The Mournful Teddy (6 page)

Ash nodded in silent agreement. “So, where do you suppose he’s getting all the stolen property?”

“Not from around here, that’s for certain. All it would take is for one person to see his or her DVD player on one of those tables—and go to the State Police instead of Honest Gene Holcombe—and the sacred stolen-goods bazaar would be finished faster than you can say, ‘Thou shalt not steal.’ ”

“So, who’s supplying the stuff?”

“Whoever he is, he’s got a sweet deal going, and as a bonus, he won’t do any real time in jail if he’s ever arrested.”

“How do you mean?”

“When this guy is finally popped for housebreaking he’s going to offer to tell everything he knows about Poole and Sheriff Holcombe—for a price,” I explained. “And there isn’t a prosecuting attorney on this planet that won’t play let’s make a deal to get a felony conviction on a prominent clergyman and a corrupt sheriff—if only for the good publicity.”

Ash patted my knee. “Darling, have I ever told you that you have a very cynical attitude about the human race?”

“Well, it’s the first time today.”

We arrived at the intersection with U.S. Route 33 and turned west. The highway has an actual name—Spotswood Trail, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone use it. It’s a four-lane road posted with fifty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit signs that are completely ineffective because everyone is driving way too fast to see them—including me.

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John J. Lamb

Okay, there’s no point in denying it. Unless I’m going someplace fun like to the dentist for a root canal, I operate a motor vehicle as if I’m still behind the wheel of a black-and-white, which means that I don’t drive so much as fly at a very low altitude. Fortunately, it appears as if everyone from around here has also driven a cop car at some point in their lives, so I blend right in.

I drove through the small community of McGaheysville and then the road swung to the southwest as it looped around the base of Massanutten Peak. We crossed into Rockingham County and after traveling another few miles I turned left onto Cross Keys Road. The Rockingham County Fairgrounds were south of Harrisonburg, and rather than fight the weekend traffic in town, I intended to cut cross-country on secondary roads.

Besides, the drive was much prettier. At first, the winding road was hemmed by dying cornfields, the tall, bronzed stalks trembling in the morning breeze. Then came verdant pastureland studded with low outcroppings of gray rock and dotted with milky-white Charolais cattle. Cresting a hill, we found ourselves between a distant pair of cobalt-colored waves with the Blue Ridge to our left and the Appalachian Mountains farther away to our right. If there is a heaven, I’m convinced it must look like this part of the Shenandoah Valley because I can’t imagine any improvement on this astonishing beauty. At any rate, I hope it’s a long, long time before I find out for sure.

Fifteen minutes later, we were southbound on Valley Pike, approaching the fairgrounds, which stand on a low flat hill on the west side of the highway, hidden from view by a dense wall of tall evergreens. Although Ash had told me the Mourning Bear auction was going to attract a large number of potential buyers, I was nonetheless stunned by the traffic jam of high-priced vehicles all making their way up the long driveway leading to the The Mournful Teddy

43

grassy parking lot. There were Cadillacs, Infinitis, BMWs, battle cruiser-size Lincoln Navigators, and Mercedes—

most with out-of-state license plates. Yet I shouldn’t have been surprised at the parade of automotive affluence. Anyone that can spend one-hundred-and-seventy grand on a twenty-inch teddy bear doesn’t drive a rusty AMC Gremlin to the sale.

We joined the procession, but didn’t follow the other vehicles to the parking lot. As exhibitors, we had permission to temporarily park at the hall’s back door to unload our truck. I followed a small cardboard directional sign and turned onto a gravel lane that led to the rear of the building. There, we found maybe eight vehicles parked at various angles from which women were removing chairs, folding tables, and box upon box of teddy bears. Swinging the SUV around, I slowly backed into an empty spot near the double doors.

“Okay, sweetheart, I’ll unload the stuff and carry it to our spot.” I handed Ash the truck keys and continued in a mortified voice, “And I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to park the truck. It’s too far for me to walk unless you don’t mind me arriving sometime much later this afternoon.”

“I already knew that, honey.” Ash rubbed my cheek.

“And there’s no need to apologize.”

“If you say so. We’re space fifty-one, right?”

