Antiques Disposal (3 page)

Read Antiques Disposal Online

Authors: Barbara Allan

BOOK: Antiques Disposal
5.59Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Mother withdrew, and I came out from under the umbrella, snapped it closed, then saluted.
A shiny red pickup truck rolled up to where the six of us were gathered, then the truck's cab door opened, and a blue-jeaned leg with a brown pointy-toed cowboy boot swung out and down to the ground.
“There's Big Jim Bob himself!” Mother burbled, suddenly a giddy schoolgirl.
How I hated it when she ran into an “old” somebody she had “known.”
While the man
was
big—over six feet, two hundred plus pounds—he was not the potbelly redneck his name had promised. He had thinning gray hair, tired eyes, bulbous nose, and a mouth that had become a mere slit between sagging jowls. He'd been handsome once. Once.
Still, when Big Jim Bob spotted Mother, the eyes suddenly twinkled, and his broad smile gave him an instant face-lift.
Beneath the umbrella of hers that we now shared, I leaned closer to Mother and whispered, “There'll be none of that.”
“None of what, dear?”
“Making goo-goo eyes.”
“I'm not making goo-goo eyes.”
“I know goo-goo eyes when I see them, and you're making them, so stop.”
“If you say so, dear.”
Big Jim Bob was retrieving a wide-brimmed black cowboy hat and tan oil-cloth coat from his truck, which he put on. Then he greeted the group with a “Howdy, folks.” Whether his drawl was an affectation or the result of living down south, I couldn't tell ya'll.
“Nice to see you, BJB,” Mother gushed.
BJB. Gag me with an antique spoon.
“Nice to be seen, Vivian,” he said to her. “Every day 'bove ground is a
good
day.” Then to the small assemblage: “And thank ya'll for coming out in such fine weather for ducks.”
Everybody managed a damp laugh.
Then he made a “gather around” gesture, and we crowded in, knocking umbrellas, bumper cars at the carnival.
“ 'fore we get to the auction,” he began, “ah'd like t'make a few announcements. Firstly, there's only one unit up for bids. Number seven. T'other one's rent got paid, last minute. As some of ya'll know, ah try hard t'contact past due renters 'fore goin' t'auction ... and any money ah make goes toward their past due rent. Ah'm not here t'take advantage.” He paused, then added, “That said, we'll proceed.”
Big Jim Bob stepped back to his truck, and from the cab produced a wicked-looking steel cutter, which he used on the padlock of unit seven, only a few yards from where we stood.
As he rolled up the garage door, everyone moved closer, craning their necks to get a look into this magical cave of pirate treasure ...
. . . but Big Jim Bob obstructed the view with his large frame.
“For you first-timers,” he said, “here's the rules—each one of ya'll can come forward t'get a real good peek. But that's all. There's no goin' in. You have a minute to get your eyeful.”
Since that didn't make sense to me, I asked, “How are we supposed to know what we're bidding on?”
Big Jim Bob turned his weary eyes toward me. “Well, that's the point, little lady. Ya don't. When everythin's boxed up—like in this here unit—you're takin' a chance. Kinda like a big ol' grab bag. Your proverbial pig-in-a-poke.”
I never had any luck with grab bags, as a kid—best I ever did was wax lips twice and a paddleball once.
Mother, moving from beneath our umbrella, muscled her way to the front of the bidders.
“
Ladies first!
” she announced.
The ill-bewigged woman blurted, “Well, uh,
I'm
a lady... .”
“Ladies of a
certain age
,” Mother said, already with her toes at the very edge of the threshold.
Nobody tried to stop her.
I was impressed—this had to be serious, if Mother was playing the age card.
Armed with a flashlight from home, she leaned in as far as she could, and started weaving back and forth, occasionally issuing a loud cough, from her toes up—she might have been drunk, or maybe sick... .
To me, her antics seemed predictable if pointless, unless she had suddenly acquired X-ray vision, and I was pretty sure she'd have mentioned that over breakfast.
Finally, after the longest minute in recorded history, Mother resumed her decorum, straightened, stepped back, then turned to her audience with a disappointed sigh that would have registered on the back row of the local Playhouse.
“Well!” she said, “
whoever
wins
this
bid will have quite the
mouse
infestation to clean up.”
