Antiques Bizarre

by Barbara Allan

  “Right,” I said, and pulled out. “Just don’t forget what happened to Humpty Dumpty.”

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  At a church bazaar, the best way to get first crack at antiques and collectibles is to help unpack and set up the merchandise. When Mother does this, the other attendees are guaranteed a major discovery: there’s nothing good left.

  Chapter Two

  Mother Lays an Egg

  Suppose I awoke some night to find the Angel of Death hovering near the foot of my bed, and should he/she/it say, “Brandy Borne, you have the choice of either coming with me now, or reliving one more day…but it must be the day of the church bazaar!” And I would shout unequivocally, “Take me now, please!”

  Before that excruciatingly long Saturday had ended, sickness and death would fill the air, and as for our fabled Fabergé egg…well, maybe I’m getting ahead of myself….

  The morning of the bazaar began benignly enough: the weather beautiful, breezy, and bright—a “perfect ten” on the scale of a Midwestern day.

  Mother had been up since at least four A.M.; even with two pillows over my head, I’d been able to hear her downstairs, below my bedroom, clomping around like a circus fat lady in galoshes. Finally, at six, unable to fall back asleep, I surrendered to crawl out of bed and hit the shower. Sushi, who usually slept on top of the covers, gave me an “I’m not getting up yet” look with her spooky white orbs, and underscored her point by burrowing under the sheets.

  At first, the warm water pelting my skin felt fine, like a hundred massaging fingers…but then it seemed like a hundred little needles were pricking me, and I quickly got out of the shower and put on a soft white robe.

  In the kitchen, Mother had thoughtfully made a cheese and broccoli quiche, but the smell of it—along with the aroma of strong coffee—sent Miss Morning Sickness of the New Millennium running once again for the downstairs bathroom.

  I didn’t make it to the bowl, however, and hunkered at the sink and retched wretchedly. When my stomach finally quieted, I looked at myself in the mirror, and what I saw gave me a start.

  I was thin and pale, my skin a sickly color.

  Mother, in her pink robe, stood beside me. “Dear, you simply must eat something—it’s not good for you, or your precious little cargo….”

  “I know, I know,” I moaned. “But I just can’t.” I started to cry.

  Mother put her arms around me, and I lay my head on her shoulder.

  When my tears had subsided, she asked, “How about some cinnamon toast and chamomile tea, sweetheart?”

  I snuffled.

  “I’ll even burn the toast just how you like it….”

  I wiped my eyes with the back of a hand. “Okay…I’ll…I’ll try.”

  Mother smiled and pinched my cheek. “That’s a good girl. Now, go upstairs and get dressed. I’ll have it ready in a jiffy.”

  From my closet I selected a girlie-pink Juicy Couture hoodie and sweatpants, and slipped on my pink short UGGS, hoping the spring color would make me look (and feel) better. But I could have easily been mistaken for a very large Easter bunny, like that poor kid in A Christmas Story.

  When I came back down, Mother had the hot tea and burnt toast waiting for me at the small, round, table-for-two on the screened-in back porch.

  Mother, now dressed in a nautical theme—navy jacket and slacks, and a white blouse with anchors (woman overboard!)—sat with me while I ate.

  She said, “I don’t expect you to help much today, dear, considering your condition, and how you’re feeling…but I might need your assistance during the auction.”

  “When’s that gonna be?” I asked with my mouth full.

  “One o’clock—right after the luncheon.”

  I took a sip of tea. “What do you want me to do?” I hoped it wouldn’t be too taxing, as this pregnancy made me so tired these days.

  “I’d like you to help me keep track of the bids. It’s going to involve large sums of money, you know.”

  About to take another sip, I froze, the cup at my lips. “Why are you worried about it? It’s not like you’re the auctioneer.”

  She straightened her hair.

  “Mother?”

  She took off her glasses and polished them with a napkin.

  “Mother, you’re not the auctioneer, are you?”

  “Well, what if I am, dear?”

  I groaned.

  “Why look so shocked? I took that course last year. Surely you remember.”

