Language Arts (45 page)

“Take them,” Charles replied.

“What?”

“They're free.”

Harley scowled, replaced the books, and moved on to inspect a box of electrical supplies left over from one of the storybook cottage's many remodels.

Charles had given a lot of consideration as to how to best publicize this event, finally coming down on the side of Yard
Sale—even though that was a blatant violation of the truth-in-advertising concept. What he planned, in fact, was a Yard Giveaway
.

“How about a quarter each?” Charles asked the biker when he looked like he was about to leave. “For the books?”

“Oh. Sure. Okay.”

It became a fascinating lesson in psychology: most of the people who dropped by during those first hours refused to take things they obviously wanted, needed, or were interested in after asking the price and hearing the word
free.
Among the few items Charles was able to successfully give away were a couple of coffee mugs, a faux-leather desk set whose origins were completely unknown to him, and a stack of partially completed
New York Times
crossword puzzle books.

Nobody took the furniture, the sports equipment, the never-used wedding presents . . .

“Come back tomorrow!” Charles yelled amiably as people drifted away, empty-handed. “Everything will be half off!”

As the day progressed, there still remained a sizable inventory. Charles decided he'd better change tactics or risk finding himself at four o'clock tomorrow afternoon with a yard that was still full of merchandise—and a repeat of the wrenching dilemma of what to do with it all.

A young couple started making their way to Charles's table; they were probably nineteen or twenty years old, and they exuded the unmistakably comfortable but magnetized energy of two people in like
and
in love. He'd been watching them for some time; they used their voices, but they also spoke in sign language.

The boy was holding a pair of cross-country skis and boots Alison had bought Charles for Christmas one year.

“Hey,” the boy said, setting the boots down and propping the skis against Charles's table, signing as he spoke. “I was wondering, what size are these?”

“Ten and a half,” Charles answered.

The boy's hands translated, the girl's face brightened, and she gave him a playful hip check.

The boy grinned at her. “How much?”

Charles considered. They were probably students, probably poor. The boy especially had that undernourished, tired-and-overcaffeinated look, so Charles quoted him the price of a triple venti latte.

The boy looked puzzled. “For just the boots, right?” he said.

“No, the skis too,” Charles said. “And here . . .” He walked them over to the clothing department and pulled out the ski jacket Alison had given him that same year. “I'll throw this in too. It looks like it'll fit you.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

A look of delight broke across the girl's face. Her expression was so purely radiant, for a moment she reminded him of Dana.
Thank you!
she said to Charles, using a simple sign that he recognized and remembered.

You're welcome,
he signed back.

As they walked away, the girl took the boy's arm. Her hands moved with a wonderful grace and rapidity as she spoke, her voice denasal but clear and expressive: “I promise you, babe, you're gonna
love
cross-country. I know it's not snowboarding, but nobody gets a compound fracture doing Nordic . . .”

Charles checked his watch. Three thirty. Only a half hour to go.

Tomorrow would be a shorter day, not only because it was Sunday and he expected a smaller crowd, but because Cody would be with him. And although Charles planned to set Cody up at a table in a semiprivate area of the yard and provide him with plenty of timed noodle-smashing and magazine-tearing opportunities (alternating with snacks and lunch), he didn't want to test the limits of Cody's patience.

Charles wondered if Pam Hamilton would be dropping by again. She'd been here early this morning and stayed until the sale opened.

Isn't that yard sale of yours coming up?
she'd asked during those last, student-less days of school when teachers cleaned out their classrooms for the summer and attended a few mandated end-of-year meetings.

Yes, it is,
Charles answered.
Next weekend,
he added.
Saturday from nine o'clock until four; Sunday from ten until three.

Sunday.

Yes.

This coming Sunday.

That's right.

Isn't that Father's Day?

Is it? I hadn't realized.
Charles wondered if business would be adversely affected by the holiday.

Do you have someone to help you?

Help me?

