The Battle of Junk Mountain

by Lauren Abbey Greenberg

  “The reenactment. It was amazing. There were sharpshooters on the Confederate side hiding behind the rocks to try to pick off the Union solders. The fighting was fierce, but the Union defenders held their line.” He shakes his head. “Over forty thousand casualties. Unbelievable.”

  I inhale deeply through my nose to keep me from yelling at him. “Will you paddle, please?”

  Linc groans like I told him to finish his math homework. He chops the water with his paddle and splashes my side. It doesn’t take long before I am as drenched as he is.

  “I want to get out,” he says.

  “Already?”

  “I don’t feel well.” He clutches his stomach. “Do you even know where you’re going? Do you need a map? I have excellent map-reading skills.”

  “Why would we need a map? We’ve gone nowhere. And don’t smack the water so much. Try a nice, even stroke.”

  I show him once again what to do, and this time he copies me. The kayak glides across the water as though on ice.

  “That’s right,” I say in an encouraging teacher voice. “Nice and easy strokes. Pretend you’re… George Washington, or something, crossing the Delaware River.”

  Lincoln stops paddling and winces. “That was the American Revolution.”

  I knew that. “Whatever. Same difference.”

  “No, it’s not!” he yells back, red in the face.

  I turn away from him so I can stick out my tongue in private. We continue to half-chop, half-paddle in silence, and I wonder what’s the quickest way to end this little excursion. I don’t know what I was hoping for, but hanging out with Mr. Wikipedia is absolutely exhausting.

  • CHAPTER 9 •

  BE BRAVE

  A couple days later, I invite Poppy over for dinner. She’s been busy at the store, so we haven’t gotten to hang out much. Bea and I set the kitchen table while we wait for her to arrive, which means first clearing off the stacks of newspapers, clipped coupons, and unopened mail. Bea breaks out the porcelain plates (mismatched, of course) instead of the paper we usually eat off of. She litters the table with pumpkin-scented Yankee candles but says not to light them because she doesn’t want to ruin the pristine shape of the wax. If that isn’t enough, chicken-bird is also making an appearance as the centerpiece tonight. It’s a good thing my summer sister’s coming over and not someone we want to impress.

  The lid of the lobster pot clatters as the steam below threatens to escape. Poppy rings the doorbell just as the oven’s buzzer sounds. Bea removes the lid with a pot holder, and a bath of steam billows to the ceiling. A briny smell fills the room as she removes the bright red lobsters with tongs.

  “Wow,” Poppy says as she steps into the living room. “No offense, but I’ve never seen this room so clean.”

  Bea joins us and rubs a finger across the newly revealed dark finish of the oval-shaped table. Gone is Junk Mountain; instead, along the wall are rows and rows of boxes and shopping bags with her so-called treasures—sorted, priced, and ready to be sold. While the rest of the house still has that cyclone feel to it, at least this room is packed and done. Tomorrow, all this stuff will be on display at the Cedar Island Flea Market. Yes!

  I rub my tired eyes, still bleary from working on this until one in the morning the night before. For the past week, Bea had been moving at a glacial pace. She would act like she was ready to start pricing but then get distracted, or worse, blather on about how she dragged Grandpa to a yard sale and she found this fill-in-the-blank and it only cost fill-in-the-blank and she couldn’t resist. Last night after she went to bed, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I had to finish this myself no matter how long it took.

  “Everything’s alphabetized, so it’ll be easy for us to stay organized,” I explain to Poppy. “I marked B on these bags, because they’re filled with books, buttons, and bear things. The C bag has cat stuff, calendars, and cookie sheets. D for dishes and dolls, you get the picture.”

  From one of the shopping bags, Poppy pulls out a small, puke-yellow teddy bear. Bea pounces on it like a cat. “Oh, isn’t he darling?” She plucks it from Poppy’s grasp.

  The thing has matted fur and smells like dirty socks. A sarcastic comment threatens to spring from my lips, but I hold it back. “I priced him at fifty cents. Is that too much? He’s missing an eye, after all.”

  Bea cuddles the bear in her arms. “I remember when I got him. It was a Sunday afternoon. The Richters were having a yard sale, and I made Grandpa take me there after my shift. They were practically giving everything away. This little guy only cost a nickel.”

