Swifty reached for the microphone, but Gladys kept a tight grip with her right hand, clasping her left hand over the top of it when he moved toward her. “The auction will begin promptly at 1:00 P.M. and not a moment sooner,” Gladys said. “It will end when items are gone. And you know Swifty! He’ll move things right along, ready or not.”
Swifty leaned into the microphone curled in both Gladys’s hands and said, “Thank you very much, Gladys. Folks, let’s all give Gladys a big round of applause for doing such a great job of heading up the sale this year.” In her moment of receptive glory, Gladys accidentally loosened her grip on the microphone, and the next thing she knew, it was gone from her hands.
Swifty looked at his watch, then looked toward the driveway, then put the microphone to his lips. “HERE THEY COME! Good luck, folks. May Social Concerns and Dorothy…may ALL of us have a safe, fun and profitable day.”
Although Katie had neither volunteered for nor been appointed to any specific task, she spent the entire first two hours of the sale running herself nearly ragged, scurrying from here to there as cars swarmed her property and people invaded the land. She was astonished at how proprietary she felt, considering she hadn’t even moved in yet. She also became aware that a portion of her anxieties was for Dorothy. She didn’t want Dorothy to have to witness any destruction or incident on this day, which must make her move now seem very final. It was obvious from their brief meeting in Dorothy’s new home last night that she was beginning to settle in, but Katie noticed a pining look in her eyes once in a while when they talked about the auction.
The moment she’d arrived at the farm this morning, Katie also noticed that Jacob Wetstra looked amazingly fit—long, well-defined calves, tight abdomen, substantial biceps—in his cutoffs and tightly fitting white cotton T-shirt. Try as she might not to stare, she’d caught herself doing so on more than one occasion.
23
Maggie Malone stood in the lengthy checkout line, two brightly colored throw pillows tucked under her left arm and another under her right. She wore a lemon yellow sleeveless shirtwaist dress with a wide lime green belt and yellow sling-back slippers. Her banana boat earrings danced above her shoulders as she wrangled around, trying to keep the pillows from escaping her grasp. Arthur jabbed Nellie Ruth and said, “Look what’s a-comin’ down the pike. Me oh my, if it don’t look like one of them big tropical birds!”
“Do you think you could move it along here, fellow?” A well-to-do young stranger held his wallet in one hand and carried a heavy basket of items in the other. “The auction’s going to be starting in twenty minutes, and I’d like to get these things to my car first—which is parked about a mile away!”
Arthur, who didn’t take kindly to anyone’s lip, started to stand up, but Nellie Ruth grabbed his arm and quietly yet emphatically reminded him he was representing the Social Concerns Committee and that he’d better behave. “We’re sorry, sir,” she said to the rude gentleman. “Here, I’m all ready for you.” Arthur eyeballed the guy a good one, then gave a loud humph, one grand enough to rival even Gladys’s best.
By 2:15 P.M. the entire lawn surrounding the auction items was filled with people. Swifty had lived up to his reputation, moving things right along as they worked their way toward the furniture remaining in the house, which would come last. But even though he’d been at it for more than an hour, more remained than did not. As he’d explained to Dorothy when she signed the contract—though she was already quite familiar with auction procedures—if you auction off the best stuff first, nobody sticks around until the end. “You gotta keep them waiting. And furniture is always a hot item.”
Arthur, now off checkout duty and assigned by Gladys to “whatever you see needs to be done,” sidled up behind the crowd, casting his eyes around for Dorothy. He’d walked the entire barn, upstairs and down; the house, upstairs and down; the whole yard, scanning this way and that, looking for her. May Belle hadn’t seen her since she’d stopped by the bake sale at noon for a double fudge brownie. Her sons, who continued to haul items out of the lower barn and hand them up to Swifty, hadn’t seen her. He’d checked with everybody he could think of, and nobody knew her whereabouts. The last time anyone remembered seeing her was right after the auction had begun. A prickly feeling began to run up his spine. It wasn’t like her to disappear.
“Oh, LORD,” Dorothy wailed. “Hear my prayer.” She had retreated behind the barn, away from the crowds. At first she thought the sounds of people bidding on pieces of her past wouldn’t bother her. After all, she herself had decided to do without whatever items she’d put up on the block.
