by Mark Dunn
Erin shrugged.
Jeremy picked up a cowboy hat with Roy Rogers’ name stitched across the hatband and put it on. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Is that the only hat?” asked Natalia, pulling out her list.
“Hell no,” replied Jeremy.
Erin added, “There are at least a dozen more in the den.”
“Oh, goodness,” said Natalia Richman, with a slightly avaricious simper.
By sunup there was an orderly line of early-bird customers stretched down the front walk. Cars were continuing to pull onto the street. Mitchell, South Dakota, wasn’t a very big town. These people came from other places. Word was out; this had the makings of a good sale.
Natalia Richman understood people. She understood their totemic relationship to things. She also understood how much people of a certain age loved Roy Rogers and his wife, Dale Evans, and Roy’s horse, Trigger, and his German Shepherd, Bullet. And yet their popularity didn’t last forever. When ABC decided to give Roy and Dale their own comedy-western-variety show in the fall of 1962 (called, naturally, The Roy Rogers and Dale Evans Show), they got clobbered in the ratings by Jackie Gleason and were promptly cancelled—probably because all of Roy’s kid-followers had grown up and were busy raising kids of their own, kids who didn’t get Roy Rogers. Roy and Dale weren’t necessarily has-beens. There was still enormous affection for them throughout the country. But for a long while nobody was buying Roy Rogers–approved neckties and frontier shirts and kerchiefs and board games and trick lassos anymore.
It was different now. Now Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, both still living on their ranch in Apple Valley, California, were nostalgic. Nostalgia was a good thing for someone like Natalia Richman. A Long Island native in her late forties, Natalia had moved to Sioux Falls with her husband ten years earlier, and, now divorced, was still plying her trade running estate sales and an antique store in Yankton, and actually making a decent living at it.
“Shall we admit the hordes?” she asked Erin and Jeremy.
Both siblings nodded.
“And may I say,” said Natalia, going to unlock the front door, “how much I admire the two of you for taking care of your grandfather’s estate for him. I should be so lucky to have grandkids like you.”
“Thanks,” said Jeremy. “But we’re a little mercenary. He’s giving us a percentage.”
Natalia’s hand rested on the doorknob but she didn’t open the door just yet. “How did he feel, if you don’t mind me asking, about getting rid of his collection? I find that people as acquisitive as your grandfather are sometimes reluctant to let go of even a few items, much less their entire collection.”
Jeremy looked at his sister, who answered for the both of them: “His mind was going—to put it bluntly. We let him take a few things with him to the rest home. As far as he knows, he’s got everything right there with him.”
Natalia squinted at the two, perplexed. “But you just said he was giving you a percentage.”
“Oh. Well—” Jeremy turned to his sister.
“That was during one of his more lucid moments,” explained Erin. “You know how it is with people our grandfather’s age: perfectly rational and coherent one moment and totally out of it the next.” Erin swallowed. “Don’t you think you should let all those people in? It’s past time.”
Natalia opened the door. There were at least twenty men and women and a couple of children, who now rushed into the room. Their eager entrance was suggestive of a big department store sale, but obviously played out on a slightly smaller scale.
“Please be careful,” Natalia had to say to one man right off the bat. He was shaking a Roy Rogers boot bank, apparently trying to discover if there were any coins still left inside.
The memorabilia had been distributed throughout three different rooms. Natalia, Erin, and Jeremy each took a different room so they could keep a close eye on the customers and answer any questions.
“Are these their real autographs?” an overweight, middle-aged woman asked Natalia. The woman was holding an inscribed color photograph of Roy and Dale posed behind a rustic fence railing, each gazing lovingly into the eyes of the other. Both wore excessively fringed Western shirts and colorful kerchiefs around their necks.
“Since they’ve personalized their sentiments to someone named Patrick, I’d say these are their original signatures.” Natalia remembered that the old man’s first name was Tyler. Perhaps he bought the picture from someone named Patrick.
