by Deb Baker
The doll clothes were worth more than the dolls that wore them, but many of the shoppers who bellied up to the truck weren’t serious collectors and couldn’t tell the difference between an original and a poor reproduction.
Howie Howard wasn’t about to clue them in. “Here’s a priceless imitation of a German Kestner. Full of character. Who could resist? Do I hear ten?” The words melded together, strung without the briefest pause, and Gretchen smiled at his singular ability to sell certifiable junk.
A man beside her lifted a doll from a heap and made space on the flatbed to prop it up. He smoothed the doll’s bright blue gown and rearranged the curls framing her face, then stepped back and snapped a picture. Gretchen watched him move along the truck from doll to doll as he repeated the process again and again.
His camera, a Leica digital, looked expensive - too expensive, considering his gaunt, unshaven face and the faded T-shirt stretched over his protruding stomach.
The sun beat down on Gretchen.
She glanced around for a shady spot to stand in. The last day of September was hot and dry, and Gretchen needed a respite from the intensity of the Phoenix sun. One lone palm tree cast a pencil-thin shadow across Chiggy’s now barren yard, not nearly enough for protection.
Where did I put it? Gretchen dug through her purse for the list of dolls her mother had wanted her to bid on. She must have left it at home. Now what? She didn’t have time to search for it. No choice but to wing it.
She hoped Howie wouldn’t auction off all six hundred of these handmade copies before moving on to the real reason she stood here suffering from the heat. Chiggy’s private collection. The real dolls.
Gretchen recognized several serious collectors in the crowd and a few impatient doll dealers looking for bargains. She edged closer to Howie.
“Change of pace,” he shouted, as though reading Gretchen’s mind. “We can’t sell everything one at a time, or we’ll be here through Sunday. Let’s dig out something new. What’ve we got, Brett?” He turned and accepted a cardboard box from his assistant. “Box of Kewpie dolls.” He held one aloft. “Cute little things. Whole bunch made by the same talented doll artist, Chiggy Kent.” Howie held up a three-inch Kewpie. “Who wants to start...?” And he was off and running.
Bidding on the box of Kewpies started low. Gretchen watched with interest, because her turn was coming. She was fascinated by the speed with which Howie flew through the bidding process and the different ways the registered bidders had of alerting the auctioneer to their bids.
She had sorted through the Kewpie dolls before the auction and noticed that most had been repaired in some way. Almost all were bad reproductions. Gretchen saw imperfections in the molded bodies, amateurishly shaped topknots and tufts of babyish hair.
Someone was actually bidding on this mess?
“Sold for thirty dollars.” Howie’s voice slammed through the group, and Gretchen craned her neck to see the successful bidder.
Him again. She’d watched the shriveled old man bid several times. Who could miss his stooped shoulders, full head of white hair, and Groucho Marx eyebrows? He waved his registration number with gleeful abandon and slapped his knee in delight.
Howie’s assistant, Brett, continued to bring items to the auction block. A collection of paper dolls, then an Ashton Drake Little Red Riding Hood.
Gretchen tried to imagine the list her mother had composed. No paper dolls. She was sure of it. Or was she?
Why do I have to be so forgetful and disorganized?
Howie, appreciating the scope of his mission, began to clump groups of dolls together to step up the pace. Brett continued lugging boxes out of the garage.
“…Ginny dolls.”
Gretchen snapped back to the call of the auctioneer. Ginnys were on the list. Here goes. Her reason for standing out in the desert sun for…how long? …two hours and counting. Her body felt clam-baked, and her short, dark hair, hard to manage on a good day, frizzed out from her damp scalp.
Someone pushed past her, another bidder positioning for the same round. Gretchen’s palms felt sweaty, and she grasped her number firmly, waiting for the opening volley. Calm down. This is like a horse race. You don’t have to start out in the lead to win. She remembered her mother’s coaching. Don’t look desperate. Lay low. Wait for the right moment.
Gretchen gulped and felt the thrill of competition. Right this minute she wanted that collection of Ginny dolls more than anything in the world. Is this how it always felt? What a rush of adrenaline! No wonder her mother always covered the auctions and left her to handle repairs.
The dolls that Gretchen lusted after were eight-inch Vogue vintage dolls from the late forties and early fifties, all in their original boxes. They came with a variety of costumes: hats, dresses, purses, and snap shoes.
Howie’s voice sliced the sun-scorched air. “This is it,” he said, his words coming fast. “The finest of the fine…”
Gretchen’s heart sank into her stomach and settled next to the grapefruit-sized nervous lump. Why did he have to call special attention to the dolls she was interested in?
Her eyes never left his as his voice rang out.
“Who’ll give me fifty?”
Gretchen raised her number against her sweat-laden halter top. So much for her mother’s sound advice to lay low. Howie trained his eyes on her, acknowledged the bid, and worked it up. From the rapid sweep of his head, she guessed that three or four others were placing bids.
“One hundred. We have a cool crisp bill.” Howie kept going, and Gretchen felt the sting of impending defeat.
One of the bidders dropped out, and Gretchen held up her number again.
Another bidder dropped out.
