Antiques Flee Market

by Barbara Allan

  I raised a cautionary finger. “That is, it’s acceptable if a certain protocol is followed.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, it goes without saying that the gift you want to recycle should fit the person you’re passing it on to. You know, don’t give a country-western CD to someone who likes hip-hop.”

  “Naturally,” Tina said with a crisp nod.

  “And the item should be rewrapped in a plain box—so the getter doesn’t know what store it came from and can’t take it back. Also, be sure to check for any telltale sign that the gift was originally yours…like an enclosure card addressed to you.”

  “Ouch. Anything else?”

  Another cautionary finger wag. “Always regift outside your own circle of family and friends…otherwise, you could receive it back the next year.”

  Tina smiled. “That has happened to us. Kevin’s brother once gave us this horrible hot dog cooker—”

  I laughed, “No! Not that as-seen-on-TV contraption that electrocutes wieners?”

  “That’s the one. And the first—and only—time we used it…honestly, Brandy, our lights dimmed!”

  She waited for my giggle fit to subside.

  “Well,” Teen went on, “we passed it on to one of Kevin’s sisters, who has a bunch of kids—kids love hot dogs, right? And she sent us a thank-you note saying how much they all adored it. Then the following Christmas, bang, we get it back!”

  “Where’s it now?”

  “Kev was afraid I’d try to get rid of it again, at a garage sale or something. He disappeared with it. Probably buried the thing in the backyard.”

  Our food arrived and we crunched our salads and slurped our soups.

  After splitting the bill, Tina went off to use the bathroom, and I made my way back through the boisterous crowd to the front entrance to wait for her.

  I passed the time noting what the women coming in and out of the restaurant were wearing—holiday sweaters ran two to one—when someone gave my arm a little tug.

  I turned to find Mrs. Lange, Joe’s mother, a short, plump, nervous lady who reminded me of Aunt Bea on the old Andy Griffin TV show, only not so cheerful. She had on the official red and purple colors of the Red-Hat Social Club, whose only mandate was to eat and have fun. By the bread crumbs on the woman’s sweater, she indeed was eating…but by her frown-creased forehead, she wasn’t having much fun.

  “Brandy, dear, have you seen Joe lately?” Mrs. Lange asked anxiously.

  I nodded. “Just yesterday, at the clinic.”

  “How did he seem to you…I mean, mentally?” Her right eye had developed a tic, making her question unintentionally comic.

  “Why, fine, I guess. We had a nice conversation. Why do you ask? Isn’t he living at home with you, Mrs. Lange?”

  She took a deep breath that quivered when it came back out. “When I got up this morning, he was gone—along with his army fatigues and all of his gear.”

  That didn’t sound good. I’d never known Joe to suit up during the winter.

  Mrs. Lange asked, “You’re sure he seemed all right?”

  I frowned in thought. “Pleasant…talkative…yeah, fine. We spoke about going to the flea market for a while. Then I had to go in for my appointment.” I paused, then asked, “Have you spoken to his therapist?”

  The woman nodded, the brim of her red hat flapping as if in agreement. “The doctor also said my son was in good spirits, so I don’t understand what could have set him off.”

  I had no answer, either. “I’ll certainly call you if I see him around, or hear of anything.”

  The woman forced a smile. “Thank you, Brandy.”

  As I watched Mrs. Lange return to the table of chattering red-hatted ladies, I spotted Tina talking to a middle-aged, businessman-type who was having a martini lunch at the bar. Teen caught my eye and gave me a “Sorry” look, meaning she had gotten stalled coming out of the ladies’ room and had to stop-and-chat, a consequence of her Tourism Office position.

  I nodded back as if I understood when, truth be told, no man, woman, or business should ever stand in the way of sales at the mall. That was when I noticed Peggy Sue—dressed head to toe in expensive Burberry—seated alone in a nearby booth.

  Since the table was set for two, Sis was probably waiting for someone—which couldn’t be Uncle Bob, because he always worked through the lunch hour (to pay for items like that Burberry ensemble!), so it had to be one of those venomous gal-pals of hers, so notorious for keeping Peggy Sue waiting.