“I was only asking,” said the woman, clutching the framed photo, “because, as you can see, Roy Rogers’ name is on everything in this house. It’s hard to tell what’s a real signature and what isn’t.”
The man standing next to the woman, who did not seem to know her, volunteered an opinion: “Whether it’s a real signature or a printed one, it doesn’t much matter. Roy and Dale are notorious for signing anything you shove in their face. They’re real autographing sluts that way.”
“That was rude,” said the woman to the man.
“I’m just saying, don’t let this woman charge you too much for something just because it’s been autographed.” Then the man turned to Natalia and held up a Roy Rogers rodeo lamp—the kind you’d put next to a kid’s bed. “How much for the lamp?”
With a straight face, Natalia replied, “Ten thousand dollars.”
At eight o’clock, Erin’s friend Betsy came to help out. Betsy was blond and very pretty and lit up the room with her smile, like Mary Tyler Moore.
With Betsy now helping out, Natalia was able to turn the living room over to Erin and let Betsy have the den, and then Natalia moved to the kitchen, where she set herself up at the table with the cash box and the receipt book. This was easier than trying to transact business in a more roving fashion. So far, business had been much better than she expected. Usually the die-hards would come early. After that there would be a lull. The rest of the day would bring a trickle of dilettante collectors and curious locals and those hoping to find something for sale that didn’t necessarily have to do with the overriding theme of the collection. Not today. Today there was a good, steady stream of serious customers.
Natalia totaled up a large purchase from a man who had been in the house since she first opened the door. He was pulling a Roy Rogers “chuck wagon,” which was a little red wagon fitted up to look like a miniature Conestoga. The man had filled it with Roy Rogers authorized apparel: boots and “bootsters,” socks, spurs and cuffs, a rodeo suit and frontier shirt, all imprinted with the same familiar Roy Rogers signature, and one of several different images of Roy mounted on Trigger. The man was also set to purchase a Roy Rogers children’s paint set in mint condition, a Roy Rogers harmonica, and Roy Rogers authorized binoculars. He mostly accepted the prices Natalia had scribbled on the tags, but now and then would haggle a little, and Natalia would haggle a little in return until the two had reached an amicable agreement.
Once the man had emptied his wallet and departed, Natalia found herself alone. She took a sip from either her third or fourth cup of coffee of the morning (she’d lost count) and took a bite of her crumbly blueberry muffin. It was a little after ten. There were fewer buyers in the house now, but she could still hear the sound of people commenting to each other on all the remaining merchandise. She could hear something else as well—an odd noise coming from somewhere behind her. The only thing behind her was a door that she assumed opened onto a kitchen pantry.
It was a scratching sound with a little thumping mixed in. A mouse? Do mice “thump”? she wondered. Natalia was frightened to death of mice and had no desire whatsoever to investigate. She tried to distract herself by looking over the contract that Erin and Jeremy had signed. At the top of the page were the words “Estate Sale on Behalf of Tyler Enger. Authorized agents: Jeremy Enger, Erin Enger.” This reminded her of the autographed picture that had been personalized to someone named Patrick. It was a little thing, really, but most collectors didn’t like to buy items with personalized autographs u
nless the recipient was somebody famous.
And still there was the scratching and the thumping. This was no mouse. This was something much bigger. A chill shot through Natalia. She got up from her chair to go and ask Erin about it. Then there came from behind the door a different sound altogether: a moan. A human moan.
Something was going on—something disturbing that she would have to look into, whether she wanted to or not. Natalia recalled that Erin and her brother had struggled a little with answers to a couple of her questions about their grandfather. And earlier the brother and sister had contradicted their own statement about the arrangement the old man had made in terms of dividing the proceeds from the sale. It had seemed suspicious. Everything seemed suspicious to her now. Where were their parents? Why was it only the old man’s grandchildren who had been assigned the task of unloading his extensive Roy Rogers memorabilia collection?