Yes. Gretchen slapped an internal high five at the dwindling competition.
The Ginny dolls whispered her name. She did the math in her head. Twelve dolls. She could sell them at the doll show for at least fifty each. That would be a total of six hundred dollars.
She still had some leeway.
The current bid shot past two hundred.
But some of the dolls needed work. Her mind flicked through the supplies in the repair workshop. She was sure she had extra Ginny doll parts. Arms and legs, even some original dresses, a wig or two.
Someone behind her was still bidding, but Gretchen didn’t dare turn around. Next time she would take a position in the back of the crowd so she could watch the action.
“We have two eighty.”
Gretchen signaled.
“Three hundred.” Howie’s red face beamed in anticipation of his growing commission. “Do I have three fifty?” His eyes darted behind Gretchen, his eyebrows one big question mark.
Silence.
Howie waited a millisecond, then shrugged.
“Sold,” Howie shouted, pointing at Gretchen.
Brett, standing behind Howie holding the next box, managed to give her a thumbs-up.
She felt like she’d won a million-dollar lottery.
Howie didn’t miss a beat, intent on pounding through the remaining items as quickly as possible. Gretchen worked her way out of the crowd and stood at the back. She’d spent all her money on twelve dolls, but she couldn’t help grinning. They were worth it.
Had she paid too much? Her mother’s request included at least six or seven different dolls. Even if she hadn’t forgotten the list, she wouldn’t be able to bid on any others.
After Gretchen paid for the dolls, Brett had her box ready at the side of the truck. He slapped her shoulder. “Good job.”
Gretchen tuned out Howie’s theatrical voice when he presented another round of Chiggy’s badly painted dolls to the crowd. She sat down on a white plastic lawn chair and placed the box beside her. Her registration number and the word Ginny were sprawled across the top in black magic marker, the handwriting almost illegible.
The photographer strolled her way, camera strapped at his side, and his hand stretched out to her. Gretchen accepted the business card and glanced at t
he name. Peter Finch.
“I’m putting together a collection of doll photographs and selling them on eBay,” he said. “Photo gallery, you know. A hundred and fifty pictures for thirty bucks. A steal.”
“You’re including photos of Chiggy’s handmade dolls?” Gretchen was incredulous.
“Check it out,” he said, moving off, offering his card down the line.
Gretchen tucked the business card into her purse.
She bent over the box, and opened the cover.
A heap of poorly produced Kewpie dolls grinned impishly up at her astonished face.
Just great.
The boxes had been mixed up. The stooped man with the bushy eyebrows who won the Kewpies must be walking around right now with her Ginnys.
Grabbing the box, she hurried back to the truck and scanned the crowd.
Then she heard tires squeal and a car horn blare. Someone screamed. Gretchen, along with everyone else in Chiggy Kent’s yard, rushed toward the street.
“Back up. Quick.” A man’s voice sounded panicked.
Gretchen scooted between two parked cars, still holding the box of Kewpies.
She saw a woman get out of a Ford Explorer that had stopped in the middle of the street. “I didn’t see him,” she said to the people gathering around. “He flew right out between the cars. I didn’t even have time to brake.”
Several people crouched in front of the SUV.
Gretchen gasped and almost dropped the fragile Kewpie dolls.
Howie’s assistant, Brett Wesley, lay crumpled in the road.
TWO
The ambulance pulled away slowly, without the need for wailing sirens and flashing lights. The police finished questioning possible witnesses and released the remaining auction attendees. People stood in small groups, talking quietly. Cars began to pull away. Everyone would drive with extra care for the rest of the day.
The auction came to an abrupt close. Howie Howard had lost his business partner and close friend and was incapable of continuing. No one seemed interested in dolls anymore. Gretchen watched Howie get into a blue pickup truck, his face the color of Arizona adobe. She guessed he would follow Brett’s body to the morgue.
She felt a wave of nausea each time she thought of Brett lying dead in the street. How quickly life can be snuffed out by a misstep between parked cars. An image of the car’s tire slamming across Brett’s torso forced its way into her thoughts, and she tried to block it from her mind.
One of the registration workers slapped a sign on the side of the flatbed trailer. All remaining handmade dolls would sell for ten dollars each. Help yourself. Pay at the register.
The notice reminded Gretchen that she still carried the wrong box of dolls. She looked around for the stooped man but didn’t see him.
A chunky woman with brassy blonde curls sat at the registration table. Gretchen approached. “I know this isn’t really important, considering what just happened,” she said. “But I have the wrong box of dolls.”
“Nothing I can do about it, sweetheart.” A single sob escaped from the woman, but she quickly composed herself.
“I think I know who I need to contact,” Gretchen said. “Can you check the records and tell me who bought a box of Kewpie dolls?”
“I suppose.” The woman scanned the registration sheet. “That would be Gretchen Birch.”
“Well, I’m Gretchen Birch, but I bought Ginny dolls, not Kewpies. Can you tell me who the list says bought the box of Ginny dolls?”
“Name’s Duanne Wilson. Lives on Forty-third Street. You’d better write that down now.”
