-down that Claire had bought for him at Marks and Spencers during the week-long sidewalk sale a year earlier. Nelson was a man whose collars were always sticking out unbeknownst to him, and Claire knew that it would be easier to switch him over to button-downs than to attempt to focus his attention more on his dress. Gradually, she had rid his entire closet of all shirts not buttoned down at the collar, and Nelson, more often than not, looked presentable in spite of himself. But the collar of the blue Oxford button down must have been quite determined, for it had, nonetheless, stubbornly worked itself up into a full-fledged sticking-out position.

Whatever the cause, Nelson was unaware. And with his mind elsewhere, he was not prepared for the hand that touched the back of his neck, and he jumped in his seat. He hadn't known people actually do jump in their seats. As there was much that he hadn't noticed, Nelson hadn't earlier noticed the girl sitting to his right on the park bench. About seventeen and smartly dressed, the girl balanced a mochaccino in her left hand while deftly righting the wrong in Nelson' blue cotton collar with her right hand. With her right hand still there, the flesh of her palm but barely touched the back of his neck and she smiled at him. Nelson managed to mutter a thank you, thank you very much as she completed the good deed by lightly sweeping an imaginary mote of lint from his shoulder.

"There. That's better," she said.

Such moments demand an eloquence beyond Nelson Bacon's means, and to be fair to him, he had little time to thank the girl properly before she stood and parted from their shared park bench. She left him alone to consider the magnitude of her generosity. He was sitting there a fool with a collar sticking out and a mind lacking grace, and she performed this selfless act of kindness all for him. All for him.

Nelson reasoned that he knew little about the young woman. As far as he knew, she might perform such acts for all and indiscriminately. Helping men with their collars all through the mall and more. Advising adolescent boys that baggy slacks are ultimately unflattering. Colour-coordinating for welfare mothers and sharing fashion tips with pregnant preteens.

Blue and green should never be seen, only in the washing machine. That sort of thing.

But the fact remained, that on that Thursday, she chose to help him, and he hadn't even begun to get over it when Claire returned to him from Mastermind with the just perfect gift. His wife sat where the girl had sat but moments ago, and without smugness, placed what would be her niece's tenth birthday gift into his lap.

"A thousand pieces."

There was no picture on the puzzle box. The box was plain white with a bold red 1000 in the upper right-hand corner because the puzzle itself was plain white. A thousand pieces of plain white that, when figured and fully assembled, came together to form a rectangular mat of pure white.

"That's the challenge," she said.

He admitted to himself that he truly did have no idea what a ten-year-old girl wanted. It was perfect. Nonetheless, Claire dug her day planner out of her purse to file away the receipt, and watching, Nelson knew that that receipt would stay in the day planner until the end of the tax year.

Last Sunday, the day after the birthday party that everyone had agreed went swimmingly and successfully, Claire sat on the telephone again praising her sister for such an inspired celebration for little Susan while Nelson Bacon flipped through television stations. With nothing on, Nelson decided upon a car ride and mimed steering for Claire. A Sunday afternoon drive was just the thing, and alone in the car, he could smoke with the windows open and drum along to the music on the steering wheel. Nelson pictured himself north of the city, where he could watch the sky slide over the front windshield. Somewhere away from the two-storey semi-detached and the living room with its television and the pewter framed wedding portrait of him and his beautiful beautiful wife sitting atop of it. In the portrait, Nelson stands behind Claire, he in a black tuxedo and she in a white dress, and his arms are strung low around her hips, her hands holding his. Something about the pose makes him feel fortunate, but on Sunday, he wanted to go for a drive away.

The car, though, must have had other ideas. It was only two years old and under warranty for another three, but the Bacons had already planned on replacing it after next April's return cheque. Perhaps the car just wanted to carry its owner to The Town Centre just a few more times before they had to part. For the destination couldn't have been Nelson's idea; he was uncomfortable in the lower level food court where he wound up. Near the MMMuffins in the food court smoking area, Nelson was a bad bundle of bad nerves. The food court led into the twenty-four screens of the multiplex, and just imagine twenty-four screens. How could anyone feel worthy?