  Quicker than a magician, she dips her hand into another bag and lifts up a beaded necklace with a sun medallion clipped to the end.

  “Pretty,” Poppy says.

  I throw her a look, hoping she gets my signal to keep quiet.

  Next thing I know, Bea empties the entire bag on the floor and picks through its contents. She holds up the box of good luck charms. “Is it bad luck to sell good luck? Maybe we shouldn’t sell these.”

  I seize the shoe box. “Of course we should. That’s the whole point, remember?”

  Bea shakes her head as if to wipe out a bad dream. “Absolutely. I need the money.”

  She chews on her fingernails while Poppy and I repack the bags. Then she spins on her heels and hurries to the kitchen to retrieve her favorite chicken-bird statue. “So much dust,” she murmurs as she polishes its silver head with the end of her sleeve. Her eyes flicker with worry.

  “Man, I’m starving,” I say to change the subject.

  Her gaze lingers on Grandpa’s picture as she places the bird on the mantel. “Let’s eat.”

  At the kitchen table, Poppy chats nonstop, sharing Quayle’s Market gossip about the pushy customers who cut the line at the meat counter, how she lost her favorite lip gloss somewhere in produce, and how all the cute boys have vanished from Cedar Island, including this year’s crop of “summer people.”

  Bea expertly twists the lobster’s tail to separate it from its body. She pushes a fork inside the narrower end of the tail, and the white meat pops out the other. She cuts off a small piece, dips it into a cup of melted butter, and hums as she chews.

  “Hey, Bea, my mom said she was glad to see you back at the Cod Café. Said it wasn’t the same without you.” Poppy pushes her salad around her plate and leaves her lobster untouched.

  Bea takes a swig from her bottled beer. “Trust me, it’s still not the same. Ray’s hiring all these high school kids, and they act like they’re God’s gift. The other day one of the dish washers—oh, what’s his name—dumped a whole cup of coffee on me and didn’t even say sorry. I could have killed him.”

  Poppy perks up. “Was it Gio?”

  Bea points a fork at her. “That’s right. Stupid kid.”

  Poppy chuckles, and I kick her under the table, even though it’s the best story I’ve heard all day. Gio’s a klutz, too. How awesome is that?

  “Will you be at the flea market tomorrow?” Bea asks Poppy.

  “Nah, I have to work.”

  “It’s going to be something, all right.” Bea stabs the air with her finger. “The event of the summer!”

  Poppy pumps her fist and I shout, “Woo-hoo!” before we dissolve into a giggle fit. Already everything feels better. At this time tomorrow, I’ll be able to walk through the family room in a straight line without tripping over something. I won’t have to feel anxious anymore about where to sit, and if I want to veg out on the couch, I can do so, pile-free. I can’t wait to send my mom before and after pics of the transformation. I told her I could do it. We fought Junk Mountain and won!

  Bea burps and pats her mouth dry with the plastic lobster bib tied around her neck. “Girls, did I ever tell you the story about my most successful find?”

  Poppy and I bite our lips to keep from laughing. Bea tells us this story every year, but Poppy pretends like she’s never heard it.

  “Hmm, sounds familiar, but you can tell it to me again?” she asks.

>   Sometimes Poppy’s a better granddaughter than I am.

  “Well,” Bea begins, “one day I was driving along on Mountain Road when I stumbled upon a yard sale. Most of it was garbage, of course, but as I was about to leave, I spotted a vase with these lovely hand-painted wisteria blossoms against a pale green background. I knew right away it was Rosedale pottery, which is a collector’s item, so I snatched it up. Probably paid five dollars for it. Meanwhile, another woman followed me to my car and offered twenty dollars on the spot to take it off my hands.”

  I yawn loudly, but Bea yammers on.

  “Naturally, I declined. I ran home and looked up the vase on the Internet, and guess what? It was worth six hundred dollars.”

  Poppy slaps the table and says, “You lucky duck, Bea,” which is hilarious because nobody says lucky duck unless you’re over a hundred, and she says the same exact thing every year.

  Bea beams as I clear everyone’s plates.

