Antiques Maul Page 2

  Here’s what I do now (besides hanging too-tight clothes over Temptation’s Portal): I eat what I want, but only half portions. Get it? Half a steak, half a baked potato, half a roll, half a piece of pumpkin pie with half a dollop of whipped cream . . .

  “Getouttamyway!”

  I pushed Mother aside and lurched for the blue-jeans-covered cabinet that contained the sweets.

  “Brandy, no!” Mother said, in that firm voice I’d heard a thousand times; she raised a properly scolding finger. “Stick to your guns.”

  “Just half a cookie!” I pleaded.

  After all, I knew she didn’t care about my weight. She just wanted me to lose poundage so she could have her precious kitchen cupboards unblocked.

  Mother patted my arm. “Come now, dear . . . drink your apple cider . . . that will fill you up. Let’s go out on the porch.”

  I scowled . . .

  . . . but followed her.

  We sat in white wicker chairs, our drinks resting on a matching wicker table between us. Sushi trotted over and got up on her hind legs to sniff at what we were having. No fool, she turned up her little wet nose, then found a pool of warm sunshine on the porch floor to settle down in.

  I broached a touchy subject with Mother. “Have they decided who’s going to be the next permanent director of the Community Theater Playhouse?”

  “Permanent” directors at the playhouse came and went.

  Mother—after a lifetime of performing on the stage, and decades as Serenity’s Community Theater doyenne—had begun to direct a play now and then, and had thrown her red hat into the ring of contenders.

  Mr. Manley had been the director for several years until he ran off recently with the Serenity Symphony’s lady bassoon player in the middle of the run of South Pacific (rumor had it they went to the South Pacific) (nothing like a dame) (nothing in the world), leaving their respective spouses adrift. Not to mention a big hole in the wind section.

  Mother’s sky-blue eyes turned cloudy gray. She said softly, “I’m afraid Bernice Wiley got the position.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry, I know how much you wanted it. . . .”

  We lapsed into silence.

  I didn’t know much about Bernice. She and Mother formed a friendship after the flamboyant woman had moved to town a few years ago. Of course, from time to time, during our weekly phone calls, I would hear Mother mention Bernice this, and Bernice that. Mother always spoke highly of the woman and their common interests—a mutual love of antiques and the theater—but I still got the feeling that the two had an adversarial side to their relationship.

  Perhaps this was because their personalities were so much alike—maybe too much....

  The tension between them had become more evident this summer, during a production of Arsenic and Old Lace, in which Mother and Bernice performed the leading roles of the two murdering old ladies.

  I attended a performance and thought Mother was wonderful—she really is excellent, for a local-theater performer, in her over-the-top way. I’d complimented her but also made the mistake of confessing that, for some reason, I couldn’t seem to keep my eyes off Bernice.

  Mother practically spat, “That’s because that scene-stealing shitheel kept upstaging me!”

  Since swearing was not generally Mother’s style (though when it was, “shit” always played a leading role), I knew I’d struck a sore nerve.

  “How so?”

  “Oh, Brandy,” Mother said, and looked to the sky for support, “how can you be so naive?”

  “Hey, I’m not an expert on theater techniques. I haven’t been in a play since the third grade.”

  “Yes, and if your little drawers hadn’t fallen to your ankles, you’d have gone on to explore your full potential as an artiste, I know.”

  “Thanks, Mother.”

  She gestured regally. “Even so, didn’t you notice that every time I had a line, La Grand Dame Bernice would scratch her nose, or twitch her rear, so that the audience’s attention would be diverted to her?”

  “Oh.” Not a very sporting thing for a so-called friend to do.

  I took a sip of my cider, which was better than leaf raking (just), and said cheerfully, “You’re in the next play, though—what is it again . . . ?”

  “Harvey,” Mother said glumly. “And no, I’m not in it.”

  “Why in heavens not?” The play was one of her favorites, or anyway the James Stewart movie version was.

