No Story to Tell (32 page)

Spring sang the valley into vivid, fresh colors, and for the first time she heard its hopeful song. Today she’d already changed her shirt five times, searching for something that matched her mood. Finally she settled on a breezy lavender, billowy soft and sexy. She hoped the weatherman was worth his paycheck, and the day would stay unseasonably warm as he’d promised. An estate auction was to be held, one of the biggest events of the year so far. It was highly probable Elliot, along with most of the town, would be there. The thought of seeing him again brought a smile into her eyes as she traced her lips a glossy red. She was anxious to hear what he’d been up to. Where he’d gone, what he’d seen. Although she hadn’t been with him for nearly five months, she felt as though no time had passed, as if she had talked to him almost every day, like the glow of her skin still tingled from the touch of his hands.

She stepped into the kitchen and checked the time. Twelve-forty five. With the sale starting at one and a forty-minute drive to get there, they were already late. Bobby finally had found some spare time to work on her car, and even though he proclaimed it fixed, he had also cautioned it was far from road-safe. As such, she found herself still at the mercy of his erratic schedule. Having second thoughts about the jeans she’d chosen to wear, she slipped back into the bedroom to change them once again.

She heard Bobby clumping up the porch stairs.

“Vic?”

“What?" she yelled back from the bathroom, where she was now redoing her hair.

“Come here a sec, okay?”

“Why?”

“Just come here a minute, will ya?” he said, exasperation tingeing his voice. “I got something for you.”

“We don’t have a minute, Bobby. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re already going to be late for the sale.”

“Really? What time is it?”

“Quarter to.”

“Aw, shit. Why didn’t you call me?”

“I didn’t know you wanted me to call you,” she yelled back angrily. “Where’s your watch?”

“I don’t know. Damn thing disappeared. You ain’t seen it?”

“Nope.”

“Sure? Cause I’m positive I left it on the table and now it ain’t there.”

“Maybe it fell behind.”

“Didn’t fall behind,” he said loudly. “More likely you put it somewhere when you were fussin’ things around. Wish you’d just leave my stuff alone.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t just leave your stuff lying around all the time.”

“Hey! Don’t even start with me,” he hollered down the hallway. “I ain’t got the time or patience for any of your attitude today.”

“What attitude? What are you talking about? Attitude? I’m an adult, Bobby. Not a friggin’ teenager.”

“Yeah, well maybe you should start acting like one then, hey?”

She heard him struggling with the door then heard it slam angrily.

“What do you mean by that?” she yelled, flying into the porch to confront him.

“Oh shit, I wonder. Look at all that makeup you got on . . . just like a bloody floozy. Who you trying to impress, anyhow?”

“Oh, give me a break, Bobby. A little bit of lipstick and now I’m a floozy?”

“Not just the lipstick. Look at that shirt you’re wearing. Pretty obvious what you’re advertising.”

“What are you talking about? What’s wrong with this shirt?”

“What wrong with it?” His voice was rising along with the color in his face. “Look how bloody low it is, shows half your bloody tits.”

“Oh, it does not.”

“Sure as hell does!”

“How come you never had a problem with it before then?”

“Who says I didn’t?”

“Well, you never said anything if you did.”

“Yeah, well that’s ’cause you weren’t so shit hot on yourself before, that’s why. Now you all hopped up on yourself like you think you’re something pretty bloody special.”

“And I guess I’m not anything special, right?”

“Not to me you ain’t. Lots of chicks out there got a lot more going for ’em than you, Vic, so I wouldn’t be getting so impressed with myself.”

She held his eye, her blood raging in her veins.

“Well, just so happens I like this shirt,” she challenged.

“That so? Well too damn bad, ’cause ain’t no wife of mine going out dressed like that.”

“You can’t tell me what to wear, Bobby! You don’t own me. I’m your wife not your bloody kid.”

“Yeah, well if you want to be staying my wife you’d better be changing your attitude. Or is that it, Vic? You too good to be my wife all a sudden? You think you do better off on your own, huh? Huh? Well you better think twice, sweetheart, ’cause ain’t no one in this valley gonna mess with a wife of mine.”

He was furious now, and as he pushed past her into the trailer, she cringed her eyes shut against the slap that surprisingly, didn’t come. Although she should have credited it to him as decency, she saw only his weakness instead. Ranting his way into clean jeans and a shirt, he’d bellowed himself into an absolute frenzy by the time he’d grabbed a half bottle of whiskey and walked back through the porch in search of his cap.

“Where’s my frickin’ cap?”

“Don’t know. I wasn’t wearing it.”

“Don’t get smart with me. And if you’re coming you’d better hurry up and get changed ’cause I ain’t waiting for ya.”

“I’m not going with you.”

“That right? Who you going with then?”

“Myself.”

“In what?”

“My car.”

“You can’t. Ain’t ready yet.”

“I’ll go slow.”

“You think so, do you?”

He stepped back into the kitchen and pulled the car keys off the hook on the wall, jangled them above her head and laughed.

“I don’t think so,” he said, shoving them in his pant’s pocket.

“Bobby, give them back! It’s my car.”

“Yeah, it’s your piece-of-crap car, Vic, but who fixes it for you, huh? Think you better just sit a spell and remember all the stuff I do for you.”

“Bobby, give me my keys. I want to go to the sale.”

“You do, huh? Well, maybe you should have thought about that a little sooner, before you started acting like such a bitch.”

He held her powerless and, as usual, his voice had taken on a merry, singsong mockingness, which she despised.

“Bobby. Please. I’m sorry. I’ll change if that’ll make you happy. Just give me my keys. Please?”

“Nope. Afternoon alone to think will be good for you.”

He pushed her aside from the porch door, slammed it behind him, climbed into his truck and spun out of the yard.

