But then I recall the small brown box on the table in the summerhouse containing pills in individual plastic packages that resemble the allergy medication my doctor gives out as samples. At least I'd assumed it was allergy medicine. I mean, why else would she keep it in the summerhouse? Though I thought it was odd that the labeling on the foil packets and the stack of brochures next to the box were all in a foreign language. Could the Stocktons be drug dealers? Does the chimp act as a runner or a lookout?
Ms. Olivia returns to the table, and I decide it's impossible for her to be a drug dealer. She seems like a sweet old lady, perhaps with some bizarre hobbies, but nonetheless, a law-abiding citizen. Besides, she wouldn't do a transaction with me right in the backyard, would she? I hope she doesn't ask me about the meaning of life or if I believe in God or if perhaps I'm in the market for any crystal meth.
Before she has a chance to say anything else, I jump right in with "I'm afraid we're going to need some oil if I'm going to finish mowing today. I searched around but couldn't find an oil can."
"If it's not in the shed, then I don't know. Bertie was always after Lars to make a list of supplies since we were constantly running out of everything, but he never did, except for Aquavit."
Aquavit must be a type of pesticide. I've never heard of it but don't want to let on.
Ms. Olivia's eyes light up as if she's arrived at a solution to the oil problem. And in fact, she has.
"Why don't you drive into town," she suggests. "And go to the hardware store or the gas station or wherever they traffic in mower grease."
She's obviously getting rid of me so the deal can go down within the hour.
I start to clear the table, but she says, "Let Rocky do that. It's good therapy for him."
The chimp is in therapy? I want to ask, but I don't.
"And be sure to drop by Bertie's store. He adores visitors. Plus it makes the shop appear busy, which attracts customers."
"Mr. Bernard has a store?"
"Oh yes, almost ten years now. It's a lovely shop right at the corner of North Abbey and Swan Streets. Bertie has a flair for design and window display, and especially the placement of objects. For three years he called it Avant et Après, which I thought was charming, but no one understood that it meant Before and After. So he switched to the more straightforward Stockton Antiques and Collectibles and then last year renamed it the Sweet Buy and Buy. With the IRS being the way it is, it's best to close these types of enterprises down every few years and reopen them under a new name."
So that explains all the stuff piled up in the garage. One mystery solved and a new one begun. While Ms. Olivia is busy searching for her purse, I take our plates into the kitchen, rinse them off, and load them into the dishwasher. I'm not stupid when it comes to free food and a roof over my head. Because if there is something for nothing out there, I feel certain I would have found it by now.
Ms. Olivia returns with two crisp twenty-dollar bills and her car keys. Out of habit I hold the Andrew Jacksons up to the light and check the watermark to make sure they're not forgeries.
"Please fill the tank with unleaded gas, but don't tell Bertie, because I keep nipping the cement pilings underneath the fuel pumps and he doesn't want me to drive anymore. There's absolutely nothing wrong with my eyes or reflexes," she insists. "He claims that I just don't pay attention."
She glances around as if to see whether anyone else is in earshot, then giggles girlishly. "He's right, actually. I'm always thinking of a poem or fretting about how the Judge is getting along while I'm gone."
However, I'm not really worrying about whether she's a capable driver or not, because I'm so stunned that this woman who hardly knows me just handed over her money and car keys to me, the local juvenile delinquent. Though it now appears entirely possible that she's the local senior delinquent.
"And would you do me another favor, please, Hallie—pick up some fresh lemons and a box of sugar? Bertie keeps buying me those artificial sweeteners. Oh, and procure a gallon of Yoo-Hoo for yourself, or however they sell it."
I'm of course thrilled to be entrusted with a car. But what if there's a kilo of cocaine in the trunk? Or a stack of Mexicali Gold joints in the glove compartment? I mean, explaining that I'm playing hooky is one thing . ..
Chapter 14
Letting It Ride «
Driving the big cherry red Buick Park Avenue feels as if I'm floating down the middle of the street and then docking at the gas station. No wonder she knocks into the pumps. And there could be no doubt she knocked into the pumps—along with anything else that happened to be in the way. The car has more dents in it than my brother Eric's head after a football game.
