Masters of the weird tal.., p.9
Anatomy of Lost Things, page 9
As the substitute ring-girl, Tildy had to hold up each item for bid so that everybody in the crowd could see it. She didn’t like that job, because it meant that everybody stared at her and at whatever she was holding. She felt like a goldfish inside a bowl.
She also had to help Daddy Lou and Gabe catch bids if they needed it. It was a lot of work. A lot, a lot.
Tildy would’ve rather run tickets.
Daddy Lou ran his words together in a steady cadence, driving the price of the cake stand up to twenty-five, now twenty-five, now twenty-five-dollar bidder, now thirty, now thirty, now thirty-dollar bidder, now, can I have thirty-five?
The cake stand wasn’t heavy, but holding it over her head made Tildy’s arms tired. She pushed up the sleeves of her sweater and felt sweat drip out of her armpits and down her sides.
The morning dragged on. She’d been standing on the wooden crate holding one item for bid after another over her head for hours, and even though standing on the crate allowed her to see the top of the crowd, the one thing she didn’t see was her necklace.
By the afternoon, it got so hot in the auction house (and in that sweater) that Tildy started to get woozy. She was holding a vintage jadeite mixing bowl over her head when she began to feel like she might faint. People’s faces in front of her got a little blurry around the edges, and her legs felt squishy and weak. She lost her balance, and her foot slid off the crate. She almost dropped the mixing bowl.
“Whoa there,” said Daddy Lou, grabbing her arm and saving the bowl from smashing to bits on the floor. “You okay?”
Tildy nodded. “I think I need some water.” She staggered through the crowd to the bathroom, where she splashed cold water on her face and drank from the sink faucet. After a few minutes she felt better and was on her way back to the wooden crate when she almost ran into a man bent over a cardboard box. His purple underwear was sticking out the top of his jeans. It had kittens on it. At least, it might’ve been kittens. Or squirrels. She tried not to look too closely.
Anyway. Tildy turned around and started down the next aisle, which had more people in it. Daddy Lou was selling a box of vinyl records, and she could see Gabe struggling to hold up some of the records while at the same time holding on to the clipboard of tickets.
“I’ve got forty-five, forty-five, forty-five, who’ll give me fifty?” chanted Daddy Lou.
Tildy maneuvered through the crowd and was halfway to Daddy Lou when she saw that the man in kitten underpants had finally stood up. The box was in his arms, and a painting of a poodle was sticking out of it. The poodle had a cone of shame around its neck. And then Tildy saw a flash of yellow in the man’s hand. She stood on her tiptoes to get a better look. Was it? Hold on. Yes, it was. Amber in a teardrop shape. Her necklace!
“Hey!” she yelled at the man. “Wait! That necklace belongs to me!” But the man didn’t seem to hear her. He was walking away from her and toward the door.
“Excuse me,” said Tildy as she tried to squeeze through the group of people that had congregated behind her. “I need to get by.”
It was taking too long. The people were stepping aside, but they were being slow about it.
And there were too many of them.
And they were standing too close together.
Tildy dropped to her knees and crawled past their legs and under the table to the next aisle, where the man had been. She pushed aside the boxes that were stacked underneath.
She got to her feet again. The crowd in this aisle had thinned out a bit, and Tildy wove around them. She was almost to the end of the aisle when she ran straight into Leon. He was still holding the candlestick, and one of its brass arms knocked into Tildy’s stomach.
She doubled over in pain. For a couple of seconds she couldn’t breathe. What was Leon still doing here?
“Tildy,” said Leon. “You seem like you’re in a rush.”
“Move,” said Tildy, rubbing her stomach. “My necklace.” She pushed her way around Leon and searched for the man. He was by the door. He had hoisted the box on his shoulder. In his opposite hand, Tildy saw the amber teardrop dangling from the chain.
He went outside.
“No, wait!” Tildy yelled, running after him. She dodged a couple carrying an old Victrola and headed outside to the parking lot.
