The Auctioneer (21 page)

When John came back with the water, she said, “Where you off to?”

“To blow the whistle on that Perly fellow,” John said. “Past high time someone did.”

John left at five in the morning, but his plans had changed somewhat. As it turned out, he was wearing the dark green work pants and red and black plaid jacket that he usually wore to town.

“Perly’s got friends in Concord, sure,” Mim had said. “If you happened on one, here we’d be—me and Hildie and Ma without a way of knowin’ or a truck to drive away in. You can say what you got to say just as clear on the telephone as goin in to see him.”

It was not at all obvious where he was going. Even so, as he rolled by the dark houses on Route 37, he felt that there were eyes behind each pulled shade, marking his movement. He drove warily, starting at every glimmer from the woods beyond the drainage ditches. He told himself it was silly to feel he couldn’t make a trip to Concord by daylight. He generally went once a month at least to get parts for this or that. Nevertheless, his plan now was to go before light and return after dark.

He took the turnpike and changed a five-dollar bill into dimes at the toll booth. At dawn he found himself almost alone on the wide main street of Concord. He drove straight through and headed out again. On the outskirts of the city, he found a shopping center that suited his purposes. He parked his truck, noting that it was almost the only one in the fifteen-acre lot that early, and more conspicuous than it would have been in Harlowe. Nevertheless, he forced himself to eat a cold potato, and sit still on the dusty seat watching hour after hour as the storekeepers arrived, the stores opened, and cars, vans, and small trucks began to fill up the lot.

By ten-thirty, with the lot half full, the sidewalk was bustling with shoppers. John took his handful of dimes to one of the four telephone booths in front of Friendly Ice Cream. Then he stood in the booth, letting his breath steam up the glass, watching the mothers herd their pairs of well-fed children out of the ice cream shop, wiping at their chins with paper napkins and zipping up their coats.

“I can connect you with the State House, sir,” said the operator and, without waiting for John to answer, she put the call through and a phone rang somewhere on the other end of the line.

“State of New Hampshire,” said another woman’s voice, and John again asked to speak to the governor.

“Please hold the line, sir,” said the voice.

There was a long wait. Finally the operator came on and asked for another dime.

As soon as John deposited it, another woman’s voice said, “Office of the governor, may I help you?”

“I want to speak to the governor,” John said carefully.

“The governor is not available, sir,” said the voice, which sounded as though it were coming from the other end of a rope of licorice. “If you could tell me your name and what the problem is, perhaps I could help.”

John chewed on his knuckles. Women streamed by the telephone booth wheeling small children in wire baskets, their mouths stopped with lollipops.

“Are you there, sir?” said the woman.

“I am,” John said. “There’s this trouble I want to report.”

“You want the police, sir, 225-2706.”

“No,” John said. “It’ll take the governor for this.”

“I told you, sir. The governor is unavailable at the moment. But if you contact the police, they’ll take action through the appropriate channels.”

John bit off a hangnail on his index finger, trying to think which detail to tell her to convince her to let him speak to the governor.

“Thank you for calling, sir,” said the voice and there was a click. John’s money fell into the box of the telephone and he heard the dial tone again.

He found he had forgotten the number. He dialed the operator. “I need the police,” he said.

“Is this an emergency?” she asked.

“No,” he said. Then, considering, he said, “I think so,” but the operator was already gone.

Somewhere a phone rang and rang and rang. A family went by the telephone booth. John turned to stare after them as they passed. A man and a woman and two little boys dressed exactly alike in brand-new brown snowsuits.

Finally a weary man’s voice said, “Police.”

And the operator said, “Deposit ten cents please for the first three minutes.”

John put his money in and the man said, this time with a touch of impatience, “Police here.”

“I wanted to report some trouble,” John said.

“What kind of trouble?” said the tired voice.

“Well, it’s up to Harlowe.”

“Harlowe? Where’s that?”

“Harlowe,” John said distinctly.

“If you mean the town of Harlowe, that’s the state police,” said the man. “Call 271-3181.”

“Oh,” said John.

