The Flip

by Michael Phillip Cash

  “Oh, stop it,” Julie laughed. “You have years and years.”

  “Cooper is going to middle school next year. Lainey, the year after that. Soon they’ll be driving. It goes fast. You know Mom always said that the days drag, but the years fly.”

  “I can’t believe she’s gone five years already.”

  “See what I mean? Don’t waste time on stupid stuff, Julie. Don’t fight with him over nonsense. In the end, it’s all bullshit. Nothing matters.”

  “OK, OK, I hear you. You’re creeping me out. You are only six years older than me, and you’re talking like you’re in AARP.”

  “Oh, I can’t believe this!” Heather said with disgust. “Coop missed the bus. I have to take him to school. I said I’m coming! Call you later, but I mean it. Brad’s a great guy. Don’t fuss over the nonsense.”

  Julie clicked off her phone. The train would be there any minute. She slid out of her car and climbed the steep steps to wait by the track. It was still warm, with fall just around the corner. A breeze picked up, and she was sorry she hadn’t taken her pashmina wrap to wear over her blazer. It was always so stuffy on the train that she never liked to overdress. She leaned close to a big poster on the platform, trying to duck out of the wind. Turning, she studied the woman staring back at her from the picture. She had a familiar face, but Julie couldn’t quite place her. She was short, with white hair in the front of her short hairstyle, black in the rear. She reminded Julie of Cruella de Vil. Julie backed up a bit to see the advertisement. “Georgia Oaken—Resident Medium,” the black lettering proclaimed. “Tuesday 9 PM on the Ghost Network.” She remembered now; this woman had her own program where she communicated with the dead. I wonder how well she communicates with the living, Julie thought. Maybe she should hire her to help her communicate with Brad better. Julie grinned. The train chugged into the station, the whistle announcing its presence. Julie slipped through an open door, her gaze glued to the poster of the psychic as the train pulled out of town.

  Chapter 7

  Brad cursed and hit the top of the steering wheel with his fist; he’d forgotten to tell Julie about the Tiffany-style lampshade. He had a feeling it was worth a few bucks. He loaded it back into the truck along with the paintings. He would try to swing by Sal’s and move it quickly. Maybe he would sell it and surprise Julie by putting the proceeds toward a new counter in their kitchen. He pressed a button on the steering wheel and said, “Telephone, Sal, cell.”

  The disembodied voice of Siri repeated the information, and three rings later, Sal’s gravelly voice filled his truck.

  “Sal, it’s Brad. How are you?”

  “Crazy busy. I have an auction planned for Saturday. You got something?” he asked hopefully. “I need filler.”

  “I got a bunch of stuff. We bought the Hemmings place.”

  “Hmm, Bedlam House, that dive. You found anything in there?” Sal inquired.

  “Paintings, boxes of Victorian crap.”

  “Any silver?”

  Brad thought for a moment. “Nah. I did see some old colored glass jars with little silver handles.”

  “What colors?”

  “Two blues and a rose one. The rose one might be cracked, though.”

  “Bonbon jars. Doesn’t matter. The blue ones are the more valuable. Red is more common. I can get about a buck or a buck-fifty for them. I’ll give you forty apiece.”

  “Make it fifty. I have a few paintings. I have to look up the artists.” Brad paused. “There’s a fur wrap.”

  “Take it to a secondhand store. Fur’s not politically correct right now.”

  “It has, like, six faces on it.” Brad shuddered.

  “Yuck, I hate those things. Forget about it,” Sal said, his Brooklyn accent evident. “I can’t move them. There’s a little store in Huntington that sells old clothes. I would just give it to them.”

  “Give it to your new girlfriend—what’s her name?” Brad offered.

  “Molly. She wouldn’t be caught dead in one of those. Anyway, she’s more of a bohemian.”

  “I thought she was a Realtor.”

  “Hah! Funny.” Sal laughed.

  “How much for a…what’s the name? Yeah, a Tiffany lampshade?”

  “What’s it look like?” Sal asked.

  “I don’t know…like an upside-down salad bowl. Little bits of colored glass—”

  “Whoa!” Sal interrupted. “The shade or the whole lamp?”

