Foxy's Tale

by Karen Cantwell

  “Let me find out what the asking price is,” Knot told her conspiratorially as he spread the tapestry over the bureau he was still hoping to sell her. “But first . . . look how well these match.” He stood back so she could see the ensemble. She shooed him away with a hand wave.

  At the trunk, Myron was counting out bills. “Twelve, thirteen, fourteen . . . fifteen hundred dollars. Good, no? I take the trunk now.” His hand moved to grab a handle.

  Foxy was reeling. How did this happen so fast? She was also beginning to feel very suspicious about his interest in this battered old trunk. Was it possible that this bumbling, little, quirky, thing he had going was all just an act and he actually knew something about its value that she didn’t? Despite her urge to grab up those fifteen bills and get herself to the nearest mall, she decided to be smart. “I think I’d better get a locksmith in here to open it up. I can’t really set a final price until I know if there’s anything inside it. With these old pieces . . .”

  Knot slid in for backup and whispered in her ear. “DuPont wants this and what DuPont wants, DuPont gets.” Then, to the room as if there was a large audience, “That’s right,” he stood next to the trunk and rested his hand on the top. “You never know. After all this is not a blind auction.”

  Foxy shook her head and her hair swung prettily. It hurt her to say the next words. “I’ll call one up tomorrow. It’s too late now. They’d charge overtime I’m sure.”

  “You want more? I have more.” said Myron, the wad still poised to peel off bill after bill.

  “But you see, Mr, . . . ” Knot looked to Foxy for help with the man’s name.

  “Standlish. Mr. Standlish,” she repeated.

  Knot worked to hold back a laugh, then said, “How early American can you get? Mr. Standlish – you are not the only customer now interested in this item. Mrs. DuPont over there would like a chance to bid as well. We really do need to know its true worth before proceeding.”

  Myron’s shoulders slumped even lower than their ordinary slump. “Vell,” he said in a defeated voice, “I have a locksmith acqvaintance. Top notch professional. I get him over tonight to take a peek-a-boo inside. No charges. Yes?” he looked from Knot to Foxy. “The stylish lady,” he tilted his head toward Mrs. DuPont at the other side of the store, “she can have something else. You find her another trunk, maybe.”

  Almost hyperventilating at his offer of more cash, Foxy was stupefied by all of this interest in an old trunk. She had furnished her apartment upstairs with comfortable contemporary. Just because she sold antiques – or so-called antiques – didn’t require her to live with them. But she’d begun to think perhaps she was not valuing these old pieces highly enough. But mostly she was torn between taking the cash now and waiting to see if she could get more later.

  Meanwhile, Knot worked the room. “The lady would love to have this piece as well as the other two,” Knot interrupted. “And personally, Mr. Standlish, I could find you another trunk.”

  “No other trunk,” said Myron as his brows furrowed deep into his chubby forehead. “This trunk.” He plunked down five hundred more dollars without being asked.

  Knot was left speechless, and that was not an easy feat. Foxy took him gently by the arm. “Excuse us for a moment,” she said to Myron. She flashed a charming smile across the room to the frowning Mrs. DuPont as she led Knot out of earshot.

  “What should I do?” she whispered. Her drawl had gotten heavier, as always happened when she was stressed or excited so that her question sounded like a song – “Whaaa-at shoould ahh dew – and nothing was more stressful – or exciting – for Foxy than decisions about money.

  Knot couldn’t stop looking at Myron. “He is an odd one, isn’t he?”

  “Odd or not, I’m pretty sure he’s willing to fork over that whole beautiful load of hundred dollar bills for that piece of junk. Right here, right now. Should I take the money and run?”

  Knot patted her on the arm. “I know what you mean. I see a new pair of Ferragamos in that pile of money.” He shook his head as if shaking off a dream. “But we’re businesspeople. You should be smart about this and see if there’s anything else of worth in there first. Yes, that’s what good businesspeople would do.”

  “What if it there’s nothing? Then I’ve lost a sale.”

  “Honey, honey, honey. You have a lot to learn about rich women. You haven’t lost anything. For all the cash that Yiddish Elmer Fudd has there, she’s got more. Did you hear her name when I introduced you? Elizabeth DuPont, as in,” Knot made a grand gesture toward the front door of the shop and, by extension, the street beyond, “DuPont Circle?”

