Authors: Barbara Allan
Antiques Disposal (4 page)
“Then I'll just have to call Senator Clark.”
Who is Senator Clark, you ask? Merely the man I had recently discovered to be my biological father.
You see, Peggy Sueâthe summer after graduating from high school, with college waiting in the wingsâhad worked for the then-young politician on his first campaign, during which time he was elected ... and I was conceived.
Sis had kept this little morsel of my ancestry to herself, until just lately, even from the senator himself (also, until just lately). Back in the day, she hadn't wanted to force this (you should pardon the expression) on-the-rise politician into a career-ruining marriage.
And as the years passed, and Senator Clark's career advanced, Peggy Sue had felt no desire to be at the center of a scandal that would destroy her own happy marriage, not to mention the reputation of one of the state's most admired men. And one of Serenity's most admired women of the country club set.
“Don't you
dare
call Edward!” she blurted. “You
know
he's in the middle of a
very
important campaign.” She put her hand to her chest in a melodramatic gesture worthy of Mother. “The last thing I want to be is a burden!”
dare
call Edward!” she blurted. “You
know
he's in the middle of a
very
important campaign.” She put her hand to her chest in a melodramatic gesture worthy of Mother. “The last thing I want to be is a burden!”
“Then stop being one,” I said matter-of-factly, “and get dressed, why don't you?”
Peggy Sue's response was to call me an unprintable name, which was bad form for a sister (or a mother for that matter); but a good sign that she was returning to normal.
Before heading downstairs, I stopped by my room to get some old tennies, and check on the spider that had made its home inside one of the windows.
I peered at the little tan insect. “Nothing yet, huh?”
At what point does a spider realize it's built its web in a bad place? It'd been there for weeks without a nibble. I even tried to help by wiping out the web and opening the outer glass so it would leave ... but
noooo,
the next night it was back, persistent and stubborn as ever, making the web even bigger.
noooo,
the next night it was back, persistent and stubborn as ever, making the web even bigger.
Why do I get all the dumb spiders?
In the music room, Mother stood in the midst of open boxes and packing material, the rug littered with the cast-off belongings of a stranger.
When she saw me, Mother exclaimed, “Feast your eyes on this treasure trove, my dear. A myriad of merchandise for our booth!”
“Such as?”
“Such as
this,
for instance!” She bent, her knees cracking, and swept up a yellowed piece of paper. “That's Superman, isn't it? Signed by the original creators?”
this,
for instance!” She bent, her knees cracking, and swept up a yellowed piece of paper. “That's Superman, isn't it? Signed by the original creators?”
I took a closer look. The drawing of Superman with his
S
-emblazoned chest expanded, hands on hips, smiling big, was a classic pose. It was a pencil drawing signed “Siegel and Shuster.” Dated 1946.
S
-emblazoned chest expanded, hands on hips, smiling big, was a classic pose. It was a pencil drawing signed “Siegel and Shuster.” Dated 1946.
“Give me a second,” I said, and went upstairs to my bedroom and used my laptop. According to Wikipedia, Siegel and Shuster were the creators of the famous superhero, all right.
Back downstairs, I told Mother she was correct, and that the drawing might well be worth something. I would check later with our friend Joe Lange, who was something of a pop-culture authority. Which was to say, geek.
Feeling her oats now, Mother gestured grandly. “And just look at this wonderful old cornet, a perfect addition to my growing collection!”
Mother set the drawing carefully aside, and plucked up the instrument, her eyes gleaming as if reflecting solid gold, not tarnished, brass.
Greatâanother smelly old horn... .
“But you don't need another!”
Mother made a sour face. “You're clearly thinking of my trumpet.
This
is a cornet.”
This
is a cornet.”
“What's the difference?”
“A cornet is smaller. It has a richer, more mellow tone.”
I took a closer look. “Wait a minuteâyou already have one of
those,
too! This makes
three
trumpets!”
those,
too! This makes
three
trumpets!”
“One trumpet and two cornets, and since
when
do I limit myself to just
one
in a collection?”
when
do I limit myself to just
one
in a collection?”