  “Just a shade,” Brad told him.

  “That sucks. It’s better with the lamp. What makes you think it’s Tiffany?”

  “It’s the tiny glass mosaics. That’s Tiffany, right?” Brad asked.

  “Well, there’re a lot of fakes out there. What kind of pattern?” Sal paused. “If it’s genuine, we could be talking six figures.”

  Brad stepped on the brake; the truck stopped short. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. Is it a floral?”

  “You mean like a flower design? Yeah, lots of flowers.”

  “Look for a stamp with a date or the name on the iron part. The early shades are really valuable. See if it has a signature. If you find one, it could mean Louis Comfort might have made it himself.”

  “Who?”

  “Louis Comfort Tiffany. That would be golden. Look for that name. And tap on it lightly,” Sal advised.

  “Why?”

  “If it rattles a bit, it could mean it’s genuine. When they’re old, the solder holding it together shrinks so the glass doesn’t fit tightly. Sometimes they make a noise. Don’t be too rough with it!”

  “Could you sell it?” Brad’s hope was rising.

  “Does McDonald’s have golden arches?” Sal laughed. “Bring it in before you break it, you clumsy oaf, and I’ll get it in Saturday’s auction.”

  “No problem. Sal?”

  “Yep?”

  “Let’s keep this between us. I want to surprise Julie. I’ll be by later today.”

  “Got it.”

  Brad pulled into the broken driveway, his head filled with more treasure finds in the attic. He was going on a hunt today.

  He met the foundation contractor and escorted him toward the house. He was a big guy, with a belly barely contained by his blue work shirt. It hung over his belt, and his ham-sized hands touched the walls as they descended the external steps into the basement. They went down another set of steps carved from bedrock and entered the subcellar. The walls were made of dirt and stone, the house above them weighing heavily on the support beams. Brad held up a lantern, letting the light pool around them. It was quiet here. Not a sound penetrated the dank interior. He knew the secret room was on the other side of the wall. Their voices were muted in the gloom. Shadows stretched on the whitewashed stone, making them look like distorted giants. Brad stared at walls that seemed to writhe and move as though someone were trapped underneath. He squinted hard, trying to focus in the darkness. Images of handprints feathered across the stone, the fingers gnarled, clutching the surface as though it were a lifeline. It was a play of light, he reasoned. Julie’s words from earlier that morning came back to him. Perhaps the energy of past occupants still circulated here. Were the shadowy handprints residual memories or refracting light playing with his vision? A whine like thousands of insects filled his ears, and he shook his head to clear it.

  “I hate these old places,” the contractor said uneasily. He took out a crumpled handkerchief to wipe the sweat beading on his shiny forehead.

  Brad nervously eyed the walls, squinting hard. Everything was hazy, as if the room were filled with smoke. Spots darkened the mossy stone, contracting to dense splashes of gray. They shifted, their patterns ebbing, as though they were breathing. From underneath lowered lashes, he glanced at the other man, wondering if he saw the changing patterns of light as well, but he felt too silly to ask him if he did. A sound like a low moan rent the turgid air. Brad locked his gaze with the contractor, who shrugged, his face devoid of color.

  “Did you hear that?” Brad whisp
ered, holding up the lantern so the light reflected off the walls. They slithered, the shadows making them appear as though they were moving. He walked over to touch the cold surface. It was as solid as rock. What else could it be? “For a minute, it looked like someone was there,” he laughed. The other man joined him, their mirth changing the entire atmosphere.

  “It’s the light playing tricks with the stone. Happens all the time. I’m going to have to put in a support beam here.” He walked around the dirt floor. “And here.” He lifted the bowed wooden boards with competent hands. They heard a loud groan, and their eyes met for an instant. “She’s an old lady that needs a facelift—soon.”

  “How much?”

  They haggled a bit, but not much; Brad thought the estimate fair.

  “When can you start?” Brad asked.

  Though they were alone, Brad had the uneasy feeling that they were in a crowd. The space hummed; in fact, the air vibrated with energy. The area was confined; lazy dust motes floated on the stagnant air. Turning around, he searched the dark corners, looking to see if someone was there. A rat squeaked, causing them both to jump.

