The Auction
By Mark Marony
As they steered slowly up the hundred yard dirt driveway to the house, Priscilla counted thirty-six cars already
parked in the new mown fields. Side by side, uniform and symmetrical, the cars rested along the wooden stake and
hunter orange flagging tape markers that reminded her of the parking lots at the state fair.
“I’m surprised to see so many cars already here,” she said to her husband.
“Well, a lot of people get to these things early to check out the goods, I suppose,” George replied, sighing deeply.
Ronnie Burdick was already at the house, pen and clipboard in hand, illustrating the finer points of Shaker
craftsmanship to Roger Harris. Waving to George and Priscilla, he cut his sales pitch short and all but ran to meet
the couple at their car.
“Well, he looks pretty chipper today,” said Priscilla.
“Yup,” George sighed again. Turning off the engine, he sat with his hands folded, as if in prayer. “Ya ready to do
this?”
She placed her thin elegant hand in his. She smiled, nodded, and kissed him softly on the lips. “C’mon, ol’ man.
Let’s go. Time’s a’wastin.”
Ronnie greeted them each with a hand shake and a revised copy of the auction items. “Gonna be a beautiful day,
they say. Sunny, in the seventies. We should have a real good turn out,” he rattled one word into the next as
though he was already at the auction block. “Listen, I had my boys move a couple of lawn chairs ta the porch for ya,
and there’s a cooler with drinks up there - help yourselves.” He took a step closer to the couple and
uncharacteristically lowered his voice. “Take a careful look at that register I gave ya. If ya change yer minds ‘bout
any of the items, jest let me know and I’ll take ‘em off the list.”
“Thank you, Mr. Burdick,” Priscilla took her husband’s hand, partly as a show of solidarity for the auctioneer, and
partly as a point of comfort for her husband. “But we won’t be changing our minds. We’re quite anxious to see
everything go.” She gently squeezed her husband’s weathered hand.
Without hesitation, the auctioneer smiled, having received the response he was hoping for. “I jest gotta tag a few
more pieces and we should be ready to go by ten. I’ll be up ta the barn if ya need me,” and with a wave of his
clipboard, he was back to business.
During the next hour, George and Priscilla watched scores of cars arrive to park in their fields and unload scores
more of people wanting to buy antique furniture and inexpensive flat ware. Many people were locals who came to
pay their respects to a couple whom the town had known for fifty years, but ended up leaving that day owning a
1938 player piano, or a foot powered lathe, or a box of rusty horse shoes. Some bidders drove an hour and a half
down from Canada, while a dozen or so cars, according to Ronnie, arrived with Massachusetts plates.
From ten in the morning until six that evening, George and Priscilla sat one last time on their porch of forty-eight
years. They half heartedly leafed through old cellar smelling copies of National Geographic and Life Magazine.
They drank cold sodas from sweaty glass bottles and ate sandwiches made with cucumbers from a garden that
would soon dry to dust in the late summer sun. Everyone told them that they were doing the right thing, but they
already knew that. They held hands and watched their life together, plate by plate, chair by chair, rug by rug, unfold
before them like an old home movie, projected on a giant screen for all to see - even strangers from Massachusetts.
The tears that came were heavy and choking, but brief. By the fourth item - a secretaries desk they bought in
Quechee on their honeymoon - their tears gave way to nostalgic smiles and sometimes laughter. By 5:30, every
piece of their estate was sold. Every stool with a broken stretcher, every china set with a cracked gravy boat found
a new home. Even a box of bent nails that George extracted one by one from the old barn was bought by a man
from Boston for sixty-eight dollars. “A fool and his money,” thought George.
While the last of the items were loaded up to start their new lives, Ronnie handed George and Priscilla a check for
more money than they had ever seen.
“I already took my cut, a’course. Pretty nice chunk of feed fer jest sittin’ on a porch fer a few hours, eh?”
George looked up from the check and said solemnly, “It took forty-eight years of hard work to earn this check.”