“Judging by the half-dozen old chamber pots gathering dust on the back porch? I would say,
never
.”
never
.”
“Besides,” she was saying, ignoring my mini-rant, “
this
cornet is much nicer than the one I already have.
And
the trumpet.”
this
cornet is much nicer than the one I already have.
And
the trumpet.”
“You mean it isn't a dented-up piece of junk.”
“ âJunk' is a trifle judgmental, dear, and ... well, I just have a good feeling about this new horn.” Mother's eyes were gleaming again. “Maybe it even belonged to Louie Armstrong himself!”
“Oh, sure.”
“Or Harry James!”
“Right. Maybe it's the horn Al Hirt was playing when somebody threw a brick at him.”
Mother gave me a hard stare. “Dear, sarcasm makes wrinkles around your mouth, which are
far
worse than a frown. You are forgetting the first rule of antiquing ...”
far
worse than a frown. You are forgetting the first rule of antiquing ...”
“Check for mold?”
“Anything is possible! One man's trash is another's treasure!”
That was two rules, but never mind.
“Okay,” I sighed like a cop at a crime scene. “What else have we got?”
Mother turned back to the clutter. “Well, we have a wonderful set of Haviland dishesâwhich would have been
complete
, only
somehow
a few cups managed to get
broken
.”
complete
, only
somehow
a few cups managed to get
broken
.”
Her magnified eyes focused on me, shooting demented laser beams of suspicion.
“Oh, sure, assume it's
my
fault.
I
must have done it. Not the person who originally packed the darn things.”
my
fault.
I
must have done it. Not the person who originally packed the darn things.”
With Mother, the best defense is offense.
That, and changing the subject.
“What are those?” I asked, pointing to a stack of letters.
A hand fluttered. “Oh ... just some old correspondence. Not important, I'm sure.”
“Mind if I take them?”
Mother raised her eyebrows.
I cocked my head. “They could shed some light on who the owner was. Maybe we can trace that Superman drawing, or even your new trumpet.”
“Cornet.” She shrugged. “Help yourself.”
Rather than hear Mother's knees crack again, I retrieved the letters off the rug, only to have
my
knees pop. Heredity is a harsh mistress.
my
knees pop. Heredity is a harsh mistress.
Speaking of which, Peggy Sue appeared in the archway of the French doors, damp hair pulled back in a ponytail, face freshly scrubbed with just a hint of make-up. She was wearing a plaid shirt and jeansâclothes from
my closet
.
my closet
.
Noting my displeasure, Sis said, “You told me to put on old clothes.
”
”
My displeasure deepened. “They
aren't
oldâI just bought them.”
aren't
oldâI just bought them.”
Sis looked down at herself in astonishment; whether this was a ploy to irritate or actual ignorance on her part, I couldn't say. “Really? The shirt is frayed, and the jeans are torn... . That spells old to me.”
“They're supposed to be that way.”
Peggy Sue laughed, then saw my serious expression, and her forehead frowned while her mouth smiled. “You
actually bought
torn clothes? On
purpose?
”
actually bought
torn clothes? On
purpose?
”
“It's the style,” I said defensively.
“Then”âshe shruggedâ“why didn't you just rip up clothes you already had?”
“Because they can't be
person-
ripped ... they have to be
factory-
ripped.”
person-
ripped ... they have to be
factory-
ripped.”
Long lashes batted at me. “There's a difference?”
“The
difference,
” I exclaimed, “is that the former is trash, and the latter is fashion.”
difference,
” I exclaimed, “is that the former is trash, and the latter is fashion.”
“In your case,” Sis sniffed, “the former is the latter.”
“And in
your
case,” I snapped, referring to her taste in clothes, “the latter
is
the former.”
your
case,” I snapped, referring to her taste in clothes, “the latter
is
the former.”
Mother interceded, which was a good thing, because I was getting mixed up about which was which.
“Girls, girls,
please!
You're giving me one of my sick headaches!” She turned to Peggy Sue. “Dear, I understand that you are hurting after your recent, uh ... setback ... but being unkind to Brandy isn't going to make anything better.” Then she turned to me and raised a teacherly forefinger. “And Brandy,
you
should know better than to bicker. It's up to you to set a good example!”
please!
