Don't Get Mad, Get Even

by Barb Goffman

  I sighed and took another pull on my beer. I’d think about it tomorrow when my head was clearer.

  * * * *

  A few weeks went by. I hadn’t been able to figure out who I could trust. So I’d done nothing. To avoid Christine’s nagging, I began putting in longer hours at the lumber company and spending my evenings at Clancy’s pub in town. After a while, Christine stopped asking me if I’d found a buyer for the guns. In fact, she started avoiding me, too, disappearing into the cellar for hours doing God knows what. Not that I cared. I’d worn her down, won the argument. Jenna would come around, too, eventually. She’d have to.

  Ted picked me up for our usual Saturday morning fishing trip. The air had a nip to it, and the leaves had begun to turn. Bright oranges, reds, and yellows. They reflected off the water as the sun peeked in and out behind the clouds. Even the trout loved the weather. They kept coming up to the surface. Ted and I made a haul.

  We were in a deep discussion about the Steelers’s chances for the Super Bowl this year when we walked into Denny’s. Rhonda showed us to a booth, took our orders, and said she’d bring our coffees right out.

  “Hey, there’s a guy with taste as bad as yours.” Ted laughed, looking past me.

  I turned around and spotted a guy I recognized from church—Christine attends every Sunday, I go less often—sitting near the door. He was wearing a dark red and green plaid jacket. Looked like he was about to polish off some sausage.

  I laughed, too, twisting back. “That’s a great jacket. Looks just like mine. It woulda come in handy this morning before it warmed up.”

  “Why don’t you wear that ugly thing anymore?” Ted asked.

  I sighed. “Christine hates it. And I got this coffee stain on the collar she couldn’t get out. That’s how I ended up getting that new black coat a couple years ago.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Ted said, nodding.

  “I should drag out that plaid jacket for old times’ sake. It would drive Christine nuts.”

  “Don’t you have enough problems these days without trying to piss her off?”

  “It’s my jacket, Ted. I should be able to wear what I want. I’ve been letting Christine push me around too much lately.”

  Rhonda came by with our coffees and, a couple minutes later, our food. As I dug into my eggs over easy, I told her how well Ted and I had done that morning at the pond.

  “Boy, Earl, you’re sure in a good mood, considering,” she said.

  “Of course I’m in a good mood. You shoulda been there, Rhonda. The air was crisp. The sky a deep blue. You could see for miles. The shadow of the Alleghenies made it a picture-perfect scene. And the fish. Oh, the fish were practically begging us to catch ’em. I swear one of them jumped out of the water, right onto my hook. Smiled at me.”

  She laughed. “If you say so, Earl.”

  Rhonda walked away, pouring more coffee for other customers before pushing through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

  “What’d she mean by that?” Ted asked.

  “What’d she mean by what?” I slid some hash browns on my fork. God, I loved hash browns.

  “She said that you’re certainly in a good mood, considering. Considering what?”

  Huh. “I don’t know.” I swallowed the hash browns and glanced toward the kitchen. Rhonda still hadn’t come out. “It’s probably nothing. You know how she likes to talk.”

  I caught Ted rolling his eyes. What was that about?

  “Anyway,” I said. “Getting back to the Steelers.” We talked about their draft picks, and Ted invited me to watch tomorrow’s game at his house. He had one of them big-screen TVs. I’d buy one if I could only afford it.

  Rhonda came around with coffee refills. “What do you think of the Steelers’s chances this year?” I asked her.

  “They’ll be lucky if the Ravens don’t stomp them back into the twentieth century,” she said. “Your running back’s got a case of the fumbles lately.”

  “You wish.” I shook my head. “Besides, the Steelers’s defense is tops, bar none. Ain’t that right, Ted?”

  He nodded, sipping his coffee. Coward. Ted never got involved when I baited Rhonda.

  “Rhonda, your Baltimore boys are going down this year,” I said.

  She shook her head. “You pick this same fight with me every fall, Earl. Give it up. The Steelers suck, and you know it.”

  “Rhonda, Rhonda, Rhonda.” I let out a big sigh. “There goes your tip.”

