Antiques Disposal

by Barbara Allan

  That’s when I noticed a white utility van parked on the shoulder of the highway near the mouth of the storage facility’s driveway. The van—free of any markings—was too far away for me to make out the driver.

  Suddenly, its engine roared to life, and the van pulled onto the highway, then sped away.

  Had the driver merely stopped for some innocuous reason, like to make a cell phone call? Or had he been watching us? If so, why?

  Mother was right; I had become suspicious.

  As we drove home with the first load of boxes, the rain letting up, I kept watching for the van in my rearview mirror, driving with one hand, popping chocolate sprinkles in my mouth with the other.

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  Wear old clothes when clearing out a storage unit; the contents can be dusty and dirty. Also, don’t assume any little black specks are chocolate sprinkles—pop one into your mouth at your own risk.

  Chapter Two

  Going, Going ... Gone

  Noon was approaching when I pulled my burgundy Buick, loaded with storage boxes (and Mother), into our drive and up to the unattached garage, its old wooden door shut tight to hide the clutter inside. I felt sure someday it would simply burst, spewing garage-sale shrapnel.

  With a curt captainlike “To the music room, dear,” Mother hopped out, scurrying ahead to make way for the boxes of treasure that would surely bring wealth and happiness and change our lives forever. No, that was not sarcasm—I was truly caught up in the chase, ever the optimist on my Prozac.

  I hefted a heavy box from the backseat and gave it a good, hard shake, hoping for the jingling of coins, but hearing only the tinkling of breaking china.

  Oops.

  I set that box aside—best leave the bad news for last, after we had discovered an unknown Picasso—and selected another heavy one, which I definitely didn’t shake. Then up the walk I trudged to our white two-story house with its old-fashioned wraparound porch, rebuilt not long ago from the original Depression-era plans after the original structure blew up (another story) (Antiques Roadkill). I found Mother waiting in the doorway, one arm holding the screen door open.

  “Hurry up, dear,” she said impatiently, eyes dancing crazily (more crazily than usual, anyway) behind her magnifying lenses.

  “I am, I am,” I grumbled. “You want me to be careful, don’t you? I’m taking the heaviest ones to give you a break.”

  That word break summoned the image of broken china to my mind, but at least I was setting the stage for my later defense.

  Passing through, I nearly stepped on Sushi, hopping underfoot, sensing the excitement.

  The little fur ball trailed me into the music room, and when I placed the box gently down on the Persian rug, Sushi began barking at it, apparently not liking the box’s foreign scent.

  “Stop that!” I commanded.

  The doggie did, retreating a few feet to sit, lower lip extended in a pout. I ignored this display of emotion, feeling quite smug knowing that at least one creature was beneath me on the Borne family food chain.

  Mother popped her head in like a demented Jack-in-the-box. “Well, don’t just stand there like a ninny ... more boxes! Mach schnell! Mach schnell!”

  She’d been watching Hogan’s Heroes reruns again. She had a thing for Richard Dawson.

  “I’m on it, Mein Führer! I’m on it!”

  I could not wait for this day to end.

  About our house: while Mother had insisted on rebuilding according to the old blueprints, to preserve the uniform look of the neighborhood’s architecture, she had allowed a few tweaks at my suggestion. We had extended the porch, enlarged the kitchen, and—thanks to a tidy insurance check for exploded-to-smithereens contents—embarked on a unique refurnishing plan. The idea was for each room to reflect a different period, which made our ongoing collecting much more fun.

  The living room contained Victorian pieces, including a Queen Anne needlepoint couch with matching chairs and a Victorian tea table with an old silver set (which of course I got stuck polishing), plus floor lamps with tasseled shades.

  French doors led to the music room with its oaken missionary furniture, and Arts and Craft lamps; floor-to-ceiling shelves showcased Mother’s recent obsession with old musical instruments—although none of us were remotely talented in that department, with the limited exception of my ability to knock out a mean “Chopsticks” on the old upright piano. As for Mother, notwithstanding claims of having once played with the Serenity Junior High band, her contributions appeared limited to going “Blat-blat” on an ancient horn.