The small group of bidders surged forward, and Mother proved her point by directing her flashlight beam toward the evidence.
But I stayed put.
Having grown up in an old house, I didn't need to get any closer—I knew mouse droppings when I saw them. And there were plenty, resting on the tops of the boxes, littering the exposed concrete floor.
The woman in the ill-fitting brown wig said, “Oh, my! The damage
they
can do.”
At her side, her bushy-browed mate shrugged. “I've seen worse... .”
Mother offered, “Might not be mice at that.”
All eyes were on her, mine included.
“Could be rats.”
Brown Wig snapped, “You're not bringing
those
filthy boxes into
my
clean house!”
The woman turned abruptly, taking their umbrella with her. Bushy Eyebrows dutifully followed.
Two down, two to go.
Not waiting for the starting gun (or auction gavel?), the lanky dealer from the antiques mall said, “I'll go fifty dollars.”
The muscleman in the Harley T-shirt muttered, “Not worth it.” And he, too, departed (but in a car, not on a Harley).
Three down, one to go.
Mother straightened herself, dug her Wellies in, and announced, “I'll bid
one hundred—
I am not going home empty-handed. I spent hours making room in the garage!”
“You did?” I asked, surprised.
Mother shot me her “
Will you just play along!
” look.
She could lie with such conviction that even
I
believed her, and after all these years. She kind of was a good actress.
Lanky scowled at Mother. “Oh, all right, it's all yours, mouse turds and all ...”
“Most gracious,” Mother said with a nod.
“... but you'll let me know if there's anything good?”
“Of course,” Mother said with her sweetest smile. Then she added, to soothe the burn, “But you
know
it's almost
certainly
just junk.”
The lanky dealer grunted and strode off to his car.
(Can anyone tell me
why
antiques hunters want to be told when they miss out on something? I wouldn't want to know if I got beaten to a pair of half-off Louboutins.)
Big Jim Bob, who had stood by silently during the impromptu bidding, commented, “Hope ah was right about this here unit, Vivian ... and that y'do find somethin' worthwhile. And ah apologize about the mice—never had nothin' like that here b'fore.”
Mother waved a hand. “No apology necessary—I'm quite used to mouse doo-doo. Those little rascals can get in just about anywhere.”
Including her sock drawer. One lived snuggled in a nest of support hose for months before Mother noticed it. (I couldn't kill the thing—too cute. Anyway, it wasn't
my
sock drawer.)
Big Jim Bob was saying, “Now, ladies, y'understand, ya have t'have the stuff outta there in twenty-four.”
I blinked. “Days?”
“Hours.”
“Could be a problem—we don't have a truck.”
Mother said, “Not to worry, dear—we can make multiple trips.”
Meaning
I
could make multiple trips.
Big Jim Bob was removing a new padlock with two keys from its plastic packaging, handing us one. “This here's t'secure the unit, and when ya'll're done, lock 'er up and toss the key. I'll keep this here second key to get back in, after. The new renter'll have a brand-new lock.”
Mother touched his arm. “Thank you for calling me about the unit, BJB. I'm quite sure we'll make back our hundred dollars.”
“Sure hope so, Vivian. That rain's a slice of luck for you gals. These units can go way higher. I don't usually go to all this trouble for just a hundred smackers.”
She batted her eyelashes. “If you're ever in our neighborhood. . . why don't you stop by and see me sometime?”
I squirmed in my skin, but at least she hadn't said it in her Mae West voice.
He smiled a little. “Thank ya, Viv, just might take ya up on that. Well, gotta skedaddle—have t'call a fella about rentin' this here unit, when ya'll're done with it.”
Big Jim Bob strode to his truck, then drove away.
We turned our attention to the unit, stepping inside as far as we could. Rain drummed hollowly, but the space was anything but hollow, filled with all sorts of “surprise package” boxes. We had a lot of work to do... .
I said, “We could probably get five or six boxes in the car at a time, and with a trip every hour, should be done in about—
Mother!
What are you
doing?
”
She was idly picking up a mouse dropping from the top of a box. She gave the tiny brown ball a smiling look ... then proceeded to pop it into her mouth!
“What's the matter, dear?” she said, still smiling. “Haven't you ever seen anyone eat a chocolate cake sprinkle?”
“Mother, you
didn't!
”
“Oh, but I did, dear—indeedie diddie do.”