  How could I forget? For days after Mother returned from a one-week course at the Worldwide College of Auctioneering in Mason City, she had talked fast in a singsongy chant. To wit (or maybe two half-wits):

  “Mother, when should we leave for the mall?”

  “How about two o’clock? Two o’clock, do I hear two-fifteen? That’s two-fifteen, two-fifteen, do I hear two-thirty, two-thirty? That’s two-thirty…going once, going twice, gone!”

  Real gone.

  Mother was saying, “There’s really nothing to being an auctioneer. My goodness, why pay good money for a professional, I say, when I can do it myself!”

  “Well, that’s a wonderful idea. Just because some of the most experienced bidders in the world are going to be in attendance, including representatives of Sotheby’s and Christie’s, plus several private collectors, among them a Russian who came halfway across the world—why on Earth would we want a professional?”

  “I’m glad to see you see it the way I do.”

  Mother recognizes my sarcasm; she just pretends not to.

  “You do realize,” I said, “that everything that happens today will be recorded for posterity by local TV to be broadcast around the world, and posted on the Internet?”

  “Oh, yes! Isn’t that exciting!”

  I considered telling Mother that I was too sick to go, but then somebody needed to be there to protect her from getting tarred and feathered after the botched auction….

  Sushi materialized at my feet, drawn from her warm bed by the smell of the toast. I broke off some crust and gave it to her.

  Mother rose from the little table. “We should go soon, dear. I want to be there by eight, to get a good parking place.”

  I put my dishes in the sink, then fed Sushi some dog food, followed by a shot of insulin, and the usual dog biscuit treat that was her reward, or really bribe, for not running away from the needle.

  With the doggie rituals completed, I put Soosh outside for a few minutes, so I wouldn’t have to clean up a mess when we got back later. Then Mother and I headed out to my car, and an event I was looking forward to with the enthusiasm of one summoned to an IRS audit.

  Actually, the charity church bazaar almost hadn’t happened. A major stumbling block had arisen when Mother couldn’t find a facility available on a Saturday that was big enough to handle the large crowd the auction would surely attract. The county fairground was under construction because the grandstand had recently burned down (thanks to Mother—see Antiques Flee Market); the high school gymnasium was being used for a basketball tournament; the community center, located downtown, had been half under water until recently (the aftermath not pretty); and all of the larger churches had weddings scheduled for every weekend.

  Then, according to Mother, a miracle happened. A nuptial planned at St. Mary’s Church got canceled after the bride-to-be received an anonymous phone call that her beloved intended had been seen out with another woman. (Shame on you for suspecting Mother!) (Anyway, she swore to me on the family Bible that she hadn’t made the cruel call, because such shameless rumor-mongering was unforgivable, a statement followed by Mother listing five “terrible gossips” who she considered capable of the deed, including Mrs. Mulligan down the street, one of her prime sources.)

  While the Catholic church was not an ideal place to hold the bazaar and auction, the main church building—with its large sanctuary, smaller chapel, choir room, meditation room, and library—could be used to hold the various church “teams.”
And the newly attached one-story Catholic elementary school, with its many classrooms, could also be incorporated in Mother’s plan of action. Paramount, too, was St. Mary’s ample parking lot, which could accommodate hundreds of cars.

  At the urging of Nastasya’s nephew Clifford—a respected member of St. Mary’s and a major donor—Father O’Brien agreed to host the event, once Clifford pointed out that the church would gain goodwill from the community for this literal act of charity. Plus it might even attract new sheep into Father O’Brien’s flock, or at least round up some old lambs who’d strayed.

  When I was in grade school, Mother and I had attended St. Mary’s for a while. Catholicism was just one of a long list of religions Mother “tried out” when she was searching for a perfect heavenly fit for us two earthly creatures. I enjoyed going to mass because there was always some iconic statue or deity to look at while seated in the pews, plus the ritualistic repetition of the service seemed comforting to me during times of mental turbulence with Mother.

