Antiques Roadkill (4 page)

Carson’s eyes narrowed and his voice had a quake that might have been anger, or even fear. “Are you implyin’ that I am unethical?”

“No—I’m
saying
it.”

He stiffened self-righteously. “You want to be very careful about making such statements. We have laws against slander in this country, you know.”

“We have lots of laws in this country, Mr. Carson. And the truth is the best defense against slander.”

But now my confidence was flagging; the audience was grumbling, and more seemed against me than for me—I had ruined the Red Hat luncheon!

Time to cut and run.

I turned to Mother, who was looking at me with a big smile and those blue eyes huge behind the lenses, though her face was streaked with tears. “Come on, dear,” I said, “we’re going.”

I took her by the arm, and we exited the ballroom, leaving the stunned group behind. And yet among the rumblings was again more scattered applause. Apparently we weren’t the only ones who didn’t think well of this Colorado highwayman.

We sat in the Audi in the parking lot, Mother blowing her nose into a big cloth hanky that had seen better days.

“Brandy, I’m so proud of you. Not only did you stand up to that man, you showed …”

That instability ran in the family? Or maybe galloped?

“… you showed a great dramatic
flair.
How I wish you’d followed me into theater!”

“Mother—what about the real-life melodrama? How much did that jerk give you for our things?”

Mother sniffled. “About a thousand dollars … I think.”

“For
everything?
The pine armoire alone was worth triple that!”

She nodded dejectedly.

“
Shit!”
I said.

“Brandy,” Mother said. “Language.”

I started the car and decreed, “I’m going to get that creep Carson—and all of our things back—if I have to run right over him to do it!”

Then I wheeled out of the lot, tires squealing, and headed for the home that unscrupulous dealer had emptied of so many memories.

A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

It’s said that one person’s trash is another person’s treasure, but that’s not entirely true. Trash is still trash … but there’s no law against treasuring it. Just don’t expect a lot of resale money.

I
n chilly darkness inside the Taurus, Mother and I were slumped in the front, leaning back against the headrests, waiting patiently. Down the block—deserted but for a few empty, parked cars—a streetlight flickered spookily; I could almost see the hockey-masked Jason, knife-blade glinting, running from house to house, seeking teenagers having sex and scolding them as only he could.

Mother had her eyes closed (we’d run out of conversation some time ago) and I took a sip of coffee from the thermos I’d brought from home, even though the strong liquid had long since gone cold. My patience was just morphing into claustrophobia when a light snapped on in the home across the street.

“Mother,” I whispered, giving her a gentle nudge. She sat up with a start and batted her eyes behind the magnifying lenses of the big glasses.

“Ah!” Mother said. “He’s up and around—won’t be long now, dear.”

But another half an hour had dragged by, the sky blushing with dawn, before the garage door to the split-level house finally began to rise with a slowness that could only be described as ominous. (Which is why I described it that way.)

Out of the car like a shot, I was poised to dash across
the street, when Mother trilled a warning: “Remember Aunt
Mabel,
darling!”

Once upon a terrible time, Mabel (actually my great-aunt) had spied a butter churn at an estate sale, crossed the road without looking, and gotten hit by a tour bus of seniors on their way to Branson.

Not being interested in making a trip to the next life, or Branson for that matter, I made sure the coast was clear and was inside that garage before the door was all the way up.

I took everything in all at once—old Christmas decorations (a hard sell in June), glass flower vases (everyone already has too many), some old tools (valuable to some collectors), books (mostly bodice-bursting romances), LP records (no way to play
those
anymore), outdated women’s and men’s clothing (just donate them, already!)—as I frantically worked my way toward the back of the garage.

Suddenly I was aware of others around me, coming out of the woodwork, like cockroaches swarming toward cake crumbs. But this little bug reached the object of her desire first, which I scooped up and held tightly to my chest, even as hands reached out.

“Did you get it?” Mother was beside me, breathless. “Did you get it?”

I nodded, thinking,
We’re not exactly playing it cool, are we?
Tipping your hand like that in pursuit of a precious item, whether at a garage sale or a pricey antique shop, was pretty dumb, I admit. But we’d waited a long time, and the resonance of this little object touched us both.