  On impulse (as if I ever acted any other way), I headed over. Maybe this was the opportunity I’d been looking for, if not to broach the subject of my real parentage, at least to set a time when she and I could get together to discuss it calmly.

  And so, feeling full of good pre-Christmas cheer, I stopped at the booth and chirped, “Hi, Peggy Sue!”

  Sis looked up, startled, as if the ghost of Christmas Past had suddenly materialized. “Brandy…what are you doing here?”

  Yes, the warmth my sister exuded toward me was like the traditional Christmas hearth embodied in one wonderful human being.

  “It’s the mall,” I said, as if that explained everything, which it should have. “Just had lunch with Tina. And now we’re going shopping.” I slid into the empty side of the booth. “Peggy Sue…there’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about….”

  Sis seemed anxious; her eyes were wandering, looking past me, toward the entrance of the restaurant. “Well, what is it?” she asked with a smile so brittle it barely qualified as one.

  Suddenly, my nerve, along with my good cheer, evaporated. “Well, if you’re too busy….”

  “I am meeting someone,” Sis said stiffly. “Can’t it wait?”

  “Sure,” I mumbled, “it can wait. It’s already waited thirty-one years….”

  Sis was frowning at me, confused, not angry, when a dark figure loomed over us: the ghost of Christmas Future, aka Connie Grimes, cocooned in a long, black puffy-coat, which only emphasized her considerable girth.

  So the over-Botoxed bovine was Peggy Sue’s luncheon date, and the reason for Sis’s anxiety at my showing up out of the blue. She feared another altercation between Connie and me—after all, I was one shoving match shy of a restraining order.

  But before I could stick the first needle in, Connie asked me, “Did I just see you talking to that…” She made a face. “…Mrs. Lange?”

  I was still seated in the booth, and Peggy Sue nudged me with her knee to vacate.

  “Yeah,” I said, sliding out. “What about her?”

  Connie had taken off her coat, and tossed it in ahead of her as she assumed my spot. “Not her…she can’t help having a crazy son like that, I suppose. Isn’t he a…friend of yours?”

  “Yes…” I didn’t know where this was going. Maybe I was overwhelmed by so much charm.

  Connie said smugly, “I hear he’s gone loony tunes again. Which explains why he nearly killed me the other day.”

  Not that anyone needed a reason to kill Connie Grimes. I nonetheless was interested in hearing what the woman had to say.

  So I asked, “What do you mean, Connie?”

  She looked from me to an uncomfortable Peggy Sue, then back again. “Well,” she said huffily, “I was driving in to that awful trailer park in South End last night, with the DAR girls…” Connie paused to explain to dumb little me. “…Daughters of the Revolution?”

  “Yes,” I said primly.

  “Well, we were taking Christmas turkeys to some of the underprivileged people who live there—we do that every year, that’s just the way the Serenity Daughters are—and that maniac Joe Lange came driving out like a maniac, and nearly hit us.”

  That was two maniacs, but I didn’t say anything. I was busy having a cold feeling fill the pit of my stomach.

  So there I stood with the woman I was convinced was sending me poison-pen notes, and the other woman who I was even more convinced was my biological mother, and here’s what I did abo
ut it.

  “You girls enjoy your lunch,” I said, and caught up at the bar with Tina, who’d finished her conversation with the business acquaintance.

  “Saw you talking with your sister and Connie Grimes,” she said, looping her arm in mine as we headed toward the exit onto the mall.

  “Lucky me.”

  As we passed Mrs. Lange, seated with a tableful of chattering red-hatted ladies, Tina whispered, “Something wrong with your friend Joe? Saw you and Mrs. Lange talking.”

  “Joe seems to have fallen off the mental-health wagon, for no good reason.”

  “Could be the holidays,” she offered.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  Who didn’t this time of year drive insane?