  “You’re kidding,” said Foxy.

  “I am decidedly not,” said Knot. “And she decidedly considers that trunk to be hers.”

  Foxy nodded and took a deep breath. “Mr. Standlish, suppose you come back in tomorrow after I get a locksmith to open it up. And then we’ll decide on a starting price. I want to be fair to you and the nice lady, too.” Foxy smiled again. She wanted to be fair all right. Foxy was not one to be fooled again in her life.

  Myron looked down at the trunk as if he’d just lost a major battle. His shoulders drooped. He licked his lips. His hands were balled up into fists. He scuffed one foot along the floor, gently touching the bottom edge of the trunk.

  “That’s not too long to wait, after all,” she told him.

  “Why not?” said Myron softly as Foxy walked off. “Who am I to argue?”

  Foxy glanced nervously over at the DuPont woman who was now rummaging around a porcelain tea set. “Sweetheart,” Knot was at the DuPont woman’s side and announced, “Good news!”

  Mrs. DuPont looked up from the tea set, eyebrows raised, an expression of complete disdain on her face as if she couldn’t believe she was cooped up with these commoners.

  “And what would that be?” she asked. “Is the trunk mine yet?”

  “Tomorrow we’ll know what’s inside,” Knot told her using his most ingratiating tone.

  “Well, let me leave you with this thought,” said DuPont. “If I can buy the trunk, I’ll take the bureau and the tapestry along with it. And whatever that . . .” here she paused to express just the right degree of scorn, “man,” her eyebrows arched once again and she tilted her head back so that her chin was aimed at a point just north of Knot’s nose, “offers, I’ll match plus fifty percent. AND, I’ll tell my friends about this place. You will like my friends. Do I make myself clear? I want that trunk.”

  The sun had descended behind the buildings across the street, and the store was in shadow as Amanda walked past the front door on her way home from school. She glanced through the window just as Myron looked up and spotted her. A small smile curled the corners of his lips. He began to raise his arm in a wave but thought better of it and nodded instead. Amanda continued past the store, but not before she caught sight of Myron, Foxy, Knot, and a well-dressed woman.

  Besides the backpack that was slung over her back, Amanda was hugging a brown paper grocery bag to her chest like a baby and, between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, she held the front door key. Foxy spotted her, too.

  “Oh my,” she said. “It’s almost closing time.”

  Myron seemed reluctant to leave the trunk. He shuffled his feet again and gazed longingly down at it. Foxy thought maybe he was a bit demented in some way and might have attached himself to that trunk with no real reason other than to focus on something. He had no other choice at that point so he moved to the door to leave but Knot rushed out first and flagged down a cab as Mrs. DuPont clickety-clacked on her red heels toward the curb. Foxy switched off the light and locked the door, and she and Myron moved toward the apartment door at the same time.

  As she unlocked the door leading to the apartment stairwell, Myron slipped in behind her and mumbled, “You got a good burglar system in there, eh?”

  “At the store?” she asked just before letting the door swing shut.

  “Sure, sure. At the store, so
you shouldn’t get, you know, robbed or some things like that in the dark of night.” Myron started climbing the stairs after Foxy.

  “Actually I haven’t had a chance to do that yet. Or the money. It costs a lot to stock a store, you know.” She climbed up step after step until she reached the first landing and her apartment door. “Anyway this is a very safe neighborhood. Well,” she said, “See you tomorrow.” She was about to unlock her door when it opened and Amanda stood there, pot holder mittens on her hands and a spot of pasta sauce on her cheek.

  “Oh, hi,” she waved a quilted paw at Myron. “I’m making lasagna.”

  “Young lady, I’m sure Mr. Standlish has no interest in your kitchen experiments.” Foxy tried to slip past her daughter. “And honey, you have sauce on your face.” She reached up and slid her index finger over the sauce spot. “It’s dried. How long have you been doing this? And why in the world are you cooking?”

  Myron nodded and smiled at Amanda. He tilted his head toward one shoulder as if saying he had no control here. “No no, Mrs.,” Myron began, “the young lady is correct in that I am interested. Cooking is good to know for the girl?”

