The Auctioneer

“Another year,” Mim said. “Someone or other’s been savin’ that rummage for another year since longer than Ma can remember. We can get somethin’ for it if we let it go now.”

John was using a crowbar to sink the stakes for the tomatoes and beans. Now he pried out a rock the size of his head and heaved it off to one side.

“Save it,” Mim went on, “and Hildie’s children’s children will be sniffin’ through there every rainy day just like you did as a boy. Beaver traps and broken mirrors. That’s no place for kids, and Hildie’s already jumpin to be up there every chance she gets.” Gradually they recognized the sound of a motor approaching. They stood up to see who it was before they committed themselves to walk down the field. In summer, curious people drove the back roads just to see what was at the end of them. They would turn around in the Moores’ dooryard. Ma would peer out her window. Hildie would stare from the shadow of the barn. And the sightseers would gaze soberly back as though what they saw were as insensible as the black-and-white images of a television documentary.

But this time the motor was Gore’s. And this time he had Perly Dunsmore with him.

Hildie started down the hill at a run, and Mim and John walked quickly after her.

Gore’s truck stopped in the dooryard, the passenger door opened, and the auctioneer’s golden retriever bounded out. Lassie backed off, barking wildly. The retriever moved cautiously toward Lassie. Lassie stopped, and the two dogs circled each other, their tails held high.

Behind the picket fence that ran between the house and the barn, Hildie stopped, struck shy, as the tall auctioneer unfolded himself from the truck and stooped with a smile to greet her.

“Do you like your red wagon, Hildie?” he coaxed.

Hildie nodded and came out from behind the fence, but still stood at a distance sucking her thumb.

“Come and see what I have for you,” said the auctioneer, digging into his pocket.

Hildie took her thumb out of her mouth and waited for her parents. She took Mim’s hand, and moved with them toward Gore and Dunsmore.

Gore was leaning on the door of the truck. “How’d you like the way Perly scared that tourist half to death with the idea of scrub-bin’ off a little rust?” he greeted John.

Perly opened his palm to Hildie. In it was a piece of pink bubble gum wrapped in green plastic.

Hildie glanced up at Mim, then smiled and reached for the gum. Perly stroked her cheek and winked at her, then stood up.

“Sure is a pretty place,” Perly said to John and Mim. “Everything everyone says about it’s true.” He looked out past the house to the pasture with the garden halfway up on the level place. “Just had to come out and see for myself.”

Hildie was sidling up to the dogs. They were still sniffing each other warily. The hair on Lassie’s broad back was bristled and her short legs were tensed.

“That’s Dixie,” Perly said to the child. The big fawn dog came to his side when he mentioned her name, though she kept her amber eyes longingly on Lassie. “Shake hands with Hildie, Dixie,” he said. The dog sat down and held out her paw for Hildie. Hildie held her ground for an instant, then turned and buried her face against her mother. The auctioneer winked at Mim as she caught the child and sheltered her.

“Show them how she says her prayers, Perly,” Gore said. “This here’s the smartest damn dog...”

Pray, Dixie, Perly ordered. The dog balanced herself on her hind legs like a terrier, pressed her paws together, pointed her nose at the wisp of smoke curling from the chimney of the house, and howled.

Hildie laughed and jumped up and down with delight, bouncing into Gore’s knee in her excitement.

“Mind yourself now, Hildie,” Mim scolded. But her own face was bright with pleasure. ‘ Would you come in and say hello to Ma?” she asked, raising her eyes shyly to meet the auctioneer’s.

While Mim and Hildie led the auctioneer inside like a visiting dignitary, John and Gore went to fetch the boxes of tools from under the barn.

“Sign on any more deputies?” John asked.

“Jack Speare and Ezra Stone,” Gore said.

“You must be plannin to start a circus,” John said, taking up a wooden crate and tossing in the rusty odds and ends still scattered around among the rat droppings and stale bits of straw.

“Somethin’ like,” Gore said.

John shook his head. “Your business, I guess,” he said. “Long’s the auctions pay and my taxes don’t go up.” He dropped one crate by the door and picked up a bushel basket for what was left. “I just hope you know what you’re doin’.”

“You oughta thank me,” Gore said. “This place looks a whale of a lot better’n six weeks ago.”

John straightened up and looked around. “Guess well sweep out and put in some chicks down here,” he said.

He took the basket and Gore took the box. They carried them out and set them in the bed of the truck next to a peeling blue bureau. “Well, that’ll be it for this year,” John said.