Junkyard Man

by Libby Howard

  “Is everything all right?” I asked him softly.

  He jerked his head, giving me a sheepish smile. “Yeah. I just think…that guy over there with the Mustang is someone I know. I think that’s Dillon Buckle.”

  I looked again. The guy standing next to the Mustang was a man in his mid-twenties with a hairstyle that brought back memories of Flock of Seagulls. He was tall and thin, wearing a pair of white skinny jeans and a pastel striped loose-fit tank top. It was the kind of tank top where the sleeve holes were big enough to drive a full-size pickup truck through them, and in my opinion, the guy didn’t have the muscular body type to pull it off. But who was I to judge other people’s fashion choices?

  “Nice car,” I commented. It was. That Mustang looked brand new and seemed to be outfitted with all the bells and whistles. I felt a moment of envy. Not that I wanted a Mustang, but my twelve-year-old sedan probably didn’t have more than a year or two left on it. I held my breath every time I went out to start it, praying that it wouldn’t need more than an oil change, brakes, or new tires in the near future.

  Henry squinted at the car. “Yeah, that’s Dillon Buckle. He’s Sean’s sister’s boyfriend, but I don’t remember him having a car like that last time I saw him.”

  I looked the guy over once more. Sean was in track with Henry and was usually over once or twice per week. They’d play video games up in Henry’s room, or go out and ride bikes all over the neighborhood. But Sean was thirteen, and I squirmed to think that a sister of his would be of an age to be dating a man in his mid-twenties. “How old is Sean’s sister?”

  “Twenty-three.” Henry grinned at my surprised look. “Jessie is his half-sister. Sean’s mom was married before.”

  I eyed Dillon Buckle again, wondering if he just had a really good job, or if he was one of those young people that blew every dime on a sweet car and ate Ramen every night.

  We walked back to the car, and Henry and I lagged behind while he tried to wipe the worst of the ice cream from his face. The napkins weren’t doing much good, but I’d found an ancient wet-wipe in my purse from some crab feast in another life and had given it to the boy.

  “Miss Kay?” Henry asked, scrubbing his chin. “I think I might be the reason Taco was going over to Mr. Peter’s house all the time.”

  “What, you got him hooked on chicken sandwiches and when you cut him off, he needed to find a new supplier?”

  Henry looked at the wet-wipe, then rubbed his mouth again. “No, he started following me over there and hanging out with us. And Mr. Peter would give him snacks, so I think he got used to it.”

  I stopped in the parking lot. “You were going over to Mr. Peter’s house?”

  He squirmed, balling up the napkins and wet-wipe in his fist. “Right after we moved in, I was riding my bike and saw something cool in his yard, so I went to check it out. And then I saw something cool in his backyard. He saw me back there and I thought he’d be mad, ‘cause old people don’t like you trespassing, but he was really nice. He showed me some other stuff and offered me cookies and juice.”

  And now I was freaking out, imagining the most horrible things ever. Reverend Lincoln was wrong. Death wasn’t my worst-case-scenario; the terrifying suspicions running through my mind right now were. “Does your dad know? Did he…what did he show you?”

  “He showed me some cool old alarm clocks. Sheesh, Miss Kay, I’m not five. I can tell when people are being creepy and I know about bad-touch and all that. He was just a lonely old man. And he was nice. And no, I didn’t tell my dad because I was sure he’d react the same way. I thought since you knew him, since you’d gone over there a few times, that you’d understand.”

  Henry’s voice was getting louder, his face red.

  “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. It’s just that you’re thirteen, and I didn’t know you were going over there. And I didn’t expect that a kid your age would be interested in old appliances and china.”

  The boy thrust his chin up. I noticed that there was still some ice cream smeared along the edge. “What am I supposed to like? I like running in track. I like gardening. I like riding my bike and video games and swimming. And I like old stuff. It’s cool to look at something and think that someone’s grandmother, or maybe Ben Franklin, or somebody else used it. It’s cool to look at old stuff and wonder why people bought it, what they used it for, why they eventually got rid of it.”