And yet, as uncomfortable as he felt, Nelson knew he blended in. None of the passersby would notice him, he reasoned, and perhaps that is how it should and must be. Even if he sat smoking and drinking coffee for hours on end, most would assume he had just stopped for a moment, a brief reprieve from the bustle of making his way from Club Monaco to Tip Top Tailors. With a Bata, Transit, Agnew, Payless, and Naturalizer all under one roof, anyone would tire of searching for shoes and rest awhile. The longer he lingered, though, Nelson realized there were others passing their time in the food court. Mostly teenagers who intended to buy little, but Nelson didn't mind teenagers. If they were prone to swearing loudly in public once in a while, or squirting packets of ketchup onto the table tops, or flicking their long cigarette ashes onto the floor, well, that's why God made teenagers for the most part. And even when one of them asked him for three cigarettes for herself and her friends, he didn't mind. She might have said thank you a bit more sincerely, mind you, but Nelson didn't even truly mind that.

More troubling were the elderly men, the retirees who probably purchased even less than the teenagers but who weren't above complaining aloud about the damn kids. The gentlemen who sat by the Taste of India food stall thrice asked one group of teens if they had no place better to go, but down inside, the question must have been one for himself, for he was there to ask it. He had no peace of mind, Nelson reasoned, and then was surprised to discover that he himself did. From the bad bundle of bad nerves he had been when he first sat down near the MMMuffins in the food court smoking area, Nelson had grown calm. The girl from the park bench might appear at any moment.

About seventeen and smartly dressed, the girl was clear in Nelson's mind. Probably five eight or five nine, she was slender beneath the shaker knit sweater. Her blonde hair was obviously not real, but true blonde wasn't the look she was going for. No, the auburn brown beneath the outer layer of blonde was deliberate, and pulled back to accentuate that deliberateness, to give her hair a deep textured appearance. A bun or modest ponytail probably sat at the back, but Nelson couldn't recall which. And her face, although it wasn't an exacting oval, was hardly what one might call rounded; not chubby, but Nelson could imagine that she had probably only shed the last of the baby fat in her cheeks a year ago, maybe as early as six months ago. Perhaps what Nelson could remember most clearly, though, was her skin. The impossibly light pink was one shade away from a white or subtle cream, and what it brought to his mind was Colour Your World and the sample tiles of paint that he and Claire had browsed through when they first moved into their home some ten years earlier. Arranged by the slightest gradations of tint, the range of pink paints grew imperceptibly lighter with each tile, lighter and whiter until one wouldn't even see the pink there but just know it was there. That second to last tile, the penultimate pink before white, that was the colour of the girl's skin.

Nelson Bacon would not see her that Sunday, though, and as he walked to the lot where his car had parked, he alternately chastised himself pessimistically and raised his hopes optimistically. You are one step away from stalking, he told himself. When you do meet her, the meeting must come in its own right and true time, he told himself. Such moments cannot be forced. Nelson got into his car and let it drive him to his home and to Claire.

It was Claire who helped him find her. Three days later on the Wednesday evening while Nelson Bacon did up the supper dishes, the telephone rang, and through Claire, Nelson learned that the puzzle was done. Spread out on her sister's dining room table, Claire told him while still on the phone. All thousand pieces. And yes, Susan loved every minute of it. The challenge of it. And just the perfect gift now would be a shellac, a clear paint to coat and honour the completed puzzle just like Claire did when she was a girl. It could be a blank rectangle to keep and cherish and remember fondly as Susan grew through and beyond adolescence. With the dinnerware now drying on the drying rack, Nelson let the deep-piled terry cloth dish towel dry his hands and agreed to pop over to the Lewiscraft at The Town Centre.

Stores will move, though. With little or no warning, they will shut down, relocate, or merge with other like-minded stores, and just not be where they once were. What was once the front window display of Lewiscraft was lined with spread-open newspaper pages by the time Nelson got to the mall. He could have just missed them, he thought until he saw the sign on which a cartoon construction worker wielding a cartoon jackhammer announced that Lewiscraft would be closed for the entire month. To serve him better. Remembering his failed role in finding just the perfect gift, Nelson reasoned that the mall must have another crafts store with shellac. A Michael's or a White Rose, he thought, and set off.

