Antiques Flee Market

by Barbara Allan

  Remember the “flash mob” fad of a few years back? When text messaging on cell phones was a new phenomenon? People would contact their friends to meet at a certain place, and at a certain time, and then create a sudden crowd on a street corner (or wherever), only to disappear and confound everyone else in the immediate area.

  Cell phone owners have, thankfully, found better uses for text messaging these days, but the prank did inspire Pastor Tutor to try something similar…however, our “flash mob” performs a not-so-random act of kindness, aiming to accomplish a good work before we disappear…supposedly.

  I say “supposedly” because the first time we tried this, it was an unmitigated disaster—thanks, of course, to Mother. She had heard through one of her various, overripened grapevines that a widowed member of the church (name withheld) wanted her living room remodeled, but couldn’t afford it.

  Taking a cue from the BBC show While You Were Out, our congregation swooped in when Mrs. Name Withheld was away for a weekend, and repainted and recovered and rearranged the room. Well, when Mrs. N.W. returned and saw what we had done, she threatened to sue the church unless “every last stick” was put back just the way it was! (My theory is that she specifically didn’t care for the red-and-orange color scheme.) Anyway, since then, Pastor Tudor has always cleared whatever “good deed” we’re about to do beforehand with the owner or proprietor in question.

  This morning the cell phone–savvy members of our church got this text message: Plz B at Suny Sde Up, 10, wk clths, pnt brshs, CUL8R, Pstr Tutr. Meanwhile, the e-mail-educated got: Please be at Sunny Side Up Nursing Home at 10 am. Wear work clothes and bring paint brushes. See you later. Pastor Tutor,:-) And finally, the computer illiterate (mostly older folks) received a personal phone call from the pastor with even more detailed information, plus an offer of a ride if need be.

  A quick sidebar about Sunny Side Up.

  The nursing home made the national news about ten years ago when a crackhead held the staff and elderly residents hostage at gunpoint, demanding money that none of them had. But what this home-grown terrorist didn’t realize was that Sunny Side Up had recently taken in transfers from a nearby veterans’ home, and I mean, these were ex-combat soldiers who’d been in the Battle of the Bulge, and fought at Bloody-Nose Ridge, and survived the beaches of Normandy! Well, those grizzled, old veterans dispatched that crackhead in short order, beginning with a crack on the head with a crutch, followed by a wallop in the groin with a walker, ending with a busted kneecap by a bedpan.

  End of sidebar.

  On this particular morning, we were giving the recreation room at the nursing home a fresh coat of paint (color approved by management), so after feeding Sushi and giving her some insulin, I wolfed down a plate of boysenberry pancakes. Then Mother and I donned our Jackson Pollock-splattered paint clothes, threw on our raccoon coats, and headed out to the Buick, each carrying a few old brushes whose bristles were stiff with dried paint.

  The weather was sunny and surprisingly warm for December; most of the snow was melting, and it made for sloppy driving as we headed out Cedar Street to the nursing home, located just this side of the treacherous bypass (good call).

  Sunny Side, housing about fifty residents, a modern, single-floor building with white siding, was designed in a U-shape, with a courtyard in the center. What with the usual Sunday visitors, plus the onslaught of New Hope Samaritans, the parking lot was full. I dropped Mother off at the entrance, then parked on an adjacent street and tromped back in the slush.

  When I arrived in the lobby of the nursing home, some commotion was already going on in the recreation room, and we hadn’t even started painting yet. It seemed—according to one henna-haired lady supported by a walker—that many of the residents were none too happy about being thrown out of their common room, depriving them of their normal Sunday morning activities.

  But Pastor Tutor handled the crisis with his usual aplomb, assuring the unhappy ones we would be finished in an hour, at which time they could return to the big-screen TV, and checkers, and whatever else they did in there to occupy their time.