“Anytime,” said the policeman and hung up. John’s money dropped and he was back to the dial tone.

John called the operator again. Each time he dialed he got a different operator.

This time the phone was answered almost before it rang. “Police, State of New Hampshire,” said a woman’s voice. “May I help you?”

“I want to report some trouble.”

“Is it an emergency, sir?”

“Yes, sort of.”

“Where are you? We’ll send someone right out.”

John looked around him. “I don’t know exactly. It’s not that kind of emergency. Not so I need someone here right now. It’s up to—”

“Is it an emergency or is it not, sir?”

John hesitated. “Not an emergency this minute,” he said. “You might say it’s an emergency this week.”

There was a pause, then, “Just what is the nature of your problem, sir?”

“Well, I see a lot of trouble goin’ on,” John said and paused.

“Don’t we all!” said the woman. “What kind of trouble? When? Where?”

“Well this trouble’s laid up seven months now under all kinds of happenings as look all right. It was April-”

“April! And you’re just reporting it now?”

“Like I say, ma’am,” said John. “It was overlaid with sweet talk and I didn’t know as it would get so bad.”

“Oh, I see. It’s still going on, is it?” said the woman briskly. “What is it, extortion or something?”

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

There was a pause and a sigh, then the woman said, “Look, let’s start with your district, then I can connect you with the right supervisor. Now. Where are you?”

“In Concord, ma’am.”

“Concord has its own police force, sir,” she said. “I suggest you call them. Then if they feel we should be called in, they’ll call us.” I called them already, ma’am, and what they say is since the trouble’s up to Harlowe—”

Harlowe? she said. “Well, for heaven’s sake, why didn’t you say so? I’ll connect you with—um, let’s see-that’s Captain Sullivan.”

There was a long, long pause and again John had to deposit money.

Finally a crisp man’s voice said, “Sullivan speaking. Understand you’re worrying over Harlowe.”

“Right,” John said, relieved.

“What seems to be the problem?”

“There’s this auctioneer come in, sir. A stranger. First he come round to half the town and collected up their life’s belongin’s to sell at his auctions. And then there was all these accidents, all to them as didn’t see things his way. And now he’s after land and livin’ children.”

“Whose land and children?” asked the man.

“Everybody’s, sir. Everybody who ain’t a deputy. Or the doctor or the storekeeper or some others.”

“That doesn’t sound like quite everybody. You personally are on hard times? That what you’re trying to tell me?”

“No, sir. I mean yes, maybe...”

“You talked to Bob Gore about this?” he asked. “I should think he’d understand your situation better than I can. I was talking to him just last Tuesday, and he was telling me how Harlowe is just bustin’ out all over. Construction, and new people, and money coming in hand over fist. If times are hard for you, maybe the town can help you out some, tide you over the winter. You ablebodied?”

“Course I’m able-bodied.”

“Well then...”

“That ain’t the point. The point bein’ that this here auctioneer who’s gobblin’ up the townsfolk—”

“If you mean Perly Dunsmore,” said the voice, laughing, “I’d best tell you he’s the luckiest thing ever happened to Harlowe. Now there’s a man knows which end is up. But I understand some of the old families like the old ways and don’t want to move with the times. These big developers always have their enemies. You got to get with it though, mister. We’re in the twentieth century. There’s no stopping progress. As for that fellow Dunsmore, he’s three lengths smarter than most. A real winner. You should count your blessings.”

“I got no grudge with the twentieth century,” John said. “What Perly’s up to’s got nothin’ to do with any century.”

“You’re wrong about that, of course, but listen. What did you say your name was? Maybe you could come in here and we could talk this over.”

Moore held the receiver to his ear. “Whatever you do, don’t breathe the name of Moore,” Mim had said. And Ma had said. “Its a sorry day when you’re ashamed to say you’re a Moore.” John took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead. The telephone booth was so steamed up now that he couldn’t see out at all.

“Hello?” said Captain Sullivan.

John hung up.

He opened the door and breathed the cold air. He doodled in the steam on the inside of the glass with his fingernail, thinking about Captain Sullivan knowing he meant Perly right off the bat like that.

