Tempus (2 page)

I started cleaning and polishing the ‘keepers,’ lost in thoughts of the handsome man and the beautiful woman when I recognized the sound of Dad’s car pulling into the lot.  I heard the door creak open, followed by Dad’s familiar heavy footsteps coming up behind me.  He was a poor sneaker, and I already knew what he was about to do.

“Boo!” he yelled as he grabbed my shoulders.

“Dad,
I don’t jump
.  Besides, I heard you coming from a mile away.”  I shrugged out of his grasp and set down the piece I’d been cleaning.

“What if I was a bad guy?  You never even looked up.  You should at least look up and make sure it’s really me,
tough girl
.”  He smiled, but looked a little serious.  “What if I
was
a bad guy, hmm?”

“Dad,
what if
you snuck up on me sometime, and I jumped and broke the most valuable antique we ever had in the store, hmm?”  I gave him my best ‘yeah, I gotcha!’ look.

He chuckled, shook his head, and then shrugged.  “I’m not worried, you said you don’t jump.” 

I couldn’t help but smile a little.  “I hope you got all the shopping done.  I’m hungry, and I’m
dirty
,” I flicked a piece of mouse poop off my shirt for emphasis, “and I’m ready to
go
.  I’ll tell you what I found while we drive.”

He glanced around the room.  I knew he was considering the size and number of boxes and weighing that against what few things he could see on the counter.  To his credit, he didn’t say a word as he turned toward the door and held it open for me.  
Good job, Dad.  Good job.

Once outside, I climbed into the passenger seat of the 1978 Ford station wagon that my dad refused to part with.  It was the first car he and Mom had bought together after they got married.  It had those cheesy fake wooden panels on the outside, and the interior was burgundy, or at least it used to be.  My dad took care of it like it was a second child.  Any time I made fun of it, or winced at being seen in it, he would snort and say ‘Sweetheart, this car is a
classic
!’

I didn’t know if it would’ve been better, or worse, to have told him the truth.  I wasn’t as embarrassed by the car as I was by its contents.  It was perpetually filled with junk. 

For all the care he took with the motor, the body, and the front seats, everything from the back seat on was a pile of mayhem.  Boxes, newspapers, old clothes, and who knows
what
else, were stacked to the very top.  He didn’t even know what was in it anymore, but he would turn pale and mumble every time I offered to help him clean it out, so I stopped offering. 

Since it was only a short distance from our store to our house, I started listing the things that I’d found today.  He seemed pleased, but I could tell he was still wondering how so little came out of so many boxes.  I don’t think he quite bought my ‘most of it was nasty paper, Dad’ argument, but he didn’t press me on it.  He was improving, and that gave me hope that one day we might have a normal house again,
before
I moved out.

We pulled into the driveway and I glanced at our house.  Anyone passing by would have thought it was beautiful.  It
was
a beautiful house, a majestic Queen Anne Victorian with immaculate paint, a manicured lawn, and ancient trees.  Maybe not
ancient
, but they were very old and they were
huge
.  The wrought iron fence that surrounded our lot looked more gothic, but not at all out of place. 

The house was three stories tall and my room was on the top floor.  I looked up at my open window, and the lace curtains billowing in the breeze.  One great thing about being on the top floor of a Victorian house—you never had to lock your windows.

“I’ll cook, you clean up,” my dad said as I opened the car door and slid out of my seat.

“Deal!”  I unlocked the back door and propped it open so Dad could carry in the groceries.

Now
this
is where the perfect picture started to change.  The kitchen was fine, neat and tidy, a place for everything, and everything in its place.  Going into the formal dining was another matter entirely.  As I exited through the tall kitchen doorway, I felt my body ‘squinch up.’  That’s what I called it, because that’s what it felt like.  The room was almost full, floor to vaulted ceiling, with box after box after box.  What was in them all, one could only guess.