After running my errands, I pull up in front of the Sweet Buy and Buy. I'd passed it a thousand times but never considered going inside. Mr. Bernard is setting down the telephone receiver as I enter the shop. The phone is old-fashioned, with a scrunchy spiral cord running between the receiver and the handset. The store itself is like a cramped version of the Stockton house, a more dimly lit version of the summerhouse, and a better-organized version of the garage. Only inside the store there isn't an inch of open space upon which to rest the eyes. Paintings and tapestries cover the walls, charging all the way up to the ceiling, interspersed by row upon row of candlestick holders. And the back wall is covered almost entirely with clocks.
"Hallie, entrez-vous. Lovely to have you stop by to check on me. And I see you've arrived first class, in the QE2."
"The what?"
He nods toward the plate-glass picture window in the front of the store.
"Queen Elizabeth the Second, a luxury cruise ship operated by the Cunard Line. It's what we call Mother's car, since as she ages her houses get progressively smaller while her cars get larger. She insists on having the extra trunk space for her community outreach projects."
"Uh, yeah." I can only imagine that extra trunk space would come in handy for moving large amounts of heroin across state lines. "Well, I had to get some oil for the lawn mower. It was low when I started and I didn't want to wreck the engine."
"Yes, Lars probably drank it as a chaser after the ethanol ran out. Did Mother ask you to fill up her car with gas?"
"Uh, I uh—" I don't want to break my promise to Ms. Olivia, and yet Mr. Bernard is my boss and so I stutter while considering how to reply. But he only chuckles.
"No!" He puts his hand out as if to stop a line drive. "Don't answer that. We mustn't compromise your integrity or your ability to keep household secrets. What would a house be without its secrets?"
This particular house would most likely be empty without its secrets. Because everybody would be in the slammer.
"It's pretty neat to have a chimp." I change the subject.
"Oh, that dipsomaniac primate is the bane of my existence." Mr. Bernard places the back of his hand to his forehead as if the very mention of Rocky gives him a migraine. "If I don't lock the liquor cabinet, he destroys the entire house."
"I thought he was specially trained to work with paraplegics."
"Yes, well, it so happens that his last patient was also an alcoholic and they drank Singapore slings all day long for the past five years. The trainer wants to put him to sleep, but Mother insists she can rehabilitate him. I've brought some of my best pieces down to the shop, out of harm's way." Mr. Bernard points to a row of vases with animal designs on them. "Those are very valuable art deco pieces signed by Charles Catteau."
After looking at the vases, I begin to examine the paintings above them.
"Do you enjoy art?" he asks.
"Yes," I say enthusiastically. "I mean, I don't know anything about art. I just enjoy looking at it."
"And what kind of art do you take pleasure from—drawing, paintings, sculpture?" Is he just goofing on me or being serious? I keep feeling as if they may all be treating me as a joke, a neighborhood mutt that knows a few amusing pet tricks to perform for food. Then again, maybe they're all crazy. But I like them, even though they may be, u
mm, criminals. So I think hard about the question and wish I'd paid more attention to the little brass plaques next to the pictures when my seventh-grade class went on that field trip to the Cleveland Museum of Art.
"I like, uh, I like art when I can tell, uh, what it is."
"Exactly!" Mr. Bernard declares, smiling broadly. "I don't even carry modern works in the shop. It's not that my clients don't buy them, it's just that the pieces are so trendy and impossible to price. One bad day for the stock market and the bottom of the modern-art market drops out just like that." He snaps his fingers. "Not to mention that very little of the work itself does anything for me, personally."
Then I realize he's not laughing at me but agreeing with me!
"Oh, well, I don't know anything about all that. I just like to see a stream or a house or a person and not have to try and figure out what it is. Or I like to see something beautiful. I mean, at the Cleveland Art Museum there was this series of paintings of plain old wooden clothespins. But ..." I suddenly worry about sounding like a jackass.
