Death of a Garage Sale Newbie (7 page)

Frank stomped out of the garage and stood beneath the open window. “I need to talk to you.”

“I’m right in the middle of a batch of pineapple rhubarb, Frank.”

“Did you sell my lucky Mickey Mouse fishing pole?” He tilted his head, glaring at the window.

No answer came from inside the house.

Something about the unfolding drama made Ginger think of Earl. He could be really rough around the edges, and sometimes he just pretended to be excited about things she bought on sale. But at least he pretended for her and never spoke to her like Frank was talking to Beth.

A moment later, the front door burst open and a woman who must be Beth stood wiping her hands on a dish towel. A pastel scarf framed her round face. “What’s going on here?” She glanced at Ginger and Kindra.

Frank strutted back over to the truck and snatched the fishing pole off the hood. “Did you sell this at a garage sale? You know this is my lucky fishing pole.”

Beth raised her chin. “It’s a piece of junk, Frank.”

Poor Beth, she had probably thought she’d seen the last of Frank’s silly fishing pole. And now it had come back to bite her.

“What else did you sell? Did you sell my antlers?” He strutted toward the garage and opened storage cabinets. “Where is my stuffed antelope head?”

Beth placed her hand on her hip and tilted her head back while she spoke. “No, I did not sell your stupid antlers.”

“What about my bobblehead collection?”

Beth dropped her gaze to the sidewalk, then lifted her chin and crossed her arms. “Holy cow, Frank. Half of them were broken from the kids dropping them.”

“You did sell them. You did.” He dashed through the garage to the sidewalk and stood nose to nose with his wife.

“I didn’t sell them. I threw them out. They’re not worth anything.”

Ginger pretended to be busy arranging the other garage sale stuff. Beth didn’t know her junk from her treasures. Bobbleheads brought good money to the right collector.

Ginger caught a glimpse of Kindra in her peripheral vision. Something about that pixie face and blond hair always made her think of
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,
which she used to read to her kids. A faint smile crossed Kindra’s face. Was she thinking that life as a single person was pretty good? Kindra had a very large collection of Beanie Babies, which were not in any danger of being sold or thrown out.

“You threw them out.” Frank performed an odd dance in the driveway. The choreography involved clenching his fists, bending at the waist, and turning a half circle one way and then reversing. “You threw them out.”

Beth twisted and untwisted the towel around her wrist and hand. “I thought we were gonna dejunk our lives. We agreed.” She fisted a hand on her hip.

“I noticed you’re not getting rid of any of your stuff. What about all those ceramic roosters you got around the house?”

“They give the decor unity. We have rooster wallpaper.”

“They collect dust, too.”

Beth’s gaze darted from Frank to the two strangers standing in her driveway. She softened her tone. “I have gotten rid of some of my things. I hauled away two bags of clothes last week.”

Frank stopped dancing long enough to stare at them.

Ginger gathered up the garage sale stuff. “Maybe this is a bad time.”

“Now my jam is ruined.” Beth dashed back into the house, slamming the door behind her.

Frank chased after Ginger and Kindra. “Wait, can I buy that fishing pole back from you?”

Ginger turned and cleared her throat. Other than their misdemeanors against each other, Frank and Beth seemed like ordinary people, not those who would try to run her off the road or put an arrow through Mary Margret. Ginger fingered the fishing pole. Still, it might be important.

“Whatever your friend paid.” He leaned toward Ginger. She detected the scent of Old Spice. “I’ll pay you double to get it back.” His expression communicated desperation. Poor guy had lost his bobbleheads.

Beth’s voice drifted out of the window. “Let it go, Frank.”

He hung his head and spoke in almost a whisper. “I really loved that pole. Took my son fishing with it.” His voice gradually grew louder, and he directed his comment toward the window. “It’s not like you form attachments to a pantsuit.”

Beth’s voice was singsongy. “I can hear you.” Pots and pans continued to clang inside, and a faucet was turned on.

