The Death of Mungo Blackwell

by Lauren H Brandenburg

  “She’ll be all right,” the owner of the alarming eyeballs informed Mr Price. “Could have been worse.”

  “I know. She’s a tough one.” Charlie held his wife’s hand.

  Velveteen pulled her hair carefully to one side. “Charlie, how do I look?”

  He kissed her on the forehead. “As beautiful as the day we met, but with less paint on you.”

  On the day they’d met he had backed into her while she was working on a display for the university’s college of design. She loved the memory even if he had ruined her painting.

  “Just a few papers to sign, and you will be on your way back to Mother’s house.” The doctor wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead while shining a light into her left eye.

  “Mother’s house? You mean my house.” Velveteen pushed her hair behind her ears and wiped dripping mascara from underneath her eyes.

  “Mother was alone when she passed there. Not real sure what had been cooking on the stove when she went. We got the smell out of the house for the most part. Don’t worry – she won’t haunt you.”

  The team of nurses tittered. Velveteen asked for a Valium.

  The doctor laughed, those big eyeballs bouncing with each chuckle. Was he, Dr Whatever, laughing at her? She couldn’t remember his name. Had he told them? She had a name for him: Doctor Eyeballs. That was a good fit.

  “It’s a sweet place,” Doctor Eyeballs said. “Lots of memories. Any who, welcome to Coraloo, Price family.”

  On the car ride home, her insides shook and her head ached. She tried to close her eyes and imagine herself pulling a freshly baked pie from the oven, but when she did, all she could see was flowers – big orange dahlias and hot pink mums, covering every inch of the walls.

  “I really think I should have stayed in the hospital a few more days… or weeks. Maybe a month.”

  Five minutes later they were back. “Let’s try this again.” Charlie helped Velveteen from the car.

  She hooked her arm in his, hoping the gaudy wallpaper had been a nightmare, but one foot into the doorway and her knees went wobbly. The longhaired tangerine carpet seemed to pull the saucer-sized dahlias right off of the walls.

  “It’s not so bad.” Charlie escorted her into the room that was no bigger than the laundry space in their townhouse. “Okay… it’s bad. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a room so ugly in my entire life. But at least it doesn’t smell, right?”

  Then they walked into the kitchen. The pea green cabinets and matching linoleum floor covering were nearly camouflaged by the coordinating green walls. Above the porcelain sink, a giant stained-glass bumblebee with illuminated wings swung back and forth casting eerie shadows across the ceiling. Velveteen surveyed the room, pulling open drawers and rubbing her hand down the Formica countertop.

  Charlie was disappointed; so was she. How could she not be? He would have a talk with the realtor in the morning – who strangely enough had a profile picture very similar in appearance to the man Velveteen had them all calling Doctor Eyeballs. Charlie had no words of apology for his wife. He had said his fair share before The Rooning, but she wouldn’t accept it – reminding him that if he truly were responsible for the claimed salmonella outbreak among the professionals of the city, the Price household would have been infected, and they were not.

  Velveteen gasped as they stepped through the door of the master bedroom. It was black – black carpet, black walls, and what had possibly at one time been a black, but was now worn to a threadbare gray, cushion on the window seat. Charlie rushed to her side and tried again. “I’ll call first thing in the morning. We’ll find a new place –”

  She walked to the window and looked out. Lamppost lighting illuminated the quiet, empty street and row of facing houses. “No. It’s perfect. I can work with black.” Then she laughed. She laughed so hard Charlie nearly took his turn at passing out. He did not know why she was laughing, but nonetheless, she was laughing, and it reminded him of the twenty-something interior design student he had fallen in love with.

  Soon they were both laughing, lying on the black carpet, eyes glued to the rhinestone-bedazzled ceiling fan. Velveteen sat up and smiled at her husband. “Old lady Toft died in this room, you know.”

  Charlie pulled her back down to the ground and kissed her.

  “I found my room!” Gideon called from the second floor. “My bed’s built into the wall, and I have bookshelves. My carpet’s all red and there are cowboys riding hippos all over the walls, but I can deal with it!”