"Yes, but what?"
"But I like collages and ... and dioramas. Sometimes I make collages out of pictures in magazines or bottle caps or household items that have been thrown away or dumped into the recycling bin."
"That's wonderful. Do you know what dioramas were called in Victorian times?"
"No." Actually, I didn't even know they had shoe boxes back then.
"They were called shadow boxes. Come with me." Mr. Bernard cautiously works his way between all the furniture, metal stands overflowing with gold-headed canes, and gnarly wooden walking sticks, and then past an enormous painted Japanese screen. He leads me to the back of the shop just as he'd guided me down the garden path the day before.
From behind a tall oval standing mirror he gently removes a box that appears to be very old. It's constructed of light-colored wood that's been sanded smooth and decorated with real lace and pieces of silk so that it resembles a three-dimensional valentine. Mr. Bernard switches on a nearby lamp and motions for me to look inside. Peering through the small square opening, I gaze upon a wonderful panorama of children enjoying a puppet show in a large living room with a blazing orange fire at their backs. Every last detail has been attended to by its creator—wallpaper, grandfather clock, winding staircase with a big landing, large screen in front of the fireplace, and a wide, squat Christmas tree with tiny candles nestled among its branches. The children are meticulously outfitted right down to their white socks and starched collars. In fact, it seems as if the figures might actually come alive at any moment. Or that maybe when we're not peeking inside they actually are alive.
"It's beautiful," I say when I finally look up. "There's even a tiny sewing basket next to the rocking chair, with knitting needles and some yarn sticking out of the top."
"A wood carver in the Cotswold Hills in England made it over a century ago. It's not the kind of antique that people around here collect, but it was so enchanting I couldn't resist."
Suddenly Mr. Bernard's shop starts tolling, chiming, and cuckooing, and I realize that he has a lot more clocks squirreled away in here than I'd originally noticed. It's already three o'clock.
"I'd better be getting back. I'd really like to finish mowing the lawn today."
"Certainly. It was good of you to stop by. Tell Mother I picked up two cloisonné Fu dogs for a song this morning."
"Excuse me?"
"Yes, of course. Over here." He threads his way back to the counter where I'd originally found him.
"Cloisonné is the art of making designs on objects by using thin metal wires, filling in the spaces with porcelain, and then glazing them. The best pieces came out of China before World War Two, and if they're handsomely crafted and in good condition they can be extremely valuable."
Mr. Bernard points to a few pieces inside the glass display counter, then carefully removes the tissue paper from a large cardboard box sitting atop the counter, and out come two statues that resemble Doberman-Rottweiler combos, each one about the size of a newborn baby. "Fu dogs," Mr. Bernard says with a flourish as he crumples the last bit of packing paper into a ball. "Normally I would sell these here in the shop, but I already have a dealer in Toronto who wants to buy them. Oh, and be sure to tell Mother I also acquired a Hepplewhite chair."
"Okay. I'll tell Ms. Olivia you've got Fu dogs and a hefty white chair."
Mr. Bernard chortles and comes from around the back of the counter to show me a dark wooden chair with a finely carved back. "Hepplewhite. Named after George Hepplewhite. A great deal of intricate design work on the legs and back. See the fleur-de-lis on the top here? It's a stylized three-petaled iris. I've already been offered a hundred dollars over what I paid at the auction. What do you think?" he playfully asks. "Should I sell, or wait and see if a better offer comes along?"
"It's better to have a fast nickel than a slow dime." At least that's what Cappy always tells me when it comes to wasting time and money on long shots.
Mr. Bernard politely nods, as if he's never heard it put exactly like this before, but it's certainly one way of viewing the matter. "And tell her I also bought three Louis Philippe urns. They're French, of course."
"Three French urns, two Fu dogs, and one Hepplewhite chair with a fleur-de-lis. Right?" I say this to the tune of "The Twelve Days of Christmas" and the corners of Mr. Bernard's mouth turn up and his eyes twinkle with delight.