“Right, and the map they mailed us last week shows that we’re in about the middle of the building.” She opened my old leather briefcase and retrieved a flimsy cardboard card with my name printed on it and encased in a clear plastic sheath. “Oh, and here’s your nametag, otherwise they won’t let you in.”

We got out of the truck and had everything unloaded in a couple of minutes. As Ash drove off, I moved the seven crates of teddy bears to a spot inside the door and 44

John J. Lamb

then lugged the first six-foot-long aluminum folding table toward our assigned space. The exhibit hall is about the size of a small high-school gymnasium and constructed of cement cinderblocks painted light green—the overall effect being that you feel as if you’ve stepped inside a gargantuan and empty carton of mint-chocolate-chip ice cream. Inside, I saw that a large, rectangular canvas tent had been erected directly in front of the hall, effectively doubling the amount of floor space.

We were among the last exhibitors to arrive and the place was already beginning to fill with hundreds of teddy bear aficionados. The assigned spaces were marked out on the floor with blue masking tape and I quickly found our allotted place. By the time Ash appeared, I had both of our tables set up, the chairs unfolded, and the crates of bears ready for her to arrange for display. I was also sweating like an Enron executive testifying before Congress.

“You should see the crowd out there; there’s even a camera crew from Channel Three,” said Ash, referring to Harrisonburg’s NBC Television affiliate.

“Did you see the judges’ tables on the way in? I want to get a picture of Susannah.”

She pointed toward the tent. “They’re in there next to where they’re going to hold the auction.”

“Why don’t I go and take some pictures now before things get busy?”

“Good idea, honey. I’ll get set up while you’re gone.”

Ash began to remove the bears from the boxes and place them on the table with the same caution and care that I would have employed to defuse a neutron bomb.

Mind you, I’m not making fun. She’s got a natural talent for arranging and posing the bears in eye-pleasing combinations. I grabbed the camera, kissed Ash on the forehead, and stumped toward the tent.

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If you’ve never been to a teddy bear show you really should go to one, even if you’re firmly convinced that stuffed animals are just for kids or—even worse—adults suffering from terminal immaturity. Yet in a world brimming with sorrow, strife, and mindless brutality, a room full of teddy bears, artisans, and collectors is good medicine for your soul. As a general rule, the people in the hobby are cheerful, mannerly, and laugh often. If that’s the contemporary definition of childish behavior, I’ll take immaturity any day, thank you.

There looked to be about seventy teddy bear exhibitors in attendance and even though I’ve been to several shows, I never cease to be amazed at the number and sheer variety of stuffed animals on display. On our aisle alone I saw reproductions of old-fashioned hump-backed bears, whimsical magenta and lime-colored bears with long arms and comically oversized feet, luxurious bears made from recycled fur coats, and realistic-looking black bears climbing up small artificial pine trees. In addition, there were many bears dressed in exquisitely handsewn costumes as nurses, barnstorming pilots, scarecrows, firefighters, witches, angels, ballerinas, Santa Claus, and even a Queen Elizabeth I, complete with a miniature white pleated neck ruff.

Another thing I noticed was the relaxed and congenial atmosphere as collectors swarmed the tables, often greeting artisans and other fans they’d met at previous shows.

Even though it was crowded, no one was pushing, complaining, or copping an aggressive attitude. Part of this might be because women dominate the hobby, but having seen the “fairer sex” ruthlessly battling over bargain merchandise at department-store holiday sales, I think it has far more to do with the teddy bears themselves. While I don’t believe in magic, I’m firmly convinced there is something almost supernatural about the bears’ soothing effect on people.

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John J. Lamb

I passed through the doors and into the adjoining canvas tent. The left half of the tent was fenced off with lightweight white vinyl railing, and within the enclosure were perhaps a hundred folding chairs facing a polished wooden podium.

Although the auction was set for 3 p.m., there were thirty or forty people already in the VIP corral, and they loitered near a long table packed with baked goods, fresh fruit, and champagne bottles. Standing guard at the entry gate was a young guy—definitely out of place with his sour face—

dressed in a gray suit and holding a thick stack of tri-fold color brochures. I assumed the fliers contained information on the Mourning Bear and since I’m becoming a dedicated student of the history of teddy bears, I decided to grab one.

