Owls Well That Ends Well(10)
She also looked calm and rested, and I wondered if it had been a good idea, camping out here in the house so she and Dad could stay at the Cave. Then I reminded myself that it had been my suggestion. The cramped, cluttered Cave had been giving me claustrophobia for weeks.
“Hello, dear,” she said, pecking me on the cheek. “Sorry I’m so late. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Actually, there is,” I said.
Mother looked startled. No doubt she’d been making one of those obligatory social offers that one is supposed to decline with polite assurances that everything is under control. After more than thirty-five years, she should know I have no social graces.
“We’re not opening the sale until nine,” I said. “People have been ringing the doorbell since before six, badgering us to let them in early. Can you do something about them?”
“Of course, dear,” Mother purred. She drew herself up, adding a full inch to her height, and headed toward the front door with her sternest face on. I wasn’t sure if it was the chance to play Miss Manners and boss people around or the fact that the would-be early birds were trying to get into the sale ahead of her, but she threw herself into her assigned task with enthusiasm. Ten minutes later, when I had a moment to glance out one of the side windows, I saw that she’d chivvied the arriving crowds into a neat line leading up to the gate of the yard sale area, and was lecturing Gordon-you-thief on the rudeness of cutting in line.
Hundreds of people, and at least half of them in costume. Although many of the costumes consisted solely of masks bought from Rob, who’d set up a table by the driveway, right beneath one of the posters announcing the costume discount. He didn’t have a lot of variety—in fact, apart from Groucho, he only had Richard Nixon and Dracula. I suspected he’d bought the masks in bulk and was selling them at a steep markup. At least he wasn’t charging immediate family, but still, I wasn’t sure I liked the new entrepreneur Rob who’d emerged since his computer-game company had become successful. I’d actually begun to miss the old feckless Rob who couldn’t be bothered with boring practical details like money.
Someone should talk to Rob, I thought, with a sigh. Preferably someone other than me. I’d recently overheard two aunts praising my willingness to tackle the unpleasant, thankless jobs that no one else would, and realized that no matter how happy it made my aunts, this wasn’t entirely a positive character trait. Neither was being considered the most efficient and organized person in the family. And when you combined the two, you got things like this giant yard sale. Maybe when the yard sale was over, I would work on expanding my vocabulary to include the word “no.”
I’d worry about that later. After the yard sale. For the moment, I made a mental note to keep an especially sharp eye on the several women in hoop skirts that seemed like a shoplifter’s dream.
At nine sharp, Rob, Dad, and Michael ceremonially led the dogs away and we opened the gates.
Gordon-you-thief was among the first half dozen to enter—even Mother couldn’t work miracles.
I stood inside the gate, trying to make sure no one got knocked down and trampled, and nodding greetings to anyone I recognized—which included most of the local antique and junk dealers. But unfamiliar faces outnumbered the familiar ones. I wondered how many were ordinary customers, lured from all over the adjacent dozen counties by our 30-FAMILY YARD SALE ads, and how many were antiques dealers and pickers.
No matter. Amateurs or professionals, they could come from Timbuktu if they liked, as long as they all left with their arms full of stuff. And they all seemed intent on doing so. By the end of the first hour I could see major traffic congestion up and down the aisles, as the people in bulky costumes encountered the even larger numbers of people dragging boxes or baskets of stuff along with them.
At the far end of the fenced-in area we’d placed a dozen ramshackle card tables and several of Mother’s relatives had set up a concession stand. Cousin Bernie and Cousin Horace—the latter in the well-worn gorilla suit that his new girlfriend didn’t often let him wear to parties these days—were already lighting fires in half a dozen grills and checking their supplies of hamburger patties and hot dogs, while Aunt Millicent and Cousin Emily set out plates of sandwiches and cookies and bowls of fruit and salad. We didn’t want anything as mundane as hunger to make people check out early. Cadres of Grouchos and Draculas were already lining up for chow. We’d even arranged to rent two portable toilets, which were tucked discreetly behind the shrubbery in another corner of the yard sale area.