  Then Pastor Tutor gathered his flock around—thirty or forty of us sheep—and led us in the Lord’s Prayer, which was followed by a minute of silent prayer. (My personal plea to the Almighty? That we would finish painting in an hour…. )

  What happened next is a sad commentary on the overrated intelligence of the human race, throwing into question how we got to the top of the food chain in the first place. Complete and utter chaos ensued as everyone tried to organize how to proceed with the painting.

  Except me—I stood to one side, waiting for the dust to settle, and that was when I noticed that someone else was absent, someone who was usually in the thick of the fray: Mother.

  I set my paintbrush down and began the hunt.

  For the next ten minutes, I wandered the antiseptic-smelling hallways, peering into the open rooms—where sometimes the hospital beds were occupied, and other times not—and listening at the doors that were shut.

  Finally, I heard Mother’s voice coming from behind a closed door that bore, in a little tag holder, the name GRACE CRAWFORD.

  I pushed the door slowly inward and saw Mother standing next to the slightly raised bed, in which the elderly, frail-looking Grace was propped, her shoulder-length white hair splayed on the pillow.

  Mother was saying, “My favorite Bible verse is, ‘There but for the grace of God go I.’”

  Which was weird in a number of ways, starting with the other woman’s name being Grace.

  Obviously, Mother would rather pontificate than paint.

  Grace responded in a feeble voice, “Mine is, ‘Do unto others as they do unto you.’”

  “Don’t you mean, ‘As you would have them do unto you’?” Mother corrected. Then she spotted me in the doorway. “Ah, Brandy, come meet a dear old friend of mine….”

  Now, Mother had at least five hundred “dear old friends,” as her Christmas card list attested to, so I was bound to run into a few I hadn’t met.

  I joined Mother beside the bed. Grace’s frail body seemed skeletal beneath the covers, but her blue eyes were surprisingly bright.

  Grace said, “So this is your lovely daughter….” She held out a bony hand, which I clasped.

  “Hello, Grace,” I said.

  The woman looked at Mother with a yearning expression. “You were so lucky to have another child so late in life.”

  Wasn’t she, I thought with a bitterness at odds with doing good works. A miracle, even.

  Mother turned to me. “Grace’s daughter and I were in high school together—she was a year ahead of me.”

  As I mentioned before, who wasn’t?

  “Oh, that’s nice,” I said. “Where’s your daughter now, Grace?”

  Sadness dimmed the blue eyes. “Gone, I’m afraid. Dead these many years.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said quickly, then made things worse by following with, “Do you have any other children?”

  The woman sighed. “No. Ella Jane was my only child.”

  I gave Mother a “thanks for getting me into this” look, but to her credit, she said, “Well, we must be get back to our painting.”

  As if Mother had ever begun!

  To me, Grace said gracefully, “It was nice to meet you, Brandy.”

  I muttered the same; then Mother and I left, closing the door behind us.

  As we walked down the hallway, toward the recreation room, I said to Mother, “Why do I think that the reason our church came here today was so that you could see that particular old lady?”

  Mother scoffed, “Why, that’s absurd, dear…. You have a devious mind.”

  “Runs in the family. What was that about, anyway?”

  “It was about doing the Christian thing and visiting an old friend, when I noticed her name on the roster of residents here. My visit with Grace was strictly unintentional.”

  I smirked. “You never do anything unintentional, except maybe get
me in hot water.”

  Mother merely smiled.

  I asked, “So what happened to her daughter?”

  Mother shook her head and did her tsk-tsk number. “A month after the girl went off to college, she hung herself—or is it hanged? I’m never certain of the usage.”

  I had stopped short in the hall. “What? Why?”

  Mother also halted, and faced me. “The rumor back then was that poor Ella Jane discovered she was pregnant. And in those days…well, my dear…there weren’t as many options open for an unmarried woman.”

  Mother walked on, but I stayed put, thinking about the better option Peggy Sue had taken, when something bumped rudely into the back of my legs.

  I turned to see the henna-haired lady with the walker, and she had a mean look on her face. She looked like an ancient version of Lucille Ball who’d just heard her show was canceled.