  But Foxy wanted to shut the door. “Have a nice evening,” she said and again tried to get past Amanda. “Amanda, you’re blocking me,” she finally said.

  Amanda backed off but not before she got another smile off to Myron. As the door closed, she leaned out as he was going up to the next landing and called out, just to spite Foxy, “You’ll have to come over and try one of my meals one night.”

  Foxy shut the door.

  *****

  Amanda’s Life in Hell (she wrote)

  I dragged home a huge bag of groceries today. Foxy’s not capable of keeping the fridge stocked. Unless you consider frozen pizza and burritos food. Ugh. Going online to get some recipes for rest of the week. Will teach myself to cook. Will not rely on Foxy anymore than I have to. Phew.

  That little man was outside again. He’s odd in a funny, cute way. But seems okay. I wonder if he really meant for me to have some tea. Who drinks tea anyway? Foxy was really pissed that I talked to him. Hahaha.

  Got ride to Metro. Nick is real sweet. He wears this cross around his neck. He told me his grandma gave it to him when he was little. That his grandpa wore it in the war. I don’t know what war. He likes wearing it, but he doesn’t have any tats or any other jewelry. It’s kind of sweet.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was a dark, moonless night in Washington. Second Chances was shut tight and outside the street was quiet. A few stragglers crossed DuPont Circle past the fountain through the park. But Second Chances was just off on a side street, so no one took any notice of what happened there this late. Myron was used to the dark. He usually left his apartment around eleven to make his rounds.

  He descended the stairs past Foxy’s apartment just after the nightly news had started. He could hear the TV as he passed the door. He plodded down the stairs, taking each step carefully and as silently as possible. In a building this small, there was no way to avoid meeting others. He could have gone to one of those anonymous high-rises. But then there would be so many more people, with the probability – increased exponentially – of someone seeing him coming and going. Better, he had thought, to limit one’s exposure. If he heard someone on the stairwell or coming into the building when he was leaving, he could always wait and remain unnoticed. Anyway, this was the building specified, so he had to come here. Lucky for him the apartment was available, otherwise he would have had to sneak in somehow.

  At the entryway, he slowly opened the door to the street and slipped out. A slight chill ran from the back of his neck to his heels. Was it excitement? It couldn’t have been a chill. Chills were like so many other feelings that he never had. But excitement, that was possible. Only he hadn’t felt that in so long, he wasn’t sure what it would be like anymore. He was depleted that night and didn’t have much time to waste. From the shadow of a building entrance nearby, a man appeared wearing a black zipper jacket, jeans, and dark sneakers. His hands were jammed into the pockets of his jacket and his head was tucked down. He sidled up to Myron and together they moved to the door of Second Chances.

  “You’re late,” he said to Myron. He slipped something silver out of his pocket. It looked like a closed box cutter. “You got a flash?”

  “I got,” said Myron. He offered a small pen-type flashlight.

  “You hold it,” said the man. “On the lock.”

  Myron did as the man told him.

  “You sure there’s no alarm? Cause if there is, this whole thing is done for.”

  “The lady said not,” Myron whispered. “What do you think I am, meshuggeneh?”

  With the two of them standing in front of the door to Second Chances, and Myron holding the light so close that it illuminated only the lock, the man pulled out one of the tools from his jackknife pick and went to work. It took him less than a minute to pick the lock and swing open the door. They walked in and Myron closed the door without making a sound. He held his finger to his mouth and, with the light directed to the floor, led the man to the trunk. The tapestry was still on top of the bureau.

  “You better be right,” said the man. “For this here risk, this better be the right trunk.”

  “Oy, there vas a key for this trunk, but who knows how to find it after all this time?” Myron took a deep breath and then exhaled. “My information says a trunk, in this place. Let us hope the information is correct, already. Get on with it. Vaht have I got all night?”

  “Sure, sure. These old locks can be tricky, ya know?” he fiddled with a different tool. “Flash that light on my pick set here.”

  Myron moved the light and the man opened all the picks so they were splayed out like metal fingers. He tried one, then a larger one and, on the third from the largest, the lock gave.

