Antiques Roadkill (6 page)

“How long is ‘too long'?”

“It varies. Perhaps you should talk to Mr. Carson. He’ll be back in tomorrow, around eleven.”

So—there might be a chance our furniture would still be within reach. But tomorrow at eleven seemed a lifetime; maybe I’d pay Carson a little visit.

I thanked Ginger and left.

Out on the sidewalk I checked my Chico’s watch—almost noon; I was meeting my best friend, Tina (short for Christina), for lunch at a cute little bistro, back in the next (renovated) block. I hadn’t seen Teen for a whole year, but we kept in touch by letter (not the Internet where messages bounce back and forth so fast nothing has a chance to happen to you!).

We prefer to send cute, funny greeting cards to each other, and enclose a long tome (hers handwritten; mine WordPerfect) that can be read at leisure over a cup of hot coffee (me) or tea (her). Sometimes we tuck inside magazine cutouts of clothes or shoes we’d like to have, or to be on the lookout for. Other times we pass along bargains we run across, i.e., those pink suede Steve Madden moccasin boots that Madonna wanted so bad; I found them offseason at an unbelievable twenty-eight dollars (75 percent off retail) and bought pairs for me
and
Tina (our wardrobes are practically interchangeable).

By the way—you do know what a real friend is, don’t you? It’s someone who tries to talk you out of marrying a guy who is older than you (ten years) and not in the same mind-set as you (wanted kids immediately), but when you go ahead and marry the guy anyway, said friend is behind you 100 percent.

That’s Tina (and, unfortunately, me).

We met in high school—I was a sophomore, she a junior—and as Tina tells it (because I honestly don’t remember), some witchy (with a “b”) senior girls were ganging up on Teen in the hallway when I came around the corner. I ran over with clenched fists (and most likely wild eyes) and told them to lay off … and they scattered like the marbles in their heads. Later, Tina said she’d never heard such foul language as mine come out of any girl’s mouth. Or, for that matter, guy’s.

A proud moment.

Anyway, we’ve been like sisters ever since (I’m going to say it: the one I wish I had).

I arrived at the restaurant first. What I liked about Pine Creek Grist Mill (besides the food) was that everything—tables, chairs, plates, cups and saucers—were all mismatched antiques; it was like eating at home.

I’d just been seated (the last table available) when Tina came in looking her usual lovely self. She was a slender honey-colored blonde (natural), a few inches taller than me, and wore pale pink capris and a white cotton, fitted, three-quarter-sleeve blouse; the sedated outfit made her David Yurman jewelry (around her slender neck and arms) go
bling, bling, bling!

I stood for a hug.

“You’re too thin to be seen with,” she gushed. (I had another ten to go, but it was sweet of her to say).

“And you look younger than
last
year,” I said. “Damn it.”

The waitress came over; Teen and I were both good and ordered salads with house vinaigrette, after negotiating up front to split a peanut butter cheesecake, Pine Creek’s specialty.

And now for the last word you’ll ever need to know on dieting, and it’s not counting carbs or calories … it’s something you
visualize:

There are three men who live in your stomach—Tom (wiry), Dick (fireplug), and Harry (needs a shave); their job is to keep the furnace (your stomach) stoked with coal (fat from your thighs). All they really do, however, is sit around playing cards, or reading
Penthouse,
or getting into fistfights like drunken sailors on a three-day pass; they get away with such derelict duty, why?

Because you keep doing their work for them!

How? By pouring too much food down your gullet! So the next time Tom, Dick, or Harry sticks you with a pitchfork (hunger pang) douse ‘em with a big glass of water, and then eat
smaller portions,
so the boys have to go back to the coal bin.

“How’s Kevin?” I asked. Tina’s husband (a salesman for a pharmaceutical company) was a peach of a guy, always nice to me, never jealous of our friendship. They’d been trying to have a baby for a couple of years.

“Kev’s on the road this week,” she said. “Maybe we could go out some night—there’s a club on the bluff that just opened up.”

“Girls’ night out?”

“Absolutely! We’re overdue, don’t you think?” She leaned forward to add carefully: “You could meet some new people.”