She shielded her eyes from the bright sun and looked around. People were loading their pickup trucks with boxes and tying couches to the roofs of their cars. Her heart was thrumming and she was out of breath. Where did he go?
She searched one end of the parking lot to the other. But she’d lost him. And the necklace. Again.
She sat on the stone wall along the edge of the parking lot. Her eyes stung.
“You’re crying,” said Leon, who was suddenly standing in front of her. He was cradling the candlestick.
Tildy wiped her eyes. “Not now, Leon.”
He sat beside her.
“I almost had it,” she said to herself. “It was right there.” She knocked her heel against the loose mortar in the wall. A small chunk fell out.
“What was?”
Tildy didn’t answer.
“What was?” he asked again.
“My necklace, Leon, okay? The one I lost.”
He stood up. “Don’t worry about that because I’m going to connect with my dead grandfather, remember? I’m sure he can tell me where it is.”
Tildy shook her head. “It’s gone.”
“You give up too easy. My grandmother says you shouldn’t give up until you’ve exhausted all your resources. I’ve got lots of resources left that aren’t the least bit tired.”
“Look, I don’t even know who that guy was. He had a box full of stuff and—”
“What guy?” asked Leon.
“My necklace must’ve somehow gotten mixed up with the stuff he bought,” she said, ignoring him. “He had it right there in his hand—” And then Tildy realized something. “Oh!” she yelled. It was a big something. (Some might’ve even called it a revelation.) “He bought a painting of a poodle. It had one of those cones of shame around its head.”
“Oooh,” said Leon, nodding. “A poodle. That’s nice. My Aunt Rosie had a poodle once. It had the kind of big, creepy eyes that make you feel sad all the time. You know those eyes? Some people think they’re cute, but not me. It’s like those eyes have witnessed unspeakable wrongs.”
“No,” said Tildy. “You don’t understand. I think I know how to find out who the man is. I could ask him for my necklace back.”
CHAPTER 19
Tildy
Tildy had to wait until the auction was over to act on her revelation. After the last item was sold, she sat on the edge of one of the tables and watched as the line of people waiting to pay for their stuff got shorter and shorter. While she waited, she examined an old toy airplane she’d found in the No Sells box and thought about what parts she could use to replace what had been lost.
She added the plane to her anatomy notebook.
THING
ANATOMY (LOST)
Whirligig
Wooden propeller
McCormick teapot
Lid
Hourglass
Stand
Porcelain teacup
Handle
Metal roller skate (1940s)
2 wheels
Ceramic schnauzer
Head
Robot
Arm
Toy airplane
Wings, propeller
Finally, after the last people in line paid for their stuff and said goodbye to Daddy Lou and Gabe, who were by the door getting some air, Tildy started toward the office. There could only have been six or seven poodle paintings, maybe eight, if she remembered right. She would narrow it down from there. But she had to do it without Daddy Lou knowing what she was up to, so she didn’t let it slip that she’d lost her mama’s necklace. Because then he would say, “That’s no way to treat an egg.”
But Daddy Lou noticed Tildy before she even made it to the office. “Tilda Delphine Gubbers,” he said, “come here a minute.”
Tildy winced at the sound of her full name.
“You feeling okay?” asked Daddy Lou as she came over to him. He put his arm around her shoulder.
“Yeah” she said, nodding. “I just was too hot, that’s all. You know, with all the people in here.”
“Right,” he said. “And maybe because you’re wearing a sweater? In August?”
She pulled at the neck of her sweater. “Uh, maybe.”
Daddy Lou cleared his throat. “I’m ready to head home. How about you?”
“Right now?” Tildy needed to get into the office.
“I’m beat,” he said, “and my throat aches something awful.”
“But—” She scanned the room. There were empty boxes in the aisles and trash on the floor. “I mean, shouldn’t we clean up first? The place is a mess.”
“It can wait,” he said.
“Yeah, no worries,” said Gabe. “You go on ahead. I’ll sweep before I lock up.”
“But—”
Daddy Lou cleared his throat again.
