The Auctioneer

“Nor is it any place to bring a child,” he went on. “Think of the guns. Too many guns with tempers runnin’ high.

“And it’s you wants to say that all is well,” mocked Mim.

“It’s no place for women,” John said.

“Nor for men either, but for the ones that’s in on it, or strangers,” Mim said.

“If not for Ma, then you should stay for Hildie.”

Mim shook her head. “I have to go,” she said. “You stay.”

“Let her go,” Ma said. “And you go too. There’s not a thing that we can any of us do if they should come with their mind set otherwise.”

So Mim took Hildie by the hand and showed her the hay and the old quilts in the horse stall in the barn. “Show me how you’ll hide yourself when you hear a truck,” she said. “Hide good and don’t come out no matter who should call. Even if Ma should call. Not even if it’s your friends. Most especially, you hide good if its your friends.” She could not bring herself to mention in particular the auctioneer. “And keep a sharp ear out all day. Your grandma don’t hear as good as you.”

It was a gray day, the Saturday before Thanksgiving. The last leaves were browning in the gutter and the post office had a sheaf of Indian corn hanging on the door. There weren’t nearly as many people at the auction as there had been in high summer. No children at all. No balloons or sneakers with stars, and nothing resembling a red wagon. The people waiting were mostly leathery men in overalls, smoking, each alone.

“They’re comin’ from all over the state for that machinery,” Mim said.

Near the bandstand were three tractors, a small house trailer, three pickup trucks, four old station wagons, and a Volkswagen.

John took Mini’s arm just above the elbow and steered her where he wanted her to go, holding on a bit too tight. They passed two milking machines, three wood ranges, their own water pump, an oil furnace, four chain saws, and finally, neatly loaded in a sagging hayrack, a winter’s supply of firewood.

“Wood,” Mim said.

“Maybe they got heat,” John said.

Mim shook her head. “Stoves must be gone,” she said.

There was a haphazard but distinguishable circle of Harlowe men roaming like sheepdogs around the area of the auction. They moved tensely and startled easily. Most of them kept their hands in their pockets near the guns Mim knew were hidden under their jackets. John and Mim never caught anyone’s eye head on, but often they caught a deftly shifting glance.

“They’re on the squeamish side, the lot of them,” Mim said, rubbing at her raw face. “They want us home.”

“It’s a public auction,” John said.

Wouldnt you think, Mim murmured, “everyone would see that somethin’s mighty queer?”

“They see all right. You think they come all alone and stand so quiet because they find it comfortable? But the stuff is cheap.

“They know it’s cheap and cheap because there’s somethin’ not quite right.” John looked at the strangers so like himself. “They figure it couldn’t smell all that bad or the state would step in to stop it. It will too. It’s damn well got to.”

“Wish it’d hurry up,” Mim said.

The door to the old Fawkes place opened behind the high chain link fence Perly had erected. The auctioneer strode out of his gate and across the green with Dixie, followed at a tactful distance by Gore and Mudgett. He took the steps to the bandstand two at a time, then leaned over the railing of the bandstand sizing up the people spread out below him. Mim shuddered as the dark eyes raked across the place where they stood and followed through to where the deputies roamed at the edges of the crowd.

The wooden chairs were out, of course, but only a few couples sat down, some of them summer people Mim recognized. Most of the men stood around the edges, as if their presence there were tentative, or only incidental.

Perly climbed to his place and rapped his gavel. Dixie traced two circles near him and plopped herself down with a sigh. This was no crowd for banter or joviality. Perly read off the specifications in a grave voice and offered short-term guarantees on almost everything. He did not hurry. Nor did the farmers hurry. The auction moved at a subdued and orderly pace, even cautiously, without excitement. Ezra Stone and Ian James followed up each sale, negotiating with the new owners about papers and signatures and checks. By eleven-thirty, everything was sold except the oil furnace. “That’s it,” he said. “Though I am going to feel a personal sense of failure if I can’t interest a single soul in this prize oil furnace. What with all the craze round here for antiques, I can’t rightly figure why no one wants this genuine ancient article.” There was a ripple of laughter through the crowd. Perly looked out over them and smiled. “Thank you all for coming,” he said and walked quickly down the stairs and into the crowd, where he was immediately flanked by Gore and Mudgett.