  Banishing from my mind any suspicions of Joe and that Tarzan book of Mr. Yeager’s he coveted, I followed Tina out of the restaurant and we headed straight for Ingram’s, our favorite store. With Christmas and Hanukkah mere weeks away, the discounts were already deep, and Tina and I cruised silently through each department, picking up bargains, crossing names off our lists.

  About an hour later, we were down to us, and took a second pass around the store with an eye on what we might get each other. This round, we allowed talking, but only a few words, like when I picked up a cute pointy-toed stiletto I thought Tina might like, and she went, “Ow!” And then she pointed out a sparkly silver V-neck sweater, and after copping a feel, I went, “Itchy-scratchy.” But soon Tina and I got enough “Ooohs” and “Aaahs” from each other that we had some real gift possibilities. Then Tina said she wanted to go to the lingerie department for a bra, and I suggested that while she did that, I’d visit the stationery section for Christmas cards. A total ploy on both our parts, of course, Tina doubling back to the junior department to buy me the Rock N Republic jeans I’d squealed at, while I sneaked over to the shoes section to get her the UGG boots she’d drooled over. Why do we even bother with the subterfuge?

  Because it’s fun, maybe?

  We had arranged to meet at the front entrance, but I took a detour by the cosmetics counter to replace my dried-up mascara.

  Just before Christmas is the best time to visit the cosmetics counter to try out new products and get personalized attention—not to mention free samples—because everybody else is frantically running around buying presents in the other departments. (The exception is the perfume counter, where herds of husbands and boyfriends roam the aisle like confused cattle, trying to decipher one scent from the other.)

  Here are three makeup tips for women no longer in their twenties:

  1) Less is more…way less—like the very first time you wore cosmetics and tried to fool your folks. The more greasepaint you pile on, the older and harder you look.

  2) Buy expensive cosmetics, not because they are exceptionally better than the drugstore variety, but because you will feel prettier when you apply your Chanel Rouge Allure in “Romantic.” That sounds like an opinion, but I swear it’s a fact.

  3) Work on improving your personality; as beauty fades, a woman can’t get away with as much nonsense.

  I had just purchased the mascara (brown—a tip from Bette Davis) when I spotted my old pal Pudgy—the book scout from the flea market encounter—in the adjacent fine jewelry department, where an attractive, young black woman in a clingy gray dress was in the process of showing him a watch at the David Yurman counter.

  I sauntered over and pretended to look at the other pricey pieces in the glass display case next to him.

  Pudgy, wearing the same silly plaid topcoat as the other night, was saying, “What about that one….” He tapped the glass with a fat finger.

  The saleswoman opened the back of the glass case and withdrew another watch, which she placed on a square piece of white velvet to show off the diamonds better—as if.

  “You certainly have a tasteful eye, sir.” She smiled.

  Which didn’t explain his coat.

  “How much?” the book scout asked.

  “Forty-nine hundred.”

  Pudgy didn’t blink; but I sure did. That was a lot of cabbage to wrap around your wrist.

  Without a pause, the man said, “I’ll take it.”

  Now the saleslady blinked—not at the high-end purchase, but the wad of hundred-dollar bills Pudgy was producing from his wallet.

  “It is a beautiful watch,” she said, recovering, “Mister, uh…?”

  “Potthoff, Harry Potthoff.”

  Not exactly Bond, James Bond.

  “Well, Mr. Potthoff,” the saleswoman cooed, “you’re certainly going to make some woman very happy.”

  “I assume you will wrap it at no extra charge.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Now, I happen to know that wrapping wasn’t free at Ingram’s—even for a five-grand watch—and you could expect to stand in a long line back in customer service.

  But the saleslady, sensing a deal-breaker (and the loss of a hefty commission), only said sweetly, “Why, of course, Mr. Potthoff!” She called another clerk over to take her place at the counter, then ran off to handle the wrapping, personally.

  Tina, looking as hot-in-her-coat and tired as I felt, and laden with heavy shopping bags, trundled toward me. “I’ve been looking all over for you! We were supposed to meet at the front door!”

  “Well, you were late so I came over here,” I whined.

  “I was right on time,” she snapped. “You were early….”

  (FYI: Tina and I are often crabby by the end of our shopping sprees.)