Natalia went to the door. Not knowing what or who she might find, but hoping against hope that it had absolutely nothing to do with the old man, she slowly opened the door. It wasn’t a pantry that lay on the other side; it was a basement—or rather, stairs leading down to a basement. And it wasn’t Tyler Enger whom she found on the stairs. In spite of the disturbing picture in front of her, she almost sighed with relief. Erin and Jeremy hadn’t imprisoned their grandfather in the basement so they could sell his Roy Rogers collection. They’d imprisoned someone else—a much younger man. The young man was gagged and bound, but had apparently, over some period of time, managed to get himself two-thirds of the way up the stairs. He was looking up at her, pleading with his eyes for assistance.
Natalia found the light switch and flicked on the naked bulb that dangled over the stairs. She descended a couple of the steps and then closed the door behind her. Hopefully, this would buy her a minute or two. If Erin or Jeremy or Erin’s friend Betsy came into the kitchen, they would, perhaps, conclude that she had momentarily ducked into the bathroom.
Natalia took the three additional steps necessary to put herself next to the hog-tied young man. She fumbled with the knot that held the gag tightly in place and was able to undo it so that the man could speak.
“Praise Jesus,” he said. “Can you untie me?”
“I’ll try. Who are you?”
“I’m Patrick. Erin and Jeremy’s brother.”
“What’s going on?”
“Isn’t it obvious? My brother and sister tied me up and left me in the cellar so I wouldn’t interfere with their plans. We have to hurry or they’ll have everything sold right out from under me.”
“From under you? I thought all of this stuff belonged to your grandfather.”
“We don’t have a grandfather.”
“Everything upstairs—it all belongs to you?”
“That’s what I’m saying. You’re really going to have to work to loosen the rope around my wrists. It’s pretty tight.”
“Why are they doing this?”
“Why do you think?”
“Because they want to sell all your stuff and run away with the profit?”
“Now that would be interesting—a good storyline for one of Roy’s Western adventures. No, it’s not nearly as thrilling as that. They’re doing this for ‘my own good.’ Because they think I’ve turned loony after all these years of collecting Roy Rogers memorabilia and living alone and really not getting out very much except to go to my night job at the electrical power plant. This is an intervention. Problem is, they’re liquidating my huge investment here, and they aren’t even going about it the right way. You don’t sell a quality collection like this in a garage sale. You go to dealers who specialize in Royandalabilia. Who are you, anyway?”
“I’m the woman they hired to sell said quality collection.”
“Oh. Well, what do you know about Roy Rogers?”
“I know that there are some serious collectors out there. I was hoping we’d end the day with a nice chunk of change.”
The rope was off Patrick’s wrists now. He rubbed them where they were reddened and chafed. “I can’t believe that it actually came to this. That’s okay. I can do the ankles myself.”
“Should I call the police?”
“Yes. And tell them to bring a couple of straitjackets. Talk about loony: my brother and sister should have been put into a padded cell a long time ago. Jeremy tried to burn down the Corn Palace a few years ago. Granted, he was high on patio sealant at the time, but that’s no excuse.”
“What do I do about the other girl who’s been helping them?”
“What other girl?”
“I think her name is Betsy.”
“Betsy’s here?” Suddenly Patrick’s expression changed. It softened.
Natalia nodded. “Do you know her?”
“Yeah. Kind of. Isn’t that a pip? Betsy’s here.”
Natalia started up the stairs. “I’ll call the police. They can sort everything out when they get here.”
“No! Wait!” Patrick grabbed Natalia’s leg. It startled her and she almost screamed.
“I don’t want Betsy arrested.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m madly in love with her, that’s why. I always thought she considered me a hopeless freak. But now you say she’s here. Now you say that she’s upstairs helping Erin and Jeremy rid me of this, this, this sickness—”
“Patrick. I’m very perplexed.”
“Our parents died when we were young—Erin and Jeremy and me. That’s not to say we probably wouldn’t have been messed up anyway. It’s in the genes. Anyway, Erin and Jeremy—they decided to engage the world. On their terms, obviously, but I have to hand it to them—at times they appear almost normal.”
“I thought they were normal.”