I navigated through to the next room, one of the living areas.  There was a beautiful 1850’s mahogany sofa, a matching fainting couch, and a pair of Meeks Stanton Hall armchairs buried somewhere in here.  I remember how beautiful this room was when my mother was still alive.  In the corner, I could just see the top of one of her favorite tiffany lamps, surrounded by the clutter that had become our lives over the last four years.

I continued until I reached the stairs, then I was home free.  I dashed up them as fast as I could, all the way to the third floor.  Mom had remodeled all the upper rooms five years ago.  She’d said it was going to be her ‘sanctuary.”. 

There was a nice guest room, now mine, with a small but adequate bath across the hall.  There was also a sitting room I had turned into a library.  That was where I did my homework, and where I loved to read.  The top floor was all mine, and Mom would be proud of how I took care of it.

As I entered my bedroom, I took in a deep breath of fresh evening air.  I opened my small purse and pulled out the perfume atomizer.  I sat it on the chest of drawers beside my window, next to a dozen others, and squeezed the bulb once.  
Nothing
.  Just as I expected, but not as I had hoped.  “Oh well,” I sighed to the quiet room, and went to take my bath.

Monday mornings were always fun and hectic at the store during the summer tourist season.  Just far enough off the beaten path between Branson and Springfield, Era had remained a small town, nestled among rolling Missouri hills and flat pastureland.  Dad’s little antique store, ‘Timeless Treasures,’ was well known by those in ‘the trade,’ and other dealers would travel from miles away on a weekly basis to buy and to barter.  Besides antiques, locals would often place homemade items in the store on consignment.  We never made the big bucks, but always turned a tidy profit anyway.

As we arrived this morning, an unfamiliar old truck—with an unfamiliar driver standing beside it—was backed into a side parking space.  It was loaded down with extremely dirty furniture, antiques of course.  Even through the layers of dust and who knows
what
else, the distinct pattern of flame mahogany was visible on the Victorian china closet that caught my interest first.

Dad got out before me, approached the driver, and they shook hands.  As they spoke and looked over the contents of the truck bed, I went in the side door and prepared to open for business.  I started in the back room, then to the office, and then the front area, flipping on lights along the way. 

As I was unlocking the front door, I peeked through the glass, saw a huge grin on my dad’s face, and knew they had struck some sort of deal.  I flipped on the “Open” sign and started to turn when I heard Dad’s booming voice call from outside.

“Jessie!  
Jessie
!  Come give us a hand!”

I swung the door open and approached the truck, which now had its tailgate down
.  Beautiful furniture
I thought as I let my eyes wander, mentally cataloging.  Flame mahogany China cabinet, 1800’s.  Louis the XVI tric-trac table, probably late 1700’s.  Another Louis the XVI item, a panetiere of burled walnut, 1700’s as well.  No wonder Dad was smiling so big, these people had excellent taste, except for the
selling all of it
part.

“Mr. Patel, this is my little girl, Jessamine.”  I scowled at Dad.  He knew I hated when he used that name, and I hated when he called me his
little girl
.  I was seventeen, practically an adult!  “She likes to be called Jessie.  I can’t convince her that Jessie sounds like a boy’s name,” he nudged me with an elbow, “or maybe I
have
convinced her and that’s why she likes it.”

“Nice to meet you, Jessie,” said Mr. Patel, extending a slender hand.

“You, too,” I took his hand and gave it a squeeze.

There was small talk as we unloaded the truck.  The men got all the furniture and I carried the boxes.  I learned that Mr. Patel was the newest science teacher at the high school.  He seemed very nice, but his wife sounded a bit eccentric.  

They had purchased Miller House a few blocks away from us, and I silently cringed while he described what his wife had been doing to the inside.  Why did people buy old houses—Miller house was as least one hundred and ten years old—and then destroy the very thing that makes them special and unique?  I didn’t think I would like
her
very much.

After Mr. Patel left, I decided to get busy cleaning up the furniture.  I pulled out the Howards clean-a-finish and put myself to work on the china closet.  I had to get all the dust and grime off to assess the condition of the finish.  

