The Auctioneer

“Hildie,” John called sharply, but the child didn’t turn.

“Let her be,” Ma said. “What harm can come to her in Harlowe?”

Perly Dunsmore climbed up the stairs onto the bandstand and rapped his gavel on the wooden railing. Hildie followed him up. He paused and lifted her high onto a bureau behind him where she stuck her thumb back into her mouth and kept a sharp eye on her wagon. The dog lay down at his feet.

Mim turned to John with a grin, but he tipped back in his chair with annoyance.

“This little girl here is Hildie Moore,” said Dunsmore, his words lengthening into a drawl, and his air of distance dissolving so completely that the lines of his face seemed literally to rearrange themselves. The deep timbre of his voice took on a burly quality, and he was transformed before their eyes into someone who was clearly born to be an auctioneer.

“Now Hildie Moore is a very special pal of mine,” he went on, and she’s picked out this fine little magical chariot here to kick off the bidding at this auction—on this most sensational cotton-picking high falutin lollapalooza of a Saturday auction Harlowe’s seen yet. Now, what am I offered for this all-American humdinger of a wagon, the dream of every big-eyed thumb-sucking whipper-snapper this side of Powlton?”

Hildie blushed. She took her thumb out of her mouth and sat on her hand for safekeeping. On Perly Dunsmore’s left, Gore held up the wagon for everyone to see.

“Fifty cents,” John called.

“Fifty, fifty. Do I hear a big round shiny silver dollar?” Perly’s voice gained momentum like metal wheels rolling over the joints in a railroad track.

A young woman in shorts and a halter stood at the edge of the crowd with a little boy in a white sailor suit. “Seventy-five,” she said.

“Seventy-five, seventy-five. Come on, folks. Let’s not be scrimy. Remember this is for the little ones. Where’s that big round shiny silver dollar?”

John raised a hand.

“Dollar, dollar. Do I hear a dollar and a quarter?” chanted the auctioneer.

The woman nodded, and her little boy jumped on the end of her hand.

“Yes sirree, this is more like it. A little elbow grease on this gilt-edged rust, a little spit and polish on the squeaky wheels, a little muscle power on this bent axle right here, and this little old chariot here’ll be fit for a gladiator. And now I’d like to hear a couple of big round shiny silver dollars and then I’ll hand the lucky winner keys and registration, bill of sale and license plates. Who knows, folks, where the rusty wheels will take you.”

“Dollar and a half,” called John.

Dollar and a half. Dollar and a half. Do I hear two? Going, going, going, gone. For a dollar and a half to the prettiest little lassie I’ve had my hands on in many a day. Perly caught up Hildie from her perch behind him and swung her high over his head for everyone to see, then handed her over the railing to Mudgett who swooped her down and settled her in the small rusted wagon.

A teenaged boy with hair almost to his shoulders pulled the wagon down the grassy aisle to where the Moores were sitting, and John paid him. “You Jimmy Ward’s boy?” John asked.

The boy nodded.

“All you kids got those freckles just like your pa,” said Ma. “I’d know a Ward a mile away.”

“Dad’s a deputy, I hear,” John said. “Always get a turnout like this?”

“Nope,” said the boy. “But now they’re puttin’ notices in all the papers. Even the Boston papers.” He grinned and shook his head in the direction of the bandstand. He always carries on like that. Guess that’s the main thing brings them out.”

“An old-time Yankee auction,” Perly was saying-his body swaying in a strange stillness, his words flying out over the crowd with a life all their own-“is the crossroads of America. An old-time Yankee auction is where the best of the old meets the best of the new. It’s where recycling meets up with the old saying, Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without. It’s where the best of the old-timers meet the best of the newcomers. You’ve got people on your right and people on your left. You’ve all got things to offer, and I sincerely hope that this here seventh old-time Harlowe auction will help you get together.

“Now I have here a piece of genuine Americana. An old-fashioned beautifully worked hand-cranked milk separator.” Mudgett lifted the heavy separator and balanced it precariously on the railing of the bandstand while Perly showed it off. “Look at that pewter fancywork, at the quality of the porcelain in the bowl. Nowadays, they don’t bother to make machines beautiful to look at. But there was a time when they cared about the boy who had to stand there and crank, so they decorated the separator with leaves and flowers to rest his eyes and calm his soul.

“Never mind the malarkey, Perly,” called Sam Parry from just behind the Moores. At seventy, Sam was white-haired but still hale. His age showed only in that, since his children had left home, he found it harder with every passing year to hold his tongue. “Does the blamed thing work?”