With three levels and three wings, one can find oneself lost in The Town Centre before one ever finds a particular store, but Nelson pushed on, determined to find the shellac or at least a mall directory to map out his route. He passed Bata, Transit, Agnew, Payless, and Naturalizer, and then he could have sworn that he passed by Bata again. Almost every store, he noticed, was fronted by a pair of electronic gates. Twin lions guarding against shop-lifters stood near the front of every store, and as he passed by, Nelson saw grown people furrow their brows with worry as they passed through the gates into open hallway of the mall proper. What they worried about, Nelson reasoned, was not being caught stealing but being caught embarrassed; the shop-lifting detectors might go off accidentally, falsely condemning but nonetheless demanding a search through all of the accused's shopping bags. Mall security would see the push-up bra bought impulsively at Silk and Satin. They would see the blackhead gun bought at Shopper's Drug Mart. They would see The Eagles greatest hits CD bought at His Majesty's Voice. All dirty secrets would be revealed. Nelson wanted to see a false arrest, he realized, as much as he had wanted to see the Bata loafer and wing-tip pyramid collapse the week earlier.

A voice cut in over The Town Centre intercom, and announced that the mall would be closing in fifteen minutes and thank you for shopping today, and so Nelson stopped. He turned into the nearest store to ask for directions, and the nearest store was Cotton Ginny.

She was standing by a center island display of sweatshirts, unfolding and refolding them on a clear plastic template one at a time, and she stopped in mid-fold to look up at Nelson.

"Are you looking for something in particular?"

Flustered, he managed to say that he wanted to buy a shaker knit sweater, and let himself be led to the corner of the store that was entirely dedicated to shaker knits. Cardigans, V-necks, and crew necks. There were even a few vests from which to choose. The girl turned and reached for a pastel blue crew neck with a floral design around the collar and cuffs, and she told him it was the one she liked best.

He nodded.

"And what size were you thinking of?"

He did not know but managed to blurt out "small," and when he followed her to the cash counter and she addressed him by the name on his MasterCard, it was nearly more than his heart could hope to endure. He wished she wore a name tag so he could return the gesture, but all he could do was nod and smile and thank her as she slid the sweater in its shopping bag across the counter.

"My last sale of the day. You have a nice evening, Nelson."

At home, he handed Claire the Cotton Ginny bag before she had an opportunity to ask about the shellac. She liked the crew neck and the pastel blue colour, and even the floral designs but Claire hadn't worn a lady's small for some years. The receipt, fortunately, was still at the bottom of the bag, and no trouble at all, she could exchange and return the shaker knit any time within the next ninety days.

On the Friday, Nelson Bacon wore his blue Oxford button-down to work and did not return home at the end of the day. Heading away from the city to the suburbs, he made his car exit off the 401 near The Town Centre and he got a parking spot right close by the door. She might not be working that day, but she might be too. Such moments couldn't be forced, but Nelson reasoned that he could make himself available for the meeting that would come in its right and true time.

Near the MMMuffins in the smoking area of the lower-level food court, Nelson Bacon sat with the same coffee for three hours, and while he sat, he thought about the mall and the many times he and Claire must have been there over the past twelve or thirteen years. The first memory was of the It Store and the Trudeau novelty coin bank that he helped Claire pick out for her roommate's birthday. In Sears, they had bought towels for his apartment because she didn't really like the ratty old hand-me-down ones that he used to have. And then when they moved in together, they picked out a green matching set of bath mat, toilet seat cover, and shower curtain in The Bay. A trek through Carlton, Hallmark, and Best Wishes for just the right congratulations it's a girl card when Susan was born. Claire wouldn't come into the store with him any of the three times they had to buy home pregnancy tests from PharmaPlus. They registered for wedding gifts at Eaton's. A litre of all-weather wood shellac for the back deck when they got the new house. An ice bucket and set of rock tumblers. Plug-in air fresheners and four scented refill cartridges. Foam pillows for back support. Clay modeled refrigerator magnets in the shapes of fruit. A meditation audio cassette for stress. Picture frames. Address labels. A kitten. Imported sun-dried tomato pesto. Replacement vacuum cleaner bags. A side bailer lawn mower bag. A bed skirt. Clip-on sunglasses. A bird bath. A matching pair of gold tenth-anniversary rings.

Right then, Nelson Bacon never wanted to leave The Town Centre again, and he looked up from the lower-level food court just in time to see the girl who worked at Cotton Ginny step lightly onto the downward descending escalator. She glided smoothly but surely down. Down to Nelson Bacon.