  “Can I help you?” I asked politely, ignoring the fact that she had run into me.

  “Yes!” she snapped. “You can help me by painting the frickin’ room. I’m missing the gosh-darn Game Channel!”

  Only she didn’t say “frickin’” or “gosh-darn,” either.

  I could have tipped her over with one finger, but remembering the Golden Rule, hurried to catch up with Mother.

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  Bringing along a few useful tools to a flea market can save you a lot of time and heartache. These include a notebook, tape measure, magnifying glass, tote bag for small items, plus packing material and sacks for breakables.

  Mother once put a delicate figurine in her coat pocket, thinking it to be safe, then got in the car, and sat on it. (Go ahead and smile—I did.)

  Chapter Seven

  Cuckoo Clocked

  When I awoke the next morning—roused by a wet-nosed Sushi—there was a Post-it from Mother stuck to the coffeepot (the first place I go), telling me that she would be gone for most of the day “on business.” Which of course meant sticking her nose into other people’s business.

  That gave me an excuse to enjoy a lazy day of peace and quiet, and provided time to catch up on some important reading I’d been putting off—namely, my fashion magazines.

  After feeding Sushi, then giving her a shot, followed by a dog biscuit (the promise of which made her actually want to get stuck), I made myself some burnt (on purpose) cinnamon toast, which I nibbled between gulps of strong hot coffee. Then I went back upstairs to bed, not to sleep—I’d had my morning coffee, remember?—but to work on perfecting laziness as an art form.

  Sushi soon joined me, jumping up on the rumpled covers, wanting to play, so I set aside the latest issue of In Style, slipped my hand under the blanket, and pretended my arm was a stalking snake. Soosh was pretty good at sensing where my fingers-shaped-like-a-python’s-mouth would strike next, and more than once I went “Ouch!” when her sharp little teeth pierced through the cover.

  The downstairs phone interrupted our fun, and I went out into the hallway and stood at the top of the stairwell to listen to the message that was already coming in on the answer machine below. (If it was for Mother, I never picked up; why subject myself to her later endless interrogation over what “exactly” the caller had said? Let the tape tell her.)

  But when I heard the quavering voice of Mrs. Lange, I rushed to pick up the extension by the upstairs bathroom. Instant guilt poked through the layers of Prozac and indolence—I had never followed up on Joe having been spotted at the trailer park the night of the murder.

  “This is Brandy,” I said.

  A sigh of relief flooded the line. “Oh, thank goodness I reached you—”

  “What is it, Mrs. Lange?”

  The words tumbled out: “I’m so worried about Joe—he hasn’t been home for over a week!”

  That was alarming, all right, but to counteract her distress, I said calmly, “Is that really so unusual?”

  “Oh, yes, and he’s completely off his medication. But even so, he always comes back home.”

  “To see how you’re doing,” I said.

  “For food and water!” The woman rushed on, “You see, I normally set out his favorite food on the kitchen counter every few days, wrapped sandwiches or maybe Lunchables and bottled water and a thermos of hot coffee, and then in the morning, they’d be gone.” Her voice cracked in a sob. “But last week’s food is still there!”

  This was yet another deviation from Joe’s pattern, which could spell trouble. So could a week, even with a wrapped sandwich.

  I said, “He’s probably camped out in Wild Cat Den.” If he’d gone full-throttle survivalist, he’d be having squirrel-kabobs and the like. No need for her, or me, to panic. Right?

  Right?

  “Wild Cat Den’s where he usually goes,” she was agreeing, “but he’s never gone off his medication in the winter before.” A little sob escaped. “And it’s freezing out now!”

  I said gently, “I’m sure he’s fine. He’s trained himself to withstand all kinds of conditions…. Have you tried contacting the park ranger?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t get an answer, so I just left a message.”

  It was time to please Mother and displease Brian and do some Nancy Drewing. “Would you like me to go out there and see if I can find Joe?”