I waited for the infestation to pass before showing her the portable writing desk. “Desk” brings to mind a piece of furniture, I realize—something substantial, with legs. But this was a simple, small walnut box (about twelve inches square) on which you could write letters while in bed: square glass inkwell, a place for a quill pen, and even a
hole for a candle; inside the hinged, green velvet-covered lid was where paper and envelopes were kept.

When I was small, Mother used it as a place to stash extra cash, and kept it high up in a kitchen cupboard, away from my grubby little hands. Later, the writing desk became a focal point in the music room, displayed on a round oak library table, holding an assortment of old-time sheet music … Gershwin, Rodgers and Hart, Cole Porter, and the like. I didn’t need to see the tears fogging up Mother’s large lenses to know this “desk” was ours.

Or, anyway, used to be.

The day before, we had come home to a message on the answer machine. A certain Marvin Petersen said he was having a garage sale in the morning, and that there was something we “might be interested in,” describing the aforementioned wooden box, but he wouldn’t hold it for us. I tried calling him back (several times), to see if we could come right out, but got no answer; even a drive-by proved futile—his house remained silent and dark.

Now I looked for the sticker price on the writing desk, finding it on the underside.

Mother read the disappointment in my face. “How much could it be?”

“It could be,” I managed, “three hundred dollars … and is.”

“What?”
she asked again, incredulously. Then, “Well, now, that’s just ridiculous. I’ll just have to see about that.”

I watched Mother zero in on Mr. Petersen like a heat-seeking missile. The old boy had set up shop at a card table near the garage entrance, and her demonic demeanor suddenly softened into something angelic. When she wanted to, Mother could charm the pants off a snake. Assuming the snake was wearing pants, of course.

Best that the diva of the family handle this; garage sale
finagling hadn’t been covered in
Trump: The Art of the Deal,
required reading for my first college business class.

Idly poking around a knickknack table, Mother waited for this first wave of garage sale shoppers to do their shopping, and buying, and leave. Yesterday’s paper had promised good weather, and a couple dozen garage and yard sales around town, so there was much scavenging to be done among the true believers.

In the lull before the next onslaught, I hovered nearby while Mother finally approached Mr. Petersen, seated at his battered card table, putting money away in an old tin cash box, presenting a truly Scrooge-like image.

He was an older gent (but younger than Mother), perhaps in his late sixties, rotund (polite for overweight—okay, fat), partially bald, with bulbous nose and rheumy eyes. He noticed Mother holding the writing box, and put two and two together.

“Well,” the man said rather gruffly, “glad you made it, Vivian.”

I wondered how long he and Mother had been acquainted, and under what circumstances. Over the years she had often gone out on dates, but after my father, she never had a serious relationship—that I knew about, anyway. Mother bestowed a charming, disarming smile on him, bringing out her still-attractive Swedish features, and spoke in a soft, musical voice usually reserved for the stage, or bill collectors.

“Marvin, thank you so very much for calling,” Mother said. “You’ve always been a dear.”

The blush rose all the way over the bald head. “Well, er …”

“You know,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially, “we tried to contact you last night, but”—she winked at him, and behind those lenses, it was one big wink—“you must have been out on the town.”

He coughed, blinked, blushed some more, then grunted grumpily, “More like hiding in the basement.”

“Whatever for?”

Shrugging, he said, “When I have a garage sale, I turn off the ringer on the phone and draw the blinds, once the ad hits the paper—otherwise, there’d be no peace.”

With a sympathetic sigh, Mother nodded and said, “People can be so presumptuous … so annoying! Imagine, asking to come the day before so they can have a first looksee.” She made a “tsk-tsk” sound, as if discussing some unfortunate breach of not just manners but the law.

“I mean, fair’s fair,” he was saying. “First come, first served, I always say.”

Again she leaned toward him, her voice husky now. “Some folks even park outside the house, hours before the sale begins. I mean, are they people or vultures? Terrible, making a person feel like a prisoner in your own home, simply terrible.”