  With that, Charlie and Velveteen burst into another round of laughter. “Sweetheart… ” He could barely get the words out, and his sides hurt. “I think the doctor might be our realtor.”

  Velveteen fashioned her fingers into circles over her eyes. “Mr Price, I’d like to sell you a house, not exactly a house, more like a shoebox. It’s a lovely fixer-upper. But first, we must remove your appendix!”

  Charlie brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face and kissed her again. If every night in Coraloo was to be like this one, then maybe, just maybe, The Rooning was worth it. Tomorrow he would go to the market.

  CHAPTER 3

  Gideon Price, thin like his mother and light-haired like his father, stood outside the stone archway rocking back and forth on the heels of his tennis shoes while Charlie sorted through a collection of old windows, rusted bicycles, and cracked flowerpots stacked by the entrance to the market.

  “Dad, don’t you think if there was something to be found, someone else would have found it?”

  “Maybe, but if I don’t check, I could be passing up on my greatest pick yet!”

  Gideon sighed.

  The sweet smells of cinnamon, yeasty breads, and spicy sausages rolled out the entrance.

  Inside, the light from the grand chandeliers flicked on, illuminating the interior. Cars pulled into the small gravel lot, spraying a thin veil of dust on the outside wares of the market.

  Charlie wiped his hands on his slacks. “Time to go!”

  Gideon stepped through the doors and into the Coraloo Flea Market for the first time. Parallel rows of long folding tables filled the open brick structure, holding piles of previously unwanted goods. Eager vendors stood behind, waiting to strike a bargain. Gideon knew how this worked. He had watched his dad do it at the pawnshops in the city. Charlie would act uninterested, pick up the object of interest, turn it over in his hand, ask how much, shrug, and walk away. A few moments later, Charlie would have his phone out checking the possibility of resale against similar sold items. Then, he would casually return to the item and make his offer. The process made Gideon uncomfortable.

  Gideon passed a glance at the discarded electronics and a basket of unmatched kitchen utensils – his mother would cringe – and to a stack of deteriorating comic books. This he found interesting. He flipped through the gritty stack. They smelled of stale cigarette smoke. No thanks.

  “Here.” Charlie handed Gideon a ten-dollar bill. “Go grab a bite to eat. Bring back the change.”

  Gideon happily took the offer to leave while his dad haggled over his next pick.

  The further Gideon went into the Coraloo Flea Market, the warmer the air became and the thicker the hints of nutmeg and rosemary oozing from the back. It didn’t make sense that a place with fancy shops would allow the temporary vendors and all of their junk to set up right in the middle of it all, but Gideon had seen stranger things – like the time his dad purchased a vintage drum set only to find the former owner had attempted to use it as an elaborate fish tank.

  A crowd congregated under one of the grand antique chandeliers hanging from a wooden beam above the second-hand dealers. Curious, Gideon inched his way under the shoulders of expectant tourists to the front of the gathering.

  At the center of the circle of spectators, a boy pretended to take something from his pocket and smear its contents onto a fake mustachio. The boy waved in Gideon’s direction. Gideon looked over his shoulder, assuming the stranger was waving at someone else. Ano
ther boy entered the drama with a headdress of feathers wobbling from side to side on top of his head as he walked proudly to the center of the circle of onlookers. The audience laughed. A girl followed with a star painted on the bridge of her nose.

  The boy with the mustachio knelt down on one knee in front of the one with the feathers. “I’ll do anything to wed my true love.”

  “Anything?”

  The crowd snickered. Gideon frowned. He was not a fan of love stories.

  Mustachio boy confidently and overdramatically placed his hand on his hips. “Anything!”

  The feathered one pointed at the shoes on the feet of the other as the girl appeared to swoon, with eyelashes blinking wildly. “Shoes!”

  The other boy removed the shoes and handed them to the native chief. The girl wrapped her arms around the neck of the now barefoot boy as the audience followed with a chorus of “aahhs”. Then suddenly a cry like a baby’s rang out, and the native princess dropped to the ground with a thud, her arms spread, tongue lolling out the side of her mouth, eyes shut tightly.