“Ah, yeah, I suppose yer right,” Ronnie followed, trying to rectify any offense. “Well, once you close on the house
tomorrow, you two are gonna be some pretty rich folks. If ya have any trouble spendin’ it all, jest gimmee a call,” he
smiled, satisfied with his own wit.
With a couple handshakes and some well wishes, the auctioneer was loaded up and on his way, leaving George
and Priscilla to bid farewell to their empty house, and barn, and gardens.
“This’ll make a nice Inn,” she said, wrapping her arms around her husband’s broad chest, resting her head on his
shoulder. “Do you regret doing it?”
Filling his lungs with with the sweet smell of summer, he smiled at his wife. “What is there to regret? We’ve had a
wonderful life here, and now we’re rich and we can do anything we want.”
“Do you think we can possibly spend all that money in six months?” she asked, languorously breathing in the smell
of his shirt.
“Oh, we’ll manage, I’m sure. Hotels, room service, box seats at Fenway.” He smiled broadly as she rolled her eyes.
She never cared much for baseball.
“If there’s anything left at the end,” and they both knew there would be plenty, “we can leave it to the Catholic
church.”
Again, he smiled and she rolled her eyes; she was a Methodist.
“You can still change your mind when the time comes,” she said, her face taking on a suddenly earnest
countenance. “You don’t...” She struggled to find the right words, if there were any. “You don’t have to come with
me. You know... in the end, I mean. You don’t have to...” “Thank you, Mrs. Hale, but I believe we’ve already been
over this. Besides, you know I’d follow you anywhere.”
Without hesitation, she smiled, relieved that neither of them would be alone when that time came.
That evening, they slept in a motel outside of St. Albans. She took her medication and then lay with her husband,
limbs intertwined, just as they had done when they were first married, and as they had done every night since they
first got the news. Soon she slept. He lay awake, stroking her hair. Tomorrow, after they signed the closing papers
on the house, they would drive south - possibly to Boston- to begin their brief new life.
“What do they do with bent nails down in Boston?” he wondered, and fell asleep.
By Mark Marony
As they steered slowly up the hundred yard dirt driveway to the house, Priscilla counted thirty-six cars already
parked in the new mown fields. Side by side, uniform and symmetrical, the cars rested along the wooden stake and
hunter orange flagging tape markers that reminded her of the parking lots at the state fair.
“I’m surprised to see so many cars already here,” she said to her husband.
“Well, a lot of people get to these things early to check out the goods, I suppose,” George replied, sighing deeply.
Ronnie Burdick was already at the house, pen and clipboard in hand, illustrating the finer points of Shaker
craftsmanship to Roger Harris. Waving to George and Priscilla, he cut his sales pitch short and all but ran to meet
the couple at their car.
“Well, he looks pretty chipper today,” said Priscilla.
“Yup,” George sighed again. Turning off the engine, he sat with his hands folded, as if in prayer. “Ya ready to do
this?”
She placed her thin elegant hand in his. She smiled, nodded, and kissed him softly on the lips. “C’mon, ol’ man.
Let’s go. Time’s a’wastin.”
Ronnie greeted them each with a hand shake and a revised copy of the auction items. “Gonna be a beautiful day,
they say. Sunny, in the seventies. We should have a real good turn out,” he rattled one word into the next as
though he was already at the auction block. “Listen, I had my boys move a couple of lawn chairs ta the porch for ya,
and there’s a cooler with drinks up there - help yourselves.” He took a step closer to the couple and
uncharacteristically lowered his voice. “Take a careful look at that register I gave ya. If ya change yer minds ‘bout
any of the items, jest let me know and I’ll take ‘em off the list.”
“Thank you, Mr. Burdick,” Priscilla took her husband’s hand, partly as a show of solidarity for the auctioneer, and
partly as a point of comfort for her husband. “But we won’t be changing our minds. We’re quite anxious to see
everything go.” She gently squeezed her husband’s weathered hand.
Without hesitation, the auctioneer smiled, having received the response he was hoping for. “I jest gotta tag a few
more pieces and we should be ready to go by ten. I’ll be up ta the barn if ya need me,” and with a wave of his
clipboard, he was back to business.