  The cold outside air, however, cooled our tempers, and by the time we loaded up my car, all was forgiven.

  Even though it was only five o’clock, the sky was dark when I dropped Tina off at her house. I let the car idle in the driveway while we sorted the various packages in the backseat, making sure we each had our own booty.

  Then Tina said sweetly, “Thanks, Brandy, I had a really nice time.”

  “Me, too,” I smiled. “Let’s do it again…for the after-Christmas sales.”

  I waited in the car while Tina made it to her front door, where Kevin—after giving me a wave—helped her in with the packages.

  I sat for another minute in the drive. I could see them through the front window as they stood in the living room, Tina with her arms around Kevin, head on his shoulder, and he stroking her hair.

  Then an impulse hit me, and I would be darned if I’d let this opportunity pass me by like the one with Peggy Sue had. I shut off the engine, hopped out of the car, hurried up the sidewalk, banged on the door.

  Tina answered. She was smiling, but her eyes were red. “Did you forget something?” she asked. “Or did I?”

  I stepped inside. “No, I forgot something…. Something important I want to tell you and Kevin.”

  Hearing this, Kevin joined us in the foyer. He put an arm around his wife’s shoulders and said, “Hiya, Brandy. What is it?”

  Tina, with a combination of puzzlement and concern asked, “What is it, honey?”

  “I just wanted to tell you guys,” I said, “that if you need a surrogate mom? I’d be glad to have your baby for you.”

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  A flea market is the easiest place to begin a collection because quantity is high and prices are low. In deciding what to collect, consider price range, difficulty in acquiring more pieces, and—most important of all—space constraints. Mother once started collecting old wringer washing machines until she ran out of room in a week.

  Chapter Four

  Search and Seizure

  After leaving a stunned Tina and Kevin standing in their foyer after my surprise offer, I returned home, where (in the privacy of my bedroom) I celled the one person in the world whose permission I wanted before proceeding any further.

  My ex-husband, Roger, answered.

  “Brandy…anything wrong?”

  “Does there have to be something wrong for me to call?”

  “Of course not….”

  “Good. ’Cause I’m fin
e. Thanks for asking. Is Jake around?”

  “He’s in his room on his PS-3.”

  “Early Christmas present?” I asked. During Jake’s stay with me in October, the upcoming release of the expensive video game system was all the boy could talk about.

  “Yeah, afraid I couldn’t wait.”

  “You mean Jake couldn’t wait, and was making your life miserable.”

  He chuckled softly. “You got that right.”

  “How long did you have to stand in line?”

  Roger sighed. “Don’t even go there…. Let’s just say midnight at a Wal-Mart is proof of life after death, because there must be a heaven since for sure hell exists.”

  I laughed, then said, “I know Jake hates being interrupted in the middle of a game, but would you get him, please? Kind of important.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Expect to wait a while, though….”

  I knew Roger was right, and had come prepared; I used the time to untangle a bunch of chain necklaces from my jewelry box.

  Then my son’s voice was in my ear. “Hey, Mom, what’s up?”

  “Sorry to bother, honey, but I have something to ask you that I just didn’t think was right for an e-mail.”

  “Oh-kay….”

  “You know my best friend Tina?”

  “Ah-huh.”

  I explained, as best as I could, that because of her cancer, Tina and her husband wouldn’t be able to have children of their own.

  With all the compassion a kid his age could summon, which wasn’t very much, Jake said, “Gee, that’s too bad.” Then: “Is that all you wanted to tell me? You upset about that and, uh, need to talk or something?” He wanted to get back to his game.

  “No, there’s more…. They can have a baby with my help. But not if you don’t want me to.” I paused, then asked, “Do you know what a surrogate mother is?”

  “Hummm…” In my mind’s eye I could see Jake wrinkling his cute, freckled nose in thought. “I think so,” he said slowly. “Saw something on the Discovery Channel. Kinda like a lady bakes a cake in her oven from somebody else’s batter, right?”

  I laughed. “That’s pretty darn close. And I want to do that for them.”