Frank moved his lips, mocking his wife. Watching Frank and Beth fight made Ginger feel like she had just drunk a vinegar soda. Showing respect for Earl’s dream, at the very least, would begin with not calling his inventions contraptions anymore.

Frank turned back toward Ginger and Kindra. “Please, I just want my lucky fishing pole.”

Ginger raised her eyebrows at Kindra, who nodded. She handed a smiling Frank the three-foot fishing pole. “You don’t have to pay us anything.”

He retreated to his garage. With Kindra in the passenger seat, Ginger drove her Pontiac out of Frank’s neighborhood. Her thoughts whirred like bananas in a blender. What made people talk to each other like that? Sometimes she threw away stuff of Earl’s without asking him. In an effort to run an uncluttered house, she had totally disregarded his feelings. Ginger pressed her lips together.
That has to stop.

Last year, she had sold Earl’s favorite tool kit at her own garage sale. They just looked so dirty and beat-up. How was she supposed to know they were his favorite? Still, she should have asked. Selling his tools certainly wasn’t supportive. It wasn’t the cheerleader thing to do.

“Ginger? You’re doing it again.”

“Sorry, did you say something?”

“Hello from this planet.” Kindra held the piece of torn paper in her hand. “Mary Margret only marked two more sales that took place before eight.”

“Let’s do those two tomorrow. I just suddenly realized I need to get home to my husband.”

Boy oh boy, do I need to get home to my Earl.

Ginger placed a heaping pile
of beef stroganoff on the plate alongside the fresh salad with Earl’s favorite dressing: ranch. She cut a piece of chocolate cake and arranged it on a separate serving dish. Finally she poured milk into a plastic cup and snapped a lid on it so it wouldn’t spill. The entire meal went into a plastic sectioned transporter with a cover, a handy little device she’d picked up when the Tupperware lady in their old neighborhood had a going-out-of-business sale.

The sky was a soft shade of gray as Ginger made her way across the gravel to Earl’s workshop. She tapped lightly on the door. No answer. She knocked louder. Nothing.

Holding the tray with one hand and pressing it into her tummy, she twisted the doorknob and stepped inside Earl Salinski’s strange world. She hadn’t entered his workshop since they moved to this house. The last time she visited, it had been concrete floor and tin walls and bare counter space. Now, she couldn’t even see the counters. Clutter, clutter everywhere.

The air smelled like oil and burned rubber with just a hint of barbecue potato chips. In fact, she noticed about twelve bags of opened potato chips scattered among the twisted metal and strange machines. Did Earl actually get a new bag without finishing the old one? She made a mental note to bring some bag clippies from the house so the chips wouldn’t grow stale and be wasted.

She squinted. Blue haze hung in the air.

In the corner of the workshop, a creature in a leather apron and welder’s hat perched atop the Bobcat Earl plowed snow and dug holes with. Sparks flew off the machine like firecrackers. The bug-eyed creature skipped over the top of the Bobcat and leapt to the floor, welding rod in hand. He tilted his head from side to side.

A pocket of air caught in Ginger’s throat. She had no idea Earl could move with such flexibility and energy. She’d only seen him move that fast once before. He had been racing to get the remote before she did because she suggested that they watch the shopping channel on a Monday night. She had momentarily forgotten it was football season. That night, her dear husband ended up crashing headfirst into the TV trays.

She’d glared down at him, hands on her hips. “For Pete’s sake, Earl. You didn’t have to do a Mary Lou Retton impersonation. All you had to do was remind me that it was the big game.”

Earl had wiped creamed corn off his face and righted the TV tray. “I just got worried, that’s all.” He rose to his feet with the remote pressed against his tummy.

This time though, Earl had done his gymnastic routine on the Bobcat without a hitch. A perfect ten. It was like watching a different person. Was the agile man in the corner even Earl, or had her sixty-year-old husband hired a much younger man to be his assistant? The creature flipped up his mask. Ah, there was the familiar square face and brown eyes of her husband.

But then his features scrunched up. “What are you doing out here?”