Mother, of course, had been describing us and our actions, but Mr. Petersen didn’t seem to know that. But she had melted whatever resistance remained in the old fella—Mr. Petersen beamed; he’d found a kindred spirit.

“Nice to know,” he said, “that you understand.”

This line of attack exhausted, Mother switched gears. “But however did you know that little box was mine?”

“Ah,” he said. “The missus found a small address label stuck inside the back.”

“Really? Where
is
Mildred this morning?”

“That’s part of the story, Vivian. You see, I bought that piece right after Mildred broke her leg and got laid up in bed for a spell. We don’t believe in the Internet, and Milly does love to write her letters.”

I was contemplating the notion of not believing in the Internet, as if it were a superstition, while Mother made her move.

Looking down at the box in her hands with a tragic little frown, Mother said pitifully, “Well, again, Marvin, it was awfully sweet of you to call, but you know …”

Here it came.

“… the tag says it’s three hundred dollars … and on my limited income, well, I guess you know—”

“Pish!” he said.

At first I thought he’d said something else!

But our host at the card table was waving a hand like a graceless magician. “Don’t pay any never-mind to that. I just used a figure to keep
other
folks away, till you could have a look.”

“Oh, how sweet of you, Marvin.”

“For you, it’s only … how’s fifty dollars?”

“Really?” Mother was smiling ear to ear (me too). I’d been inching my way over, wallet in hand containing the shabby remains of my travel money.

Then—if you can believe it (I hardly could)—Mother said, “Oh, but, Marvin, it’s worth a least a hundred!”

I gave my mother a short, swift, ever-so-subtle kick in the shin, and her eyes popped behind the magnifying lenses, though she managed not say, “Ouch.”

Instead, while I plunked down the fifty before Petersen could adjust his price, she said, “But who am I to question your generosity? You are an angel, Marvin Petersen.”

This summoned an image in my mind that I feel a responsibility not to share in any great detail.

As our host wrapped the writing box in yesterday’s news, Mother asked, “And how is Mildred?”

“Doing much better. They have her using a walker—you might have seen her at that meeting the other day. Aren’t you one of the Red Hat girls?”

“I most certainly am. You just tell Mildred that she has the sweetest husband on the face of the earth.”

I managed to keep my breakfast down, while the bald-blushing gentleman handed us the bundle.

In the car, we sat for a few moments; suddenly I was dead tired—Mother’s performance had been exhausting to watch. Right now she was lovingly looking over the box, which had a not-so-secret compartment—a false bottom—that I had always romantically thought was intended for love letters. Mother slid it open and withdrew a small yellow piece of paper.

I glanced over her shoulder; it was a receipt from Clint Carson’s antique shop for a portable writing box, paid by Marvin Petersen—for three hundred dollars.

“What an old sweetheart,” she said.

“Literally?”

Mother’s eyes regarded me with magnified innocence. “I have no idea what you’re suggesting.”

Everybody has their own secret compartments, and I guess Mother deserved hers as much as the next “girl.” I started the car and we rode in silence toward Elm, then down our street, when Mother suddenly sat forward.

“Looks like Floyd Olson’s having a sale,” she said. “Pull over, would you, Brandy?”

She needn’t have asked. Mr. Olson, a retired dentist, had been a widower for several years; he and his late wife had traveled the world, bringing back all sorts of unique items. (Mother would make excuses to visit just to see their latest acquisition, to the point Mrs. Olson finally asked, “Vivian, are you after my husband?” To which Mother replied, “Dear thing, the only antique you possess that I’m
not
interested in is your husband.”)

Floyd, who had lost considerable weight due no doubt to grief, and the absence of his wife’s German cooking, was showcasing his wares out on the front lawn; the buzzards were already picking, a dozen or so people on the prowl.

One buzzard in particular caught my eye. The ponytailed skinny figure in western attire was unmistakable even from behind; he was talking to Mr. Olson.

“You know, Bubbah, if there are other things in the house you’d like to turn into money,” Carson was saying in his phony, good-ol'-boy drawl, “maybe I could be of help.”