Shortly after dawn, Anna's alarm jostled her out of a restless sleep before her mother could call and do her the disservice. She rolled over, blearily staring at the clock and the fine, dust laden strips of sunlight filtering into her bedroom, and fell back onto her pillow. Then she remembered. The rummage sale. Shit.
Tossing her quilt over a startled Calligula, she propelled herself towards the closet door, yanking out a few half full garbage bags, and inhaling a faint mix of cedar and jasmine. The cat, yowling indignantly, lept to the floor, and paced towards her.
Looking towards the bowels of the haphazardly organized closet, she calculated what she could afford to lose. Three sweaters Aunt Millie had given her a decade of Christmases ago, a hideous orange beret Mlle. Bertrand bestowed upon her after finishing AP French IV in high school, and several pairs of blue tennis socks she was sure had weathered several summer vacations to Tahoe.
Digging through a forlorn laundry basket, she felt something silky, and pulled it out. A brightly painted scarf lay crumpled in her hands. She turned it over and read the tag: fabriqu� en France. The memories surfaced, bleeding through the flimsy shelves...The Champs D'Elysees winding towards the arc, the overwhelming aroma of canal water and roses, Adam's careless, infectious laughter. The Knights Templar, my dear. Right over there, beyond those chestnut trees. Les chevaliers sont morts pour leurs secrets, ch�ri. Mourriez-vous pour moi? Let's go investigate further, shall we? Adam, drunk on cheap chablis, wearing the scarf on his head like a milkmaid. Kissing her, finally; shoving her into the dirt of the Tuileries garden. Ce n'est pas amour, vous savez. The roses...
She looked up at the ceiling, willing herself back into the present. The Parisian dusk began to fade, leaving the burgandy corner of the crown molding passively contemplating her puffy, morning rumpled face. She crumpled up the scarf, and tossed it into the bag.
Calli meowed insistently. He was right; it was breakfast time. Anna slid the door to Narnia shut, and proceeded towards anticipation and freshly brewed coffee.
Gary knotted the last of the trash bags and heaved them towards the door. Opening it, he stepped out into the breezy November morning, crushing a few brown leaves into flakes that stuck to his boots. He was eighty five years old, gnarled and wizened, but he could still manage to haul a bunch of neglected clothes and household items to the flatbed of his '54 chevy pickup. It was the 38th rummage sale he'd witnessed in this town; he'd mulled them over in his head while fixing some bacon, extra crispy, for Hannah and himself.
Hannah poked her nose out of the screen door, a baleful expression on her droopy face. Gary smiled, imagining that his face probably bore quite a resemblance to his beloved hound's. Leaves crunching, she slowly wandered towards the passenger door and looked up with an expectant expression. Gary chuckled, surprised at how the gravely sound traveled in the restless air, and opened Hannah's door.
38 years of rummage sales. He shuffled inside to grab his flask and performed a quick inventory of the kitchen. Dishes overlapped in the sink; the floor was permenantly soiled with a mixture of manure and god knows what else, but he didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Or anything else to part with. Squinting, he noticed a few old potholders sticking out of a kitchen drawer that hadn't seemed to exist before this morning. Stalling for a second, he crossed over to the drawer and pulled them out. The colors were faded, sea green and periwinkle; and he suddenly remembered: Hallie had crocheted them at the beach, when Teddy had been taking those cooking lessons. Hallie always did that for the boys. Whatever they decided they wanted to be when they grew up, for that week at least, she would chase after with equal fervor. He knew plenty of parents who told their kids they could be whatever they wanted, but Hallie... she had shown them. Looking down, he noticed his hands were shaking.
Tucking the potholders into the back pocket of his dickies, he laid the trecherous appendages flat on the formica table, palms splayed, and thought about his rummage sale donations over the years. Hallie and he had been known for their houseware, and even after she passed, he still made good on their offerings. After all, what use did he have for a gourmet egg poacher, for example? Or a fifteen speed blender, with three different settings of puree. Or a stainless steel toaster oven. Or even that microwave Teddy had brought for them the Christmas right before the end. Two years ago, he had given the sale Hallie's ivory knife set from Kenya. Last year, even though it had secretly pained him to do so, he had relieved himself of her Waterford crystal, as well. It was a good cause, the rummage sale, and his doctor had told him he wasn't traversing the 'grief process' trail as expediently as one might have hoped. So the Waterford went.
And this year, it seemed the potholders would, as well. Hell, Hallie would have wanted it that way. She had looked forward to this all year, while he had found it only mildly interesting. 11 years in, she had told him there was a larger point to it all. It seemed to be an unloading of memories, or an unburdening, she had mused, eyes sparkling, cheeks ruddy in the thin, fresh air.. People left the rummage sale lighter, even though they were usually encumbered with several plastic bags, generously donated by Hal's Hardware. And after she pointed this out to him, he couldn't help but notice the phenomenon. Gary smiled again, glad she had mentioned it. That thought alone, that there was a bigger point to it all, was the only thing that kept him coming back.
Hands steady, he reached for his bourbon. Taking a reassuring swig, he ambled towards his truck, containing an expectant Hannah, and a few things he wanted to unload.
(to be cont.)
2:15 a.m. - 2001-09-07
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