Faith Bass Darling's Last Garage Sale

Faith Bass Darling’s

LAST GARAGE SALE

Lynda Rutledge

AMY EINHORN BOOKS

Published by G. P. Putnam’s Sons

a member of

Penguin Group (USA) Inc. New York

AMY EINHORN BOOKS

Published by G. P. Putnam’s Sons

Publishers Since 1838

Published by the Penguin Group

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Copyright © 2012 by Lynda Rutledge

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Published simultaneously in Canada

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Rutledge, Lynda.

Faith Bass Darling’s last garage sale / Lynda Rutledge.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-101-58060-8

1. Garage sales—Fiction. 2. Self-realization in women—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3619.U476726F35 2012 2011047682

813'.6—dc23

Book design by Meighan Cavanaugh

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

btb_ppg_148347069_c0_r1

To Dad,

for leaving me the rolltop

In my Father’s house are many mansions. . . .

—JOHN 14:2

What is this self? It is the sum of everything we remember.

—MILAN KUNDERA

Contents

December 31, 1999

January 1, 2000

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PROVENANCE

LOUIS XV ELEPHANT CLOCK

10˝ x 12˝ gilded automaton elephant clock with moving trunk • Bronze casting signed by J. Caffieri • Clockworks signed by C. Balthazar

Circa 1772 Value: priceless

In 1772, a time instrument in the shape of an Asian elephant with a mechanical trunk, whimsically combining the current fascination with the Orient and the new status symbol of clocks, was fashioned for the Countess Marie-Jeanne du Barry, a courtesan of Louis XV’s royal court.

In 1792, during the French Revolution, in which the Countess du Barry would lose her head and have no more use for status symbols or the time of day, the clock was stolen by a seamstress who traded it to a traveling peddler who in turn sold it on the streets of London.

Over the two centuries that followed, it rode in a steamer trunk to America; survived a fire in Manhattan’s Five Points slum; surfaced in a Washington, D.C., haberdashery; was loaded into a wagon as a dowry headed for Tennessee; looted by a Civil War carpetbagger and traded for bordello favors; confiscated in a raid; packed on a train to Texas with a mail-order bride; acquired as a defaulted loan’s collateral by a storefront bank in a new Texas railroad town; set in the master bedroom of a new mansion by the bank’s founder; moved into the bedroom of a great-grandchild named Faith Ann to help her sleep through the night; moved into the bedroom of Faith’s daughter to help her sleep through the night; and there it stayed. Until the last day in the Year of Our Lord 1999 . . .

December 31, 1999

PREFACE

On the last day of the millennium, after a midnight revelation from God, Faith Bass Darling had a garage sale.

Considering she hadn’t spoken to the Almighty in twenty years, and considering she was the richest old lady in town, this was more than a bit surprising. At straight-up midnight, though, she’d bolted upright in her four-poster bed, certain she’d heard her name called like soft lightning. Yet the skies were calm and the stars big and bright. Figuring it was just one of her moments, Faith had gone back to sleep. A few seconds later she heard it again. But once again she shrugged it off and drifted warily back to sleep.

The third time she heard it, she landed in her bare feet on her hardwood floor with the sound of the gentle thunderbolt still in her ears. And this time she found herself moving through her dark and silent turn-of-the-century mansion, the biggest and oldest in Bass, Texas, gazing at all the antiques in all the rooms of the place where she had lived her entire life. She turned on a room full of Tiffany lamps. She fingered the Queen Anne highboy and Victorian wingbacks. She wandered past the player piano, the Spode china service, the grandfather clock in the foyer, the rolltop in the library, opening every drawer, every closet, every cubbyhole, every cupboard, every nook, every cranny in sight.

She continued this until dawn the next morning, whereupon she surprised all her neighbors on Old Waco Road, the tiny old town’s lone strip of mansions built when cotton was king and oil was still gushing, by appearing from behind her big carved doors and hanging a handmade garage sale sign around the neck of her peeling lawn-jockey hitching post. And then—after a last long, strong drag off her first Lucky Strike filter of the day and a flourished stubbing-out of the butt on the lawn jockey’s head—she began dragging the contents of a century of conspicuous consumption onto her long, sloping lawn.

Because she knew what this was about. This was about dying. This was about dying and killing Claude. It was the beginning of times; it was the end of times. And for seventy-year-old Faith Bass Darling, it was about time.

BARGAINS

With a rather unladylike grunt, Faith Darling set down the elephant clock on her mansion’s wraparound front porch. Then, straightening her sun hat and cocking her jaw in the warm early-morning breeze, she stepped down onto the porch’s top step and called the nice, helpful teenage neighbor boys over to her. She had promised to show them the money if they would get started pulling things out of the big house. And so she would. Digging into her sundress’s pockets, she came up with a fistful of $20 gold double eagles and held them out to the boys.

Hesitantly, they each took one of the gold coins.

Something wrong? the old woman asked.

The boys looked at each other. Until finally one of them, her paperboy—young Eddie was his name—spoke up: Ma’am, do you have any, like, real money?