  The dining room’s decor was Mediterranean (yes, there are a few such pieces worth collecting), while the kitchen was strictly 1950s, Mother insisting on using only authentic-era appliances. As funkily aesthetic as this approach might be, it did have its hazards—like when I tried to make a malt on the vintage malted-milk machine and got shocked silly. (Bonus Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip: Watch those frayed cords!)

  We’ll go over the upstairs and its furnishings later, when I / we check in on Peggy Sue.

  After four more trips to the car, with all of the boxes delivered to the music room, Mother arranged herself Indian-style on the Persian rug, a pen and paper at the ready.

  “Now,” she bossed, “you record each item as I—”

  “No,” I rebelled. “You record each item all by your lonesome as I go make lunch.”

  “How can you eat at a time like this?” Mother bellowed, hands on hips. “Anyway, this is a two-man job!”

  I raised a finger skyward—forefinger ... get your mind out of the gutter. “Mother, we are after all women, not men, and I can think of no job that two men can do that Vivian Borne couldn’t manage single-handed.”

  Her eyes narrowed in consideration of that twaddle before she said, “You’re absolutely right, my dear. Considering how you’ve been simply wasting away of late, lunch is a capital idea!”

  In the kitchen, I set out an array of vintage 1950s items—green Fire King mixing bowl, red hand-turn can opener, and yellow strainer. To paraphrase Norma Desmond, They had colors then. From the cupboard I removed a large can of white albacore tuna—not 1950s vintage, one would hope—and proceeded to make sandwiches, one for me and another for Peggy Sue, which—along with slices of locally grown cantaloupe, and glasses of unsweetened ice tea—I placed on a tray. And yes, that tray was fifties vintage—a Sundblom Coca-Cola girl.

  Sushi, having followed me into the kitchen (food easily trumping strange boxes), trailed me upstairs, making it time for your tour of our second floor.

  My bedroom was streamlined Art Deco, Mother’s room ornately Art Nouveau, while the guest room—where Peggy Sue had encamped—featured Early American. The latter is my least favorite period (Mother agrees), but we’d been running low on styles for our room-by-room plan. Mother had suggested the swinging sixties or possibly psychedelic seventies, but they both seemed to me a little too close for comfort.

  Tray balanced in one palm (eat your hearts out, French waiters), I knocked on Sis’s door, but didn’t wait for an answer.

  Peggy Sue was curled in a fetal position on the Jenny Lind bed, wearing a pink bathrobe (Peggy Sue, not the bed), her feet bare, dark shoulder-length hair stringy and lacking its normal luster, face puffy, devoid of her usual, dare-I-say trademark meticulous make-up.

  The Jenny Lind seemed fitting, however, in that its history began as a sick bed for children... .

  And Sis looked something like a child herself, or at least a young girl, a fairly good trick for a woman in her early fifties, yet somehow not a positive thing. Not in this case.

  “Peggy Sue? You awake? Getting kind of late.”

  Her eyes fluttered open, as expressionless as a doll’s glass orbs, albeit red from crying.

  “I’ve brought you some lunch, honey.”

  A deep sigh. The eyes closed again. Again, the way a doll’s eyelids close when you tip it just so.

  I set the tray on a night table with spindly legs (
table, not me) (sorry, I’ll try to be more clear), then sat on the bed and stroked her arm.

  “I have tuna salad sandwiches,” I said, “made just the way you like ’em—with dill, celery, and hardly any mayonnaise. And fresh fruit on the side.”

  No response.

  A decade ago, during my one-year stint at Serenity Community College, I took a course in creative writing (doesn’t show, does it?) (don’t answer that) instructed by a wonderful teacher, Keith Larson (not his fault). He said a good writer shows, not tells, the reader.

  (He also said a good writer doesn’t overuse parentheses.)

  But I just don’t have the time or maybe not the talent to show you what Peggy Sue is like, so I’ll have to tell you. Besides, I don’t think Peg would cooperate in the show department, not in her particular state of mind ... so, forgive me, Mr. Larson.