Attempting to kick the door, she tangled her feet in his overalls, lost her balance and crashed to the floor. Cursing, she scooped them up, shoved them into the wood stove and lit the fire. A smile flickered on her face as the flames took over, growing stronger and higher as they consumed the greasy material. Jumping up, she flung open the porch door and bolted for the feed shed. She shook off a momentary flush of guilt as she spotted a magnificent pile of spiky purple lupines and fresh yellow buttercups that had been discarded under the porch steps.

Searching for the shovel she finally found it under the tractor and, leaving the door as wide open as she could without it falling off its hinges, she rocked the grain barrel aside and began to dig. The box came unearthed easily, and she quickly pulled it loose, shook the dirt from it and opened the lid. She dug through it frantically, looking for her spare key. Pushed aside the Swiss Army knife and the faded sketch of their house plan. Searched under the various nuts and bolts and screwdrivers that Bobby had set down somewhere and never seen again. Finally she found the key, hidden under his watch, nestled in her wedding rings.

Auction sales were familiar rituals in the valley and always well attended. But an estate auction was the best attended of all. Whether friend or foe in life, a resident’s death was sure to bring all together to sift through their humble remains: friends coming to secure a memento, foes delighting in the chance to snitch something at a bare fraction of the cost their enemy had to pay for it. Today’s auction was a dispersal of the lives of Mutt and Joe Fisher, Mutt being not Joe’s dog but rather his loyal wife’s nickname. Joe had passed on years earlier but, to the valley’s dismay, Mutt stubbornly clung on to every inch of his life until she passed away as well. When the contents of the house were evacuated into the yard, it proved a bit of a resurrection of old Joe Fisher himself. On a make-do plywood table a pile of stiffly pressed pants rose beside a half dozen carefully folded dress shirts. Underneath, a wicker basket overflowed with black dress socks while vacant shoes and boots stood patiently at attention waiting for a pair of size elevens to step forward and give them expression. Fluttering above them on the clothesline were prim floral dresses with Pearl announcing to everyone that she was buying the brown one, which had been Mutt Fisher’s best.

The sale had wound halfway down by the time Victoria finally arrived. A flock of young girls ran up and enveloped her excitedly as she exited her car, each one trying to outdo the others in a verbal wrestling match as they all tried to speak. Patiently, she chattered with all of them until an older boy happened by, pulled a pigtail then ran away with the bunch of them in shrieking pursuit. She watched them go, then continued walking and talking and waving her way through the collage of people and faces and random piles of household junk, working her way toward the only item that had caught her interest. A huge box, broken down on three sides, lay shoved up against the porch railing, spilling books onto the stairs. Rummaging through it, she pulled out a heavy, leather-bound black one and filtered through its pages, trying to gain a sense of what two schoolteachers might have deemed appropriate reading material through seventy-odd years, five children and sixteen grandchildren.

“You thinking about buying some them books?”

She was startled from
Treasure Island
into the suspicious eyes of Pearl.

“Oh! I don’t know, maybe. I was just looking.”

“’Hmmph. Well, maybe look at the little ones then.”

“Why, Pearl? You planning on buying Bud some books to read?”

Even Pearl found this thought amusing, and she burst out in her peculiar laugh so loudly that people turned to stare and a herd of goats answered her back from the neighboring field. Victoria ducked her head behind her book, embarrassed for Pearl even though she wouldn’t have thought to be embarrassed for herself.

“Books for Buddy, ha!” She snorted and snickered herself back into a scowl, remembering she had serious business to do, laying claim to what would soon be her belongings.

“No, I ain’t buying nothing for Bud. But them big ones are mine. You can have the little ones. They don’t do me no good.”

“Well, some of the ones I want might be big ones, Pearl. Like this one.” Victoria gestured toward her with
Treasure Island,
which she was beginning to feel even fonder of now that Pearl had claim-jumped it.

“Well, that don’t make no sense!” Pearl leveled back.

“Why not?”

“Why not? I’ll tell you why not. Don’t make a spit of difference what size book you read, little one’s just as good as a big one.”

“Well, then I guess it shouldn’t make any difference what size book you read either then, should it, Pearl?”

“Read ’em! I ain’t gonna read ’em. Need something to prop my chesterfield up with.”

A microphone screeched, sputtered and generally assaulted their ears, fortunately drowning out most of Victoria’s reply. Pearl cast her another well-practiced glare then scurried off into the knot of bodies forming in front of the auctioneer, both elbows working her into an advantageous position. Victoria sat on the steps and scanned the bustling of bodies over the top of her book. Her eyes searched for blond hair and clear blue eyes but found instead three bobbing caps and an intoxicated commotion. The boys, cheering on the arrival of spring, were celebrating with flasks full of whiskey, and Bobby, in intoxicated exuberance, had tackled Mutt Fisher’s dresses and pulled the whole clothesline to the ground. Raising her book, she pretended to be duly occupied and completely oblivious of the fiasco her husband was performing before her. Suddenly, warm hands slipped over her eyes, and her body instantly responded as a smile leapt onto her face.

“Guess who?”

She twisted around into Elliot’s grin and barely restrained herself from responding as she wished to.

“Elliot! How are you?”

“Couldn’t be better. You? Everything been . . . okay?” His eyes searched into hers, asking the question that had occupied both of their minds for the last few months.

“Ya, everything’s been fine.” She discreetly scanned the crowd for any unwelcome gawkers staring their way and lowered her voice. “I don’t know what went on with that painting, Elliot, but so far I haven’t heard a word about it.”

He was noticeably relieved.

“You know, I was wondering, do you think it could have been Bud?”

“Why would Bud want to wreck our painting?” he asked.

“Well, I don’t know. Maybe it was just his way of getting even with me for taking his junk room.”