During the next hour, George and Priscilla watched scores of cars arrive to park in their fields and unload scores
more of people wanting to buy antique furniture and inexpensive flat ware. Many people were locals who came to
pay their respects to a couple whom the town had known for fifty years, but ended up leaving that day owning a
1938 player piano, or a foot powered lathe, or a box of rusty horse shoes. Some bidders drove an hour and a half
down from Canada, while a dozen or so cars, according to Ronnie, arrived with Massachusetts plates.
From ten in the morning until six that evening, George and Priscilla sat one last time on their porch of forty-eight
years. They half heartedly leafed through old cellar smelling copies of National Geographic and Life Magazine.
They drank cold sodas from sweaty glass bottles and ate sandwiches made with cucumbers from a garden that
would soon dry to dust in the late summer sun. Everyone told them that they were doing the right thing, but they
already knew that. They held hands and watched their life together, plate by plate, chair by chair, rug by rug, unfold
before them like an old home movie, projected on a giant screen for all to see - even strangers from Massachusetts.
The tears that came were heavy and choking, but brief. By the fourth item - a secretaries desk they bought in
Quechee on their honeymoon - their tears gave way to nostalgic smiles and sometimes laughter. By 5:30, every
piece of their estate was sold. Every stool with a broken stretcher, every china set with a cracked gravy boat found
a new home. Even a box of bent nails that George extracted one by one from the old barn was bought by a man
from Boston for sixty-eight dollars. “A fool and his money,” thought George.
While the last of the items were loaded up to start their new lives, Ronnie handed George and Priscilla a check for
more money than they had ever seen.
“I already took my cut, a’course. Pretty nice chunk of feed fer jest sittin’ on a porch fer a few hours, eh?”
George looked up from the check and said solemnly, “It took forty-eight years of hard work to earn this check.”
“Ah, yeah, I suppose yer right,” Ronnie followed, trying to rectify any offense. “Well, once you close on the house
tomorrow, you two are gonna be some pretty rich folks. If ya have any trouble spendin’ it all, jest gimmee a call,” he
smiled, satisfied with his own wit.
With a couple handshakes and some well wishes, the auctioneer was loaded up and on his way, leaving George
and Priscilla to bid farewell to their empty house, and barn, and gardens.
“This’ll make a nice Inn,” she said, wrapping her arms around her husband’s broad chest, resting her head on his
shoulder. “Do you regret doing it?”
Filling his lungs with with the sweet smell of summer, he smiled at his wife. “What is there to regret? We’ve had a
wonderful life here, and now we’re rich and we can do anything we want.”
“Do you think we can possibly spend all that money in six months?” she asked, languorously breathing in the smell
of his shirt.
“Oh, we’ll manage, I’m sure. Hotels, room service, box seats at Fenway.” He smiled broadly as she rolled her eyes.
She never cared much for baseball.
“If there’s anything left at the end,” and they both knew there would be plenty, “we can leave it to the Catholic
church.”
Again, he smiled and she rolled her eyes; she was a Methodist.
“You can still change your mind when the time comes,” she said, her face taking on a suddenly earnest
countenance. “You don’t...” She struggled to find the right words, if there were any. “You don’t have to come with
me. You know... in the end, I mean. You don’t have to...” “Thank you, Mrs. Hale, but I believe we’ve already been
over this. Besides, you know I’d follow you anywhere.”
Without hesitation, she smiled, relieved that neither of them would be alone when that time came.
That evening, they slept in a motel outside of St. Albans. She took her medication and then lay with her husband,
limbs intertwined, just as they had done when they were first married, and as they had done every night since they
first got the news. Soon she slept. He lay awake, stroking her hair. Tomorrow, after they signed the closing papers
on the house, they would drive south - possibly to Boston- to begin their brief new life.
“What do they do with bent nails down in Boston?” he wondered, and fell asleep.
New Hampshire Writers Short Stories
 |
 |
 |