Meaning guys. “Teen, I don’t know if I’m ready to get back up on that particular pony.”

“Never too early to check out the corral,” Tina said, and gave me a sideways smile. “We’ll just enjoy the view while we sip some champagne.”

She knew my weakness, and it wasn’t men, unless the name was Andre. I really wasn’t much of a drinker—not with
my
migraines—but sometimes a bit of the bubbly was worth the risk. Actually, these days a big weekend eve for me was champagne, cheese and crackers, and Mad TV.
Tina was right: I needed to get out in the world. We set a date for the weekend.

Our salads came and we reminisced about old times—like driving to a Chicago suburb in pea-soup fog (using a semi as a scout) for some shopping, and coming home with only a five-dollar necklace (each) … apparently what our lives were worth.

I can only think of one instance when Tina and I got sick of each other, and that was after a marathon shopping trip (nine malls in two days) … and then we didn’t want to see each other for a
whole week.

The lunch crowd had cleared by the time we split the bill and left the bistro. We lingered on the sidewalk, promising to call each other about what we were going to wear on our outing (a pointless ritual since we rarely kept our word).

I drove home to discover a large box in the front entryway. Mother was folding laundry in a chair nearby, and she got up.

“It’s for you, Brandy,” she said, excitement in her voice. “From Roger.”

How she had resisted opening it, I’ll never know. Where Mother clung to the notion that contact with Roger meant a reconciliation might one day occur, I knew better. My ex had probably found more of my possessions that he couldn’t stand to have around. I tried lifting the box, but it was way heavy; a muffled, metallic ringing sound came from within.

Mother, eyebrows raised quizzically above her eyeglass frames, accentuating further her big amplified eyes, produced a pair of scissors from somewhere (she’d had them all along). Inside the box of mystery, I found several canvas bank bags, and within the bags were pennies … … my monthly alimony.

Roger must have ordered them direct from the Federal Reserve, and sent them at great expense.

“Poor boy,” Mother sighed, and shook her head. “He’s still hurting.”

I nodded, thinking that pain wasn’t what my ex was feeling: it was rage. And even now, running my hand through the coins, I could hardly blame him.

I could only hope this was a onetime stunt.

Pennies were so worthless that retailers would rather round the bill down than have to deal with Mr. Lincoln. Even parking meters won’t take the darn things. Then there’s the problem people create by “hoarding” pennies (throwing them in a glass jar), which creates a demand, forcing the Treasury Department to print more and more of the little buggers.

Still, I found myself saying to Mother, “Remember the time I found that valuable penny?”

I’d been working a summer job as a bank teller my first year of community college.

“How much was it worth?” For all her drama, Mother likes to cut right to the chase.

“Couple hundred bucks,” I said, adding, “And that was way back then.” (I’d spent it on clothes, natch.)

Mother’s eyes had dollar signs.

In the meantime, Sushi was whimpering at my feet, wanting to go out for a little walk, which I’d been doing about this hour every day lately. Could dogs tell time?

So I went to get the pooper-scooper, because Sushi always saved up for the glorious fun of making her deposits on fresh territory.

When we got back, Mother was sitting Indian-style, having dumped all the pennies out on the parquet floor. I would have suggested a better way (ever try to pick coins up off a wood floor?) but didn’t want to dampen her enthusiasm. She was examining a coin with a magnifying
glass, making a beach ball out of her already magnified eye. I squatted and joined in on the hunt.

Hey, valuable coins
do
turn up.

Here’s how: sometimes, a kid (let’s say a girl named Brandy) discovers her father’s old coin collection (from when
he
was a kid) in a trunk in our attic and spends it all on Jelly Bellys, my favorite at the time.

On and off through the afternoon, Mother and I worked at the penny pile (finding several promising possibilities to look up), then broke for supper (Swedish meatballs and rhubarb pie—I gave Tom, Dick, and Harry the night off).

My eyes and neck were burning from the penny search, so I decided to go out and get some air, maybe drive around the old town, and see what was new. I spent several hours just taking in how the place had changed—our high school was now the middle school, fresh facilities for the former taking root where the drive-in movie used to be. A favorite necking and petting spot, Weed Park (no kidding—named after a city founder named Weed) had lost a zoo and gained a new aquatic center.