  “Cursed!” the chief shouted at the boy.

  Then the three, plus a tiny child who appeared from behind a black sheet held up by two redheaded girls, bowed before the entertained audience. The pleased tourists clapped, cheered, and tossed coins into a work boot set aside for the purpose of collecting tips. Gideon shook his head. If this was how the children of Coraloo had fun, he wanted no part of it.

  But as the aromas of the delicacies pulled him toward his destination, he hoped what his father had read to them from Wayfaring was true: “The delicacies mouth-watering and as interesting as the woman behind the counter…”

  Gideon stood on tiptoes behind a line of breakfast-hungry patrons. Wooden shelves filled with sticky sweets, freshly baked muffins, and jars of apple butter framed the brick wall. The chalkboard above the case listed the prices of the treats, breakfast sandwiches, homemade sausages, and the morning’s special: Moroccan wheat berry bread. A short, portly woman with silver hair pulled tightly into a bun on the top of her head moved hurriedly back and forth, occasionally wiping her hands on her white apron.

  As interesting as the woman behind the counter.

  Gideon finally inched up to the counter. “Excuse me?” The woman stopped and glared at him. His mother often told him he spoke too softly. He tried again. “Ma’am?” But she didn’t answer. Why wasn’t she asking him what he wanted?

  There was a tap on his shoulder. Gideon turned quickly to face the gray-eyed, redheaded boy from the performance a few moments earlier.

  “It’s your first time, isn’t it?”

  Gideon nodded. A line of people formed behind him, sharing with one another phrases like “my favorite” and “best in the state”. His mind waffled between the sticky bun and a trio of spiced doughnuts. He’d eat any of it, except for the purple pickled eggs housed in an oversized mason jar sitting by the cash register.

  “She only responds to Granny. Give it a try.”

  With his stomach rumbling and his mouth salivating for any one of the delicious treats, he took the boy’s advice. “Excuse me, Granny –”

  “What!” the woman barked.

  Gideon stumbled back. “I think I want the sticky bun.”

  “Well, do you want it or not? I don’t have time for thinkers.” She huffed. “It’s got bourbon in it? Are you twenty-one?”

  Terrified, he shook his head. “I’ll have –”

  “I’m just messing with your mind. The alcohol cooks out… most of it, I think. Are you good with that?”

  Speechless, he nodded.

  The woman reached for a square piece of brown parchment paper. She then removed the warm pastry from the case and bundled it in the paper. “Pay at the end.”

  Gideon scooted to the end of the case where a younger version of the old woman pushed buttons on an antique cash register.

  “Three-fifty.”

  He paid the lady and took his pastry to the dining area of the market. The rich smells of caramel, cinnamon, and bourbon invaded his senses and fought with the earthy naturalness of the homegrown herbs sold in the shop across from him. He picked up the yeasty, sugar-drenched treat and was about to take a bite when the boy from a few minutes earlier plopped down beside him.

  “Granny’s are the best. I don’t care for the bourbon one so much. My dad likes it though.” The boy chomped down on an apple spice muffin and then motioned for Gideon to eat as well. There was silence as the boy forced every morsel of the delight into his mouth, chewed the hunk of muffin, and then gulped it down. “You’re new, right? Live in the Toft house?”

  Gideon didn’t answer. He preferred to stick with Captain Turnlip and the crew from his comic book.

  “It’s okay if you’re shy. I’m not shy. Blackwells aren’t shy. We are people-people – born to walk the earth meeting people.”

  “I’m not shy,” Gideon fibbed with a mouthful of pastry.

  “I’m Danger. Danger Blackwell.” He extended his sticky hand.

  “Danger?”

  “It’s a family name.”

  “Oh.”

  “You like Coraloo?”

  “It’s okay. Different.” Different like this sticky bun. The unique flavor created a sensation that burned his throat and came out of his nostrils.

