was waiting impatiently for me in the car. She held a cardboard box full of items on her lap, some of which looked strangely familiar.
“Hey!” I said, climbing behind the wheel. “Are those my Barbie dolls?”
Mother shrugged. “Why? Were you planning to play with them again?”
I glared at her. “That’s not the point! They’re mine…my precious memories…and I should be the one to decide if, and when, we’re going to sell them.”
“They could fetch a nice price.”
A pause. “How much?”
The Buick could use a new battery and a pre-winter checkup.
“Into the hundreds, I should think. Most are collector’s editions, and you kept them in such lovely condition, in their boxes, why, it’s almost as if they’d never been played with.”
That’s because I preferred to play with Kens rather than Barbies. Some things never change.
Mother asked, “What say we split fifty-fifty?”
“Are you kidding? Seventy-five, twenty-five. They are mine, after all.”
“Ah, but I did buy them for you.”
My eyes narrowed. “I’m sure Peggy Sue gave me some of those dolls. What was that awful term you used to describe Bernice and our cigar store Native American? Some certain kind of giver ?”
She threw up her hands. “All right, all right, you win. Seventy-five, twenty-five it is. You do drive a hard bargain, my dear.”
I smiled and started the car. It wasn’t often I outmaneuvered Mother.
But then…why was she smiling, too? Could it be that she’d just snagged herself 25 percent of something that was 100 percent mine?
On the way downtown, Mother said, “Some familiar faces stopped by our booth yesterday, dear.”
“Such as?”
“Such as your sister’s friend Connie.”
“Ick. And you can quote me.”
“Well, yes, there is no accounting for taste. Although she did display rather good taste herself—she was sniffing around our rolltop desk to beat the band.”
“Was our price too high for her?”
“We didn’t talk price. She just said, ‘Interesting piece. Maybe later.’”
“I guess her money is as good as the next witch’s. You said ‘faces’—who else?”
“More a familiar face to me than you, darling. Ivan, our ex-mayor? He was doing a war dance around our Indian friend.”
“Really? Didn’t he see the ‘sold’ sign?”
“He did, but he made me a good offer.”
“Mother! You didn’t sell that horrible thing out from under Bernice, did you?”
“I thought about it…but no. A promise is a promise. And anyway, his offer wasn’t that good….”
Mrs. Norton was indeed at the mall, as attested to by a tan Taurus parked in a “reserved for owner” space in the back alley. I pulled into another not-so-reserved one marked PRIVATE , and hoped I wouldn’t get a ticket.
With me toting the box, Mother and I entered the unlocked back door and stepped into darkness. I fumbled momentarily for a light switch, found it, and we continued up the short flight of cement steps to the first floor, which was also dark, and eerily quiet.
“Why was Mrs. Norton working in the dark?” I whispered to Mother.
“I don’t know. Why are you whispering, dear?”
“I don’t know.”
Mother called out, in her best olly olly oxen free fashion: “Mrs. Nor -ton! Oh, Mrs. Nor- tuh -un!”
She got no answer.
I called out even louder, and I did get an answer…
…but not from my former teacher, rather her watchdog, Brad. Only this was not the sharp bark of a watchdog at all, instead a soft, pathetic whimper.
Brad Pit Bull was crying.
Mother and I looked at each other, eyebrows raised. Where was the mournful mutt’s mistress?
I moved to an electric panel on the wall nearby, and began switching switches, illuminating the large room, section by section. When I turned back to Mother, she was heading up the center aisle toward the front of the store.
“Be careful!” I called out. “If that dog is hurt , he could be dangerous!”
Typically, Mother ignored me, disappearing at the
“Hey!” I said, climbing behind the wheel. “Are those my Barbie dolls?”
Mother shrugged. “Why? Were you planning to play with them again?”
I glared at her. “That’s not the point! They’re mine…my precious memories…and I should be the one to decide if, and when, we’re going to sell them.”
“They could fetch a nice price.”
A pause. “How much?”
The Buick could use a new battery and a pre-winter checkup.
“Into the hundreds, I should think. Most are collector’s editions, and you kept them in such lovely condition, in their boxes, why, it’s almost as if they’d never been played with.”
That’s because I preferred to play with Kens rather than Barbies. Some things never change.
Mother asked, “What say we split fifty-fifty?”
“Are you kidding? Seventy-five, twenty-five. They are mine, after all.”
“Ah, but I did buy them for you.”
My eyes narrowed. “I’m sure Peggy Sue gave me some of those dolls. What was that awful term you used to describe Bernice and our cigar store Native American? Some certain kind of giver ?”
She threw up her hands. “All right, all right, you win. Seventy-five, twenty-five it is. You do drive a hard bargain, my dear.”
I smiled and started the car. It wasn’t often I outmaneuvered Mother.
But then…why was she smiling, too? Could it be that she’d just snagged herself 25 percent of something that was 100 percent mine?
On the way downtown, Mother said, “Some familiar faces stopped by our booth yesterday, dear.”
“Such as?”
“Such as your sister’s friend Connie.”
“Ick. And you can quote me.”
“Well, yes, there is no accounting for taste. Although she did display rather good taste herself—she was sniffing around our rolltop desk to beat the band.”
“Was our price too high for her?”
“We didn’t talk price. She just said, ‘Interesting piece. Maybe later.’”
“I guess her money is as good as the next witch’s. You said ‘faces’—who else?”
“More a familiar face to me than you, darling. Ivan, our ex-mayor? He was doing a war dance around our Indian friend.”
“Really? Didn’t he see the ‘sold’ sign?”
“He did, but he made me a good offer.”
“Mother! You didn’t sell that horrible thing out from under Bernice, did you?”
“I thought about it…but no. A promise is a promise. And anyway, his offer wasn’t that good….”
Mrs. Norton was indeed at the mall, as attested to by a tan Taurus parked in a “reserved for owner” space in the back alley. I pulled into another not-so-reserved one marked PRIVATE , and hoped I wouldn’t get a ticket.
With me toting the box, Mother and I entered the unlocked back door and stepped into darkness. I fumbled momentarily for a light switch, found it, and we continued up the short flight of cement steps to the first floor, which was also dark, and eerily quiet.
“Why was Mrs. Norton working in the dark?” I whispered to Mother.
“I don’t know. Why are you whispering, dear?”
“I don’t know.”
Mother called out, in her best olly olly oxen free fashion: “Mrs. Nor -ton! Oh, Mrs. Nor- tuh -un!”
She got no answer.
I called out even louder, and I did get an answer…
…but not from my former teacher, rather her watchdog, Brad. Only this was not the sharp bark of a watchdog at all, instead a soft, pathetic whimper.
Brad Pit Bull was crying.
Mother and I looked at each other, eyebrows raised. Where was the mournful mutt’s mistress?
I moved to an electric panel on the wall nearby, and began switching switches, illuminating the large room, section by section. When I turned back to Mother, she was heading up the center aisle toward the front of the store.
“Be careful!” I called out. “If that dog is hurt , he could be dangerous!”
Typically, Mother ignored me, disappearing at the
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