  I’d stereotyped this poor kid. And if I’d realized he liked to garden, I would have put him to work three months ago.

  “I’m so sorry, Henry. I don’t have kids of my own, and I was an only child growing up. It was a long time since I was your age, and I obviously have a lot of wrong ideas about what thirteen-year-old boys should be interested in.”

  He looked down at his hands. “It’s okay. I don’t think Dad understands either. He doesn’t like gardening, or video games, or old stuff.”

  I put my arm around the boy’s shoulder. “No, he likes law books. Yuck. I mean, who in their right mind would voluntarily read that stuff?”

  He laughed. “I know, right?”

  “You need to tell him, though. And if you want to hang out with any of our neighbors in the future, please let him know.” Then something struck me. “It must be really hard for you that Mr. Peter died.”

  He nodded, still looking at the crumpled napkins. “He was a nice guy. I’m gonna miss him.”

  “I know. Me, too.” We headed to the car, and I thought there was one more thing that God had sent Harry Peter in the sunset of his life—a young friend who shared his interests.

  Chapter 12

  “How many more gray hairs do I have since this morning?” Judge Beck asked.

  I motioned for him to bend down and took a look. It was hard to tell what were sun-streaks in his blond hair and what was gray. Lucky duck. “Five,” I finally announced. “That’s pretty good. Madison’s given you more.”

  He grimaced. “Madison is also fifteen. She wants me to allow Austin Meadows to take her to the movies next week. I’m trying to find a reason to say no.”

  “You can always insist on going with them and sitting two rows back.” I tried and failed to hold back a smile.

  “Don’t laugh, I might do that. I’m just warning you in case I come home with snow-white hair.”

  “Or completely bald,” I suggested. Judge Beck looked genuinely terrified at the prospect, and I did end up laughing.

  “It’s Henry who’s causing me the gray hairs today. He said he told you about going over and ‘hanging out’ with Mr. Peter?” Judge Beck made little air quotes, as if ‘hanging out’ were some newfangled expression that he needed to emphasize.

  “I know. I wigged out at first too, although there was never any rumor of Mr. Peter being anything but a nice old guy. Well, except for that time he threw a toaster at his nephew’s head.”

  “He did what?” Judge Beck waved the question away. “Anyway, Henry swears nothing happened beyond the old man showing him a whole bunch of pottery and china and old appliances.”

  “That’s pretty much what he did when I went over, except I wasn’t interested enough to stay more than five minutes.”

  The judge sighed, running a hand through his not-so-gray hair. “Evidently Henry was interested enough to stay for a few hours—hours I thought he was out riding his bike. After the first visit, he said he brought Sean over with him, I guess as a sort of chaperone.”

  That was actually pretty smart. “Does Sean like antiques as well?” I hated to make assumptions, since I’d clearly been very wrong about Henry’s interests and hobbies.

  “No. But Sean is a good friend and evidently Mr. Peter gets the grocery store to deliver a selection of awesome cookies. Sean would raise his blood sugar levels through the roof while Mr. Peter and Henry discussed numerous old china brands that I’ve never heard of before.” He shook his head. “I didn’t know. I mean, what thirteen-year-old boy likes pottery and china?”

  “A very well-adjusted boy,” I replied
.

  “I get the old alarm clock thing. I liked to take electronic stuff apart myself when I was that age, too.” Judge Beck shot me a knowing look. “And my incredible lack of skill in putting things back together resulted in my parents suggesting a career in law.”

  I laughed. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think Henry is interested in becoming a hoarder. I get the idea that he likes the history aspect of it all, likes the stories behind the pieces. He could end up a history professor, or maybe an author. Or maybe running a nursery.”

  Judge Beck did a double take. “He likes babies?”

  “Not that kind of nursery. I meant plants. He said he really likes to garden.”

