The three of us—four, counting Sushi, still attached to Mother like a friendly, furry tumor—gathered around the statue, scrutinizing it.
“Look,” I said, pointing to the small of the Indian’s back, between the end of the carved vest, and the beginning of the loincloth. “Is that some kind of . . . compartment?”
Mother squinted. “My goodness, yes . . . a secret compartment! But how does it open?”
“Maybe you pull down on his raised arm,” I suggested.
But the appendage didn’t budge.
“Or pull up on this feather,” Jake suggested, and did . . . breaking it off. “Whoops . . . sorry.”
Lips peeled back over his teeth in “uh-oh” fashion, he looked at his grandmother to see just how upset she was with him.
But, since grandchildren (unlike children) can do no harm, she just shrugged. “That’s what they make epoxy glue for.”
And Mother loved epoxy glue almost as much as duct tape. Stuff breaking never depressed someone who lived to fix things (make that “fix” things) (Mother fixed things in the same sense that the vet had fixed Sushi). I would have to supervise the repair of the feather....
Mrs. Norton appeared so suddenly even Jake jumped.
She said, “Vivian, Brandy . . . would you please come and sign our agreement? I have to open for business, and it’s best we take care of this before I unlock the doors.”
We followed Mrs. Norton back to the center counter, leaving Jake to solve the latest Nancy Drew mystery ghostwritten by the Borne “girls”: The Mysterious Hidden Compartment in the Cigar Store Indian’s Back.
When Mother and I returned to the booth, we were amazed and delighted to see:
(1) the little compartment open, and
(2) the missing cigar magically restored to the Indian’s hand.
“How did you pull this one off?” I asked Jake with a big astonished grin.
“See that little button behind the chief’s ear? You just push it.”
Jake demonstrated, the action closing the compartment, then repeating the action, opening it again.
I peered inside the hole, which was deeper than it was wide. “Was there anything else stuck in there?” I asked. “Gold coins? Loose diamonds? Deed for Manhattan?”
Jake shrugged. “Do you see anything?”
I didn’t, but stuck my hand in just the same, remembering all of the horror films I’d seen where doing something like this hadn’t turned out so well.
Same five old fingers returned, empty. A small wooden shelf down there, perhaps six inches below the slot, had nothing to offer, except maybe splinters.
Mrs. Norton having unlocked the front door, the aisles began to fill up with customers, all with their own agenda. Some were avid antiquers, on the hunt for a particular piece or collectible to add to their ever-growing collection. Others were simply browsers, letting happenstance lead them to the object(s) of their desire, otherwise just enjoying a stroll down memory lane.
In and among these regular folks were dealers, trolling for underpriced items that would end up in their own booth here or elsewhere, or their own shop in or out of town, marked at a higher price. You could distinguish them by their set jaws and frantically moving eyes, and a humorless single-minded approach, all of which would serve them well if they ever needed to stalk a lover who spurned them.
Since Jake and I had completed our task of setting up the booth to Mother’s liking, and with Sushi squirming in her captivity, we left the booth to Mother, for her to price the merchandise, which only she could do anyway.
But before going, I made a SOLD sign with Bernice’s name on it and stuck it to the Indian.
“Call me on my cell when you’re ready for a ride,” I told Mother, removing a squirming Sushi from her chest.
“No need, dear, I’ll catch the trolley. I could be here quite some time.”
And Mother turned her attention to a particularly gullible-looking woman who was checking out our booth. The kind who says, “Oh, this is nice!” and, “This is just what I’ve been looking for!” A bonus Trash ’n’ Treasures tip: Don’t do that.
As Jake and I left, I heard my black-widow-spider mother saying to the caught-in-her-web fly of a customer, “This rolltop desk once belonged to Mamie Eisenhower . . . a dear, close friend of mine. . . .”
Outside, Jake asked, “Who’s Mamie Howitzer?”
This may have been the first time the First Lady of the 1950s had been confused with an attack gun.