  In addition to being eighteen years older than me—not helpful in sibling bonding—we were polar opposites in every respect, from politics to religion, social standing to clothing styles, and all points in-between. With our age difference, having a prickly relationship over the years was understandable ...

  . . . made even more understandable when I recently learned Peggy Sue was my biological mother, Mother (as in Vivian Borne) having raised me as her own.

  Still perched on the bed, working at being cheery, I said, “Well, I’m not going to wait for you ... I’m starving!”

  And I reached for one of the sandwiches, and began to eat noisily, making smacking, yummy sounds. I tore off a piece for Sushi, holding it over her head just out of reach, so she would jump repeatedly toward the smell, barking all the while.

  “Oh, all right,” Peggy Sue moaned, not smiling at this circus act but at least capitulating, “if you’re going to make all that racket and get crumbs on the bed... .”

  “Good,” I said with a smile. “Come sit by the window.”

  I gave Soosh the treat for her performance, picked up the tray, and moved it to the old wooden storage trunk that doubled as a coffee table.

  When Sis finally dragged herself out of bed, I was shocked by the weight she had lost—not that Peggy Sue had ever been heavy; but she had been zaftig, or “curvy,” as the fashion magazines politely put it now that “pleasantly plump” has gone un-PC.

  Sis tightened her pink robe, then put on pink slippers like a kid reluctantly tugging on overshoes for a snowy trudge to school; finally she shuffled over to a rocker.

  I sat opposite her on a rickety yard-sale-purchase chair that threatened to collapse at any moment, and handed her a plate.

  She took a bite of tuna, then chewed unenthusiastically, eyes as lidded as a bored housewife’s.

  I said, “You know, meaning this as strictly constructive criticism ...”

  Her eyes found my face.

  “... you could stand a new hairstyle.”

  She stopped chewing. “What’s wrong with the one I have?”

  “You mean, when it’s washed? It makes you look old. Older.”

  I was picking a tiny fight. Just enough to get her to come back to life.

  And the dull eyes flashed. “It does not! It’s still quite modern. Lots of women my age have shoulder-length hair. You for example.”

  “We aren’t exactly the same age. If we were, that would be some trick. Anyway, mine doesn’t emphasize sagging jowls.”

  Her checks flushed. “I have sagging jowls?”

  “Let’s just say you have jowls.”

  As Mr. Larson would have said, the “sagging” was understood.

  Peggy Sue put her plate down on the trunk with a clunk, rose from the rocker, crossed to a vanity mirror, and leaned in at her reflection.

  “I do not have jowls—sagging or otherwise.” She whirled. “And if you want to talk about appearances—how about your hair? I don’t think you could get a comb through it if you tried. Maybe if you used a rake. It’s always a mess ...”

  True. And a rake was an idea... .

  “... and the clothes you wear? So tacky. So terribly tacky.”

  Not true. They just weren’t Sis’s Burberry or St. John preference.

  Getting no rise out of me, Peggy Sue put her hands on her hips. “Did you come in here just to pick a fight with me?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “And to put a spark in your pretty eyes and color in those pretty cheeks.”

  Then I smiled at her.

  “Oh.” Sis dropped her arms in defeat.

  My turn to stand. “Now that you’re feeling better ... take a shower, why don’t you? And get into some old clothes.”

  “I sense a hidden agenda.”

  “I’m not hiding it. I need your help.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I’ll tell you downstairs. Now, chop chop.”

  Suddenly I had become Mother. But at least I hadn’t gone Hogan’s Heroes on Peg.

  She lifted an eyebrow. “What if I don’t want to leave this room?”

  “Then I’ll just have to call Senator Clark.”

  Who is Senator Clark, you ask? Merely the man I had recently discovered to be my biological father.

  You see, Peggy Sue—the summer after graduating from high school, with college waiting in the wings—had worked for the then-young politician on his first campaign, during which time he was elected ... and I was conceived.

