Read Online With Friends Like These: A Novel by Sally Koslow - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sally Koslow
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possessions of a local gent enamored of guns and bugles repurposed into lamps. We were ready to bail when the auctioneer announced the final lot, items from the home of the family for whom the town was named.
“This sounds promising,” I whispered. “Can you stand ten more minutes?”
“Stay as long as you want,” Jake said. “I’ll go outside and make some calls.”
First up was a spinning wheel, too Colonial Williamsburg for my taste. Ditto for a mallard posing as a door knocker. I was ready to join Jake in the parking lot when the auctioneer lifted a small pine cradle. “Looky here, folks,” he said as he turned it from side to side. “This treasure’s from the sixties. That’s eighteen-sixties, handed down in the seller’s family. Every baby started his life in this little bed, and damned if they didn’t all live to be centenarians, legends in these parts.”
As I walked forward, the auctioneer told tales of the cradle’s distinguished occupants: Great-Granny Mabel, the suffragette; Uncle Buster, who ditched the booze and became a circuit court judge; and Grandpa Al, that prankster, who almost incinerated the one-room schoolhouse. I got within a foot of the cradle, which showed only the tenderest wear. It was painted blue.
“We’ll start at forty,” the auctioneer said.
“Forty,” I shouted back.
“I hear forty—do I hear fifty?” He did, and in rapid succession.
“I bid a hundred,” I said, shaking my paddle like a maraca. Across the room, a spirited competitor—or a shill—shook hers, too, and went to $125. From another corner, someone bid $150.
“Do I hear one seventy-five for this hand-crafted heirloom?” the auctioneerasked, pronouncing the
h
in
heirloom
. In a sweet tenor, he began to croon. “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.” He laughed. “Maybe not a mockingbird, but damn if this ain’t special.”
Heck, damn if it ain’ t
. Mama Blue went to $175.
The auctioneer sang, “Sleep, baby, sleep. Your father tends the sheep.” The auctioneer heard $200 and switched his tune. From the front of the room he belted out, “Little boy blue, come blow your horn. The sheep’s in the meadow, the cow’s in the corn.”
“Two hundred twenty,” I screeched. “Two hundred twenty.”
“I hear two-twenty,” the auctioneer boomed. “Do I hear two-thirty?” The room fell silent. “Do I hear two-thirty?” He did not. “Going once, going twice. Sold to the tall lady in the straw hat for two hundred and twenty dollars!”
I caught my breath and raced outside to find Jake. “Ready to leave?” he said, snapping shut his BlackBerry.
“As soon as I pick up my purchase.” He gave me a look of feigned surprise.
“Why don’t you go to the car and pop the trunk?” I went inside, counted out my cash, lifted the cradle in my arms, and hauled it to the car.
“What’s this for?” Jake said gently. I couldn’t identify his expression. “Q, what are you trying to say?”
He’d taken the sorrow of the miscarriages every bit as hard as I had, but the tragedies were no longer discussed, filed away like failed exams. My eyes went from the cradle to my husband’s face.
Honey, I wish I did have something to tell you
, I thought, but all I could offer was a mental telegram of optimism whose source I could attribute only to the good fortune of finding the Central Park West apartment. “No, sweetheart, no news,” I said, and tried to sound, if not breezy, at least neutral. But the mood had shifted as surely as if a thunderstorm were blowing into town. I refused to see the cradle as he must, a receptacle for lost hopes. “I was thinking of it for magazines,” I said, offering up the first thing that came to mind. “You know how they multiply on my side of the bed.”
He lifted the cradle into the trunk and got behind the wheel, the look on his face the one he usually saves for cross-examinations, enigmatic beyond my
“This sounds promising,” I whispered. “Can you stand ten more minutes?”
“Stay as long as you want,” Jake said. “I’ll go outside and make some calls.”
First up was a spinning wheel, too Colonial Williamsburg for my taste. Ditto for a mallard posing as a door knocker. I was ready to join Jake in the parking lot when the auctioneer lifted a small pine cradle. “Looky here, folks,” he said as he turned it from side to side. “This treasure’s from the sixties. That’s eighteen-sixties, handed down in the seller’s family. Every baby started his life in this little bed, and damned if they didn’t all live to be centenarians, legends in these parts.”
As I walked forward, the auctioneer told tales of the cradle’s distinguished occupants: Great-Granny Mabel, the suffragette; Uncle Buster, who ditched the booze and became a circuit court judge; and Grandpa Al, that prankster, who almost incinerated the one-room schoolhouse. I got within a foot of the cradle, which showed only the tenderest wear. It was painted blue.
“We’ll start at forty,” the auctioneer said.
“Forty,” I shouted back.
“I hear forty—do I hear fifty?” He did, and in rapid succession.
“I bid a hundred,” I said, shaking my paddle like a maraca. Across the room, a spirited competitor—or a shill—shook hers, too, and went to $125. From another corner, someone bid $150.
“Do I hear one seventy-five for this hand-crafted heirloom?” the auctioneerasked, pronouncing the
h
in
heirloom
. In a sweet tenor, he began to croon. “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.” He laughed. “Maybe not a mockingbird, but damn if this ain’t special.”
Heck, damn if it ain’ t
. Mama Blue went to $175.
The auctioneer sang, “Sleep, baby, sleep. Your father tends the sheep.” The auctioneer heard $200 and switched his tune. From the front of the room he belted out, “Little boy blue, come blow your horn. The sheep’s in the meadow, the cow’s in the corn.”
“Two hundred twenty,” I screeched. “Two hundred twenty.”
“I hear two-twenty,” the auctioneer boomed. “Do I hear two-thirty?” The room fell silent. “Do I hear two-thirty?” He did not. “Going once, going twice. Sold to the tall lady in the straw hat for two hundred and twenty dollars!”
I caught my breath and raced outside to find Jake. “Ready to leave?” he said, snapping shut his BlackBerry.
“As soon as I pick up my purchase.” He gave me a look of feigned surprise.
“Why don’t you go to the car and pop the trunk?” I went inside, counted out my cash, lifted the cradle in my arms, and hauled it to the car.
“What’s this for?” Jake said gently. I couldn’t identify his expression. “Q, what are you trying to say?”
He’d taken the sorrow of the miscarriages every bit as hard as I had, but the tragedies were no longer discussed, filed away like failed exams. My eyes went from the cradle to my husband’s face.
Honey, I wish I did have something to tell you
, I thought, but all I could offer was a mental telegram of optimism whose source I could attribute only to the good fortune of finding the Central Park West apartment. “No, sweetheart, no news,” I said, and tried to sound, if not breezy, at least neutral. But the mood had shifted as surely as if a thunderstorm were blowing into town. I refused to see the cradle as he must, a receptacle for lost hopes. “I was thinking of it for magazines,” I said, offering up the first thing that came to mind. “You know how they multiply on my side of the bed.”
He lifted the cradle into the trunk and got behind the wheel, the look on his face the one he usually saves for cross-examinations, enigmatic beyond my
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