  Mother sneered. “Because Bernice didn’t cast me in the role of Elwood P. Dowd’s sister... that’s why! She cast herself!” Mother swiveled toward me in her chair. “I ask you, who other than moi is as qualified to play the part of a scatterbrained neurotic old lady?”

  I said, “No argument.”

  “Thank you! And who could best perform the scene where the sister, by mistake, is committed to the insane asylum?”

  “That would be you, again.”

  “Of course!” Mother said. “But Bernice offered me the part of the busybody friend—with only one little scene and hardly any lines—a role I can not relate to at all!”

  There I could not go; Mother is listed under “Gossip” in the Serenity Yellow Pages, or anyway should be.

  Instead, I asked, “So . . . what are you going to do?”

  She responded, “I already have. This morning. I quit.”

  “The play, you mean?”

  “No, dear. The the-a-tuh!”

  This was dire, drastic news, indeed.

  “Oh, now, Mother,” I cajoled. “Don’t be so hasty.... Anyway, didn’t you always say there were no small roles, just small performers?”

  “Then let them go find some small performers! Because the Serenity theatrical scene has seen the last of Vivian Borne!”

  Trying not to get tripped up over her “scene” and “seen,” I said consolingly, “Surely there’ll be other roles. . . .”

  “No,” Mother announced defiantly. “I’ll find something else to do with my time and talents.”

  Which was what I was afraid of.

  Mother needed an outlet like the theater for her energy and antics; without one, her mental health might falter . . . and, consequently, mine.

  An idea struck me.

  “Mother,” I said hopefully, “what do you think about the two of us renting a stall in that new antiques mall?” One had just opened downtown.

  Mother frowned in thought. I held my breath. Notions either immediately hit her or missed entirely.

  Cautiously she said, “I might be interested.... But what do we have to sell? We have no inventory.”

  We had a house full of antiques, mostly family heirlooms that thankfully had gone unaffected when the house blew up (another story) (favorite bookseller’s). But none of these were anything either of us wished to part with.

  “We’ll do what all the other dealers do,” I responded with a shrug that I hoped masked my desperate enthusiasm. (Mother never falls for a hard sell—telemarketers have her on their “no call list.”) “We’ll hit the garage sales, estate auctions, and—”

  Mother interrupted: “That’s precisely the problem, Brandy, dear. Those markets are saturated—not a bargain to be found anymore, not for a hundred miles around! We’d never make any money at it.”

  “I guess making money is the point,” I glumly had to admit. “But I liked the idea of a project we could do together, too. . . .”

  Sushi, bored with sunbathing, wiggled over, her little nails clicking on the porch planks. She always started begging for her dinner three hours early.

  Mother stood and collected our empty glasses.

  I asked, “How much cash do we have left over from the house insurance?”

  “A couple thousand at least,” Mother said, frowning just a little.

  “Would you be willing to use it for seed money for our new venture?”

  Surprisingly, Mother didn’t hesitate. “Yes. Certainly. If we can find enough antiques and collectibles—at a good price—to fill a booth and make a lit
tle money.”

  And she disappeared inside.

  That sounded like a tall order. I reached down for Sushi, saying, “I might have an idea.... Would you like to go for an adventure, girl?”

  Taking Sushi along was always an adventure.

  In the foyer closet I plucked from a hook a rhinestone-studded leopard dog-carrying bag (which used to have pink balboa feathers, but Sushi kept sneezing so I removed them). Then I decided against it and, from another hook, got a front-carrying baby harness—pink with rattles and pacifiers and diaper pins (I hadn’t had time to redecorate it in a doggy theme) but provided a more comfortable ride for Soosh. I strapped it on my chest and placed the pooch inside, facing out.

  Finally I went to find Mother.

  She was upstairs on her bed. Since Mother rarely succumbed to afternoon naps, I surmised she must be depressed. The sooner we got our booth up and running, the better.

  I ran my fingers over her brow, and her blue eyes fluttered.

