Antiques Roadkill Read Online Free PDF Page B

worth a least a hundred!”
    I gave my mother a short, swift, ever-so-subtle kick in the shin, and her eyes popped behind the magnifying lenses, though she managed not say, “Ouch.”
    Instead, while I plunked down the fifty before Petersen could adjust his price, she said, “But who am I to question your generosity? You are an angel, Marvin Petersen.”
    This summoned an image in my mind that I feel a responsibility not to share in any great detail.
    As our host wrapped the writing box in yesterday’s news, Mother asked, “And how is Mildred?”
    “Doing much better. They have her using a walker—you might have seen her at that meeting the other day. Aren’t you one of the Red Hat girls?”
    “I most certainly am. You just tell Mildred that she has the sweetest husband on the face of the earth.”
    I managed to keep my breakfast down, while the bald-blushing gentleman handed us the bundle.
    In the car, we sat for a few moments; suddenly I was dead tired—Mother’s performance had been exhausting to watch. Right now she was lovingly looking over the box, which had a not-so-secret compartment—a false bottom—that I had always romantically thought was intended for love letters. Mother slid it open and withdrew a small yellow piece of paper.
    I glanced over her shoulder; it was a receipt from Clint Carson’s antique shop for a portable writing box, paid by Marvin Petersen—for three hundred dollars.
    “What an old sweetheart,” she said.
    “Literally?”
    Mother’s eyes regarded me with magnified innocence. “I have no idea what you’re suggesting.”
    Everybody has their own secret compartments, and I guess Mother deserved hers as much as the next “girl.” I started the car and we rode in silence toward Elm, then down our street, when Mother suddenly sat forward.
    “Looks like Floyd Olson’s having a sale,” she said. “Pull over, would you, Brandy?”
    She needn’t have asked. Mr. Olson, a retired dentist, had been a widower for several years; he and his late wife had traveled the world, bringing back all sorts of unique items. (Mother would make excuses to visit just to see their latest acquisition, to the point Mrs. Olson finally asked, “Vivian, are you after my husband?” To which Mother replied, “Dear thing, the only antique you possess that I’m
not
interested in is your husband.”)
    Floyd, who had lost considerable weight due no doubt to grief, and the absence of his wife’s German cooking, was showcasing his wares out on the front lawn; the buzzards were already picking, a dozen or so people on the prowl.
    One buzzard in particular caught my eye. The ponytailed skinny figure in western attire was unmistakable even from behind; he was talking to Mr. Olson.
    “You know, Bubbah, if there are other things in the house you’d like to turn into money,” Carson was saying in his phony, good-ol'-boy drawl, “maybe I could be of help.”
    Mr. Olson’s eyes were narrowed; he probably had never been called “Bubbah” before, and may well have been trying to figure out whether to be complimented or offended. “Well, now, young man—”
    “There’s no tragedy worse than the loss of a wife,” Carson said, his tone somber now. Then it subtly shifted: “But a man just doesn’t need to have the same bric-a-brac and such around the house as a female does.”
    “I suppose that’s true.”
    Carson smiled and waved a hand. “Oh hell, I know you’re busy right now, but I can always come by later. We can sit and jaw and just chew the fat.”
    Older people often appreciated those who would spend a little time with them. Carson had his game plan all figured out, didn’t he?
    Mother, drawn to an unframed oil painting of a cabin in the wilderness, had heard this spiel too, and stood frozen in her tracks, Lot’s wife staring back at Sodom (or was it Gomorrah?).
    Finally she came to life and rushed over, planting herself between the two men, an uninvited referee.
    “Floyd,” she said firmly,