And then Tildy got an idea. “How about one of your throat drops?”
He seemed to consider it for a moment. Then he smiled. “Sure, that’d be real nice.”
Tildy ran to the office, where Daddy Lou kept his horehound drops. Which was the exact place she needed to be to have a look at the logbook.
When she got there, Yvonne was at the computer. “Just getting the throat drops,” Tildy said to her. That’s what I’m doing here. No other reason at all.
“You go right on ahead,” said Yvonne. “Your daddy will sure be needing them today.”
Tildy opened the bottom drawer to Daddy Lou’s metal filing cabinet and pulled out the bag of horehound drops. She put one in her mouth and held the bag to Yvonne.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Yvonne said, taking one and putting it gently in the middle of her tongue. She smiled. “Tastes mighty fine. Mighty fine.”
Tildy’s eyes searched Yvonne’s desk for the logbook. She wondered if Yvonne had already locked it away in the desk.
“Something wrong?” said Yvonne.
“Huh? What? No,” said Tildy quickly.
“Hmmm,” said Yvonne, studying Tildy while working the throat drop into the pocket of her cheek. “You doing okay?”
“What do you mean?” said Tildy, even though she knew what Yvonne meant.
“Lou told me about things at home,” said Yvonne. “And I—”
“I’m doing good,” Tildy interrupted. “Everything is good again.” She tried to say the words with as much confidence as Marguerite, but she knew she just couldn’t sell things as well as her sister. “Really, really good.”
“Sure it is,” said Yvonne, raising her eyebrows.
“What?” asked Tildy. Even though she knew what.
“Remember that paperweight glass of morning glories from the Kemper estate?”
Tildy nodded.
“How we all thought it might be a genuine Tiffany and Company worth about ten thousand?”
“I remember.”
“Well, darling, what you just said is about as fake as that glass turned out to be.”
“Sorry,” said Tildy.
“Now, what on earth have you got to be sorry for?”
Tildy shrugged. “I don’t know.” That was the truth.
Tildy shifted her feet. The bag of throat drops felt heavy in her hand.
“I was a lot like you when I was your age,” said Yvonne. “I kept everything on the inside. I thought I didn’t need anybody’s help. But—”
The office phone rang then, and Yvonne rolled in her chair to the other end of the desk to answer it. That’s when Tildy saw the logbook. Underneath a pile of tickets.
“Gubbers Appraisal & Salvage Auctions,” said Yvonne, picking up the receiver and cradling it on her shoulder. She grabbed a pen and a pad of paper. “Uh-huh. What’s the address?” She scribbled something down. “All right, well, I need to check with Lou, so can you hold on for a second?” Yvonne pushed the Hold button on the phone and stood up. “This is the third call today about an appraisal,” she told Tildy. “They’re coming out of the woodwork, I tell you.” She reached for the bag of throat drops in Tildy’s hand. “Want me to take these? Seeing as how I’m going out there anyhow.”
Tildy nodded. “Thanks.”
Yvonne put her hand on Tildy’s shoulder and squeezed. “Darling, don’t mention it.”
As soon as Yvonne was gone, Tildy sat down at the desk and opened the logbook to the tab marked “Verne, Frederica” and then ran her finger down the item description column for each bid entry. “Poodle painting, poodle painting,” she whispered. “Where are you?”
There were a lot of entries.
A lot, a lot.
Tildy flipped through the pages as fast as she could.
She stopped when she saw the word poodle. Yes! But the next word was lamp. No!
She turned the page. “Set of drinking glasses. Umbrella stand. Armoire. Costumes. Painting!” Tildy sucked in a breath when she saw the word. Then she read what was scrawled below it. Dog. She stared at the word. She hoped that if she kept on staring, it would tell her more.
It didn’t.
Was the dog a poodle? Or some other kind of dog? Why wasn’t there more of a description?
Tildy wrote the buyer’s name in her anatomy notebook just in case. She kept leafing through the pages of the logbook and found three more paintings listed. The item descriptions all said Dog.