  Gideon did not know what else to say. Should he say it was weird the town physician and the realtor were one in the same? Or should he mention last night when the family tried to go out for dinner, the tavern had already run out of deer meat, and they had to eat pizza on their living room floor because the moving truck had gotten lost finding the town?

  “Right,” Danger mumbled. “I like your shirt.”

  Gideon glanced down at the logo of two pirate swords crossed over a shooting star. “Thanks.”

  “Pirates of the Cosmos?”

  Gideon raised his eyebrows, hopeful for a fellow follower. “Do you read them?”

  “No. Not much for comic books. Too short.”

  Gideon had a feeling the boy wasn’t going to go away unless he engaged in the conversation. “Oh. I have them all.”

  “You’re a collector?”

  “No. I’m an expert.” Gideon was not only president of the POTC fan club; he was also the founder.

  “Me too.”

  “I thought you didn’t read comic books.”

  “I don’t. My mom says I’m an expert on the family.”

  “The Blackwells?” Gideon had heard his dad go on about their strange habits and odd customs.

  “Of course! I know everything.”

  “Nobody knows everything.” Gideon stuffed another bite of sticky bun into his mouth.

  “I do! I know everything about the Blackwells… everything.”

  “That’s good, I guess. I should probably get back to my dad.” Gideon wasn’t ready to make friends.

  “I have to go to our shop anyway. You can come see me there, if you want. We’re the second one on the left, across from the flower shop.”

  Gideon would rather hide inside his oversized sticky bun than visit with total strangers. He hated it when his parents had company back in the city. His mom would make him wear trousers and a bowtie, and his dad wouldn’t let him read his comic books in front of the guests. It didn’t make sense to put on fancy clothes to sit at your own table and act like you were interested in things like taxes and Derby hats.

  He glanced up to see if he could spot his dad through the sea of people.

  Charlie quickly sorted through the odds and ends of the temporary vendors. He knew what he was looking for. He had already acquired a vintage Rolodex, three pairs of reading spectacles, and a chrome mid-century stapler. The best deals came from the temporaries. He had learned that on his second trip to Coraloo. Most were eager to make a quick sell and would take a decent offer.

  The corner of a flute case peeked out from under a stack of yellowing National Geographic magazines. Charlie hurried over. He had made the mistake of waiting onc
e before and lost two silver, however badly tarnished, candlesticks to a decorator.

  Charlie flipped open the case. The flute was in need of minor repair, but it would resell well. Music is money. After his victory with the Waterman, Charlie had spent hours online reading articles on the art of the pick by a man who made his fortune rummaging through backyard barns. The man even had his own television show. “How much?”

  “Fifty.”

  He could get at least two hundred for it. “Will you take thirty-five?”

  “Fifty.” The vendor held firm.

  Charlie closed the case. There were too many people. He could not chance walking off to double check the selling price on his phone. Music is money. “Fifty it is.” The deal was done.

  For the fun of it, Charlie ventured past a few of the shops. Velveteen would’ve loved the shops. Hopeful, but fully aware she would not, he had asked her to come along.

  “I have work to do, Charlie.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The wallpaper has to come down, Charlie! I can’t bear the sight of it. It makes my eyelids flip inside out. You go ahead. Stay as long as you like.”

  Charlie and Gideon stared at her with their mouths agape for a full minute. “I’ll stay back and help.” The offer was surface. He needed to go to the market. What little funds they had were quickly depleting. He would have to find items to flip quickly.

  “I’ve got this, Charlie.”

  When Velveteen said she wanted to do something, she did it. Charlie hoped she would still be alive when they returned home. As far as he knew, it had been years since she had so much as hammered a nail – not that he doubted whether or not she could, but it had been a while. Now she planned to remove vinyl wall covering. He smiled, imagining her lost among the dahlias with a pink posy glued to her bottom.

  Charlie stopped in front of the bookshop’s entrance. There was no need to go inside; haggling in the shops was unacceptable. Unlike the temporary vendors, the Blackwells did not haggle. The collector in him begged to go inside, to take a peek, but the man who had failed in business and could barely afford to house his family pushed back.