Finally she came to life and rushed over, planting herself between the two men, an uninvited referee.
“Floyd,” she said firmly, but with her trademark theatricality, “please tell me you’re not allowing this vile creature inside your home—you’d be better off with a raccoon or a skunk climbing in. He will cheat you and he will rob you and he will take you to the cleaners!”
That about covered it.
Mr. Olson had assumed a deer-in-the-headlights expression at this intrusion, but Carson remained calm, head Exorcist-swiveling slowly toward Mother, giving her the look a parent might a disobedient child.
“We’re having a private conversation, ma’am,” Carson drawled, “and it in no way that comes to my mind concerns you. Why don’t you just be a good girl, and avail yourself of the opportunity to move along to the various tables, and pick up a bargain or two?”
Mother held her ground. “You know a lot about picking up ‘bargains,’ don’t you, Mr. Carson?” Her eyes were round cold stones behind the glasses; big stones, too. She shook a finger at him, no longer the disobedient child, but the stern parent.
She went on: “Floyd here is a close friend, and when someone intends to take advantage of any one of my friends, well, you can rest assured that it does concern me … especially when a near and dear friend is about to be duped.”
Did I mention Mother had a lot of near and dear friends? Or maybe you received one of the four-hundred-plus Christmas cards she sent out last year.
Dozens of eyes were on us, as I moved to Mother’s side, and Carson’s expression tightened.
He said to me, “I know you … you’re the snippy little lady who gave me such a bad time last week.” He looked from me to Mother and back, something animal in his gaze now. “You two girls seem to be making a habit of embarrassing me … slandering me … in public.”
Mother said, “People have to be warned.”
“They do, sometimes. And right now I’m warning you that if you gals don’t back off, and behave yourselves, I’ll get myself a restraining order that sees to it you do.”
We had drawn a small crowd of garage sale shoppers, some clutching items of their desire. So I hated myself for what I did next.
I tried to make peace.
If Carson had any of our antiques, or knew where they were, making a total enemy of him would not exactly help in getting them back.
I tried my best to sound sincere. “Mr. Carson, you do have a valid point. And I apologize for making a scene at the luncheon.”
“Brandy!” Mother looked at me as if I’d gone off my medication.
“But you of all people should know what family heirlooms can mean to a person. How valuable such things are, in the sentimental sense.”
Softly but with an edge, he said, “No one put a gun to your mother’s head to make her sell those things.”
“I know, I know. And you had no way of knowing that there were … other considerations.”
“Such as?”
I didn’t want to get into that here, and said instead, “Right now Mother only cares that her friend Mr. Olson get top dollar for his antiques, should he decide to sell any.”
Mr. Olson roused from his silence to say, “Really this fuss isn’t necessary—I’m not interested in selling anything that’s not out here on the yard.”
“But if you ever should,” Mother replied, “why don’t you call me? I’m kind of a buff, you know, Floyd—and I have all sorts of price guides on what antiques are worth.”
“Or let Mr. Carson make an offer,” I chimed in, “but then get a second opinion from another dealer or two.” I gave Carson a smile that I hoped seemed innocent and sincere. “Just like with a doctor and something serious—right, Mr. Carson? A second opinion?”
What else could Carson say, but, “That’s not a bad idea, Mr. Olson. Just let me know how I can be of help.”
Mother said, “How generous of you … ‘Bubbah.’”
Carson sneered a little, then nodded to Mr. Olson, turned, and went off in a huff. Actually, he lingered at one of the tables, so make that a minute and a huff.
We departed shortly after, ourselves … but not before Mother bought that painting for a mere five dollars (I think Mr. Olson would have given it away, just to get rid of us).
Earlier, in anticipation of the return of the writing box, I had dragged up a Formica table with a white-and-red-checkered top from the basement, and put it in the music room. Now, back home, I placed the writing box on its time-honored perch.
The music room also doubled as a library, one entire wall containing a built-in floor-to-ceiling bookcase, books thankfully intact, unplundered by Carson. The room was dominated by a very old ornate walnut upright piano, which had been there as long as I could remember.