Mr. Patel had said the furniture came with the house when he bought it from old Mr. Ferguson.  After Mrs. Ferguson died, he didn’t go out much anymore.  A couple of times the neighbors had the police go check on him because they hadn’t seen him in so long, and they were afraid to go check themselves.  He was always fine.

I inspected the finish where I’d been cleaning and so far, so good.  I placed my hand on the beautiful reddish wood.  I’d intended to slide my palm along it to see how smooth it felt, but my hand froze when I got the glimpse.  

Mrs. Ferguson was placing a beautiful plate inside, stepping back to see how it looked before reaching for the next one.  She looked so young and vibrant, so
alive
.  Nothing like the last time I saw her, sitting quietly in the car with a vacant stare.  Alzheimer’s was a horrible thing.

As I continued cleaning, I let my thoughts drift, and I wondered what Julie was doing today.  She was spending the summer in Houston with her dad.  She was my best friend, and I’d missed her.  At least she would be back any day.  My only other
real
friend was Katie, and who knew
where
she was right now.  Her parents changed plans more than the wind changed directions, as Dad would say.

I thought back to when I said goodbye to Julie two weeks after school ended.  I rode with her and her aunt to the airport and we talked non-stop all the way.  When I hugged her goodbye, I had to force myself to let go.  An entire summer without Julie? 
Nightmare
.  We promised to talk at least once a week until she came back, and we had kept our promise all summer long.

I knew everything about Julie, and she knew everything about me.  Well,
almost
everything.  I’d never been able to bring myself to tell her about the glimpses.  I was afraid of two things: that she wouldn’t believe me and think I was crazy, or she
would
believe me and think I was crazy.  Either way, I didn’t like the outcome, and I wasn’t going to take any chances, not with the best friend I’d ever had.

I heard the bell on the front door, followed by Mrs. Henderson’s breathless greeting to my dad.  She always sounded like she’d just finished running a marathon and every few words were interrupted by a slight gasp, or at least a noisy breath.  It was hard not to let my distaste show whenever I was the one forced to speak with her.

She was married to Gregg Henderson, a local attorney, so she fancied herself one of the more
well to do
people in town.  She had a tendency to talk down to anyone she spoke to, even those she considered friends, so I didn’t like her much.  

Besides the gasping and the down talking, I had no other reason to dislike her.  However, I
did
have a good reason to avoid her whenever possible.  It was very hard to keep a straight face when I had seen a glimpse of her ‘oh-so-propah’ husband in pink women’s underwear.  There were few glimpses I’d ever regretted seeing, but that one was at the top of my list.

I finished the cabinet and was trying to decide what was next when I noticed the mirror.  It was a 19th Century French Louis XVI Cheval Mirror.  How had I missed
that
?  I admired it from a distance at first—sometimes glimpses could ruin the beauty.  Take
Mr
. Henderson’s pink panties, for instance.

It had a beautiful green patina with various gold highlights.  Fluted columns rising from the arched feet held the full-length oval mirror in place.  The glass had delicate beadwork trim and a bouquet crown.  

I’d always wanted a full-length mirror, but Mom would never let me have one.  Dad said he thought she was paranoid that I might fall through it and get hurt.  I thought that idea was ridiculous, but Mom was boss.  Last year, Dad bought me one of those cheap kinds that you stick on a bathroom door, but it was ugly, and not exactly what I’d had in mind.

This, however, was
exactly
the mirror I’d been wanting for my room.  Well, it wasn’t this exact one before I saw it, but
now
it was.  All I had to do was figure out how to talk Dad into letting me take it—it wouldn’t fit in my purse after all.  Might as well take my chance now and get the glimpse out of the way, if there even was one.

It was tilted slightly backward, so I walked over to it with the intention of swiveling the mirror slightly
forward
instead.  I wasn’t sure how easily it would move, so I placed a hand on either side of the beaded trim and pulled.  I saw him immediately and thought,
this one’s going to be nice
.