And she reached into her coat pocket and withdrew a handful of the tiny mouse-turd-shaped candy.
No wonder she wanted to be the first bidder to view the unit ... so she could toss the “droppings” around. What a cheat! What a crook! Still, you had to admire her ingenuity.
But I couldn't let her off scot-free. “Don't you think that was a little underhanded?”
Mother's eyebrows rose above her thick round glasses. “They were
all
underhanded tosses, dear, or else I might have been spotted. Anyway, all's fair in love and war, and bidding on storage units. Now chop chop! We've got work to do.”
Meaning me, the worker bee, under the supervision of her, the queen.
I hefted a box from the nearest pile, carried it to the car, letting the rain mingle with the sweat already forming on my brow. Then, after loading the box, I backed the Buick up to the unit to make my work easier.
That's when I noticed a white utility van parked on the shoulder of the highway near the mouth of the storage facility's driveway. The van—free of any markings—was too far away for me to make out the driver.
Suddenly, its engine roared to life, and the van pulled onto the highway, then sped away.
Had the driver merely stopped for some innocuous reason, like to make a cell phone call? Or had he been watching us? If so,
why?
Mother was right; I
had
become suspicious.
As we drove home with the first load of boxes, the rain letting up, I kept watching for the van in my rearview mirror, driving with one hand, popping chocolate sprinkles in my mouth with the other.
 
A Trash ‘n' Treasures Tip
 
Wear old clothes when clearing out a storage unit; the contents can be dusty and dirty. Also, don't assume any little black specks are chocolate sprinkles—pop one into your mouth at your own risk.
Chapter Two
Going, Going ... Gone
N
oon was approaching when I pulled my burgundy Buick, loaded with storage boxes (and Mother), into our drive and up to the unattached garage, its old wooden door shut tight to hide the clutter inside. I felt sure someday it would simply burst, spewing garage-sale shrapnel.
With a curt captainlike “To the music room, dear,” Mother hopped out, scurrying ahead to make way for the boxes of treasure that would surely bring wealth and happiness and change our lives forever. No, that was not sarcasm—I was truly caught up in the chase, ever the optimist on my Prozac.
I hefted a heavy box from the backseat and gave it a good, hard shake, hoping for the jingling of coins, but hearing only the tinkling of breaking china.
Oops.
I set that box aside—best leave the bad news for last,
after
we had discovered an unknown Picasso—and selected another heavy one, which I definitely didn't shake. Then up the walk I trudged to our white two-story house with its old-fashioned wraparound porch, rebuilt not long ago from the original Depression-era plans after the original structure blew up (another story) (
Antiques Roadkill
). I found Mother waiting in the doorway, one arm holding the screen door open.
“Hurry up, dear,” she said impatiently, eyes dancing crazily (more crazily than usual, anyway) behind her magnifying lenses.
“I am, I am,” I grumbled. “You want me to be careful, don't you? I'm taking the heaviest ones to give you a break.”
That word
break
summoned the image of broken china to my mind, but at least I was setting the stage for my later defense.
Passing through, I nearly stepped on Sushi, hopping underfoot, sensing the excitement.
The little fur ball trailed me into the music room, and when I placed the box
gently
down on the Persian rug, Sushi began barking at it, apparently not liking the box's foreign scent.
“Stop that!” I commanded.
The doggie did, retreating a few feet to sit, lower lip extended in a pout. I ignored this display of emotion, feeling quite smug knowing that at least one creature was beneath me on the Borne family food chain.
Mother popped her head in like a demented Jack-in-the-box. “Well, don't just
stand
there like a ninny ... more boxes!
Mach schnell! Mach schnell!
”
She'd been watching
Hogan's Heroes
reruns again. She had a thing for Richard Dawson.
“I'm on it,
Mein Führer!
I'm on it!”
I could
not
wait for this day to end.
About our house: while Mother had insisted on rebuilding according to the old blueprints, to preserve the uniform look of the neighborhood's architecture, she
had
allowed a few tweaks at my suggestion. We had extended the porch, enlarged the kitchen, and—thanks to a tidy insurance check for exploded-to-smithereens contents—embarked on a unique refurnishing plan. The idea was for each room to reflect a different period, which made our ongoing collecting much more fun.