What was she doing out here? She was being his cheerleader. She was honoring his request. Couldn’t he see that? “I—I—” She lifted the tray a little higher. “I brought you dinner.”

Earl put down his welding rod. “But I always come in the house for dinner.”

“I thought we would do it different tonight.” Ginger searched for bare counter space to set the dinner tray on, of which there was none. The place was filthy. Maybe she could show her support by helping him organize his workshop. She could alphabetize his tools once she learned the names of them all.

“Oh.” After taking off his welder’s cap and wiping his brow, he ambled toward her. “Why?”

Earl’s confusion confused her. Hadn’t he asked her to be more supportive? Couldn’t he see that was what she was doing?
Read my mind, Earl. Read my mind.

“Well, I brought you dinner.” Again, she looked around for a place to set the tray. Again, to no avail. She shoved the tray toward him. Let him find a place to put it.

He took the tray, closed the lid on a toolbox, and set it on top of that. “Did you bring your dinner out?”

Ginger’s toes curled inside the leather flats she’d gotten half price when Harman’s had closed their shoe department. Her jaw clenched. This was not going how she had hoped. Why was he being so uncooperative? “I already ate my dinner. It’s close to nine, Earl. Most people had dinner hours ago.”

“Why are you getting so upset?”

“I’m—I’m not getting upset.” Tears warmed the corner of her eyes. “I made your favorite: Stroganoff, salad with ranch dressing, and chocolate cake.” Her words became squeakier as she talked. Couldn’t he see how hard she was trying?

His expression softened. “Oh, honey.” Earl darted toward her, arms held out to hug her. His hand swept over the top of the toolbox and knocked the food tray off. It hit the floor with a muffled clatter.

Ginger threw her hands up. “Now it’s all ruined.”

Earl scrambled to pick up the tray. “No, it’s okay. You got this nifty protective cover on here.” He lifted the lid. The chocolate cake had ranch dressing and lettuce on it. Gravy covered most of the salad. Earl stared down at the disaster and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Finally, he held the cup up triumphantly. “The milk is still good.”

Ginger’s heart sank into the cushioned insoles of her half price designer shoes. Earl was trying so hard. She was trying so hard. Why was this going so badly? “Maybe this was not a good idea. Maybe you should just come in and eat dinner like you always do.”

He nodded.

“I’ll toss that. I have more in the house.” Again, the waterworks started in the corners of her eyes. “I’ll put it in the containers just like I always do so you can warm it up in the microwave.”

Earl’s smile never quite reached his eyes. “Just like you always do.”

“Course I’ll be asleep when you come in.” Maybe being a part of his world wasn’t such a good idea.

He handed Ginger the tray with the demolished food. She really needed to get out of this workshop. The clutter was making her thoughts tangle like the mess of wire Earl had in the corner. How on earth could he even work in here? Shoulders slumping, she took the tray and trudged back to the house.

Twenty minutes later, Ginger lay in bed staring at the ceiling. She heard Earl open the outside door and speak affectionately to Phoebe. She listened while the microwave buzzed and dinged. Then Earl stomped into the family room, turned on the television, and talked to the FOX News commentators while he ate his late-night meal.

Earl had been like a different man in the workshop, jumping around the Bobcat like a twenty-year-old. His actions seemed inspired, so enthusiastic. What was Earl thinking about that made him so excited? She wanted to get to know that man…but she had no idea how.

If Mary Margret were here, she would have good advice. She missed her friend more than ever. The white dots that were a precursor to her migraines crossed Ginger’s field of vision.

Not again.

She closed her eyes and put the pillow over her head. To separate herself from the rising pain, she focused on her breathing.

In the next room, the television buzzed while Earl had a one-sided conversation with the television.

How was it possible for two people to be in the same house and live such separate lives?

In the darkness of her bedroom, Arleta McQuire stubbed her toe on the leg of the headboard. She yowled and stumbled toward the light switch. Illumination from a covered incandescent bulb on the ceiling filled the room. After clunking her revolver on the bureau by the door, she peered down at a bloody, pulsating big toe.