“Whereas I disengaged. I retreated into my—”
“Royandalabilia?”
“That’s right. I took the happy trail. You know the song that Dale wrote—their theme song—‘Happy Trails’? I’ve spent my life looking for good role models, you know, being an orphan and all. But you know who it is I need more than anyone else right now?”
“Betsy?”
Patrick nodded. “See? This means she loves me. This means she has hopes that I can turn my life around, begin to get out in the world. If I were to have her thrown in jail, I’m not sure she’d ever forgive me. No, don’t call the police, okay?”
“Should I at least stop the sale?”
Patrick didn’t reply. He stared off into the middle distance. “In their own way, I do think they mean well.”
“Mean well? How long have you been tied up in this basement?”
“You’re right. I know you’re right. I don’t know what to do!” Patrick began to claw at his thick mop of hair with restless fingers. “Yes, I do. You better leave me down here. Pretend like you and me—like we never ever saw each other. First bring me a Pop Tart or something. I’m really hungry.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“No. Not really. But until I get some telepathic advice from the King of the Cowboys, I should probably just stay put. He’s all the way down in Southern California, you know, so there’s bound to be a delay in the transmission.”
“Okay.”
“You know I’m kidding, right?”
“I’m not so sure about anything right now.” Natalia shook her head slowly in deep befuddlement, then climbed the stairs, opened the door, and went out into the kitchen. There was a woman standing at the table holding a couple of record albums. Natalia quickly shut the door behind her.
“There you are!” the woman chirped. “I found two that I didn’t have already: ‘My Chickashay Gal’ and ‘I’m Gonna Gallop Gallop to Gallup, New Mexico.’”
“I’m very happy for you,” Natalia said.
“I love Roy Rogers. I named my boy Roy and my girl Dale. We have a coon hound named Ghost, just like Roy’s champion coon hound.”
“Five dollars for each record. That’ll be ten all together.”
The woman paid and walked o
ut of the kitchen singing “Happy Trails.”
A moment later Betsy entered with money from a quick sale she’d made in the den. Natalia couldn’t help herself. “Everything’s going to be all right,” she confided with a comforting smile.
Betsy gave Natalia a quizzical look. “You know, don’t you?”
Natalia nodded.
“It’s probably one of the oddest estate sales you’ve ever run, right?”
“A little twisted, you know, but I’m trying to adjust to it.”
“Twisted? How is that?”
“Well, I mean the fact that Patrick’s—”
“Not here? But don’t you think it’s better this way? And besides, Erin says he’s always wanted to go to Mount Rushmore. Last she heard, he was having a wonderful time.”
“Oh dear.”
“Are you all right, Ms. Richman? You don’t look too well.”
“I think I’ll have a Pop Tart. Let’s all have a Pop Tart. Things are about to get very interesting.”
Scratch, scratch, thump, thump.
“And please, call me Natalia.”
1995
VARIOUSLY BEREFT IN MINNESOTA, CALIFORNIA, OKLAHOMA, AND MONTANA
Melanie Minero lives in Minnesota. She hasn’t always lived in Minnesota. The earliest years of her life were spent in the company of four older siblings in Lincoln, Nebraska. Like her three brothers and one sister, Mellie left her hometown as a young adult, and after the death of her remaining parent—her mother—never had much reason to go back.
This story isn’t about Lincoln, Nebraska.
It isn’t about any one particular place, really. It’s about two sisters and two brothers who live in four different states, and about a third brother who’s just died in a different state.
A couple of days ago.
May 16.
These five siblings have never been all that close, although they have made a few begrudging attempts to keep themselves loosely inserted into each other’s lives. In terms of their feelings for one another, the five Ramseys (including the two female nee Ramseys) aren’t really all that different from any of the other millions of dissimilar brothers and sisters who make up the majority of modern extended American families: brothers and sisters who share a few of the same genes and a handful of mutual memories of a connected past—brothers and sisters who by convenience of circumstance grew up together in the same house and now live in other houses in other places.