Enough had changed to make me feel old; however, enough was the same to provide a certain comfort.…

Dusk was settling in when I headed back home. As I pulled in the drive I could see that the garage door was open.

Mother’s car was gone.

You remember Mother, don’t you? The woman without a license? Although, a woman often willing to
take
license.…

Inside the house, she was nowhere to be found … but a notepad by the answer machine had something written on it:
Carson, 4512 Route 22.

Had the antique dealer called?

If so, what did he want? Or had Mother decided to pay him a visit on her own?

My mind provided any number of explanations, but
none of them made the sick feeling at the pit of my stomach go away.

I had no choice but to go back out.

Route 22 was a scenic road winding along the river’s bluff, used mostly by those who lived along it, or sightseers with time on their hands. Other routes were available, and preferable, in no small part because passing was difficult on the hilly, two-lane highway—as attested by the ever-so-often flower-adorned white crosses along the roadside, planted by bereaved family members.

Nonetheless, this was a lovely time of night as I tooled along above the glistening river … magic hour, as some called it … but in a few more minutes darkness would close in, and with no moon, only my headlights would guide me.

Around a tight curve a deer leaped out of the trees and gave us both a scare. I braked, and instead of swerving, aimed directly for it, thereby missing the animal as it darted across to safety. A few hundred yards farther, however, another deer hadn’t been so lucky; the highway was splashed with blood, the twisted carcass thrown by the wayside.

I shivered, and not from the cool night air blowing in my open window; and a sense of sadness enveloped me—the loss of such a beautiful life touched me. But then my emotions were on edge with worry about Mother.

About ten miles outside of town, I slowed, eyes searching the roadside mailboxes with their reflecting house numbers; finally I spotted 4512.

I swung into a gravel drive, which then split into two narrow lanes for incoming and outgoing traffic, separated by an island of trees and brush.

After a distance, I arrived at a nondescript two-story, clapboard farmhouse illuminated by a tall yard light. The house looked dark and quiet. A red Ford pickup was parked in front.

No sign of Mother’s car.

While I pondered my next move, I noticed the big red barn just to the left and back of the farmhouse.

Was this the current home of our plundered furniture?

I climbed cautiously out of my car, approached the dark house with my heart in my ears, and knocked tentatively on the front door.

Nothing.

Then I tried again, louder.

Everything remained eerily silent.

Satisfied no one was home, I headed to the barn. I didn’t see how taking a look would hurt—reconnaissance, soldiers called it, right?

The rough-wood double doors were locked, and wouldn’t budge, even with a good tug or two. I began circling the structure, looking for a window to peer into (or climb inside, if I really got my nerve up).

Around the back of the barn, I tripped in the dark on something, and tumbled … my fall cushioned by a pile of garbage. It reeked of farm chemicals; now, so did I. When had I had my last tetanus shot? I wondered. Discouraged, bruised, and rank, I limped back to my car.

Some soldier.

Following the “out” lane, I was going at a pretty good clip when my headlights caught something just ahead. Almost upon it, I again found myself slamming on the brakes.

At first, I thought the prone dark mass blocking the way was just another poor deer. But when I clicked my brights on, I could see clearly that this body was human.

Had been
human.…

Clint Carson lay on his back, eyes staring hollowly upward, limbs twisted … a scarecrow with the stuffing knocked out.

I thought for a moment about getting out of the car and checking to see if he was still alive. But he seemed so clearly dead, as much roadkill as that deer.

Shaking, I drove quickly around him, knocking over some bushes in the process, and sped back toward town. On my cell, I called 911 and told them what I’d seen, but did not give my name.

Just the same, a police car was parked in front of our house, and as I pulled into the driveway, an officer got out.

I was just thinking what a dunce I was—of course their phone system would automatically collect my phone number!—when the policeman approached, asking a question I had not been expecting.

“Is Vivian Borne your mother?”

He was a blandly handsome guy in his thirties, but his brown eyes showed concern.