  “Oh, would you?” she asked. “That would be wonderful.” She paused, adding tentatively, “Otherwise, Brandy, I don’t have any choice—I’ll have to contact the sheriff, and that will mean filing commitment papers again, and—”

  “Let me try to bring your son home first.”

  “Thank you, Brandy. You’ve always been a good friend to Joe. How I wish you two kids could have settled down together.”

  “Let me get back to you,” I said, really wishing she hadn’t shared that last thought with me.

  In my bedroom, buried in the back of the closet, was a ski outfit that I’d only worn once, probably because it was a neon lime green. I’d purchased it since it seemed only fair warning, letting others see an out-of-control Brandy-on-skies coming at them. I climbed into the insulated pants and jacket, then sat on the edge of the bed to lace up my waterproof hiking boots.

  That’s when Sushi went ballistic, dancing and yapping in front of me like a puppet operated by a puppeteer having a seizure. You see, I only put on those boots when I take her out to Wild Cat Den. What tells the blind pooch I’m putting on those particular shoes—the smell of the rubber? The sound of the laces?

  “No, girl, you can’t go,” I said, adding ridiculously, “This is business.” Surely she would understand.

  Well, for sure she understood the word “no,” and in a flash of brown and white fur, the dog disappeared into my closet, and in moments was backing out, dragging the Stuart Weitzman black loafer by her sharp little teeth, and—with a great deal of effort, which I could only grudgingly admire—placed the shoe right front of me, then flopped on top of it, her jaws opened, ready to munch.

  I stood, hands on hips, and looked down, and growled at her.

  She growled back.

  “Soosh, that’s blackmail!”

  With a further little growl, she dug her fangs into the expensive soft leather.

  “All right!” I hollered. She did not make empty threats. “All right! I’ll take you.”

  Sushi released the loafer.

  I waggled a finger as if she could see it. “But it won’t be as much fun as in the summertime,” I warned her. “And you’ll have to wear that coat you hate, to keep warm.”

  I left Soosh to think that over.

  In the kitchen I packed some leftover meat loaf, stale potato chips, and rebottled faucet water in a small backpack, in case I found a malnourished Joe. We didn’t keep Lunchables around.

  Sushi was waiting by the coat closet, apparently agreeable to my terms, and I got out the small red doggie jacket that had five legs because I had knitted it while watching a cable showing of the original Night of the Living Dead, and perhaps wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing.


  But Sushi couldn’t see my five-legged mistake, or else interpreted the extra opening as if intended for her tail, and I received nary a yip nor a yap as I stuffed her into the coat. Then, not wanting Soosh to get too overheated, I quickly wrote Mother a note telling her where we were going (didn’t want Mother getting overheated, either), and left it on the downstairs toilet seat lid, the first place she’d go when home from her day of snooping.

  Soon Sushi and I were tooling along the River Road, me enjoying the snowy, woodsy landscape, and Soosh enjoying the warmth of the sun bathing her through the windshield. I had one of those “Cocktail Christmas” CDs going in the dash player, with the likes of Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin and Lena Horne doing seasonal standards in a swinging way. They served to help lighten my mood, since I was both a little afraid and somewhat guilty about Joe’s potential status in the wilds of Wild Cat Den.

  After about fifteen miles, a well-worn sign pointing to the state park appeared, and I turned onto a blacktop road. A few more miles later, I glided by the old Pine Creek Grist Mill, situated on the banks of a now-frozen stream, the mill’s giant wooden wheel motionless for the season.

  Then a small log cabin home came into view. This was where Park Ranger Edwina Forester lived. That’s right—Forester. Deal with it.

  No? Then let’s discuss for a few moments the correlation of a person’s name and his or her personality and/or destiny. I knew this guy in high school whose last name was Rushing, and honestly, he was always in a big hurry to go nowhere in particular. Then there was this girl at community college I was friends with for a while, but had to drop, because she drove me bananas taking so long to make up her mind about even the simplest of things. Her last name? Mull. So, is it just a coincidence that Edwina Forester became a park ranger? I think not. If you don’t believe me, check with that old dickens Charles.