Which one of those dogs was wearing the cone of shame?
There was no way around it. Tildy wrote down the name and cell number of every person who’d bought a dog painting. There were four. She didn’t recognize any of the buyers’ names, which meant they weren’t regulars. She was thinking about how she could track them down when she heard Daddy Lou calling her name.
“Coming!” she yelled, and she stuffed her notebook into her pocket.
CHAPTER 20
Leon
Leon placed the candlestick in the middle of the blue carpet in his bedroom. Then he went into the kitchen to look for a lighter. He checked all the drawers and cupboards but came up empty. He checked again. In the junk drawer, he found a box of matches behind a free sample of men’s Ultra Cool Breeze–scented deodorant that must’ve come in the mail.
He couldn’t remember if his grandparents had ever told him specifically that he wasn’t supposed to use matches unsupervised. But he must’ve been told by someone or read it in a book in kindergarten or something, because he knew it was one of those rules you’re supposed to follow. Don’t play with matches. Don’t run with scissors. Don’t drink bleach.
Technically, he wasn’t going to play with matches. He was going to contact a spirit of a person who had gone before. His grandfather’s spirit. So that he could save his grandmother from the Depths of Despair. It was the opposite of playing. It was serious business.
So there.
He took the matches. Along with the deodorant.
On the way back to his bedroom, he carried the matchbox far away from him. Just in case it would spontaneously combust. He’d used matches before, when his grandfather had given him the job of lighting the candles on the tables in the tavern before the dinner rush, but he preferred the wand lighter. It had a safety mechanism and a plastic handle that would let him keep a nice distance from the flame.
Leon was sort of afraid of fire. He didn’t like how quickly it could move from one place to another. How it could grow. Like it was alive.
One time, Leon and his grandmother watched a David Attenborough nature show on wildfires in the Serengeti. In the dry season, it got so hot that one lightning strike set the long finger grass (Digitaria macroblephora) ablaze. The fire grew and grew and grew until it burned more than half of the savanna. While most animals tried to get away from the fire, some birds like the marabou stork (Leptoptilos crumenifer) stayed around to feed on the fleeing insects.
Leon had closed his eyes during that part and only opened them again when the fire had burned itself out. When the part with animals suffering was over. When all that was left was black, scorched earth.
So many terrible, terrible things happened on this wild planet. Yeesh. And David Attenborough was here to make sure you knew about all of them. But the thing that Leon and his grandmother liked most about Sir David, besides his soothing voice, was that he never left his audience floundering in the Depths of Despair. He always ended his shows with a drop of hope.
Sure enough, shoots of new grasses, ones that stored all their nutrients below the ground in their roots, ones that had somehow learned to adapt to life with the Serengeti fires, pushed up through the charred ground. And they began to grow.
Just when you thought all was lost, David Attenborough reminded you that it wasn’t.
Now Leon sat down beside the candlestick. He slid open the matchbox. The wooden matchsticks were long and thin with a round red tip. They reminded Leon of painted fingernails. He took one out and closed the box.
Then he examined the men’s Ultra Cool Breeze–scented deodorant. There was a sticker on the oval cap with the words Maximum Strength for Maximum Confidence written on it. Leon said the words out loud. He slid off the cap and sniffed the Ultra Cool Breeze smell. He felt at once both Maximum and Ultra.
Then he dragged the head of the match along the rough black strip on the box. Exactly nothing happened.
He needed to be quicker. One quick flick of the wrist, and there it would be: fire. He tried again. Faster this time.
A little smoke, but no fire.
He struck the match again. Nothing.
How was he supposed save his grandmother from the Depths of Despair, if he couldn’t even light the candles on his candlestick? He tossed the match on the floor beside him and got a new matchstick from the box. He took another whiff of the Ultra Cool Breeze–scented deodorant. He rubbed some generously in his armpits. Come on, Leon, he told himself. You are equipped with Maximum Strength and Maximum Confidence and are Ultra Cool. You can do this.