Before I was born, Peggy Sue took lessons in high school, trying to get cultured. Then I came along and pounded on those poor black-and-whites (no lessons) (no culture). Sometimes, a really bad smell would permeate the music room, and I’d open up the lid and find a mouse, strangled in the piano wires. Mice loved to hide in there, you see, and it meant an unfortunate end for the poor creatures when little Brandy decided to play “Chopsticks.”
Tired after our garage sale trip, Mother trudged upstairs to her bedroom to take a nap. I had something else in mind, but first needed to attend to Sushi.
The little bitch (I mean that in the nicest way) had been dogging my heels since I got home, wanting to be fed, which I hadn’t done previously, since we’d left the house so early. Sushi trailed me out to the kitchen (she knew her way by now; only once did I find her stuck in a corner, blindly blinking at a dead end) where I prepared her breakfast.
Diabetic dogs should be fed twice a day, followed by a shot of insulin (same as people). Naturally, animals are not fond of needles (same as people), so I would give Sushi a dog treat after. She always had the same conflicted look in her eyes: I don’t want that bee sting … but I do want that biscuit! Greed got the better of her (same as people).
I went upstairs myself, to change out of my sweats, and put on something a little cooler since it was warming up outside.
Here I was, thirty, with my old bedroom back. Fortunately for me, my prized furniture—a five-piece bird’s-eye maple art deco set from the 1930s—Carson hadn’t taken. He must not have known about it, or he would have snatched up the awesome set. Or maybe Mother had drawn the line—even off her meds, she had known that this was mine; she’d bought it for me for my sixteenth birthday.
My favorite piece was the dressing table with a huge semicircle mirror and round glass top. An addition since my long-ago departure was a deco-framed black-and-white glossy of Jean Harlow (Mother’s favorite old-time movie star) seated at the very same vanity, wearing a white silk, white-fox-trimmed robe, combing her platinum hair. How cool!
In the back of the closet, I discovered (boxed up) some of my childhood toys. Among them was a Cabbage Patch doll that Peggy Sue had stood in line hours for, then got mad at me because I said it was ugly; and the complete set of Pee Wee Herman’s Playhouse action figures—except for Clocky; doggie ate Clocky (not Sushi … Bluto, a little bulldog, long deceased).
After rifling through the hangers, I picked out a girly pink cotton tulle skirt by Trina Turk that I’d gotten on sale due to a grease spot (no, I didn’t put it there; yes, it came out). I paired this with a military-type tee, some bronze-leather Dr. Scholl’s slides, and a counterfeit Louis Vuitton hobo bag that a street vendor in Chicago should’ve been in jail for selling, for copyright infringement (with me in the next cell for aiding and abetting).
And now … here are some of Brandy’s fashion tips: (1), purchase one, really nice, expensive piece, and buy everything else in the ensemble on the cheap—that one, outstanding item will make you feel like the whole outfit cost a million dollars; (2), wear tough with tender, sending mixed signals to keep ‘em guessing … is she naughty or is she nice? (aren’t we both?); (3), put on clothes that you like, then leave and don
’t look back—the more time you have to preen and primp in front of a mirror, the more your confidence will erode and lead to a fashion faux pas; (4), don’t wear the same style of clothes or designer (like Peggy Sue) day after day—just like an actor who plays the same role over and over, you’ll get typecast. Sometimes I feel like being Sporty Spice … other times, Posh Spice. Get it? (They were a fab group, by the way, the Girls, no matter what anybody says.)
Changed and freshened up, I went out to my car.
A beautiful sunny morning awaited me—in the seventies, low humidity—and soon I was taking in the shops along Main Street, which were bustling already, townspeople and tourists alike, looking for the indispensable item(s) they couldn’t live without. I parked in one of the side lots (free) and walked along, looking in the windows.
Which reminds me.
Have you ever been at a mall, waiting for a tardy girlfriend, say, and watching the people walk by? (Perhaps the only thing men and women truly have in common is that in such situations, both are checking out the females.) When was the last time you said, “Wow! There goes a really great outfit"? Almost never! So where do all the cute clothes in the stores go? What, are they in closets, with the tags still on them? It’s a mystery even Agatha Christie couldn’t solve.