  “Big loss.”

  She winked at me and had just turned toward the next booth when I remembered Ted’s question. “Hey, Rhonda, what’d you mean before when you talked about my mood?”

  “What?” She stepped back.

  “You said I’m in a good mood, considering. Considering what?”

  “Oh,” she said. “Considering the yard sale.”

  “Yard sale?”

  She looked at me like I’m crazy. “Yeah, the one going on at your house as we speak.”

  I laughed. “Rhonda, for once, you have got your gossip all wrong. There is no yard sale going on at my house.”

  She set her coffee pot down on our table, stepped over to the counter, and grabbed a copy of the News-Tribune lying there. She returned, flipping pages, and handed me the paper open to a page full of classified ads. Dogs for sale. Garage sales. Help-wanted ads.

  “So?” I said.

  She sighed and pointed her stubby finger at an ad near the bottom of the first column.

  Yard Sale. 2902 Pine Road. Sat. 9/18. Starts 8 a.m. Household items, clothing & more.

  I’d be damned. Rhonda was right. Why didn’t Christine tell me?

  “The ad’s been running for the last few days,” Rhonda said. “I hear Christine’s trying to get rid of a lot of your old junk. Plus all your guns.”

  “My guns!” Heads turned my way, but I didn’t care. “C’mon, Ted, I’ve gotta get home.”

  I threw some cash on the table and hustled toward the door, Ted right behind me.

  “Son of a bitch,” I said as we rushed past the guy from church. “That is my jacket!”

  * * * *

  The tires on Ted’s pickup squealed as we turned onto Swamp Road, a couple miles from my house.

  “I can’t believe it. I can’t fucking believe it.”

  I’d been saying that over and over since we peeled out of the Denny’s lot. How could Christine do this? She doesn’t know anything about guns. How’s she going to know if she’s getting a good price? Son of a bitch!

  “Ted, can’t you go any faster?”

  “Faster?” He looked at me wide-eyed. “On this road? I’ve just missed a deer, raccoon, and God knows how many squirrels. Just calm yourself down. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  This was one of those times I wished I had one of them cell phones I see everyone else carrying. I’d refused to get one on principle. Wouldn’t let Christine have one either. Didn’t see a good reason to pay extra money when we have perfectly good phones right at home.

  “Look!” I pointed as we slowed at a stop sign. A couple yard-sale posters were stapled to it, including a big one for my house. “Damn it all to hell. Now everyone driving through the neighborhood will know about it.” I pounded my fist against the dashboard as bile churned in my stomach.

  “Hey, watch it!” Ted said.

  He hit the gas again. One more mile to go.

  “You think it’s too late?” I asked. “Someone could be buying my guns at this very moment. The sale’s been going on for hours.”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  I ran my hand through my hair. If only I hadn’t spent so much time trash-talking with Rhonda, I’d be home by now.

  The next couple minutes felt like hours as we zoomed toward my place. Finally we turned onto my long driveway. Several cars were parked alongside it. And then the house came into view.

  “Blast it,” I said. “Look at all those people.”

  I recognized friends and neighbors mixed among a bu
nch of strangers. All of them picking through my stuff. But not the guns. I didn’t see them set out anywhere. Christine was sitting in a lawn chair with a strongbox in her lap. She looked pleased as punch.

  Ted hit the brakes, and I jumped from the pickup before he’d come to a full stop. Christine saw me and rose, a smile on her face, the same glint in her eye she’d had the day she pulled the gun on me.

  “Surprise!” she said walking across the lawn.

  “Tell me you didn’t sell ’em!”

  “Sell what?”

  Boy, could she play coy when she wanted to. I grabbed her arm and yanked her to me. “The guns! My daddy’s guns.”

  People turned and stared. Damn busybodies.

  “Lower your voice.” Christine pulled away. She rubbed her arm as she headed to our front door. “And yes, they’re all gone. I sold two on Thursday—”

  “Thursday!”

  “And then early this morning, a guy came and bought all the ones I had left.”