  “Soosh and me’re going for a long walk, Mother. Be back for supper, okay?”

  “That’s nice, dear,” she murmured, and closed her eyes again.

  Naps and melancholy—something really did have to be done....

  A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  Dealers in antique malls shouldn’t expect to make a fortune. A rare few do, some others do nicely, but many only break even and the unlucky lose money. But it’s a wonderful way to thin your own collection and get advance looks at (and dealer discounts on) the treasures in other booths—just don’t go broke snatching up bargains.

  Chapter Two

  A Piece of the Auction

  I could have taken my car for the five-mile trek downtown, but the day was so beautiful . . . and those last five pounds so ugly....

  Woman and dog left the house and started down the street, Sushi a comical hairy growth on my front.

  Elm was one of Serenity’s most venerable avenues, boasting grand old one-of-a-kind homes set back from the lavishly tree-lined street. Most houses were decked out for Halloween, sporting carved pumpkins, spiderwebs, bats, whitesheet ghosts, life-size skeletons, and witches. Some home owners went a little overboard, planting fake tombstones in their front yard . . . but it was all great fun for the trick-or-treat crowd, who—with All Hallows’ Day only a week away—were champing at the bit to get chomping at that candy. I swear you could feel the collective kid excitement hanging over the town like a ravenous cloud.

  Here’s my weirdest Halloween kid story, which is probably only frightening to me.

  Once I went trick-or-treating with an older girl. Her name was Suzanne, and she seemed determined to get all the candy she could in the amount of time the city fathers granted us to ring doorbells. She ran all over town, almost literally, with me huffing and puffing to keep up, and we went places I’d never been before. By the end of the evening, Suzanne and I had so much loot that I had to call Mother to come get us—which she was none too happy about. And me, I was so pooped, I flopped into bed without sampling so much as a munch of my goodies.

  In the morning, I discovered that Mother had somehow disposed of half of my candy!

  “Whadja do that for!” I screamed.

  “Too many sweets will rot your teeth,” Mother retorted, “and will make you ill. You wouldn’t want to miss school, would you?”

  Was that a trick question? Certainly wasn’t a treat. And why did I have the sneaking suspicion half my haul had gone down Mother’s gullet?

  But wait, as the infomercial shills say, there’s more....

  Eight months later I was playing over at Suzanne’s house when we went up in her hot, humid attic, looking for a stack of board games her mother had stowed away. There, in a corner, beneath a cobweb, was her huge sack of Halloween candy—untouched!

  “Why didn’t you eat this stuff?” I asked her, astonished.

  She shrugged and said, “Ah—I don’t really like candy.”

  I couldn’t process that. Still can’t.

  Somehow I managed to ask, “Well . . . can I have it?”

  She shrugged again. “I guess . . . but it’s probably rotten by now.”

  My friend was right.

  And, so, in her way was Mother: That night, she had to rush me to the emergency room to have my stomach pumped.

  On the other hand, I did get to skip school the next day, so the effort wasn’t a total loss.

  I’ll stop with the Halloween reminiscing or we’ll never get downtown.

  Serenity, with a current population of twenty-five thousand, had once been settled by the peaceful Mascouten Indians, who thought the valley between two bluffs on the Mississippi River would be a nice place to raise a family. In the early eighteen hundreds, some Germans moved in, and Scandinavians . . . and the Mascoutens moved over.

  Later, in the 1950s, Hispanics migrated from south of the border to toil in the rich corn and tomato fields. Nobody moved over for them, exactly, but room was made. And twenty years or so after that, refugees arrived from Vietnam—and most recently, displaced African-Americans from the effects of hurricane Katrina, all searching for the American dream. And pretty much finding it, if they were willing to work, which most were.

  A word about our Native American ancestors:

  Every once in a while, some well-meaning citizen would petition the city council to change the name of Papoose Creek, or the community college’s baseball team (the Indians), and even would go so far as to demand the removal of the bronze statue of the Mascouten Indian chief (who has guarded the riverfront park entry for a century) because he/she deemed these demeaning.