  “Maybe you’ll be just as lucky tomorrow. Instead of six hundred dollars, we’re gonna rake in six thousand,” I say.

  Her body sags a little as she takes another glance at her boxed-up things behind her. “We’ll see.”

  • CHAPTER 10 •

  WELCOME TO THE NUT HOUSE

  The next morning, we reach the elementary school to find the parking lot busy with sellers unloading their goods from their cars. Bea and I hurry our boxes and bags into the school’s gymnasium. Rows of long tables divide the space, and Bea finds her name on a Reserved card near the entrance.

  “Good spot,” she says. “People will have to pass us on their way in and out.”

  The high ceiling carries the echoes of clinking glass, rustling paper, and metal folding chairs scraping across wood floors. We quickly arrange our table in an artful display. I wonder if her trash will look like treasure in someone else’s eyes.

  At the stroke of eight o’clock, the double doors fly open, and a stream of people pour inside. Hundreds of eyes scan the tables, hoping to snatch the best deals. The room feels manic, like we’re selling cheap wedding dresses instead of Aunt Emily’s old pot holders. It’s not long before the temperature rises, and I fan my face to stay cool.

  Bea sits on her folding chair like she’s Queen of the Court. She waves to friends and strangers alike, hoping they will stop for a look at her fabulous offerings. I notice a few familiar faces, like Leanne, who’s holding hands with her longtime boyfriend, Billy. I sink low in my chair as I spot Ray from the Cod Café browsing a few tables down. Then I see Gio and sink even lower.

  “Look, Mommy,” says a chubby-cheeked girl. She drags her mother by the hand to check out my friendship bracelets. Bea said I could sell them here, even though she almost choked when I told her my price of two dollars each. The girl bunny- hops with indecision as she pours over the checkered one, the zigzag one, or, my personal favorite, a black one with yellow hearts in the center. Lucky for me, the mother pipes her down by buying all three. I count the bills and stuff them in my pocket.

  A man wearing a volunteer fire department shirt approaches next. He picks up a set of glass candlesticks. “How much?”

  Bea clears her throat. “Fifty dollars.”

  My head whips around. What is she talking about? I priced those myself—five for the pair.

  The fireman frowns. “Wicked expensive, lady. This is supposed to be a yard sale, not retail.”

  “It’s crystal,” Bea calls out as he lumbers away. Then she removes the candlesticks from the table and sticks them next to her purse on the floor.

  My mouth drops open. “Why did you say that? Those weren’t priced fifty.”

  “I know, but he didn’t seem like the right buyer. He probably would have chipped the glass as soon as he got home.”

  As the morning drags on, the excuses pile on… and get worse. When one woman shows an interest in a whole box of stuffed animals, Bea says, “I’d put them in the dryer first to get rid of the bugs.”

  A sick feeling rises in my throat. I look around the room and watch a blur of money exchanging hands. Once-full tables have winnowed down to a few remaining scraps. Not ours. Besides my bracelets, we haven’t sold a single thing.

  Bea excuses herself to go to the bathroom, and a few minutes later she returns with a cardboard box full of other people’s junk.

  I’m so annoyed I can barely get the words out. “What are you doing? We’ve sold nothing. The last thing we need is more stuff.”

  Her eyes are unfocused, like she’s in a trance. “It’s none of your business.”

  Chills run up my body at the sound of her voice, flat and robotic. I’m about to apologize, but her mood lifts as soon as she shows me her new box of goodies.

  “Shayne, you’re going to die when you see this.” Bea hands me a rectangular piece of wood with two cartoonish squirrels painted on the front.

  I read the caption aloud: “Welcome to the nut house.”

  Bea claps her hands. “Isn’t it hysterical?”

  “I guess, but—”

  “Say no more. It’s yours,” she says.

  I hand it back to her. “I don’t need a sign, Bea, and neither do you. Your house is full of them!”

  She gazes at it with moony eyes before tucking it under her chair. “You never can have too many. They’re so clever!”

  She can’t be serious. Ever since I got here, I’ve been busting my butt to get her ready for this day. Now what? Was all this talk about selling her treasures a humongous lie?