Your poster said the sale included a lot of furniture. Do you have someone to help you get everything outside?

Charles hadn't considered this. An extra set of hands would probably be useful. He supposed he could ask Gil from next door . . .

What time does the sale start again?
Pam asked.

Nine,
Charles replied.

Okay,
Pam said, considering.
I'll be there at six thirty.

Six thirty?

Actually, six.

And she was, toting a cardboard traveler of Starbucks coffee and, surprisingly, a baker's dozen of Krispy Kreme doughnuts; Charles had figured her as more the yogurt-and-granola type.

It would indeed have been difficult for Charles to manage the furniture on his own; it would also have taken twice as long to get things set up. Without Pam's help, he never would have been ready by nine o'clock. It always amazed him: time passed so quickly before a deadline was met; so slowly afterward.

At seven thirty, they were hauling the combination changing table/bureau out onto the lawn when Cody arrived promptly and as planned with one of his caregivers, the only customer to be granted early-bird status.

Charles had arranged this stopover, a brief and hopefully not-too-upsetting blip in the schedule before Cody headed to Kirkland for his weekly riding lesson.

There were still lots of items to get outside, but in preparation for Cody's visit, Charles had made sure that the box of children's books had come out early.

“Hey, Cody!” Pam said. “How are you?”

Cody dropped his chin to his chest and signed,
Hello, Pam!
Since he was three, he'd been greeting her with an exuberant signing of the word
pony.

“Come on over here, son,” Charles said, leading him to the front porch. “Take a look at these. You get to take the ones you want to keep.”

Cody plopped down in his habitual odd manner—long limbs folding and collapsing quickly, a marionette with cut strings—and immediately went to work. The caregiver stood guard while Pam and Charles continued to haul things outside.

Fifteen minutes later, Cody stood up, suddenly, decisively, clasping a stack of books to his chest.

“All done? Find some good ones?” Charles asked. He was pleased to see that in Cody's save pile were
Caps for Sale, On the Day You Were Born,
and
Are You My Mother?

Some of these books, Charles knew, had torn pages and teeth marks. He and Alison had both reprimanded Cody again and again, gently, firmly, but to no avail.
No biting, Cody! No tearing! Books are treasures!
Now, in retrospect, seeing the possessive and reverent manner in which Cody cradled the books, Charles wondered if they'd misunderstood; perhaps Cody's literary vandalism wasn't an expression of disrespect but rather his way of demonstrating an intense affection—and then, later, after he'd lost his words, an even more intense anguish.

Cody turned and started back toward the van.

“Thanks for bringing him by,” Charles said to the caregiver. “Bye, Cody!” he called to Cody's unresponsive figure. “See you tomorrow!”

“Bye, Cody!” Pam added. “Adios, cowboy!”

They finished setting up by eight thirty, a whole half hour early.

Grateful for her help and company, Charles found himself hoping that Pam might stay longer—he could fix her a cup of tea, give her chance to relax; she'd worked so hard—so he was disappointed when she said she'd be taking off, meeting a friend for a walk around Green Lake and then heading to a yoga class.

She certainly was an
active
person.

“Oh. Well. Thanks for your help, Pam.”

“You're welcome, Charles. Good luck with the sale.”

Next door, right on schedule, the Bjornsons' garage door rumbled open and the current Best Hit—“Desperado,” by the Eagles—crescendoed dramatically.

“Morning, Charles!” Gil called, emerging from the garage. “You're up bright and early for a Saturday. Yard sale?”

“That's right.”

“Well, Erik'll be here soon. We might have to take a break and stop over.”

“Please do. I'll be here.”

“Was that Cody I just saw leaving?”

“It was.”

“Shoot. Sorry I missed him.”

“He'll be back tomorrow, most of the day.”

“Oh, good! Erik would love to see him.”