“Eisenhower,” I corrected. “A former First Lady with the worst haircut and tackiest clothes in American history . . . set women back decades.”
Future generations must know such things— those who don’t learn from history are doomed to repeat it.
At home, while Jake went upstairs to use the bathroom, I took Sushi outside for a similar break, then we came back in and I refreshed her water dish, giving her a dog treat for good conduct in the face of adversity (Brad Pit Bull) (and us).
When Jake, his cargo pants pockets lightened of some of their load, returned from upstairs, I asked, “How ’bout going down on the island with me and picking out a pumpkin for Halloween?”
“Naw, Mom. That’s kid stuff. And, anyway, I’m kinda tired.”
“It’s not kid stuff! Pretty, pretty, pretty please.. . . you can pick it out this time.”
He sighed. “Fine . . . if it makes you happy.”
It did. I might even let him carve it.
The Island—as locals still refered to it—was not really an island at all, rather a sandy stretch along the Mississippi River where the soil was perfect for growing vegetables and fruits, specifically melons. (It was also long rumored to be a favorite dumping ground used by Chicago gangsters who also like the soft, sandy soil for the burial of former associates whose own melons were in less than perfect condition.)
I took the Treacherous Bypass to the River Road and headed south. Jake, in the passenger seat, remained silent, Game Boy not in sight. I was thinking about the booth and wondering if we could make a go of it, when he blurted, “Dad has a new girlfriend.”
When I didn’t respond, he said, “Well?”
I looked at him sideways. “Well . . . what do you want me to say . . . ‘Is she pretty, is she nice, do you like her?’”
“I don’t like her . . . she’s bossy.”
“Is that supposed to make me happy?”
“I don’t know. Does it?”
“No,” I lied.
After another moment Jake asked, “Why did you leave Dad, anyway? And don’t give me that bull hockey again about growin’ apart and stuff.”
Actually, Roger and I had started out apart, due to the difference in our ages, and had grown closer . . . until I blew it.
This time I didn’t lie.
I said, “Jake, I did something that hurt your dad. He can’t forgive me for it. I can’t even forgive me for it. So there’s no place to go but apart.”
I knew this was dangerous. I knew Jake was old enough to probably read between the lines, and I sat there quietly praying that the next words out of my son’s mouth wouldn’t be along the order of “Then you were a dumb slut, right, Mom?”
Either Jake didn’t read between the lines, or didn’t want to; anyway, thankfully, he didn’t press for details.
Instead he asked, “Can’t you take it back, what you did and stuff, or . . . ?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Well, then why did you do it?”
I gave that some thought. “Remember what you said when you shot Sushi with the paintball?”
“Yeah . . . I said I didn’t mean to. That it just sorta happened and stuff.”
“That’s right. Sometimes we do something stupid, and we don’t really mean to.”
Like I didn’t mean to get tipsy and go to bed with an old boyfriend at my ten-year high school reunion . . . it just sort of happened. And stuff.
Unfortunately, the stain it left wasn’t the paintball variety that can get wa
shed out.
Jake was saying, “But Sushi forgave me. . . . Why can’t Dad forgive you?”
“Maybe . . . maybe because people aren’t as forgiving as dogs.”
“Sometimes,” he said, then stopped. Finally he finished: “Sometimes I think dogs are smarter than people.”
No argument there.
I turned off the River Road and into the gravel drive of one of the many fruit and vegetable stands dotting the lone stretch of highway.
This one had an eye-catching green and red watermelon standee (with a bite taken out of it) to lure customers in, and the “stand” was actually a rustic western-style building, half of which was an open-air produce store—selling vegetables in season (potatoes, tomatoes, acorn squash, butternut squash, and the odd assortment of colorful gourds) while the other half of the building was a year-round restaurant, serving that same wonderful produce, along with the biggest and bestest pork tenderloin sandwich either side of the Mississippi.