  Sis had kept this little morsel of my ancestry to herself, until just lately, even from the senator himself (also, until just lately). Back in the day, she hadn’t wanted to force this (you should pardon the expression) on-the-rise politician into a career-ruining marriage.

  And as the years passed, and Senator Clark’s career advanced, Peggy Sue had felt no desire to be at the center of a scandal that would destroy her own happy marriage, not to mention the reputation of one of the state’s most admired men. And one of Serenity’s most admired women of the country club set.

  “Don’t you dare call Edward!” she blurted. “You know he’s in the middle of a very important campaign.” She put her hand to her chest in a melodramatic gesture worthy of Mother. “The last thing I want to be is a burden!”

  “Then stop being one,” I said matter-of-factly, “and get dressed, why don’t you?”

  Peggy Sue’s response was to call me an unprintable name, which was bad form for a sister (or a mother for that matter); but a good sign that she was returning to normal.

  Before heading downstairs, I stopped by my room to get some old tennies, and check on the spider that had made its home inside one of the windows.

  I peered at the little tan insect. “Nothing yet, huh?”

  At what point does a spider realize it’s built its web in a bad place? It’d been there for weeks without a nibble. I even tried to help by wiping out the web and opening the outer glass so it would leave ... but noooo, the next night it was back, persistent and stubborn as ever, making the web even bigger.

  Why do I get all the dumb spiders?

  In the music room, Mother stood in the midst of open boxes and packing material, the rug littered with the cast-off belongings of a stranger.

  When she saw me, Mother exclaimed, “Feast your eyes on this treasure trove, my dear. A myriad of merchandise for our booth!”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as this, for instance!” She bent, her knees cracking, and swept up a yellowed piece of paper. “That’s Superman, isn’t it? Signed by the original creators?”

  I took a closer look. The drawing of Superman with his S-emblazoned chest expanded, hands on hips, smiling big, was a classic pose. It was a pencil drawing signed “Siegel and Shuster.” Dated 1946.

  “Give me a second,” I said, and went upstairs to my bedroom and used my laptop. According to Wikipedia, Siegel and Shuster were the creators of the famous superhero, all right.

  Back downstairs, I told Mother she was correct, and that the drawing might well be worth something. I would check later with our friend Joe Lange, who was something of a pop-culture authority. Which was to say, geek.


  Feeling her oats now, Mother gestured grandly. “And just look at this wonderful old cornet, a perfect addition to my growing collection!”

  Mother set the drawing carefully aside, and plucked up the instrument, her eyes gleaming as if reflecting solid gold, not tarnished, brass.

  Great—another smelly old horn... .

  “But you don’t need another!”

  Mother made a sour face. “You’re clearly thinking of my trumpet. This is a cornet.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “A cornet is smaller. It has a richer, more mellow tone.”

  I took a closer look. “Wait a minute—you already have one of those, too! This makes three trumpets!”

  “One trumpet and two cornets, and since when do I limit myself to just one in a collection?”

  “Judging by the half-dozen old chamber pots gathering dust on the back porch? I would say, never.”

  “Besides,” she was saying, ignoring my mini-rant, “this cornet is much nicer than the one I already have. And the trumpet.”

  “You mean it isn’t a dented-up piece of junk.”

  “ ‘Junk’ is a trifle judgmental, dear, and ... well, I just have a good feeling about this new horn.” Mother’s eyes were gleaming again. “Maybe it even belonged to Louie Armstrong himself!”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “Or Harry James!”

  “Right. Maybe it’s the horn Al Hirt was playing when somebody threw a brick at him.”

  Mother gave me a hard stare. “Dear, sarcasm makes wrinkles around your mouth, which are far worse than a frown. You are forgetting the first rule of antiquing ...”

  “Check for mold?”

  “Anything is possible! One man’s trash is another’s treasure!”

  That was two rules, but never mind.

  “Okay,” I sighed like a cop at a crime scene. “What else have we got?”

  Mother turned back to the clutter. “Well, we have a wonderful set of Haviland dishes—which would have been complete, only somehow a few cups managed to get broken.”

  Her magnified eyes focused on me, shooting demented laser beams of suspicion.