  Gone. They were all gone. Even the Enfield musket, our own piece of state history. Gone. I tried to swallow, but my throat had this big lump in it.

  “How could you do this to me?”

  “Don’t you blame me. You did this to yourself. You had months to sell the guns, but you refused to do it.”

  “Excuse me,” a white-haired lady interrupted. “How much do you want for this radio?”

  “Ten dollars,” Christine said.

  “I’ll give you five.”

  “Sold.”

  The lady handed over the money and walked away with the radio that I used to listen to in the summers when I grilled on the deck. Back when Jenna lived with us. Before she changed and started all this.

  Christine turned. “I told you if you didn’t get rid of those guns, I’d take matters into my own hands. Well, I have.”

  “Did you sell ’em just like that?” I asked. “Taking whatever the buyer offered you? Heck, how much did we get ripped off today, Christine?”

  “If you were so concerned about getting the best price, you should have taken care of this yourself. You could have had them appraised. Approached dealers. Antique markets. But you decided to sit on your ass and do nothing. You thought that I’d let you drive our daughter away. Well you were wrong.” She took a deep breath. “I wasn’t willing to put in all that effort if you weren’t, but I did do a little research before today, Earl. We got a good price.”

  “A good price, huh? Well, what’d we get?”

  She inched closer. “We made $10,000 total on all the guns.”

  I sputtered, and my right eye began to twitch. “That’s it? Those guns were worth a whole lot more than that!”

  “No they weren’t. I got that information straight from Harvey Bentler.”

  “Who?”

  “You know. From church. Always sits in the third pew on the end.”

  Like I pay that much attention.

  She sighed at my obvious ignorance. “Tall, thin. About eighty-five years old. Walks a little stooped over.”

  “Oh. That guy. What’s he got to do with this?”

  “He’s retired now, but he used to be a gun dealer. He still collects. He’s a nice man. I knew I could trust him, him being a churchgoer and all, so I invited him over for tea on Thursday and asked him what he thought of your collection.”

  “And?”

  “He said most of it wasn’t worth much.”

  Fool woman, listening to some stranger instead of me. “Of course he did.”

  She crossed her arms, clutching the cashbox to her chest. “They weren’t in good condition, Earl. They were rusty, he said. Flawed. Except for one of your rifles—he called it a ‘beauty’ and offered me $6,000 for it. He also liked that Enfield musket, despite the termite damage. Said it was probably worth $800 tops, but he offered me a $1,000 because of the Droop Mountain story, even though he didn’t believe it.”

  “Did you take the money?”

  “Yes. I knew Harvey would give me a fair price on both weapons. I took the check to the bank straight away.”

  “A check?” I kicked at the grass. “You handed over the guns and took a check? You’re way too trusting. That check’s probably gonna bounce from here to Ohio.”

  Her eyebrows arched up. “Shame on you, Earl. Harvey is a member of our church. That check won’t bounce.”

  “And the rest of the guns?” I asked.

  “He wouldn’t buy them. Said the whole lot was worth maybe $3,000. He pointed out one we might get $500 for, another $300, but most of them were worth about $100 or less, he said. So when a guy came by early this morning and offered me $2,500 for all of them, I bargained with him. We got the $3,000 Harvey recommended. In cash.” She tapped on the strongbox in her arms. “Which brings us to a grand total of $10,000 for all your guns. A good price. And you didn’t have to lift a finger.”

  Was she right about the money? I’d always thought we had a gold mine in our attic. The Enfield itself was a real antique. It had to be worth more than $1,000. And I bet that “beauty” old Harvey bought was worth a lot more than $6,000. If I had to lose the collection, all the history, I at least should’ve been paid what they’re worth.

  I squeezed my hands into fists. I needed to hit something. Hard.

  “Don’t look so glum, Earl. It had to be done. And besides, now we can use some of this money to buy that big-screen TV you’ve been wanting.”

  Big-screen TV?

  “We can go shopping as soon as the yard sale’s over,” she said. “And after we buy your TV, I’m booking our tickets. Florida, here we come.”