  Myron stepped back. He looked around furtively. His heart thumped against his sternum.

  “Well?” asked the man. “This is it. What you’ve been waiting for. Open her up.”

  With shaky hands, Myron leaned down and slid the lock back. He handed the pen light to the man then and, with great care, took hold of the edge of the barrel-curved trunk top with both hands and began to lift. It creaked. A faint musty scent escaped. And finally, without waiting any longer, Myron took a deep breath and pulled the top up as the man held the light at just the right angle to reveal what was inside the trunk.

  When it was open, Myron let out a sharp little cry, like a startled cat.

  The man shook his head.

  Myron stepped back, his hand at his throat. “No,” he said. “No, no, no.”

  “I guess it’s back to the drawing boards,” said the man.

  “Gevalt, this is not a matter for the joking. I have it on the best authority. This is the place,” Myron told him.

  They both peered inside again. There was a long box at the bottom of the trunk. Myron reached in and tried to move it, but it was somehow attached to the trunk. And it had yet another lock. He looked at the man. “Vell? As long as ve are here. Vy shouldn’t ve take a quickie look-see?”

  The man took out his jackknife pick again and was about to fiddle with the second lock when they heard a door slam. Then quick, light footsteps. Myron quickly shut the trunk and fastened the lock. They crept carefully to the door. As they neared it, they heard another door slam.

  “I think it’s the one from downstairs.” Myron pointed toward the back of the store. “The fancy man with the nice-as-you-please shoes.”

  “Let’s get outta this place,” said the man. “Is he coming up here?”

  “Oy, how should I know?” Myron shrugged.

  They reached the door and slowly opened it. They looked out to see if anyone was nearby. The street was empty. The man closed the door and took out his pick set again to lock the dead bolt. When he was done they stood up and moved away from the store. Myron was still upset. He shook his head.

  “Still I am not believing this. How can su
ch a thing happen?” he asked. “After all I vent through. And now. Bupkis.”

  “Where you going now?” the man asked Myron.

  “The hospital. Vy not?”

  “You wanna come with me? I get fresh stuff at the clubs. This late, they’re drunk and easy to get out in an alley. Or even better, sometimes in my cab. You never know,” the man shoved his hands back into his pockets and turned up the narrow collar against the late night air.

  Myron shuddered. “Ach, such disgustingness. Not for me.” He shook his head vehemently.

  *****

  Amanda had finished her homework and with her laptop open, she clicked to her blog Amanda’s Life in Hell and typed:

  I have this strange feeling that something’s not right. I don’t know what it is. I hear odd sounds. Maybe I’m still not used to being in this house or in the city. Maybe I miss the old house and the lawn and trees and night sounds. No, that can’t be it, because it’s almost winter and the katydids and crickets are gone for now. I’m just tired. Yeah, that’s it. I’m tired. Tomorrow. What’s happening tomorrow? American history test. Nick’s meeting me at the Metro so I don’t have to take the creepy bus to school. Foxy wants to take me to her hair guy. Yuk.

  We had a fight in the kitchen. About that little man upstairs. She says I shouldn’t talk to him. Well, what am I supposed to do when I meet him in the hall? Pretend like he’s not there? Anyway he seems sweet. Harmless. Foxy says that’s just the kind to watch out for. Well, if anyone should know what kind of men to watch out for, that would be Foxy. Ha.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to show up today,” Foxy chided Knot as he walked into the store to the tinkling doorbell.

  Knot answered with a sigh.

  Detecting a drama moment, Foxy ignored the sigh and continued. “I called the locksmith. Since it’s not an emergency, he wouldn’t come until later in the afternoon. Unless I wanted to pay extra, which I don’t. I tell you, these people would tack a surcharge on for taking an extra breath of air if they could. I’m expecting him any time now.” Foxy wasn’t accustomed yet to dealing with all this reality. In her previous life as Mrs. Pete Anders, she’d had others to manage the details of everyday life. Pete’s manager had a whole staff just to mother hen the athletes’ wants and needs. Foxy was only practiced in the art of the retail purchase. Plumbers and locksmiths could have been dispatched from a spaceship for all she knew.