There was the truth, then there was Barry Bartashunas’s version of it. They were never one and the same. Never possible to confuse one for the other. Only question was how much of a gulf existed between what happened and what Barry told you had happened.

It was no different for his name. As Barry told it, his grandfather, Bartholomew, came to the Utah Territory from the old country with little more than a bindle and an idea that he might make a fortune. He hadn’t yet figured out how he’d strike it rich -- he was a man with few skills and middling English -- but knew the first step would be to rid himself, at least publicly, of his old world name. He needed something classier, yes, but more than anything else, he needed something more American. He wasn’t ashamed of his past as much as he was focused on his future, a future that wouldn’t begin until he could introduce himself as an honest-to-goodness American, not another brow-beaten Bartashunas.

“He won the name, or at least the right to use it, in a card game.”

“It’s unclear what game, but let’s say it was blackjack. And let’s say the man opposite of old great-grandpa Bartholomew, Walter Holzinger, couldn’t help but agree to Gramp’s terms when told that Bart wasn’t there to win a man’s money. Only his name.”

It was a story they had told before, Hillary could tell that much. They didn’t have the polish of actors but were no less interested in hamming it up here and there for added drama. Hillary let them have it. What did her attention cost her? Nothing but time. And, she supposed, poor Dat Vinh’s consternation.

Walter Holzinger, it was said, got Bartholomew to ante up $50 before he’d agree to put his name on the table. No doubt, Walter thought the man was a fraud at worst and a kook at best. Still, there was no harm in stealing money from either one of them. And surely, Walter thought, a man who was after a name in lieu of money wasn’t capable of winning much of anything, anyway.

After they showed their hands and after Bartholomew finally let the smile fall from his face, Holzinger demanded double or nothing. He offered up his first and last name and no restrictions on using either of them. His pride and his intelligence had both been sullied and he thought he was owed a chance for redemption.

But Bartholomew wouldn’t oblige. He left that dirty, dusty saloon pleased to the gills and, insofar as the public was concerned, a new man. His name on paper hadn’t changed, but from that day forward he was known to all not as Bartholomew Bartashunas but as Bart Holzinger.

“You can understand, maybe, how our father, born in the shadow of such a story, could himself turn out to be the character he turned out to be.”

“It was his legacy. His inheritance.”

“Well,” Althea added,” it was part of his inheritance. This store was the other half.”

Bart’s luck didn’t end with that game. His new name was just the beginning of his good fortune. Within a few years, what started as a small shoe shine shop gradually turned into a haberdashery, a general store, and eventually, into Holzinger’s Department store. Along the way, he got married and had a gaggle of children. Oldest amongst them was Barry’s father, Bert.

Bert might have inherited Holzinger’s. He ought to have, on account of his age, and his undying love for the store and its patriarch, his father. Bert followed Bart wherever he went nearly as soon as he left his mother’s womb. His first job was helping his father unload bags of flour off of a horse-drawn wagon and he thought, he dreamed, that he might one day follow in his father’s oversized footsteps.

He never worked anywhere else. He never pined for anything else. He could never see himself anywhere else but at Holzinger’s. Other boys fantasized about women, money, the South Pacific, or Paris. Bert Bartashunas had eyes for none but Calumny Utah and Holzinger’s. He married, eventually and begrudgingly, and fathered a boy of his own -- Barry -- but nothing ever piqued his interest more than the store did.

By all rights, the store should have been his. No one was more qualified, no one was more interested, and no one was more prepared for the job.

Yet, Bart thought Bert wasn’t right for the job.

Old age but still spry in step and defiant in spirit, it wasn’t until he turned 99 that Bart gave his son the bad news.

“You’re a good boy,” he said to Bert, who was all of 64 years old himself, “but Holzinger’s needs better than good. I can’t help but think you’d think so yourself. A place as great as Holzinger’s oughtn’t have to settle for just good. Isn’t that so?”

The logic made sense to Bert, though his heart wouldn’t let his mouth say it was so.

“If we were running a second-rate stable, a two-bit bicycle repair shop, or a penny-pinching parlor, I would have no gumption about putting the institution in your hands. You’ve proven, after all, that you can handle the books and manage the staff; you know our customers and our vendors, too. You know who’s out to cheat us and who deserves the benefit of the doubt. All of that is fine. Good, even.”

This is when, according to the twins, Bert started to feel ill. It began in his viscera. His gut knew what was coming. And then it spread.

“But Holzinger’s needs more than good! Holzinger’s needs great! If I’ve said it once, I’ll say it a million times.”

“Well, who have you got in mind, then?”

“Someone you know,” Bart said, leaning in close. “Someone you know quite well.”

With that, Barry himself walked through the door, just as he and his grandfather had rehearsed. Bert’s boy, fresh off a stint in Korea loading airplanes up with bombs addressed to the commies, would be taking over the shop.

Bert smiled. And then his heart dropped. Three days later he died, not coincidentally of a heart that quit. He had been overlooked by his father and outlived by him, too. The old man lasted another ten years.

“Or, at least, that’s how the story goes.”

“That’s the thing about dad’s stories…”

“Where do we get to the part about the aliens? Flying saucers?” Hillary spoke up.

The twins exchanged a look.

“Do you know what business me and her are in?”

“Antique selling, that’s what.”

Junior nodded his head emphatically.

“That’s right, Sister. And while you may look down your nose, rightfully or wrongfully, at the bric-a-brac here, the truth is, most people who buy this junk aren’t interested in it. It ain’t just you. They know it’s garbage. Somebody’s leftovers. They don’t give a hoot, by and large, about the plastic and the metal. What they’re interested in is the story.”

“We sell antiques, but what we are is storytellers. Ask us about old Barry, and we can’t help but tell you a story. The whole story.”

“Well, we were antique sellers. Not anymore.”

“We are still antique sellers until that check clears. Then I’m out of here. Goodbye Calumny and goodbye Holzinger’s.”

“Auf wiedersehen!”

“Arrivederci and oh good riddance.”

Barry Bartashunas was the brightest star in the sky above Calumny. He wore the finest suits, drove the finest car, and had a smile wider than the Milky Way. Holzinger’s was simply an extension, if not the embodiment, of his personality.

All of a sudden, the store had luster. It was the 1950s and department stores were a sign of the prosperity of a better, more modern age. Spotless floors. Halogen lamps. Fashions only a few weeks behind what they had in far-off, foreign places like Manhattan or Poughkeepsie. Calumny was small, yes, and Holzinger’s didn’t have the cachet outside of town that other stores -- Macy’s, May’s, Bloomingdale’s -- might have. But Barry saw no reason his humble shop couldn’t punch above its weight class. Why not, he wondered, translate those aspirations into actions? Why just dream when you can do?

His ego preceded him into every room. It even held the door for him. No wonder; nothing in town dwarfed his popularity.

People couldn’t help but be drawn to his energy and he couldn’t help but court every man and woman he saw on the street. Not only did he want you to step foot into his store, but he also wanted to step foot into your life. He wanted to be your pal, your confidante, and your lover all-in-one.

“Believe it or not--”

“It’s up to you whether you believe it,” Althea added.

“It worked.”