  I ask for a five-minute break to clear my head. As I walk the aisles, I pass a Christmas-ornament table and one full of grimy used toys. Another has a bunch of frames with family pictures still in them. I don’t get it. Doesn’t Bea need the money? Wasn’t that the motivation for this whole project in the first place? Maybe she’s overwhelmed. Money makes people go psycho. My parents stress out over it all the time. Mom works so hard to get commissions, but she always complains that there’s never enough.

  I stop at a table with silver dog tags, rusty canteens, and other military items. If that kid, Linc, were here, he would go gaga over this stuff.

  A swatch of black velvet catches my eye. Displayed on top are five nubby things that remind me of arrowheads I’ve seen at a museum. I pick up one. “What is this?”

  The woman behind the table looks exotic with her cat-eye makeup and jet-black hair flowing out from under a silky floral scarf.

  “You’re holding an actual bullet that was used in the Civil War. It is very, very old.” The woman sighs. “My husband, may he rest in peace, loved to collect military paraphernalia.” She glances at the ceiling and clucks her tongue. “Casper, my darling, I feel bad selling your things, but I cannot hold on to them any longer.”

  This definitely falls under the category of weird, I think, as I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans, but the words Civil War and old linger in my mind. Usually ancient stuff like that has value. What if this was a hidden treasure like Bea’s famous vase? Could these bullets be worth hundreds of dollars? Thousands? I bet this lady has no idea.

  “How much do you want for all five?” My heart thumps against my chest.

  The woman peeks at the ceiling again before answering.

  “Ten dollars.”

  “Oh,” I say with a nervous laugh. “Sorry, I only have six.”

  “Deal,” she says.

  I hand over the profits from my bracelet sale. The woman wraps the bullets in newspaper and secures the package with a piece of Scotch tape. Maybe I’m a hypocrite—buying more things after I scolded Bea for doing the same—but what if this is an ultimate find? A real, honest treasure that would solve Bea’s money problems in a flash?

  As I head back to our station, my excitement gives way to doubt. I picture how Bea will react to my purchase. Sure, she’ll get all fired up about their possible value and may do a little research on the Internet when we get home, but then what? Will she ever resell them to make money? Probably not. She loves telling her vase story, but what she never
mentions is it’s still tucked away in a closet somewhere, even though she could be six hundred dollars richer. I decide not to tell her about the bullets. If they are worth something, I will find out on my own.

  • CHAPTER 11 •

  MY GET UP AND GO HAS GOT UP AND WENT

  In my room, I stare at the cracks in the ceiling while my mind replays over and over how we dragged everything back home. How Bea dumped all the bags and boxes back onto the table, Junk Mountain rising like a phoenix before my eyes. Afterward she bailed, rushing to work saying something about the bills not paying themselves.

  Should I tell my mom? Part of me wants to. Let her deal with this. But that’s not without consequences. She’ll lash out at Bea, the two of them will fight nonstop, and I’ll receive an I-told-you-so. I’d rather cause another epic spill at the Cod Café than listen to Mom tell me how she was so right, and I was so wrong.

  The secret I have buried in my sock drawer finally pulls me out of bed. Holding the five Civil War bullets, I trace my finger over their pockmarks and bumpy ridges. They won’t solve the mess in this house, but, gosh, what if these are worth beaucoup bucks? I’ve seen it happen before. On an episode of Bea’s favorite TV program, Antiques Roadshow, a man found that the rickety old chest stored in his attic was worth over a hundred thousand dollars. Can you imagine! Even if the bullets are worth a few hundred dollars that could still help Bea big-time. I rewrap them in the newspaper and shove the little package back into its hiding place.

  After a few hours, Bea calls from below. “Shayne, I’m back. I brought you some lunch.”

  “Be right there.”

  In the kitchen, Bea removes takeout cartons from a plastic bag before spilling like fifty sugar packets onto the counter. With one arm, she sweeps them into a drawer filled to the rim with an assortment of ketchup and mayo packets and other freebies she has collected from the Cod Café over the years. She then dumps a container of mac and cheese into a bowl and passes it to me. I’m about to sit down when I spot a filled garbage bag tucked under my seat.