  He nodded. “When he was little, Heather would bring him outside with her when she was planting flowers around the house. Henry would pull weeds, and each year she’d give him a special flower to plant. It would be Henry’s flower, and we made darned sure that no matter what, that flower got watered regularly.”

  “See? You both did good. Henry’s learning what he likes and what he doesn’t.”

  “But a gardener? Or an antiques dealer.” The judge thought for a moment. “Although I like the idea of a professor. Tenure at a prestigious university. Papers published in a leading journal.”

  “Whoa, Dad. He might be teaching high school, or be an auctioneer. Don’t pigeonhole the poor boy.”

  “You’re right. Guess I’ll need to pin my lawyer hopes on Madison.”

  I doubted that, given the conversation we’d had a few days ago, but didn’t want to shatter yet another of Judge Beck’s hopes and dreams. “Well, she did tell me that doctor is no longer on her short list after this AP chemistry class. Although I have to confess that she’s asked me to show her how to bake.”

  Judge Beck looked so forlorn at my words that I took pity on him. “I’m sure lawyer is still in the running.”

  “Well, if Henry takes an interest in visiting your friend Daisy, or that Lars guy with his B&B, or the woman at the end of the road with the old cabin, I told him he needs to clear it with one of us first.”

  I froze. Us. Needs to clear it with one of us. “If I’m going to be given veto and approval responsibilities, then I need to know if there are any hard lines that you don’t want crossed as far as where the kids visit.”

  He shot me a quizzical look. “You know the neighbors. I trust your judgment, Kay. Basically, no pedophiles, no drug dens, no houses of prostitution, no alcoholics—”

  “Is wine on the porch once or twice a week okay?” I interrupted. “Otherwise you might want to start packing.”

  He grinned. “Wine on the porch, or the occasional whisky when a murder victim is discovered is perfectly acceptable. I’m not a Puritan, you know.”

  “Got it. Gardening, baking, and antique hoarder neighbors are in. Those facing felony charges are out.”

  Sean came over, and both he and Henry were spending the afternoon glued to the Xbox. Madison was outside in the hot tub, texting like crazy and hopefully not dropping her phone in the water. Judge Beck had his papers once again spread all over my dining room table. I was on the front porch trying to knit another hat.

  And I was being nosy. Mr. Peter’s nephew, Bert, had pulled up to the house sometime when I was on the third increase row and was milling about the front lawn looking lost. Actually, he looked like a man faced with an overwhelming task. He got on the phone and was talking to someone while looking at all the washing machines. When he opened the lid of one, a bunch of wasps came out and he ran around the yard, waving his arms and dancing. I’m pretty sure he was swearing, although he was doing it quietly because I couldn’t hear any of the words.

  After a while, he hung up the phone and headed inside. I heard a bunch of banging noises, then Bert came outside with a garbage bag and a few boxes and started to go through them. Poor guy. At this rate, it was going to take him forever. By the time I was finished my hat, he had a dozen boxes on the porch, items scattered all around him and very little in the garbage bag. Feeling sorry for the guy, I took my knitting inside and put together some cheese and salami, and grabbed some iced tea.

  He was muttering to himself and writing in a notebook when I made my way to the front porch. “Thought you might need some refreshments,” I said.

  He jumped, then smiled. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come up. Yes, I’d love some. You’re Kay Carrera from across the street? I was sorry to hear that your husband passed away. My condolences.”

  “And my condolences to you, too.” I sat the food down on an unopened box and poured him a glass of tea. “I didn’t know your uncle very well, but in the last week, I’d come over a few times to retrieve my cat, and to get his opinion on a piece of china that my husband and I had received as a wedding gift.”

  He took a sip of tea and waved the other hand at the stacks of plates and silverware. There was a terribly ugly pug figurine next to the plates. “I wish I knew what any of this stuff is. I don’t know what should go in a garage sale, and what should go to an antiques consignment store.”