The living room contained Victorian pieces, including a Queen Anne needlepoint couch with matching chairs and a Victorian tea table with an old silver set (which of course I got stuck polishing), plus floor lamps with tasseled shades.
French doors led to the music room with its oaken missionary furniture, and Arts and Craft lamps; floor-to-ceiling shelves showcased Mother's recent obsession with old musical instruments—although none of us were remotely talented in that department, with the limited exception of my ability to knock out a mean “Chopsticks” on the old upright piano. As for Mother, notwithstanding claims of having once played with the Serenity Junior High band, her contributions appeared limited to going “Blat-blat” on an ancient horn.
The dining room's decor was Mediterranean (yes, there
are
a few such pieces worth collecting), while the kitchen was strictly 1950s, Mother insisting on using only authentic-era appliances. As funkily aesthetic as this approach might be, it did have its hazards—like when I tried to make a malt on the vintage malted-milk machine and got shocked silly.
(Bonus Trash ‘n' Treasures Tip: Watch those frayed cords!)
We'll go over the upstairs and its furnishings later, when I / we check in on Peggy Sue.
After four more trips to the car, with all of the boxes delivered to the music room, Mother arranged herself Indian-style on the Persian rug, a pen and paper at the ready.
“Now,” she bossed, “you record each item as I—”
“No,” I rebelled. “
You
record each item all by your lonesome as
I
go make lunch.”
“How can you eat at a time like this?” Mother bellowed, hands on hips. “Anyway, this is a two-man job!”
I raised a finger skyward—
forefinger
... get your mind out of the gutter. “Mother, we
are
after all
women,
not men, and I can think of no job that two men can do that Vivian Borne couldn't manage single-handed.”
Her eyes narrowed in consideration of that twaddle before she said, “You're absolutely right, my dear. Considering how you've been simply wasting away of late, lunch is a capital idea!”
In the kitchen, I set out an array of vintage 1950s items—green Fire King mixing bowl, red hand-turn can opener, and yellow strainer. To paraphrase Norma Desmond,
They had colors then.
From the cupboard I removed a large can of white albacore tuna—
not
1950s vintage, one would hope—and proceeded to make sandwiches, one for me and another for Peggy Sue, which—along with slices of locally grown cantaloupe, and glasses of unsweetened ice tea—I placed on a tray. And yes, that tray was fifties vintage—a Sundblom Coca-Cola girl.
Sushi, having followed me into the kitchen (food easily trumping strange boxes), trailed me upstairs, making it time for your tour of our second floor.
My bedroom was streamlined Art Deco, Mother's room ornately Art Nouveau, while the guest room—where Peggy Sue had encamped—featured Early American. The latter is my least favorite period (Mother agrees), but we'd been running low on styles for our room-by-room plan. Mother had suggested the swinging sixties or possibly psychedelic seventies, but they both seemed to me a little too close for comfort.
Tray balanced in one palm (eat your hearts out, French waiters), I knocked on Sis's door, but didn't wait for an answer.
Peggy Sue was curled in a fetal position on the Jenny Lind bed, wearing a pink bathrobe (Peggy Sue, not the bed), her feet bare, dark shoulder-length hair stringy and lacking its normal luster, face puffy, devoid of her usual, dare-I-say trademark meticulous make-up.
The Jenny Lind seemed fitting, however, in that its history began as a sick bed for children... .
And Sis looked something like a child herself, or at least a young girl, a fairly good trick for a woman in her early fifties, yet somehow not a positive thing. Not in this case.
“Peggy Sue? You awake? Getting kind of late.”
Her eyes fluttered open, as expressionless as a doll's glass orbs, albeit red from crying.
“I've brought you some lunch, honey.”
A deep sigh. The eyes closed again. Again, the way a doll's eyelids close when you tip it just so.
I set the tray on a night table with spindly legs (table, not me) (sorry, I'll try to be more clear), then sat on the bed and stroked her arm.
“I have tuna salad sandwiches,” I said, “made just the way you like 'em—with dill, celery, and hardly any mayonnaise. And fresh fruit on the side.”
No response.
A decade ago, during my one-year stint at Serenity Community College, I took a course in creative writing (doesn't show, does it?) (don't answer that) instructed by a wonderful teacher, Keith Larson (not his fault). He said a good writer
shows,
not
tells,
the reader.