First up had been a box of miscellaneous linens, most of which she hadn’t used for decades. Nothing. She felt nothing. Next came a selection of bowls nested one in the other. The only time she dragged many of them out was for the annual Christmas party, and she would no longer be the hostess. When the bidding began, a slight pang of sorrow raced through her heart.
But then Swifty held up an apron. He’d stuck his hand down into a box of aprons—which would go, in its entirety, to the highest bidder—and grabbed hold of the first thing his fingers touched. Dorothy remembered that when she was packing kitchen items in the pantry, she’d simply selected her favorite apron—the only one she ever wore anymore—out of the folded stack and then just grabbed the rest of the stack off the pantry shelf and stuffed it into a box without a bit more thought. She was shocked to notice what Swifty now held in his hands. This particular worn and faded blue apron with ruffles around the neck and at the lower hem had belonged to her mother. The hem was coming out here and there, and one of the ties around the back was nearly ripped off.
Dorothy went deaf to the sounds of bidders, lost in her recollections of her mother wearing that apron while she was standing in front of her washer, patiently feeding clothes through the wringer with what she used to call her dipping stick; wearing that apron while rolling pie dough; wearing that apron while serving country fried chicken to her family, whom she so happily and selflessly cared for. The sound of her mother’s humming began to play in her head, and a giant knot began to form in Dorothy’s throat that she could not for the life of her swallow.
BANG! “SOLD to bidder number eighty-five for four dollars!” The words pierced her awareness. “Four dollars for all those memories,” she whispered under her breath. It was then she started striding toward the back of the barn, toward the field, the earth…air! When she arrived, she leaned back against the old wooden barn slats, staring toward the tree line down near the creek at the horizon. Feeling weak in the knees, she allowed her body to slide down the sturdy building until she sat. It was there she still remained, unable even to pray—until this very moment.
“Lord, as sure as I know you exist, I know I’m doing the right thing. But I am overwhelmed with how it feels like my very blood sprouts up through this land and pumps through my veins. At eighty-seven years of age, I’m suddenly racked with loss and missing my mother, my father, my sweet Caroline Ann. I am wracked with memories that are racing inside me, vying for attention, fearing they won’t come my way again once I say my final good-byes to the only home I’ve known for my entire life.” Dorothy began to cry uncontrollably, covering her eyes with her hands.
“I know,” she said through sobs, “that it is time. I know I am relieved to have my things in order. Good Jesus, I so appreciate the way You answered my prayers as I cried out for help in my decision. So why, why is this so hard?”
Just then, a ray of sun worked its way past the edge of the barn and warmed her face. It was as though God had reached down and touched her with the warm palm of His hand. “ ‘Not by might, nor by power, but by My Spirit,’ says the Lord of hosts.” The words in Zechariah were suddenly in her mouth. “Yes, by Your Spirit, not my pitiful pity party,” she said, chuckling through her tears.
Then she thought about Noah and the ark. On more than one occasion, she’d stopped at one particular passage while reading Genesis. “So they went into the a
rk to Noah, by twos of all flesh in which was the breath of life. And those that entered, male and female of all flesh, entered as God had commanded him; and the Lord closed it behind him.” And the Lord closed it behind him. The words danced in her head, reminding her that she had sought God’s help; he had provided an answer; she had followed his directive. Just like Noah, she was building her own ark on Vine Street.
“And the Lord closed it behind him,” she said aloud, repeating it three times, her voice getting stronger each time. The next thing she knew, she was weeping tears of gratefulness for memories that could never be stolen and for having given her trust to the One who deserved it, knowing full well that the Lord Himself would close the door to her wounds. Her body went limp as the sun lavishly splayed its warmth over her entire being.
It was 2:40 P.M. By now, Arthur had alerted Josh, Katie, Jacob and three church members that Dorothy seemed to be missing, and a search party was discreetly activated. “We’ll meet right here in ten minutes,” Arthur said, pointing to the very spot near the silo on which he was standing. He’d designated a direction for each of them. Before they dispersed, Katie and Jacob—at the very same time and with the exact same cadence—said, “Don’t worry. I’m sure she’s fine,” even though they were trying to calm themselves more than anyone else. After the awkward, wide-eyed double take, off they went.
