Nobody was interested in his heads all day. By the time I got there, he had pushed them all together, in case the congregation might be more appealing than its members. They looked like refugees, though they were all smiling. They looked like owls, but nobody had wings. 

“I think I am infatuated.” There was no doubt about it and little thinking involved. Still, I knew I should temper my delight. His John Wayne shoulders were not slumped for nothing.

He took a head in his hand. “With these?”

“They’re wondrous.” 

Fred Masterson, Wood Turner, had blue eyes, though he looked down as soon as I confirmed this. “Well, nobody wants them.”

“I want them. I think I want them all.” I quickly counted. There were seventeen. If they were ten dollars a head, even on my salary, this would be a good investment. 

Fred knocked two heads together. “We come to this Peace Fair every year, and everyone wants birdhouses. You’d think people at a Quaker Peace Fair would want some little creatures.”

“Well, this one seems to want ‘em.” A woman emerged from the next tent. She wore hand-painted coveralls, all apricot daisies under cumulus clouds of white curls. “Ten for the lot. What do you say?”

“Oh, I couldn’t—”

“—most important that they find a home.” She flashed in Fred’s direction. He nodded. “Just a herd of whosie-whatsits. Waifs and strays.”

I found myself holding two heads, scraps of lumber turned into baseballs with eyes. They were small enough to hide if you folded your hands. One had the beginnings of a body, but Fred had thought better of that and stopped. They both had V noses, shaped like bachelor Canada geese. They looked me in the eyes where Fred had made dark hollows. They were kind.

“Leftovers from the real stuff.” Fred returned his heads to their friends. He gestured over his shoulder without looking back. I had not noticed the main event, a dozen handmade tables. 

“Magnificent.” No table stopped at a single species of wood. Pine undulated with maple. Cherry swaggered down the center like an artery. I pictured councils of dwarves or Vikings toasting each other’s health. I pictured Fred, at eighty, duty-bound to turn remnants into heads. 

“They sell.” The woman slapped a table with a labyrinth carved at the head. “Want one?”

My hands were still full of heads. “Yes. I want three. But I’m in a tiny condo.” They did not need to know this, but once I begin unpacking my brain, I like to show all my artifacts. “My furniture is one step up from dollhouse sized. I work at a cat shelter.”

The woman opened her mouth. “We feed ferals.”

“I’m Daisy.”

“I’m Carolee, and that’s Fred Masterson.” She jabbed Fred in the shoulder and reached to shake my hand, but it was full. She took me by both wrists instead. “We come to the Peace Fair because Quakers like tables.”

“You Quaker?” Fred was letting me in on the secret of his eye color again. 

“Quaker?” My words crawled under the table. “No, not—”

“—don’t ask people’s religion, Fred.” Carolee stacked additional heads onto my holdings. “Ten for the lot. I mean it.”

“My religion is disorganized,” I admitted. “I believe in Great Mercy. Those are the words I’ve landed on.”

“Uh huh.” Fred started pushing the remaining heads together, so there was no space between them.

“I still sing the hymns when I’m making coffee.” If I moved quickly, I would drop all the heads. “I work at the cat shelter.” I looked at Carolee. “I come to the Peace Fair every year.”

“Then why haven’t we seen ya before?” Carolee sat on the table, obscuring the labyrinth. 

It was a good question. I visited every table. I signed up for mailing lists about disarmament and bought buttons that said We’re All Just Walking Each Other Home. I donated washcloths to the women’s shelter and ate vegan frankfurters of unknown composition. I told crocheters and canvassers that they gave me hope. I apologized for not buying things that would not fit in my condo. I had never seen Fred Masterson, Wood Turner.

“Meant to get here today.” Fred’s wheaten bangs drew their curtain over his face. “That’s all.”

“Better late than never.” Carolee produced a grocery bag. “Don’t tell the Quakers we got single-use plastics, they don’t like that.”

“I won’t tell.”

She began bagging heads, then stopped. “Hey, if you ever get a real house, will you come back and buy a table?”

I opened and closed my mouth. All the heads were watching, those Byzantine eyes giving me their full attention. “Well, I work at the cat shelter.”

Carolee nodded. “Alright. Then they’re free.”

“Oh, I can’t—”

“—just give ‘em to people.” Fred rose with difficulty and began walking away, in the direction of the frankfurter stand. I would not see his eyes again.

“I can do that.” I was still holding heads. “I have more people who need these than you can imagine.” 

I pictured the retired teacher who brushed the shelter cats and cried the whole time. I pictured my stepfather taking pictures of the dawn on his cell phone. I pictured the pastor who was last kind to me, who I still owed an explanation.

Carolee raised her voice. “Fred Masterson can imagine!” She took the heads from my hands so she could give me the full bag.