  The contractor cleared his throat uneasily; his voice was rusty. “I do this all the time, but it never fails—the old places unnerve me.” They both laughed. “We will start tomorrow, if that’s OK with you?”

  “Yeah. Do you want a deposit?”

  “I’m not worried about you.” They shook and arranged to meet at seven the next morning.

  Brad escorted him out, then stood in the rutted driveway for a long time. He looked back at the house, considering it, debating about where to start. He stared at the cellar entrance, wondering if he should go back and examine it again. Pulling a worn baseball cap from his back pocket, he placed it firmly on his head. He walked up the front steps, the boards musically making his presence known.

  When Brad got to the double doors, one swung open, inviting him in. It squealed on its hinges, adding to the macabre atmosphere. A laugh bubbled up from his lips. That’s all they needed—intruders. Really, he thought. What did they expect to find in this dump? He cursed, thinking they had had a break-in. He observed the open door. Carefully, he entered, quietly walking through the reception area, his eyes darting around. Looking back, he saw only one set of footprints on the dusty floor. He bent to examine them: there was a single set of tracks and they were his. He stood listening to the silence and knew he was alone. The dust was undisturbed; the house was devoid of all life except for him. Light refracted from the huge chandelier in the main entry, the crystal tinkling gently. Brad looked up to see it swaying, the small ornamental drops clinking against one another. Searching for the source of a breeze, he felt only the decayed, stuffy indoor atmosphere. The chimes danced along his spine to the top of his head, his blood coursing through his veins. Pulsing with energy, he put his hand on the solid banister, placing his foot on the first stair. The upstairs called to him, drawing him toward the attic.

  His phone’s shrill ring broke the silence, Julie’s face lighting the screen. Brad bit his lower lip, unimaginably annoyed by her call. A feeling of impatience welled in his chest, and he found himself fighting the urge to hit ignore. He was in charity with her, wasn’t he? he thought. It was good between them, so why did he feel a gargoyle of resentment resting heavily on his shoulder? As if to confirm it, Brad looked over his shoulder, seeing only weak sunlight peeking through the stained glass windows to light the gloom inside.

  He swiped his finger and held the phone to his ear. “Hi,” he said curtly.

  Julie was silent for a moment. “Anything wrong?”

  Brad snarled, “Why do you think that, Julie? What is it? I’ve got things to do.”

  “Sorry for interrupting your busy day. I just wanted to know what happened with the foundation people.”

  “I have the proposal. I booked them for tomorrow. It’s a quick fix.”

  Julie sighed. “You hired them?”

  “Look, if you want to do this yourself, just say so, and I am out of here.” Anger simmered beneath his skin, running like white lightning through his bloodstream. The words, filled with heat, poured out of his mouth, the same one that had kissed her so tenderly that morning and told her that he loved her. It was as if he didn’t own his own body.

  “Sorry,” she snapped. “Usually we discuss the estimates.”

  “Well, this time we didn’t.”

  “Brad—”

  “I don’t have time, Julie. I have to get this place cleaned up before Willy gets here to help with the baths and kitchen. I’ll see you later.” The tension he felt was like a pot boiling over and all his hostility was focused on her. He touched the phone’s surface, cutting off her good-bye.

  “Tessa, stop tormenting him.” Gerald perched himself next to his companion on the railing one flight above Brad.

  “Did you see the picture on his phone?” she demanded. “Do you think she is prettier than me?”

  “Too thin for my taste.” He eyed his preening companion. “I prefer my women a bit more full-figured. You remember, Rubenesque.”

  “She’s as skinny as a drowned cat.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. Besides, Tessa, my sweet, they like their women like that now. All muscles, like a…like little boys.”

  “Hah, I knew it! She’s flat-chested.” She stroked her hands down her well-endowed bosom. “Mine are real. Touch them, Gerald, you’ll see.”

  “With pleasure.” He leaned over to caress her, and she flew off the banister to levitate above Brad’s head.

  “As if,” she teased him. “I didn’t let you touch them then, and I’m certainly not going to let you now.”

