The Auctioneer

“He was collectin’ for the auction, Ma,” John said.

“Collectin’ for the auction?” Ma said. “Thought that attic was plumb empty.”

Nobody answered. Mim was peeling carrots at the sink. Hildie was still outside. John was standing at the back door peering up into the pasture.

Suddenly Ma banged her cane on the floor. “What’d you give that man from up in my room, without so much as a by your leave?” she cried.

“Pa’s chiffonier, Ma,” John said, whirling to his mother, the temper piled up and heavy in his stance.

Ma leaned to him over the table as if to plead with him. “Pa’s chiffonier?” she said in a small voice.

“Must be others gettin’ low on patience,” Mim said the following Thursday as they did the morning milking. “We don’t need to be the ones to start a fuss. And we can spare another piece or two. Must be some who can’t.”

“Oh, we still have enough to spare,” John said, slapping a big cow on the flank, “providin’ the garden comes in good, and Sunshine here stands by us.”

“So you’ll give them something,” Mim said. “My dressin’ table, maybe?”

John filled a pail and leaned into the rhythm of filling a new one. “I don’t know,” he said. “Sparin’ it’s not what hurts.”

But the day remained peaceful until almost five o’clock. Mim was shelling peas in the kitchen, Ma was watching her programs in the front room, and John, who was making butter, had just begun to whistle to the rhythm of the churn.

When the truck pulled into the yard, Hildie and Lassie burst out the screen door followed by John and Mim. This week Dunsmore himself came, driving a big yellow van, the doors and the big flat sides stenciled in tidy red and black: Perly’s Auction Company, Inc.

Perly swooped down and caught Hildie as she ran to him, swinging her high so that she squealed with delight. “How’s my plump little goody?” he asked. He held Hildie in front of him where he could look at her.

John pulled Hildie out of the auctioneer’s arms and held her himself.

“That was a fine piece you gave last week,” said Perly, leaning slightly toward the Moores and looking from one to the other.

Gore was making a pile of pebbles in the road with the toe of his boot. “You know the firemen came off with more money than they ever did on their own?” he said.

“We’re goin’ to keep Harlowe a wonderful place to live,” Perly said, “thanks to generous souls like you.”

Bob Gore stood with his thumbs hooked in his belt. “What have you got this week?” he asked.

John stood, Hildie still in his arms, and did not answer. Gore was wearing a small leather holster strapped onto his belt, and the gun. John looked at him. He had gone to school with Gore, only two years ahead of him, in the one-room schoolhouse up at Four Corners where a bunch of hippies lived now. They had had their moments together. “How many of them fancy leather holsters you pay for?” he asked.

“People was good enough to buy their own,” Gore said.

“Which people, exactly?” John asked.

“We got a terrific special,” Perly said, and his face opened up in a grin that showed his straight white teeth. “It’s like having a genie, the way doors open to us around here.” Balanced lightly on the toes of his boots, Perly stood perfectly still like an axis around which pasture, pond, and woods—even the other three adults—revolved.

“That how you see it?” John asked.

Without moving, Perly shifted his gaze to John, his dark face settled in easy contemplation. The silence stretched. John took a breath and kicked at the hubcap of the truck.

Mim touched the auctioneer’s sleeve. “Upstairs,” she said softly.

John turned on Mim, his face coloring deeply. Then, quite suddenly, he turned to Perly and shouted so sharply that a slight echo came back from over the pond, “We got nothin’ for you!”

The auctioneer seemed not to hear. He smiled down at Mim and nodded just slightly.

Mim stood paralyzed, watching as John lurched away from them and marched into the barn, slamming his open hand against the doorpost as he entered. When his form disappeared in the shadows, she looked up at the auctioneer.

“Where?” he asked gently.

She stood still, undecided, her clear eyes studying the auctioneer’s face.

He gave hei a quick smile that embarrassed her, then turned and walked up to the front door, opened it, and bowed to usher her in. She paused, then obeyed, brushing past him in the doorway and leading the way up the stairs. She could hear Perly’s light tread behind her and Gore’s heavy one in back of him.

She turned into their bedroom and indicated the dressing table without a word. It was walnut with a pattern of flowers and leaves stenciled in fading colors on the delicate curved drawers. When he saw it, Perly said, “That’s fine, just fine.” He turned and leaned over Mim, tense and sober. “You’re a very giving woman.”

Gore lifted the dressing table himself and stood in the doorway trying to maneuver it through. Perly and Mim were trapped in the room.