Finally he closed the door and dialed the operator again. “Give me the State House, please,” he said.

When the woman with the licorice voice answered, he said, “I talked to the police and the state police like you said and they won’t help at all. You got to let me through to the governor.”

“I don’t ‘got to’ anything, sir. Didn’t I speak to you before?”

“I said so, ma’am,” John said, feeling the sweat start beneath the collar of his wool jacket.

“What was your problem again?”

“Where I come from, there’s a man takin’ people’s children, their own flesh and blood. He’s shootin’ people and knockin’ greenhouses down and jimmyin’ up the steerin’ so’s—”

“Who
is doing
what?”

“The auctioneer—”

“Didn’t you call me last week too?”

“No, ma’am. No. Not me.”

“I think you did. This sounds familiar.”

“No, no,” John said, his spirits rising. “But there’s plenty on the receivin’ end along with me. Stands to reason. Must be others called.”

“Listen. Crackpots call in here all the time. You wouldn’t believe the calls we get. Obscene phone calls. People wanting him to come to their grandmother’s birthday party. People will say anything on the phone. You know some guy called in here the other day, thought I was the governor’s wife.” The voice laughed heartily.

“Please, ma’am,” John said. “In my whole life no one ever called me a crackpot. I been tendin’ my business, bidin’ my time, waitin’ for this to blow over. I never lodged a complaint before. I let others better outfitted than me do that. But I can’t wait no more. I’d be real quick. Three minutes. You got no call to stop me when I got a reason good as this.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, resuming her licorice voice. “He’s unavailable to random callers. You must understand the governor is a very busy man. There’s an election campaign just over, and Christmas coming. And then there was that terrible fire over in Manchester, and he’s very busy trying to organize some relief. And right at the moment all his aides are pretty well tied up too. Think of all the important things they have to look after—that broken dam up in Artemis that’s left all those poor people homeless. The welfare problem in the state—you just don’t know how bad it’s got.”

“But this here is people in trouble too,” John said, but he wasn’t sure, even as he stood there begging, that his problem was as important as all those other things. A broken dam was, after all, something you could stand in front of and look straight at.

“I would suggest that your problem is one for the police,” said the woman.

“Gosh sakes, who?” John asked, feeling the quick heat rise to his face. “I called all them. What’s a body got to do around here? Bust a dam? Burn a town?”

“That’d do it all right,” said the woman, giggling. When John made no response, she said, “Look, if you’re all that upset, you can come in here and make out a formal statement. The girls in the office here will tell you how to do it. If you want to bring charges, we’ll help you with the forms, and get you in to see a judge. But you can’t do these things on the telephone. How do I know who you are?”

“I can’t do that,” John moaned. “There’s too many people ready to steal my child, shoot my wife—God only knows.”

“If you feel the need for police protection, sir, you should discuss the matter with the police,” she said, more gently now.

John held onto the phone until the woman asked if he was there still and if he didn’t want to come in. Then, because he was incapable of speaking any more, he hung up.

11

He walked back to the truck, his body aching with fatigue. He folded his arms on the wide black steering wheel and rested his head against them. He more or less believed in the police, despite Cogswell’s warning about the troopers. At least he always had. It didn’t come naturally not to believe in them. In the police, and the army, and the country, and the goodness of his neighbor. He had accepted the inflation that made his milk worth less and less, and he had accepted the certification regulations which finally made it impossible for him to sell his milk at all. He accepted the fact that he was still living the way his grandfather had, while people in the towns and cities were filling their lives with expensive gadgets. He saw all the cars and the dishwashers and the cabins on the lakes and the trips hither and yon in fancy trailers and he dismissed them as a fragile tower that could be toppled in a cold wind. He let the tables and chairs go, and the tools and machinery, and even the cows, because of the land. Because the land was free and clear. Because he believed that a good piece of land was the only true security there was—the only security a family needed. Some man with a ski resort in mind had offered him forty-five thousand dollars for his land when Hildie was a baby, and he had laughed. “You could retire on that,” the stranger had reminded him. Money ain’t like land,” John had answered.