Gretchen dug in her purse for a pen and paper and copied the name and address.
“Shame about Brett. I can’t hardly believe it,” the woman said, tears in her eyes. “He was a good man.”
Gretchen nodded, close to crying herself. Other people’s sorrows always set her off. If she caved in now, she’d be a basket case for the rest of the day. “Thanks for the information,” she said, in a hurry to get away.
Most of the cars in front of Chiggy’s house had cleared out. Gretchen didn’t see the Ford Explorer or the woman who had hit Brett. That poor driver. How awful. She stowed the box of Kewpie dolls in the trunk of her car and eased away.
Though she’d only met him once before, Brett had been kind. He had smiled and given her a thumbs-up. She fought back tears and considered the accident. Apparently no one had seen him step in front of the car. Amazing, considering the number of people mobbing the trailer, but of course, everyone’s attention had been riveted on Howie and the auction. The driver of the SUV had insisted that Brett literally flew into the street. Why had he been in such a hurry? Shouldn’t he have been working beside the auctioneer?
Brett had probably been the one who mixed up the boxes. Gretchen sighed heavily. At the moment, the last thing she cared about was the doll mix-up. But three hundred dollars was a lot of money. She had to correct the mistake.
As she drove along Lincoln Drive, Gretchen glanced up at Camelback Mountain, Phoenix’s monolithic landmark. The mountain dominated Sun Valley, and Gretchen felt comfort in its solid presence.
The boulevards exploded with colorful plantings, and red Bougainvillea covered privacy walls, but Gretchen hardly noticed as she made her way toward what she hoped was Forty-third Street. Two months in Phoenix, and she still couldn’t find her way around.
After asking for directions twice, she turned onto the street and searched the buildings for the number she had written down. She drove around the block and tried again.
No number matched the one she’d been given.
Gretchen frowned in annoyance.
Had she written it down wrong? Not an improbability after the tragic accident. But no. She remembered double-checking the numbers with the teary blonde.
She pulled to the curb in front of the only apartment complex within several blocks. This had to be where the man lived. She pulled open the first set of doors, entered, and tried the second set. Locked.
She scanned the names on the mail slots. No Duanne Wilson.
She waited, hoping someone would come along and open the door. Maybe a manager’s office inside would give her the correct apartment number.
No one came.
Standing on the sidewalk, she looked up and down the street. Now What? She had three hundred dollars invested in those dolls.
Then she noticed a sign announcing a vacancy in the building. Gretchen dug her cell phone from her purse and dialed the number.
After a few holds and redirections, she had her answer, and she didn’t like it.
No such person. No such place.
Duanne Wilson had vanished along with her Ginny dolls.
THREE
The woman looks up from her seat behind the registration table.
“Brett came sprinting past like he was training for one of those triathlons,” she says, studying the man asking the question and wishing she’d brushed her hair and powdered her nose. Some women can cry their hearts out and still look good.
Not her.
She runs fingers from both sweaty hands under her blonde curls, hoping to give them more bounce.
She must look a fright, all puffy and red-eyed.
Everybody had gone home after the accident except her, or so she thought. Just a few more things to pack up if she can find the energy.
She still sat in the same position at the registration table, numb all over except for the tears running down her face.
But then this man appeared out of nowhere, and she tried to straighten herself up.
“I was working the registration desk. Howie was off in the corner of the truck working his usual magic on the crowd. Right over there.”
She points and imagines going back in time to that precise moment when Brett ran past her. If she had it to do over, she’d stop him somehow and change his future. Maybe give him one of those long passionate kisses she remembers so well.
Her lower lip quivers.
“Don
’t forget to write that all down now,” she says. “Anyway, he tripped over his own feet he was in such a hurry, and he almost dropped the box.”
“You don’t say? What kind of box?”
“’Bout this big,” She raises her hands parallel like she’s showing off the length of a Gila monster she might spot in the desert near her home. Or a good-sized fish from the Verde River.
“’Oh damn,’ Brett said, all panicked-like, and I was surprised because he is…or was…one of those Promise Keepers. You know, that men’s Christian group with the seven promises? I never heard him utter a cuss word before.”
She swipes a finger under her eye, sure that she has mascara smudges showing; after all, she’s cried a bucketful. “Maybe he was trying to catch up with that woman who came by later and said some boxes were switched.”
“Woman?”
“She said she had the wrong box.”
“Do you remember her name?”
“Is that important?”
“You never know.” He shrugs.
“Gretchen something. Let’s see. Like a tree. Oak, maple, uh….” She snaps her fingers. “Gretchen Birch. That’s it. Write that down now.”
She pauses and watches him scribble in the notebook.
“Next thing I hear are tires squealing and people screaming.” She looks out over the empty yard where the auction had been held. It seems so long ago. “Brett and I were engaged once, you know, when we were younger. I should have stuck with him. He was a good man.”
“How much time would you say elapsed between the time you saw him and the time you heard the tires squeal?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I guess maybe it was one or two minutes after he ran by that I found out it was Brett in the street.” She sniffs. “Don’t forget to write that down, too.”
A loud sob escapes from her throat.
FOUR