  But ultimately Mother decided St. Mary’s wasn’t for us, stating, “Their pomp and circumstance is much too theatrical,” so we moved on. (Personally, I think Mother couldn’t stand to be stuck out in the audience, and not performing up at the pulpit. She rarely attends plays she isn’t appearing in.)

  Built around the turn of the last century, St. Mary’s was a gloomy, gothic limestone structure sitting high on a hill in the center of town. As a child, I’d heard members of other churches complain that St. Mary’s on its perch was “lording itself over all the other lowly churches” in Serenity. Maybe so, but being on high ground during flood season made it the ideal choice for all the churches to come together for this cause.

  I steered the Buick up a steep winding drive to the large cement parking lot behind the church. (About the only people who ever climbed the two-hundred-plus steps from the street level were high school jocks trying to bulk up.) Even though the bazaar wouldn’t begin for another hour, dozens of cars were already there.

  “Park up close to the door, dear,” Mother instructed, as she opened the glove compartment to extract a handicap parking placard she’d gotten ten years ago after minor surgery on an ingrown toenail.

  “Put that back!”

  “But, dear, you’re pregnant, and I am bipolar.”

  “You’re also shameless. I’ll drop you off at the door and park somewhere where we’d be less likely to get hit by lightning.”

  Mother frowned. “Dear, this high up anyone might get hit by lightning.”

  “Someday when you need a handicapped spot, there won’t be one because you’ve already taken it!”

  Even though that didn’t make sense, Mother understood my meaning. “Don’t drop me off,” she said with martyred disdain. “I can manage.”

  I parked, not all that far away, and Mother got out of the car, and I followed obediently behind her. She was limping.

  “The ingrown toenail was the other foot,” I said.

  Then, Praise the Lord, another miracle occurred, as her limp was healed.

  Soon we entered a small marble vestibule. More doors led to an octagon-shaped narthex—a large lobby area—where several women were fussing over a long banquet table, preparing to take attendance money, dispense tickets, and hand out maps of team locations. A sign on the wall stated that the ten-dollar fee to get in also included a potluck lunch. Hysteria was already in the air, middle-aged and elderly ladies chattering like novelty-shop teeth.

  Mother paid for us, and handed me our tickets for safekeeping; then we headed for our team’s location, which was the main church sanctuary, just off the narthex.

  Earlier, Mother had told the organizers that our team—dubbed by her “Team Eggs-tra Ordinaire”—would require the sanctuary because that was the best place to hold the auction; no need to bring in chairs, as the pews would serve as seating, and the pulpit had its own sound system for the auctioneer.

  No one disagreed with her logic, but I wondered if this arrangement miffed some of the others, especially the home-team Catholics who were relegated to their own small adjacent chapel.

  Mother and I entered the sanctuary—which was designed in the shape of a cross—and were immediately greeted by the statue of the Holy Water Angel. Skirting around the baptismal font, we passed the arched entrance to the small chapel, where a middle-aged woman in a conservative gray dress and sensible flats stood staring at us. Madeline Pierce, the church secretary, also wore a frown, showing her displeasure with her team’s cramped location.

  Mother nodded curtly and, smiling a little too broadly, marched triumphantly on.

  I caught up with Mother in the center aisle, grabbing her arm, pulling her up short.

  “Gloating is very un-Christian,” I whispered.

  Mother turned, asking disingenuously, “Whatever do you mean, dear?”

  “Don’t play innocent. Not here,” I said, playing stern mother to her child. “You don’t need to be rude. Teams or not, this is a community effort.”

  Mother’s eyebrows climbed over the rim of her oversized glasses. “Who do you think organized this community effort? Anyway, I thought I was being friendly. I smiled, didn’t I?”

  “Like a cat with a mouse in its paws.”

  Mother’s laugh was dismissive. “Nonsense.”

  I raised a finger. “You don’t like me off my Prozac…and I don’t like you up on your high horse. Let’s strive to be better people, okay? Here in church, at least?”

  Mother looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, “Perhaps I was a wee bit smug. We are, after all, guests in God’s house.”