All that Saturday, the Bjornsons provided a soundtrack for Charles's customers. Charles kept expecting them to come over (there were some old tools of his father's that he thought Gil might like), but they stayed put, looking up every now and then to wave but mostly elbow-deep in the Mustang's innards, apparently at a critical juncture, a surgical team performing a multiple-organ transplant.

When Charles closed up shop at four o'clock—leaving everything out in the yard (there was no rain in the forecast, and he certainly wasn't worried about thieves)—the two of them were still out there, working away.

•♦•

The next morning, another Pinehurst Palace caregiver delivered Cody at nine thirty. After reviewing the list of what medications Cody took and when, Charles thanked him and then turned his attention to Cody; he seemed less than thrilled about being there.

Charles had rented two long, sturdy tables for the sale, but one of them had emptied yesterday, so he was able to provide Cody with an extra-large work surface. He wanted to get him set up and occupied before customers started arriving.

“Okay, buddy,” Charles said, bringing out his porcelain mortar and pestle—one wedding gift that wouldn't be part of the yard giveaway. “I'm setting the timer now; when it goes off, you have to stop and have a snack. Deal?”

Charles produced the block of noodles he'd stashed under the table, and Cody set to work.

It was another beautiful day. There was, as Charles had expected, a slightly smaller turnout, but his rock-bottom pricing strategy continued to move merchandise at a successful and steady clip.

A few folks from Cloud City came over. Jamie, the waitress, was thrilled to acquire the baby things: crib, Beatrix Potter bedding, and changing table; Charles hadn't known she was expecting. (
Five dollars? Mr. Marlow, are you sure?
) Sonny gratefully took the salad spinner, industrial-strength juicer, and one of the three deluxe Cuisinarts Charles and Alison had received as wedding presents, and two women Charles recognized as early-morning café regulars picked up the bulk of the camping equipment.

Gil and Erik weren't in the driveway when the sale began, but they pulled up in Erik's four-by-four around noon. Erik got out and immediately walked over, extending his hand.

“Hi, Mr. Marlow. Mind if I say hello to Cody?”

“No, of course not.”

Erik ambled through the half dozen customers to Cody's table. He stood there for a few moments before speaking.

“Hey there, Cody. Remember me? I'm Erik, from next door, your old babysitter. You're such a big guy now, I barely recognized you.”

Cody didn't look up.

“Sorry,” Charles said.

“No worries,” Erik replied.

Several customers later, Cody sat up straight, looked across the yard toward the Bjornsons', raised his arm in a salute, and yelled,
“Gaaah!”

•♦•

When the timer went off, Cody, thankfully, was compliant as Charles removed the mortar, pestle, and noodles and set down a stainless-steel bento box filled with Cody's lunchtime favorites. Charles affixed a sticker to the sheet of posterboard that served as Cody's portable reward record when he was out and about.

“Good job, buddy. Well done.”

Business picked up. Cody dove into his lunch. Charles mingled.

At one point, while Charles was conversing with a woman who was interested in the Hardy Boys collection, he noticed that Cody had left his sequestered spot and was wandering through the yard, looking like any other customer. “You should know,” Charles said, keeping an eye on him as he spoke, “several of these books are slightly damaged . . .”

“Oh, that's okay,” the woman answered. “They'd be going to a shelter for kids awaiting foster care. We've got some voracious readers. How much?”

When Cody came upon Charles's
Life
magazine collection, he immediately took hold of the box flaps and dragged it back to his table. Then, surprisingly (Charles would have been sure that the smell alone would have put Cody off, never mind the flimsy paper quality), Cody began reducing Janet Leigh and the thalidomide babies to a pile of ragged-edged strips.

•♦•

“You look surprised,” Pam said when she arrived around one o'clock, bearing two bags from Chipotle. “I thought I told you I was coming by after church and bringing lunch . . . Here you go. I hope you like
carnitas.
And there's Cody again! Hi, buddy!”

Cody greeted her but less enthusiastically than he had yesterday, involved as he was in his new
Life
magazine–tearing project. Pam sat down next to him and started eating her lunch.