It was Josh who jogged straight toward the back of the barn, intending to run down to the creek near Willy, Woodsy and Willoway, Dorothy’s favorite three trees she’d named decades ago. He figured if Dorothy went anywhere, that’s where it would be. Before he had walked five paces past the barn, he saw her out of the corner of his eye.
“DOROTHY!” he shouted as he raced to her side. Josh hadn’t even noticed Sheba, and she startled him when she awakened and jumped over Dorothy’s lap to come running in his direction. Dorothy’s outstretched legs before her on the ground, her upper body limp against the barn, her head tilted slightly to the side and her mouth agape presented a startling image. “DOROTHY!” Fearing the worst, he felt his heart pounding even harder than it had when he’d heard she was missing. He squatted down in front of her just as her eyes began to flutter open. “Dorothy! Are you okay? What are you doing down here on the ground? Do you need a nitroglycerin tablet? Have you taken one? Do you have them with you?” The nonstop questions flew past his lips as he fretted before her, whiter than a sheet.
“Joshmeister,” she said in a weak voice. Being neither fully alert nor completely awake, she wondered why he was making such a fuss. When she finally registered his questions about nitroglycerin, then took stock of where she was and how she must look, she understood. “I’m fine, Josh,” she said, her voice gaining strength as she pulled her knees up a bit and lifted her head from resting against the barn. “I must have dozed off.”
“What are you doing back here? It’s too hot back here, Dorothy. Let’s get you to the shade. There’s a whole pack of people looking for you.”
“What on earth for?”
“Arthur gathered us up. He was worried, Dorothy. Nobody had seen you for so long…Can you stand up, do you think? Here, take my hand and I’ll help you, but don’t get up too fast! Or maybe you should just stay here and I’ll go get somebody to help…”
“Don’t be silly, Josh,” she said, her voice sounding stronger with each word. Dorothy reached out and took his extended hand, then slowly he helped her to her feet. She brushed off the back of her pants and steadied her equilibrium. “Alrighty, then. Outta my way! It’s time to get back to business!” Slowly her unsure legs steadied themselves, and she and Josh headed toward the silo. By the time they appeared at the meeting spot, the rest of the party had already reconvened, shrugging their shoulders and looking more concerned than before.
“Mom!” Jacob said breathlessly as he rushed toward her, then threw his arms around her so powerfully that he had to steady both of them. “Are you all right? Where have you been? I was worried sick!”
“Why, Jacob, calm down. I’m just fine, dear, as you can see for yourself.” Dorothy proceeded to shuffle her feet as if she was tap dancing. “See?”
“Okay, Mom. That’s quite enough dancing for one day,” he said, holding tightly to her elbow.
“Lordy BE, Dorothy!” Arthur said. “I never would have thought for a hog’s hoot ya’d still have that in ya!” Although he joked around, his face revealed his concern.
“Arthur, I’ve got lots in me you couldn’t even imagine. But right now I’m taking it all to the auction, right after I get me a hot dog smothered in ketchup and drowning in pickle relish. I’ve had a nice refreshing chat with the Lord and a catnap to boot, so I reckon I’m good to go, as the kids say today, for at least another couple hours.” Before any of the rest of them had a chance to say another word, she’d left them in her dust—albeit a slow-shuffling dust. But as she walked away, she wondered what in the world had happened to her. By the time she reached the hot dog stand, she’d dismissed the concern, deciding that she had, indeed, simply dozed off. After all, she hadn’t been sleeping as well as usual in her new home, and that would surely explain it.
Katie stood frozen, staring at Jacob, still surprised at his outward emotional response upon learning that his mother was okay. From what she had seen previously, he barely cared about her. But now…now she’d seen something more.
Swifty was working his way through the last platform of items before moving toward the house. Most of the serious buying crowd had already headed indoors to stake their positions around the furniture objects of their desire. Arthur had pressed his way through the crowd still remaining outdoors to stand beside Dorothy, just feeling a little more at ease at her side since her disappearing act.