(He also said a good writer doesn't overuse parentheses.)
But I just don't have the time or maybe not the talent to show you what Peggy Sue is like, so I'll have to tell you. Besides, I don't think Peg would cooperate in the show department, not in her particular state of mind ... so, forgive me, Mr. Larson.
In addition to being eighteen years older than me—not helpful in sibling bonding—we were polar opposites in every respect, from politics to religion, social standing to clothing styles, and all points in-between. With our age difference, having a prickly relationship over the years was understandable ...
. . . made even
more
understandable when I recently learned Peggy Sue was my biological mother, Mother (as in Vivian Borne) having raised me as her own.
Still perched on the bed, working at being cheery, I said, “Well, I'm not going to wait for you ...
I'm
starving!”
And I reached for one of the sandwiches, and began to eat noisily, making smacking, yummy sounds. I tore off a piece for Sushi, holding it over her head just out of reach, so she would jump repeatedly toward the smell, barking all the while.
“Oh, all right,” Peggy Sue moaned, not smiling at this circus act but at least capitulating, “if you're going to make all that racket and get crumbs on the bed... .”
“Good,” I said with a smile. “Come sit by the window.”
I gave Soosh the treat for her performance, picked up the tray, and moved it to the old wooden storage trunk that doubled as a coffee table.
When Sis finally dragged herself out of bed, I was shocked by the weight she had lost—not that Peggy Sue had ever been heavy; but she had been zaftig, or “curvy,” as the fashion magazines politely put it now that “pleasantly plump” has gone un-PC.
Sis tightened her pink robe, then put on pink slippers like a kid reluctantly tugging on overshoes for a snowy trudge to school; finally she shuffled over to a rocker.
I sat opposite her on a rickety yard-sale-purchase chair that threatened to collapse at any moment, and handed her a plate.
She took a bite of tuna, then chewed unenthusiastically, eyes as lidded as a bored housewife's.
I said, “You know, meaning this as strictly constructive criticism ...”
Her eyes found my face.
“... you could stand a new hairstyle.”
She stopped chewing. “What's wrong with the one I have?”
“You mean, when it's washed? It makes you look old. Old
er
.”
I was picking a tiny fight. Just enough to get her to come back to life.
And the dull eyes flashed. “It does not! It's still quite modern. Lots of women my age have shoulder-length hair.
You
for example.”
“We aren't exactly the same age. If we were, that would be some trick. Anyway,
mine
doesn't emphasize sagging jowls.”
Her checks flushed. “
I
have sagging jowls?”
“Let's just say you have jowls.”
As Mr. Larson would have said, the “sagging” was understood.
Peggy Sue put her plate down on the trunk with a clunk, rose from the rocker, crossed to a vanity mirror, and leaned in at her reflection.
“I do
not
have jowls—sagging or otherwise.” She whirled. “And if you want to talk about
appearances
—how about
your
hair? I don't think you could get a comb through it if you tried. Maybe if you used a
rake.
It's
always
a mess ...”
True. And a rake
was
an idea... .
“... and the clothes you wear? So
tacky
. So terribly
tacky
.”
Not true. They just weren't Sis's Burberry or St. John preference.
Getting no rise out of me, Peggy Sue put her hands on her hips. “Did you come in here
just
to pick a fight with me?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “And to put a spark in your pretty eyes and color in those pretty cheeks.”
Then I smiled at her.
“Oh.” Sis dropped her arms in defeat.
My turn to stand. “Now that you're feeling better ... take a shower, why don't you? And get into some old clothes.”
“I sense a hidden agenda.”
“I'm not hiding it. I need your help.”
“Doing what?”
“I'll tell you downstairs. Now, chop chop.”
Suddenly I had become Mother. But at least I hadn't gone
Hogan's Heroes
on Peg.
She lifted an eyebrow. “What if I don't want to leave this room?”

Other books

Dr. Who - BBC New Series 28 by Beautiful Chaos # Gary Russell
Planet Janet by Dyan Sheldon
The Unnamable by Samuel beckett
El pequeño vampiro y el gran amor by Angela Sommer-Bodenburg
Tomb With a View by Daniels, Casey
The Children of the Sun by Christopher Buecheler
Lucky Stiff by Annelise Ryan
The Glass Canoe by David Ireland