  “Can you call in an auctioneer? They’re usually pretty good at evaluating the value of estate goods.”

  “I’d rather get a handle on what there is first. No auctioneer in his right mind is going to want to come here and spend months going through boxes stacked four-high in every room of the house.”

  He had a point. And I was getting an idea. “My roommate’s son used to come over and hang with your uncle a bit. I can see if he knows where the more valuable pieces are kept as well as what they are.”

  My suggestion brought a pained look to Bert’s face. “I remember when that was me over here hanging out with Uncle Harry. Although back when I was a kid, the place wasn’t like this. Back then, he had a few cabinets and shelves in each room and in one of the bedrooms upstairs with his china stuff. He had a workshop out in the garage, and stuff in the shed that he was working on. I’d come here during the summer when my parents were at work and watch him fix things. He’d always serve us lunch on his special plates, and tell me a story about them—where they came from, how old they were. Of course, back then I was more interested in the sandwich than the plate. I’d give anything to have those days back.”

  I sat down on top of an old microwave, thinking it was more conducive to conversation than hovering over him. “What happened? I mean, Daisy told me about the toaster, but it seems things had gone wrong before it got to the point of throwing small appliances.”

  Bert picked up a blue and gold patterned plate and stared at it. “I don’t know. After he retired, he continued to do some repair work, but eventually there were no customers and the junk just kept piling up. Then he started buying more and more of these plates and figurines and stuff. He wouldn’t get rid of anything. We had a huge fight when the furnace needed work. He kept insisting he could do it himself, sending away anyone I hired to fix it. He went three weeks in the dead of winter without heat. Pipes were freezing and everything. I scheduled an HVAC contractor to come over while Uncle Henry was at a doctor’s appointment, and the repair guys couldn’t even get to the furnace. I had to move two dozen boxes, and the repairmen were still there when Uncle Henry got home. Luckily, they were able to fix it before he chased them out with that sword of his.

  “After that, he refused to leave the house. The last five years he hasn’t even gone to the doctor or out to buy groceries. He’s been refusing to let me inside for years now. I think partly because he was ashamed and didn’t want me to see how bad things had gotten.”

  It was sad. Sad for Mr. Peter and sad for his nephew. I stood. “Do you want me to see if Henry can come over and show you where some things are? He’s home now.”

  Bert nodded. “Thanks. I don’t know if you’ll let him, but I’d be happy to pay him something to help me sort through all of this stuff. I’m getting a dumpster in tomorrow, and there’s a guy coming to haul the junk from the yard next week, although I think it will take him a few trips. I could use an extra set
of hands—especially if those hands know the difference between what should go in the dumpster and what shouldn’t.”

  Chapter 13

  I told him I’d be right back and headed across to my house. Judge Beck was still at the dining room table, his head bent as he made notes on some paperwork.

  “Hey, would you mind if Henry worked with Bert, Mr. Peter’s nephew, in sorting through the stuff in the house? It would be things like opening up boxes, throwing away things that were obviously trash, then separating what is more yard-sale worthy, and what might actually be of value.”

  Judge Beck looked up. “I’m not certain he’ll have more than an hour here and there until school is out. I wouldn’t want it to interfere with either his sports schedule or his homework.”

  “It’s not like Bert is going to have the place cleaned out overnight. How about if Henry just shows him where the things he knows about are located and lets Bert know what he was told about them. Then after school is out, he can maybe spend a few days per week there, or half days, or something like that.”

  The judge chewed on the end of his pen. “I’d want Henry supervised, not in the house alone. Heather and I are still working out the summer custody schedule, so there might be weeks where he wouldn’t be with me to help.”

  “I’m sure Bert will take what he can get. It will give Henry a chance to explore how much he likes this antique thing. He can even do some internet research on different pieces for Bert.”

  Judge Beck nodded. “I like that idea. And when he gets bored of all the pottery and silverware, he can go back to being a lawyer when he grows up.”