“I’ll tell you,” she said, “there’s no better place to study human nature than at an auction.”
“By golly, I know what ya mean. For some folks, auctions is nothin’ more than a big gamblin’ game. Why, I just heard a woman say, ‘I WON!’ ” Arthur laughed a cynical laugh. “They ain’t won nothin’. They done bought it, and probably paid more fer it than they shoulda anyways!” But indeed, one’s desire for an object, coupled with the long wait until they finally got to it—peppered by a quickened spirit of competition—often caused people to run smack up against their better judgment. And since their internal triggers—not to mention their conscience—sometimes had only a split second to decide whether to go a notch higher than they’d promised before the gavel came down or to find themselves aced out by the last person with the guts to raise their bidding number that one more time was a fine and sometimes hair-raising line. Then, of course, if they did go that extra notch and cause the last of their opposition to drop out, they did feel as if they’d won.
“You goin’ in the house, Dorothy?” Arthur asked.
“No, I don’t believe I will. Too crowded in there. Besides, I think I’d just be stirring up a heap of emotions, watching people scalp the place clean. No sir, I believe I’ll just stand here until Swifty goes through that last little bunch of whatever he’s standing in front of, then I’ll head back to the rummage sale before it closes and see if there’s anything I can do to help. First, though, I’m gonna stop back by the bake table and pick up a bag of snickerdoodles, if May Belle’s got any left.”
“I reckon I’ll see ya later, then,” Arthur said as he started to walk away.
“Arthur! Wait! So? Can she make it? And you know who I’m talking about.”
Arthur removed his engineer’s cap, twirled it around in his hands, swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand holding the hat, then replaced the cap on his head. “Honest truth?”
“Honest truth.”
“We’d have to tow her to the fairgrounds fer sure. No sir. No sir-ee-Betsy, she couldn’t make it to the fairgrounds on ’er own, even if she wanted to—which I’m sure she does. Then, if we’re lucky and if she’s in a good mood—and I say if, as in IF—I’d say we’d have us one good chance at gettin’ her to crank over, but just
one, ’cuz when she dies after that, she’s probably a goner. A cracked engine block can only take so much afore she plumb seizes up tighter than a lug nut around a boiled egg.” Dorothy was leaned in close to Arthur, hanging on his words as though her life depended upon them. Her mind tried to form a picture of a lug nut around a boiled egg. She wisely decided to dismiss that fruitless endeavor and simply keep listening.
“Lots of big ifs here Dorothy. ’Cuz if she would keep her jets a-firin’, well, it would only be a short matter of time afore, like I said, she’d die, just like a chicken who ran into a bear trap. That would be the end.” Now, that Dorothy unfortunately could picture.
“But she’d go down fighting, right, Arthur? She wouldn’t go out with a whimper or a final image of a garbage truck in her headlights, right?”
“I reckon so, Dorothy. But them was a lot of ifs, woman.”
“Sign us up, Arthur! Find out how you go about it, and sign us up!”
“Dorothy, you’re not thinkin’ of drivin’, are ya?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out, Arthur.”
“Well, I can promise ya one thing for sure, it ain’t gonna be ME!”
“Folks, right here is the last item up for bid before we head into the house,” Swifty said. “It would seem I’ve saved the most, um, unusual for the last.” Laughter rippled throughout the crowd, and Dorothy turned her head to see what was so funny. Gosh darn if it wasn’t the bedpan stuffed with plastic poinsettias! She’d forgotten all about it. It had surely gotten tucked into the wrong pile, since it was supposed to be in the rummage sale. But it was a mistake too late to rectify, since Swifty was already set in motion.
“Who’ll give me a five-dollar bill, five dollars, five, five, who’ll give me five?” Swifty’s cadence always reminded Dorothy of the kids who used to sit on the baseball benches and holler, “Hey, batterbatterbatter, SWING, batterbatterbatter…” He held the bedpan high over his head and flat across the bottom to keep the dirty plastic flowers from falling out. “Come on, folks, it’s an object of art you’re lookin’ at here. A Christmas wonder. Who’ll give me five, five, a five-dollar bill?”
Dearest Dorothy, Slow Down, You're Wearing Us Out! Page 20