I smiled and asked, “Hi, could I have one of those?”

The kid gave me the once over, sniffed, and obviously concluded I didn’t look wealthy enough to be a bidder.

“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s our policy to reserve all literature for certified participants.”

“It’s not literature—it’s a seventeen-cent brochure.”

“And what part of ‘you can’t have one’ don’t you understand?”

“Lighten up, my friend. This is a teddy bear show, not an anger management seminar.” I used the empathetic Father Flanagan voice that had secured more suspect confessions than I could remember. “You look unhappy.

What’s the matter?”

The kid blinked in surprise. People are almost always stunned when you don’t react aggressively to overt rudeness. Looking back and forth to make sure he wasn’t overheard, he said, “Sorry, man, it’s just that my boss is busting my ass because the Mourning Bear isn’t here yet.”

“Is that your fault?”

“No, it’s his for not checking with the owner when it wasn’t delivered last night. But he’s never wrong, so I get smacked.”

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“Sounds like a real jerk.”

“Look up the word in the dictionary and you’ll find a picture of him.”

“Well, good luck and just a word of advice from someone who’s worked for more than his share of jerks: Don’t ever let him see he’s gotten you angry. That’s how he controls you.”

“Thanks, man, and here.” He handed me a brochure.

Tucking the brochure into the pocket of my leather jacket, I went to the opposite side of the tent where a crowd was gathered around the tables displaying the teddy bears to be judged later that afternoon. Susannah stood in the group of five finalists from the “Artisan, Large Dressed”

category. The others were cute—a pirate, a Renaissance princess, a fairy, and a toy soldier—but I truly believed Ash’s bear was the best. My only hope was that the judges agreed with my utterly unbiased opinion. I took a couple of photographs of Susannah and then headed back to our table.

By the time I arrived, Ash was in the process of selling her very first teddy bear. A woman was bent over the table writing a check while my wife smoothed out the blue ribbon around a cinnamon-colored bear’s neck and quietly told the toy that it was going to a good home. I was surprised to see that Ash’s eyes were moist as she lovingly wrapped the bear in white tissue paper and put it into a plastic bag. Then she took the check and handed the bag to the woman.

As soon as we were alone, I asked, “Honey, are you okay? I thought you’d be overjoyed to sell a bear.”

“I am. I’m thrilled, but it’s kind of hard to give a bear up after you’ve spent so much time making it absolutely perfect.” She pulled a tissue from the briefcase and dabbed at her eyes. She gave me an embarrassed smile. “I guess that sounds kind of stupid, huh?”

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John J. Lamb

“Not at all. However, I do think you’re going to get plenty of practice on giving up your bears today,” I said as three women approached our table.

I sat down and let Ash do the talking and with good reason. She’s the artist who translates her wonderful visions into plush and mohair reality. I’m the guy that shoves polyester foam into the bears and hopes to someday graduate to pouring beans into their bottoms. Be honest: If you were buying an artisan teddy bear, which of us would you rather talk to?

After awhile, I got bored with watching people and I pulled out the brochure. There was a color photograph of the Steiff Mourning Bear on the inside—and aside from the fact that it’s one of the most rare and valuable stuffed animals in the world—there wasn’t anything too remarkable about it. The bear was made from black curly mohair with a shaved snout, black embroidered nose and mouth, yellowish-taupe paw pads, hockey stick-shaped arms, and glistening eyes the color of anthracite.

I already knew the basic tale of how the Mourning Bear came to be created after the sinking of the
Titanic
, but the brochure contained some mildly interesting additional information. Apparently, the bears were produced in two separate groups, with the first 494 made shortly after the disaster in 1912 and another 161 produced between 1917 and 1919 for a total of 655.

Under the heading “Provenance” there were some generic personal facts about the soon-to-be former owner, Elizabeth Ewell, and how she’d come to own the bear.

The lady was eighty-six years old and had spent her entire life on a large farm bordering the South Fork of the Shenandoah River in an area known as Caisson Hill.

With a start, I realized that Miss Ewell lived approximately three miles upstream from us and I wondered if Ash knew her.