  * * * *

  Ted came over the next afternoon to help me carry in my new TV and install it. It’s a monster sixty-four-incher. Then he stuck around for the game. I couldn’t believe how great the Steelers looked. I felt like I was right there, eating the hot dogs, smelling the sweat. A damned shame they were losing.

  I tried not to think about the guns, but every time a commercial came on they swam right into my mind. Daddy’s legacy was gone, just like that. And all we had to show for it were ten thousand measly dollars. Christine had no right to sell those guns. They were mine! Selling ’em was my choice to make, damn it!

  When the game ended, Ted headed home, and I sat brooding in my recliner, waiting on dinner. Christine should’ve timed it better. Wasn’t the lasagna finished baking yet? I was hungry. First my guns were sold out from under me, then the Steelers lost, and now I couldn’t even have dinner when I was starving.

  The news came on, and I popped open another Coors. Maybe they’d show the few good plays we’d had in the sports re-cap. Boy, I never noticed how large that announcer’s nose was before.

  “And coming up,” she said, “we’ll have an interview with a man who purchased a gun worth a reported quarter of a million dollars at a yard sale yesterday in Keyser, West Virginia.”

  My eye began twitching again, and I gulped down air. I knew it! I knew Daddy’s collection was valuable. Oh, my fucking Lord!

  I threw my beer against the wall, jumped up, and stomped to the window. A quarter of a million dollars. Lost! No, not lost. Given away. Like it was nothing.

  Shaking, I stormed back across the room, picked up that ugly lamp Christine loved, and smashed it.

  She ran out of the kitchen. “What’s going on?”

  I spun around. “You did this.”

  “Did what?”

  I strode toward her. I’d worked hard my whole life waiting for my payoff, and she just gave it away.

  “You bitch!” I spat out the words. “You fucking bitch.”

  Christine’s eyes grew wide. I’d never talked to her like that before. All my life, I’d treated her with respect, and look where it landed me. No more!

  She backed into the kitchen. “Earl, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?”

  I laughed. “What’s going on? One of those guns you gave away for practically nothing yesterday is worth a quarter of a million dollars. That’s what’s going on.”


  “What?”

  “It’s on the God damn news!”

  I grabbed a plate off the kitchen table and threw it against the wall. It shattered. Christine screamed. I shoved her against the wall, grasped her throat, and squeezed.

  Tears sprang from her eyes as she struggled, gasping and turning purple. Then she kneed me in the crotch. My grip loosened. She squirmed away. Ran into the living room. Wincing, I stumbled for a second, spotted the knife block on the counter, grabbed a large blade, and chased her.

  I caught up with her at the front door. She never made it outside.

  I stood there a few minutes. Panting. Staring at her lying there. Her face pale. A pool of blood seeping into the beige carpeting. Then the phone rang. I noticed the bloody knife in my hand and dropped it. Backed up.

  What had I done?

  “And for our final story,” the newscaster said, “we have a man who bought a gun worth a reported quarter of a million dollars at a yard sale yesterday in Keyser, West Virginia. Reporting from Keyser is our correspondent Page Schelts.”

  I looked up while the phone kept ringing.

  “Thank you, Nina. I’m here today with Randy Hix, who’s had the biggest surprise of his life.”

  I didn’t recognize the guy. Short. Thin. Squirrely looking. He was standing on a road with the reporter, a big tree behind them.

  “Yeah, I like collecting guns,” the guy said. “Ya never know what you’re gonna get, especially at a yard sale. I bought a few yesterday. When I fully inspected this one gun after I got home, I had a feeling it was worth a whole lot more than I paid, so I went and had it appraised right away. And lo and behold, it’s worth a quarter of a million smackeroos.”

  Smackeroos. Oh, I’d smack the huge smile off that guy’s face. Finally the damned ringing stopped, and our answering machine kicked in.

  “And you bought the gun, a Colt Walker, here at a house on Pine Road in Keyser,” the reporter said, turning to the camera as it panned out. “The prior owner didn’t want to discuss the matter on camera after we informed him of the gun’s value.”

  I swallowed hard as I stared at the house that came on screen—a neighbor’s home down the street.