"Exactly. And four Sprint calling cards."
I wave and say good-bye.
"I'll see you back at the Manse," he calls after me.
As I reboard the QE2,1 spy Mrs. Muldoon, my parents' next-door neighbor, crossing the street directly in front of me. She almost drops her dry cleaning when she sees me pull away from the curb in that big old Buick. Wow, it's worth getting caught just to see the expression on her face. I know she'll assume that I stole the car, especially since it has a bumper sticker on the back saying: a woman's place is in the house—and the senate. Definitely not my father's automobile.
All my parents' friends tend to regard me as a convicted felon because I skip school and gamble and stay out all night. For instance, whenever anything is missing, including their husbands, they imply that I might know something about it. But the truth is that I've never stolen anything, not even a candy bar. At least, I've never walked out of a store with anything I didn't pay for (it doesn't count if it's inside your stomach). Meanwhile, I know kids who have shoplifted fifty-dollar tropical fish from the pet store and expensive bathing suits from the mall. And what about stockbrokers who lose other people's money? Nobody goes around calling them gamblers. No, they're professionals, who go to work in silk suits and drive fancy leased cars and sit on the school board and spend afternoons on the golf course. Not only that, they get to keep all the commissions, even when they lose money for clients. If that's not a life of crime, then I can't imagine what is.
Contemplating how long it's going to take Mrs. Muldoon to have me apprehended, I drive back to the Stocktons' and return to work. An easterly wind makes the leaves rustle in the trees, and the bird feeders rock gently back and forth as if they're boats in a harbor. While dumping the last of the grass clippings into a big olive-colored Hefty bag, I make a mental note to ask when garbage day is so that I can haul everything out front, which I assume is part of my job. I'm relieved that the Stocktons don't buy those cheap trash bags where sticks poke and scratch your hands and you can't fill them to the top or mash down the contents without your foot blowing through the plastic. I'd also noticed that the Stocktons use two-ply toilet paper, which could mean that they're rich. My friend Gwen is the only other person I know who has two-ply, and her father is the vice president of the Ohio Forge Company.
So what if the Stocktons deal a few drugs on the side in order to keep up a certain lifestyle? At least they were pouring their ill-gotten gains back into the economy. In fact, if the Star-Mart started selling steroids and performance-enhancing Brussels sprouts, they'd be able to pay more in line with t
he Stockton scale instead of those slave wages.
Chapter 15
Best Bet ♠
The afternoon slowly curves toward twilight and in the distance the sun begins to sink behind a ragged line of trees dotted with red and brown and gold bouquets of leaves. Once the shed is closed, I head toward the house to replace the washer on the screen door with the new one I picked up at the hardware store while sailing around town in the QE2.
Before entering I knock on the door the way neighbors do just to make sure you're not naked. The sound of voices can be heard from the rear of the house, so I remove my muddy high-top sneakers and walk into the living room. Through an archway at the far end of the room I can see Mr. Bernard in the den, leaning over Ms. Olivia, who is sitting in front of a computer and efficiently tapping away at the keyboard.
Mr. Bernard is speaking. "Send him an epistle saying—"
"It's called an E-mail, you Luddite—"
"Saying that I will not accept a farthing less than sixteen hundred non-Confederate dollars and then push the button that beams up the photograph."
"Scans," Ms. Olivia replies as she efficiently plinks away.
"Hello, Hallie," Mr. Bernard calls when he spies me approaching. "That has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?" He cups his hands around his mouth and says, "Hello, Hallie, who enters these hallowed halls." Then he gestures toward Ms. Olivia's workstation. "Do you know how to operate one of these doohickeys?"
"Bertie is under the impression that computer viruses result from not washing your hands after buying a Mandarin palette vase off the eBay Internet auction site," says Ms. Olivia.
"Of course she can use a computer!" Mr. Gil's voice rises from the basement stairwell. He appears from around the corner carrying a stack of newspapers and looking more relaxed than he had that morning. "Hi, Hallie," he says.
Beginner's Luck Page 8