  Gerald felt his face heat with anger, his hands balling into fists. Tessa and he had come to a sort of comfortable relationship after all these years together. He liked to think of them as an old married couple. Usually it was just the two of them. With the occasional intruder, he allowed Tessa her mild flirtations. And there were the Sentinels, of course. She terrorized the crack addicts—they were so unattractive he had never interfered—but this was a whole different story. Tessa was intrigued. Lit up like an incandescent flame, she was back to her old tricks. She primped in front of her imaginary mirror, singing. He puffed up with indignation. She never did those things for him. He stalked across the landing past the handsome man, filled with resentment.

  “He is gorgeous.” Tessa taunted Gerald, circling Brad like a predator, her eyes drinking in his muscular build. “Look at his hands; he is so sensitive. I bet he would know how to make me feel like a woman.”

  “Enough!” Gerald yelled at her, stopping when he saw the satisfied look on her face. Anger never worked with her. They knew each other so well after all these years. She thrived on his pain. Changing his tactics, he teased her instead. “Honey, you’re so old, they’d call you a saber-toothed tiger instead of a cougar,” Gerald snickered. Tessa’s face changed, turning white, her teeth elongating into fangs. She raced back at him, her eyes black pits of coal. “Save it for the tourists, Tessa. Doing that makes you look like an old hag.” He floated away, his laughter echoing off the walls.

  Brad looked around. He heard something. His gray eyes scanned the high ceilings but could discern nothing in the gloom. He took the stairs lightly, the handrail smooth under his calloused hand. He paused at the Joan of Arc stained glass window, shaking his head. He understood flowers, even animals, but Joan of Arc? There was something eerily depressing about a stained glass window decorated with a martyred saint. He bowed to her gallantly and then bounded up to the next story. Soon he found himself at the top level of the house. A door beckoned to him from the ceiling. There was no rope to pull it down. He looked around, spying an old chair. Climbing up, he reached over his head to pull down the attic door.

  The chair wobbled; Brad glanced down the railing, the potential three-story fall giving him vertigo. It was a long way down, he thought, gulping. His bum leg protested, reminding him it was just healed. He reached forward, his
fingers scrabbling at the opening. Lurching, he started to weave, feeling himself losing his balance. The air gelled. He thought dispassionately that he was going to fall, and it was going to be messy. Two of the chair’s legs lifted off the ratty carpet, and Brad’s mouth opened to scream, but no sound came out. Like a manipulated marionette, the chair righted itself, pulling him away from the railing. It landed with a hard thud, jarring him, but he knew he was safe. That was close, he thought. He got down shakily and sat on the top stair, his legs wobbly, his heart beating a rapid tattoo in his chest. He wiped the sweat beading his brow. He had almost fallen, of that he was sure. He just didn’t know what had prevented it. Taking a deep breath, he climbed onto the chair again, tentatively reaching for the ceiling, latching on to the pull so he could yank open the door to the attic. It fell forward, creaking on its rusty hinges. A blast of hot air hit him full in the face. Heart pounding in his chest, he paused to look back at the chandelier, now that he was at eye level with it. It was a monster, all cut glass in a million small pieces. It appeared to spin slowly, creating a kaleidoscope of rainbow colors. Brad’s skin prickled, and he felt the caress of a light breeze travel up his spine.

  Tessa drew close to the human. The Sentinel had pulled him to safety. She hated their interference. Just when she had control of a situation, they would step in to block her from doing as she pleased. She was afraid of them and found herself backed into a corner when she felt their presence. The air always thickened, making movement difficult. She glanced around, making sure she was alone. Smiling, she let her hands linger near Brad’s face and felt him shudder as she slid them down the back of his body. She longed to press up against him, inhale his maleness, lose herself in his embrace. She swirled through him, lightly caressing his heated skin, willing herself to form, feeling the weight of gravity pull her cells together. The dense sensation of her skin encasing pressed down with crushing weight. Breath crystallized in her lungs; her nose inhaled the deadness of the house and the aliveness of Brad before her. Light hurt her eyes; her fingers blindly reached out to tangle themselves in the long hair cascading down Brad’s back. Brad spun, his eyes widening as she took vague shape before his startled face. She was a chimera, the shadow play of light and darkness, indistinct and almost transparent. Pursing her lips, she leaned in to kiss him.