  Well. Whenever this happened, my proactive mother would get her beaded, fringed Indian Princess Iowana outfit (from her stint on a local TV show in the 1950s) (Iowana was an area dairy) out of moth balls and show up at the next council meeting. The last item on every month’s agenda was called “Citizen Speak,” and anyone with a beef could talk, even vegetarians.

  Mother would make her regal entrance from the back of the room. The pews—which could seat several hundred (and usually contained only a bored newspaper reporter, and a few high school students required to attend for a civics class)—would be packed, word having spread (by Mother, of course) of her appearance.

  Princess Iowana would begin her speech slowly, head held high and proud, seeking the eyes of each council member (plus the “eye” of the local cable TV camera).

  “So,” she would say, “you want to erase all evidence that my people once laughed and loved, lived and died, here on the riverbanks of this great town. . . .”

  At the “my people,” a few titters would break out among the nonbelievers; with her blue eyes, fair hair, and light complexion, Mother would have been a likelier representative of the Vikings who settled in America.

  But the skeptics soon came around, as Mother disappeared into her part . . . and at the end of her performance (which kept getting longer each time, well past the five-minute allotment), even the disbelievers would have tears in their eyes, rising with the others to give Princess Iowana a standing ovation.

  Sometimes, even the petitioning do-gooder would apologize to the city council for making trouble.

  Funny thing—over the years Serenity did such a good job being an American melting-pot, no one kept track of the Mascoutens. Long-standing rumor had it, however, that one elderly reclusive woman living in town was part Mascouten. So the first time Mother planned to speak to the city council she tried to solicit this woman’s help beforehand.

  But the native American descendant refused, as the meeting was at the same time as her favorite TV show, T.J. Hooker; and even though Mother promised to tape it for her, the woman still refused to go. And, furthermore, if Mother didn’t stop bothering her, the Mascouten old maid would call the cops. Possibly even T.J. Hooker himself.

  Mother had been suitably outraged. “T.J. Hooker? Star Trek I could understand. . . .”

  Apparently, for an actress like Mother, right or wrong fell on the side of w
hich William Shatner program you preferred.

  I turned down Fourth Street and power-walked past the beautiful stately courthouse—a Grecian wedding cake of limestone and marble—Sushi thumping lightly against my chest. In the next block awaited the modern redbrick Safety Building, housing both the Serenity police and fire departments, the latter’s huge garage door open wide, fire truck and emergency vehicles at the ready, brass pole poised for some good-looking fireman to come sliding down . . .

  Yes, it had been a long time since I had a real date.

  I entered on the police department side, walked quickly through a small, perfunctory waiting area, and up to a ponytailed female dispatcher who was monitoring (what else?) monitors and computers and such. I spoke into the little microphone embedded in the bulletproof glass.

  “Brandy Borne to see Chief Cassato,” I said.

  Barely acknowledging me, but giving my pooch a mildly disapproving glance, the woman said crisply, “Take a seat.”

  Backstory: A few years before my divorce—and after Mother landed in jail for a few days after a particularly bad spell—I came back to Serenity and spent some time working with the chief on bringing qualified teachers from NAMI (the National Alliance for the Mentally Ill) to teach the boys in blue how to recognize the mentally disabled, and how not to treat them like hardened criminals.

  I returned to the waiting area and chose the hard plastic mismatched chair that looked most comfortable. I sifted through some public information pamphlets on a scarred end table, but had already read them before. Sushi was panting, so I stood, went over to the water fountain, and gave her a drink, then had one myself.

  Then I noticed something else in the room that sorely needed some H-two-0: the corner rubber tree plant.

  I found an empty soda can, filled it, and was in the process of giving the plant a good dousing when the chief stuck his head through the forbidden door to the inner police sanctum.

  “Still solving other people’s problems, Brandy?” he said, with the mildest of smiles.

  I grinned sickly.