I eased my Buick up to a flatbed wagon piled high with pumpkins of various sizes, including some huge ones whose growth hormones had gone seriously awry, worthy of an old fifties sci-fi flick—THE PUMPKIN THAT SQUASHED SERENITY!!!
Jake and I climbed out of the car into an uncomfortably muggy day, too warm now for my Juicy Couture sweatshirt. As we approached one of the wagons, I removed the long-sleeved top covering my sleeveless T, and tied it around my waist.
Jake pointed to one of the pumpkins. “That one.”
His choice was rather smallish, lopsided, and had no stem for a handle.
I frowned. “Don’t you want to look them all over? And find just the right one?”
“That’s just the right one—right there.”
“Gosh, I think we could do a little better. . . .”
“You did say I could pick it out, didn’t you?”
That I had; and the fact that Peggy Sue often let me choose something, then would be disappointed in my selection, was not lost on me. However, Jake was just being obstinate. He was purposely picking a lousy pumpkin just to challenge me.
I said, “Okay, pick what you want . . . but let’s go in the corn maze first.”
A sign announcing the labyrinth carved in the adjacent cornfield had caught my attention. Especially the “free” part.
Jake wrinkled his nose. “Uh, let’s not and say we did.”
“Oh, come on . . . it’ll be fun.” Somewhere in the back of my mind I recalled that never in the history of man had actual fun followed a parent making that prediction. “Anyway, I bet I can get through it before you.”
Now I was challenging Jake, and he couldn’t resist a dare, even a lame one like this.
He said, “Last one out’s a rotten pumpkin!”
We ran into the maze together, but at the first fork in the road of tall, dried cornstalks, went in opposite directions.
With each juncture, I continued going left—it seemed like a plan—but I kept dead-ending. And it wasn’t long before a hot and sweaty Brandy was sorry she ever suggested navigating the maze, much less making a race out of it.
Finally I burst through the other end.
No Jake.
I waited five minutes, then ten minutes. I went back, retracing my steps, calling his name . . . but Jake didn’t answer.
Frustration turned to anxiety, and I began visualizing my son at a younger age, wandering the paths in tears.
Finally I made my frightened, downcast way back to the entrance, with visions of the FBI and milk cartons in my frantic parental brain.
And there, in the car, sat Jake, head bent, playing his Game Boy.
“Didn’t you hear me calling?” I said, lashing out at him as I approached his rolled-down window.
“No.” He didn’t look up, my tone having no effect.
“How long have you been here?”
“A while.” His thumbs danced on the control buttons; the sound bipped and booped and bopped and beeped.
I gleeped, “I told you to meet me at the other end. . . .”
“Come on, Mom! I got tired of waiting, is all, so I came back here.... Some guy’s looking for you.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know . . . some guy. He said he’d be in the restaurant.”
I wondered if it could be my law enforcement dreamboat, Brian . . . but if so, how could he know where I’d be?
I asked Jake, “Will you be all right out here?”
“What am I, a baby?”
To me he was, and would be, forever.
“Of course not,” I said. “Sorry. Cut me a break—I’m a mom.”
“And I’m thirsty. Bring me something to drink, will ya?”
Inside the restaurant, whose decor sported a watermelon theme that overdid it some, I slowly scanned the tables and booths where farmers and family types were having a late lunch (or early supper). I didn’t see Brian, or any other man I knew . . .
. . . at first.
Then I recognized a face that was vaguely familiar and then jogged back into full focus: piercing eyes, sharp nose, sensual mouth, dark hair, fashion-statement chin stubble. My admirer—stalker? —from the federal auction was seated alone in a side booth, the man who had bid against me for our now legendary rolltop desk.
In the moment before he spotted me, something about his good looks took on a cruel cast that disappeared when he did see me and a dazzling smile blossomed, and now the cold eyes sparkled, and I might well have been a long-lost friend.
Wearing a Locoste orange-and-yellow-striped ruby shirt, and well-worn jeans, he stood as I approached.