At the end of Main Street—that is, where the shops trailed off—was an old four-story building that hadn’t been restored to the grandeur of its neighbors. A sign read: CARSON’S ANTIQUES—BUY AND SELL.
I had hoped Clint Carson might still be on the garage sale circuit so I could snoop around his shop, maybe spot something of ours, to size up the prices.
The building (front facing Main Street; side, Pine Street) had a unique corner front entrance with an elaborate facade, and a heavy door with its original etched glass and Victorian hardware. A bell hanging from thin, scrolled metal tinkled as I passed through.
The scarred wooden floor hadn’t been refinished (or cleaned) since the building first opened its doors, the old tin ceiling retained, giving the place a rustic (not to say musty) atmosphere. Among all the gentrified antique shops of the downtown’s Pearl City Plaza, this one retained a certain junk-shop aura—not necessarily a bad thing, making customers feel bargains were to be found.
As I prowled the place, however, that proved not to be the case: item after dusty item seemed ridiculously overpriced.
I had to wonder how Carson expected to stay in business. Granted, some people could be fooled—not everyone was an expert on antiques—but most shoppers had a rudimentary knowledge of what things were worth, and if not, at least some common sense.
In the middle of the elongated room a raised circular checkout island was overseen by a woman with flaming short red hair. Ginger (well, with that fiery hair, she sure wasn’t Mary Ann) was talking on the phone, her voice kind of hushed, so I guessed it was a personal call. She paid no attention to me as I passed.
I couldn’t say I was enamored of Carson’s taste in antiques, which had a southwestern bordello look (and if that’s what you’re into, go for it … I’ll pass); so he must have brought a lot of it with him from Colorado. Peppered in, though, were some midwestern antiques, such as a maple Colonial sideboard, and the occasional fifties modern piece, like a pair of really cool Hayward Wakefield end tables (but at a thousand dollars apiece, gimme a break!).
At the end of the room a vintage pointing-finger sign directed me to the second floor, so I climbed the rickety stairs to another long chamber of more of the same … and nothing with the family familiarity that I’d hoped to find.
Disheartened, I returned to the first floor and approached the red-haired clerk. She was about my age and dressed Bohemian but funky: sheer white peasant blouse, black leather fitted vest, multicolored skirt. Her jewelry consisted of tons of silver chains and crosses (of various lengths), which were mixed with colorful 1940s Bakelite bracelets—Heidi meets Joan Jett.
Ginger was busy with some clerical work (accounts payable it looked like) and barely acknowledged my presence.
Finally she said, “Can I help you?” Pleasant enough.
“I was looking for Victorian furniture … Queen Anne in particular.”
“Sorry, nothing at the moment,” she said with a kind of finality, engrossed in her task.
I wasn’t leaving, however. “But … you did have?”
Her back stiffened. “Once an item is sold, our policy is not to refer—”
“I’m just curious, that’s all.”
She sighed heavily and put her pen down, giving me a half-lidded look. “We did have some Queen Anne in about a month ago.”
“And sold it?”
“Actually, no.”
“Then … what happened to it?”
She shrugged. “Stored, most likely.”
“Stored where?”
Now Ginger was flat-out irritated; she didn’t like being stuck on her island dealing with a bunch of boobs.
Her words clipped, she said, “Clint—Mr. Carson—has a farmhouse out on Route 22. There’s a barn where the overstock goes.”
Hope jumped within me, but then she added, “Sometimes, though, he ships stuff out from there … if it’s been around too long.”
“How long is ‘too long'?”
“It varies. Perhaps you should talk to Mr. Carson. He’ll be back in tomorrow, around eleven.”
So—there might be a chance our furniture would still be within reach. But tomorrow at eleven seemed a lifetime; maybe I’d pay Carson a little visit.
I thanked Ginger and left.
Out on the sidewalk I checked my Chico’s watch—almost noon; I was meeting my best friend, Tina (short for Christina), for lunch at a cute little bistro, back in the next (renovated) block. I hadn’t seen Teen for a whole year, but we kept in touch by letter (not the Internet where messages bounce back and forth so fast nothing has a chance to happen to you!).