  I gave her an earthly smirk. “Try to keep that in mind.”

  While Mother hurried on, I took my time, reacquainting myself with the stations of the cross, which represented the final hours of Christ from condemnation to resurrection, and paused to gaze at the beautiful stained-glass windows, made glowingly lovely by the morning sun.

  At the west transept (the left arm of the cross), I stopped to stare at the statue of St. Mary, Mother of Sorrows, which had been repainted since I’d seen it last, making the seven daggers piercing her heart more noticeable.

  I moved on to the statue of St. Joseph—the Patron of Happy Death—holding the baby Jesus. It, too, had a fresh coat of paint.

  I had arrived at the communion railing, where four more long banquet tables displayed a wide variety of antiques and collectibles gathered from our team’s members; each item was tagged and, when appropriate, polished and carefully arranged on white linen tablecloths.

  Among the donations were pottery, silver tea sets, china dishes, china figurines, lady-head vases, oil lamps, candlesticks, cookie jars, collectible toys, jewelry, and evening bags. Squatting around the periphery of the tables were a few antique furniture pieces, including a lawyer’s five-shelf bookcase, a set of six caned oak chairs, a claw-footed tea table, and a waterfall Art Deco dresser.

  Of the dozen or so people present, I recognized only three from our small church: Alice Hetzler, a retired teacher; Frannie Phillips, former nurse; and Harold Kerr, ex-Army captain. The two women were gal pals of Mother’s, members of her Red-Hatted League mystery book club. The man also belonged to a club—the Romeos (Retired Old Men Eating Out)—and, if Mother is to be believed, the old boy had once tried to play Romeo to her Juliet (after Father passed away, of course).

  The other members of our team milling around were from the Episcopalian and Lutheran churches, and the Jewish synagogue. I recognized some of them, but didn’t know their names.

  Nastasya Petrova was not among them. My understanding was that she was receiving the qualified bidders in her home early this morning for a private viewing of the Fabergé egg. The protocol was that each bidder would be escorted into the Petrova parlor for a private, individual examination of the artifact, for two purposes—first, to establish to each bidder’s satisfaction that this was the genuine article; and second, to present a sealed bid. All of the bidders were then gathered into the parlor, th
e sealed bids revealed, and the highest of these would be this afternoon’s opening bid—Mother had predicted three hundred thousand. We would see.

  The egg itself had been locked away in Nastasya Petrova’s safe deposit box since the day after Mother and I dropped by to propose the auction. And it had been delivered by local police to the Petrova mansion this morning for that series of private viewings. Those or other armed police guards, provided by Chief Cassato, would deliver the egg just in time to be the star of the big show.

  Anyway, as our team was getting its act together, Harold began barking as to who should do what once the bazaar began, and I knew Mother would not put up with the ex-Army captain’s orders, and had planned my retreat even before the battle had begun.

  “Mother,” I said, “it doesn’t look like I’m needed here. Why don’t I check out the other teams and see how they’re doing?”

  Mother always loved subterfuge. “Good idea, dear! And pick up some early bargains for our booth.”

  Gathering my purse and map, I decided to first check out the kitchen in the basement, to see what was being served for lunch, hoping that something might look appealing to my finicky stomach.

  But instead of heading back through the sanctuary and taking the main stairs down in the narthex (hereafter referred to as lobby), I decided to use a secret passageway, which was located behind the choir benches to the left of the tabernacle, an ornately carved altar with spiral finials supported on the heads of four cherubic angels (ouch).

  Years ago, when I sang in children’s choir, I always sat in the back row in front of this panel, and when I got bored with mass I’d slip out and root around in the always-well-stocked kitchen, then return to my choir pew, often with food on my face, and not fooling anybody (especially Mother). I adored the secret passageway, as a child, as it was straight out of the Nancy Drew mysteries I was reading.

  Even now I got a kick out of it. I slid the panel open, slipped through, and closed it again. Then, in the dark, I felt my way down the narrow stone steps, palms pressed to the cold, clammy walls.