“You’re looking for me?” I asked.
“Yes. Brandy, isn’t it? Will you join me?”
I might have told him to stick it, or I might have fled in fear; but I was a single woman who knew a good-looking man when she saw one, and this was a public place with lots of farmers around to defend a lamb like me.
So I slid into the booth, across from him.
“Something to drink?” He already had coffee, black.
“Iced tea would be nice.”
He motioned to a young waitress who had Tweety-Bird tattooed on her neck.
(I remain among the minority of my generation who refuse to have a permanent etching dyed into their skin. However! I nearly changed my mind about the art form after a girl I know had her eyebrows, eyeliner, and lipstick tattooed on. Think of the time she saves getting ready every morning! It might’ve worked if the guy’s hand had been steadier with the needle . . . but as it turned out, her eyebrows give her a perpetually startled look.)
After Miss Tweety-Bird had taken my drink order, my friendly stalker extended a manicured hand, perhaps not unintentionally showing off a Rolex watch that probably cost more than my used Buick.
He said, “Troy Hanson . . . from the auction the other day?”
I took the hand—warm, not sweaty (his, not mine). “How could I forget?”
He displayed those perfect teeth, which would have been charming except that the longer-than-normal incisors seemed predatory.
As if reading my mind, he said, “I’m not a predator, if that’s what you think.”
I waved that off with a smile, but said nothing, keeping my options open.
The smile disappeared. “I do have a good reason for tracking you down.”
“Okay. Let’s hear it.”
“I’m a picker.”
“Excuse me?” I didn’t know what he meant by that and wasn’t sure I wanted to. Was he also a grinner, a smoker, and a midnight toker?
“I mean to say,” he said quickly, “that’s what I do for a living . . . find and purchase antiques for clients. For example, the owner of this restaurant might hire me to buy these”—he gestured to the wall of our booth where several forties and fifties vintage watermelon-oriented advertisements were nailed (several in worse racial taste than our cigar store Indian)—“to give the place a certain nostalgic look.”
“You work for various . . . businesses?”
; “Sometimes,” he said. “I’m also hired by individuals, like the one who wanted me to get a particular antique at that auction yesterday.”
“Ah—the rolltop desk.”
“That’s right.” He looked down at the coffee cup held in his hands. “And I shouldn’t have let it go.”
“Why did you?”
Troy (I’ll call him by his first name because he was that good looking) glanced up, smiled one-sidedly. “I honestly don’t know.... In most instances, at an auction like that? I can be quite ruthless, I assure you.”
“Oh, that is reassuring.”
“But . . .” He shrugged, laughed silently. “I guess I was in a funny mood that day.” He smiled and his eyes met mine in that unmistakable you are hot, lady look. “And there was something about you, and that woman you were with, that was so . . . so . . . what is the word?”
“Pathetic?”
He laughed. “I was going to say endearing. A peculiar combination of naive and relentless.”
“I’m naive, and Mother is relentless, generally. Sometimes we trade off.”
He waved off my flip comment. “Anyway, I tracked you down to—”
“By tracked down, you mean followed me.”
He frowned in embarrassment. “I’m not proud of myself. But I would like to ask if you would consider selling the desk to me, at a profit. Whatever you think is fair.”
“It’s that important to you?”
He nodded. “You see, it would damage my reputation as a picker if word got around that I wasn’t reliable.”
“Surely your clients know you can’t win everything you bid on.”
“Yes. But I was authorized, for a desk of that style and vintage, to go higher than it actually went. I shouldn’t have allowed you girls to charm me so.”
“Yeah, well, Mother and me, we’re pretty much charm personified.”
“You are to me.”
Not knowing how much of this was B.S., and how much was him thinking he might make a bonus on the sale with the little lady seated across from him, I shrugged and said, “Sure, you can have the desk . . . but there’s one caveat.”
“What’s that?”
“The rolltop is already in our booth at the antiques mall . . .”
Antiques Maul Page 8