We prefer to send cute, funny greeting cards to each other, and enclose a long tome (hers handwritten; mine WordPerfect) that can be read at leisure over a cup of hot coffee (me) or tea (her). Sometimes we tuck inside magazine cutouts of clothes or shoes we’d like to have, or to be on the lookout for. Other times we pass along bargains we run across, i.e., those pink suede Steve Madden moccasin boots that Madonna wanted so bad; I found them offseason at an unbelievable twenty-eight dollars (75 percent off retail) and bought pairs for me and Tina (our wardrobes are practically interchangeable).
By the way—you do know what a real friend is, don’t you? It’s someone who tries to talk you out of marrying a guy who is older than you (ten years) and not in the same mind-set as you (wanted kids immediately), but when you go ahead and marry the guy anyway, said friend is behind you 100 percent.
That’s Tina (and, unfortunately, me).
We met in high school—I was a sophomore, she a junior—and as Tina tells it (because I honestly don’t remember), some witchy (with a “b”) senior girls were ganging up on Teen in the hallway when I came around the corner. I ran over with clenched fists (and most likely wild eyes) and told them to lay off … and they scattered like the marbles in their heads. Later, Tina said she’d never heard such foul language as mine come out of any girl’s mouth. Or, for that matter, guy’s.
A proud moment.
Anyway, we’ve been like sisters ever since (I’m going to say it: the one I wish I had).
I arrived at the restaurant first. What I liked about Pine Creek Grist Mill (besides the food) was that everything—tables, chairs, plates, cups and saucers—were all mismatched antiques; it was like eating at home.
I’d just been seated (the last table available) when Tina came in looking her usual lovely self. She was a slender honey-colored blonde (natural), a few inches taller than me, and wore pale pink capris and a white cotton, fitted, three-quarter-sleeve blouse; the sedated outfit made her David Yurman jewelry (around her slender neck and arms) go bling, bling, bling!
I stood for a hug.
“You’re too thin to be seen w
ith,” she gushed. (I had another ten to go, but it was sweet of her to say).
“And you look younger than last year,” I said. “Damn it.”
The waitress came over; Teen and I were both good and ordered salads with house vinaigrette, after negotiating up front to split a peanut butter cheesecake, Pine Creek’s specialty.
And now for the last word you’ll ever need to know on dieting, and it’s not counting carbs or calories … it’s something you visualize:
There are three men who live in your stomach—Tom (wiry), Dick (fireplug), and Harry (needs a shave); their job is to keep the furnace (your stomach) stoked with coal (fat from your thighs). All they really do, however, is sit around playing cards, or reading Penthouse, or getting into fistfights like drunken sailors on a three-day pass; they get away with such derelict duty, why?
Because you keep doing their work for them!
How? By pouring too much food down your gullet! So the next time Tom, Dick, or Harry sticks you with a pitchfork (hunger pang) douse ‘em with a big glass of water, and then eat smaller portions, so the boys have to go back to the coal bin.
“How’s Kevin?” I asked. Tina’s husband (a salesman for a pharmaceutical company) was a peach of a guy, always nice to me, never jealous of our friendship. They’d been trying to have a baby for a couple of years.
“Kev’s on the road this week,” she said. “Maybe we could go out some night—there’s a club on the bluff that just opened up.”
“Girls’ night out?”
“Absolutely! We’re overdue, don’t you think?” She leaned forward to add carefully: “You could meet some new people.”
Meaning guys. “Teen, I don’t know if I’m ready to get back up on that particular pony.”
“Never too early to check out the corral,” Tina said, and gave me a sideways smile. “We’ll just enjoy the view while we sip some champagne.”
She knew my weakness, and it wasn’t men, unless the name was Andre. I really wasn’t much of a drinker—not with my migraines—but sometimes a bit of the bubbly was worth the risk. Actually, these days a big weekend eve for me was champagne, cheese and crackers, and Mad TV. Tina was right: I needed to get out in the world. We set a date for the weekend.
Antiques Roadkill Page 4