“That was no good.” She placed a hand on her slender hip. Arleta paced the carpet, favoring the foot with the injured toe. For the life of her, she just couldn’t get this self-defense drill right.

What had her firearms instructor told her?
Think, Arleta, think.
She could do this. Her seventy-five-year-old mind worked just fine. First, get the flashlight, then the revolver, grab the speed loader, find a hiding place. Sit with the flashlight off until the intruder is in the room. Switch it on long enough to locate the intruder. Give your warning in a loud, confident voice.

Arleta practiced her warning. “I have a gun, and I know how to use it.” Her instructor, an ex-policeman with muscles like Arnold Schwarzenegger, had said that the warning was often enough to scare an intruder away. She sure hoped so because she wasn’t good at the rest of the drill.

She plunked down on her unslept-in bed and placed her face in her hands. Twice, she had grabbed her mascara out of her nightstand instead of the flashlight. Maybe if she dumped everything out of the drawer except for the flashlight and the speed loader, then it might work. She kept the gun and the bullets separate just like the instructor had advised.

In a way, she was grateful to have something to do in the wee hours besides watch bad television. In the fifteen years since her husband, David, had died, Arleta hadn’t slept through the night. For the last month, she’d been practicing the drill instead of watching TV. It was a step forward. At least she was being productive when she couldn’t sleep.

The neighborhood was changing. When she and David had moved here forty years ago, they had been surrounded by families. Now almost all the homes were rentals—mostly to temporary college students. Some of them drank alcohol and did who knows what all night. Partygoers thought her lawn was a good place to turn their cars around on.

The final straw was when she had listened to a fight between two men. The shouting started across the street, but eventually it ended up right outside her bedroom window. She stayed in bed, paralyzed and sweating, for close to twenty minutes while the men exchanged blows and threatened a thousand other ways they would do damage to each other. At some point, one of their bodies slammed against the side of the house. The next morning, she signed up for the self-defense class and drove to the sporting goods store.

David, an archaeology professor, had worked with college students. She had liked his students, liked having them over for dinner. But students these days were different—scarier. Not respectful.

She reached over to the nightstand, pulled out the drawer, and dumped the contents on the carpet. She’d try it with just the speed loader and the flashlight. An empty pewter frame caught her eye. She should have put that in the garage sale when she sold those other things a week ago. Just old stuff.

The money from garage sales helped pay for her class. She’d sold some of her antiques to pay for the gun. She’d gotten rid of David’s vest, the one he wore on digs, and his old photo album. The nice woman who bought the stuff seemed so happy. Selling most of David’s things had given her a stronger sense of closure. She’d been working on this closure thing for almost fifteen years.

Arleta could not afford to move, but even if she could, she was not about to be driven out of her home by a bunch of spoiled teenagers. One twelve Fremont was her home. She had no intention of leaving.

She placed the loader and flashlight at the edge of the drawer, closed her eyes, and practiced feeling for them. She wasn’t a vigilante. She wouldn’t shoot people who drove on her lawn. If the parties got too loud, she could call the police. The events just made her feel less safe.

Then a few nights after her last garage sale, she had heard someone walking outside her open bedroom window. Just yesterday, a tall, well-dressed man with snowy white hair had parked his brown car across the street and watched her house. The whole incident had given her the heebie-jeebies.

But she was not about to sit worrying and fretting like some helpless old lady. She had traipsed all over the world with David on his digs. She was a woman of action, not a whiner.

With renewed energy, she retrieved her revolver from the bureau and put it in the box under her bed. The man in the sporting goods store had said that women liked the Model 34 kit gun because it was light and very accurate. Revolvers didn’t jam, and she had to pull back the hammer each time she fired a shot, so there was no danger of misfire.

For a month now, she had been in a class filled with single moms and widows staring at fluorescent orange targets and learning to squeeze not jerk the trigger. Although she hadn’t told any of the other ladies in class, she gave her Smith & Wesson a real name. She called the gun Annie, after Annie Oakley.