You're giving me one of my sick headaches!” She turned to Peggy Sue. “Dear, I understand that you are hurting after your recent, uh ... setback ... but being unkind to Brandy isn't going to make anything better.” Then she turned to me and raised a teacherly forefinger. “And Brandy,
you
should know better than to bicker. It's up to you to set a good example!”
Me
set a good example? My lot in life was to provide a terrible warning to others about what fate might await them, if they
did
follow my example... .
set a good example? My lot in life was to provide a terrible warning to others about what fate might await them, if they
did
follow my example... .
Mother clapped her hands, as if a performance had just ended; maybe it had.
“Girls, the afternoon is slipping away, and there are more treasures to be unearthed!”
Peggy Sue said, “Huh?”
“I refer, of course, to more boxes that need hauling home from our storage unit.”
“What boxes?” Peggy Sue asked. “What storage unit?”
This was what happened around the Borne homestead; if you risked sleeping in, the world could pass you by.
Briefly I filled Sis in, taking the lead, knowing Mother
wouldn't
have been brief... .
wouldn't
have been brief... .
When I'd concluded, Sis gestured to the clutter. “Is
that
what all this is? The contents of your mystery boxes?”
that
what all this is? The contents of your mystery boxes?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Treasure?” Her pert little nose turned up. “Looks like trash to me.”
“That trash might be worth something,” I said.
“That's right,” Mother chimed in.
I told Peg about the Superman drawing by its creators, mentioning that it was dated 1946.
Arms folded over my bosom,
I Dream of Jeannie
style, I said, “I'm pretty sure
that
piece of âtrash' is valuable.”
I Dream of Jeannie
style, I said, “I'm pretty sure
that
piece of âtrash' is valuable.”
Suddenly Peggy Sue seemed interested. “How much?”
I let Mother reel her in. “A great deal, from what our preliminary research indicates. And that's just one item! Who knows what other treasures might be in store?”
“Well, what are we waiting for?” Sis said. “Let's go.” Then: “Do I get a percentage? There's a new Burberry jacket I have my eye on.”
Peggy Sue
was
getting back to normal.
was
getting back to normal.
Then I had an ideaânot surprisingly, an idea that would make my work easier.
“If we take both cars,” I suggested, “we can get done quicker.”
Peggy Sue had a Cadillac Escalade, the only possession she'd managed to hold onto out of the financial debacle her late husband had bequeathed her. Well, she did hang on to her clothes and jewelry, too. The sheriff didn't exist who could pry those from my sister's clutching fingers.
“Capital idea, Brandy,” Mother said, beaming. “And let's bring along the push broom from the garage. Peggy Sue and I can load boxes while you sweep out the unit.”
After the broken Haviland cups, Mother didn't trust me with handling the boxes anymore.
“Fine by me,” I said, then reached for the old horn that Mother was still holding as if it were an Oscar she'd won. “But this goes out to the garage until you promise to clean it.”
With a sigh worthy of Camille on her deathbed, Mother handed over the trumpet. Cornet. Whatever.
Outside, with an early-evening fog settling in, I retrieved the broom from the garage, tossing the cornet on one of the many scrap heaps. Soon Mother and I were climbing into the Buick, with Peggy Sue set to follow us.
As I drove, Mother sat uncharacteristically silentâher mind most likely buzzing with thoughts of further valuable discoveriesâwhich was fine with me, as the twisty river road took all my concentration, having become nearly obscured by fog.
Suddenly Mother wheeled toward me, her face clenched in anguish, and she pleaded, “Dearâ
please
don't turn me into a paperweight.”
please
don't turn me into a paperweight.”
Now even for Mother, that was a doozy of a non sequitur.
“Sure,” I said. “I promise not to turn you into a paperweight. Might I ask one small question?”
“Certainly, dear.”
“What are you
talking
about?”
talking
about?”
“Eyes on the road, dear.”
“I'm waiting.”
“For what, dear?”
“An explanation!”
“Careful, dear, don't slow down too much or Peggy Sue might ram you.”
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