That almost made her smile. This is more real than you’ve ever seen, young man.

Still, ma’am. You can’t stick these in a Coke machine.

No, I suppose you can’t, she agreed. Wait a moment. She went back inside to find her purse. Entering the kitchen, she didn’t seem at all concerned with the condition of the room. There were stacks everywhere. Piles of magazines and newspapers she never quite remembered to throw away covered the counters, the floor, even the appliances. A tower of phone books she never quite remembered to clear away stood under the wall phone by the side door. Dozens of Imperial sugar bags, Campbell’s soup cans, Heinz ketchup bottles, and Lipton tea tins she never quite remembered she had enough of surrounded the kitchen sink, the only thing in the room that was clean and devoid of clutter, and it sparkled as if it were cleaned every hour of every day.

Faith found her purse perched on months of mail—junk mail flyers, catalogs, and letters she never quite remembered to read—and retrieved some paper money from it.

As she set her purse back on the pile she glanced at the letter on top, almost recalling something important about it. Stamped across its envelope were the words URGENT and OFFICIAL in red ink. But then the window air-conditioner unit whomped on, rattling and rumbling, cranky as always. So she leaned over and whapped it a good one, the motor hushing as did her thoughts about the letter.

Oh, wait, she thought, I need a cash box for the sale. Grabbing her ornate sterling silverware case from behind the stacks of soup, she emptied the silver onto the counter, half the pieces tumbling to the tile floor, and headed back to the waiting boys.

As she stepped down her front porch steps to where they stood, Faith looked away for a moment. When she looked back, the boys were gone.

And so was the sale. . . .

*  *  *

Faith finds herself walking down the hospital hallway with her doctor.

Blank spells getting worse? he is asking.

Yes, Faith admits, and I’m seeing people I shouldn’t be seeing, least ways as long as I’m still around.

It’s called ‘sundowning,’ Mrs. Darling, the doctor says. Try to stay away from visual clutter that can trigger it.

She frowns. You’re not Dr. Friddell.

He is smiling his irritating doctor smile. I’m Dr. Peabody, remember? Dr. Friddell’s been dead ten years now.

I never liked either of you, she tells him. Always so damn nice. Makes me cranky. And you both have such bad toupees.

His smile grows and so does his toupee. Your memories can feel like a shuffling deck of cards as they fade, but reports show some people are happy.

Is a celery stalk happy? she asks. Doesn’t a body’s soul need a memory? If not, what’s all this living for? And if heaven is for the dead, where do you go when you aren’t here but you aren’t dead? Tell me that!

Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of you, he says, his toupee slowly turning into a black cowboy hat as they float through the long-term care center’s doors. Just like these nice folks.

Faith sees someone she knows—Harold Frudigger, Rotary Club member and Baptist deacon—sitting, staring, twiddling his thumbs. Then she sees his robe and pajama bottoms are open and it’s not his thumbs he is twiddling. Horrified, reeling from the twiddling, the care center, the future lying in wait for her, Faith stumbles back out the doors.

I won’t be dead before I die . . . I won’t . . .

*  *  *

Mrs. Darling?

Holy shit—you think she’s about to croak? whispered one of the boys.

Why, that nice young Eddie, my paperboy, is standing in front of me, Faith realized as she came back to herself. . . . Where am I?

Mrs. Darling?

Dizzy, she looked around: visual clutter. How long have you been waiting, Eddie? she asked, as dignified as possible.

A couple of minutes, ma’am. Want me to call my daddy?

She stared at him hard, suddenly remembering that his daddy was her doctor, young Dr. Peabody who replaced dead Dr. Friddell. No, son, she answered. He already knows.

Here’s some paper money for you. She held out her hand with the dollar bills in it. And you keep those gold coins. In twenty years, you’ll thank me. She noticed something under her arm: her silverware box. She opened it. There was nothing in it. And the sun was hitting her in the face. Better get my sun hat, she murmured.

It’s on your head, Mom, her son, Michael, said.

Faith’s eyes filled up with the beautiful boy, her heart in her throat. Michael?

I said, your hat’s on your head, ma’am. And my name’s Billy, said Eddie’s older brother, the football player.

Ah, yes, Faith realized. Michael isn’t here. She swallowed. Remembering wasn’t part of the deal today, she reminded God.

Ma’am? What was part of the deal? she heard the nice young man Billy ask her. You mean you want us to finish bringing out those chairs? We could also come back later. I could get some of my football buddies and pull out the rest real quick.

That’d be nice. Now go on with you. She waved them away, and with them, the old sadness.

Hey, lady!

Faith looked around. A remarkably rotund woman with two ruffian boys was standing by the big armoire, calling to her.

How much you want for this hutch, lady? I got cash!

With her silverware case–cash box clutched under her arm, Faith Darling raised her chin, straightened her hat, and went to make her first sale of the day.

*  *  *

Directly across the street, Faith Darling’s longtime neighbor Maude Quattlebaum looked out her front window and saw what looked like a wingback chair floating on its own across that brick walkway down from the Darlings’ big front porch.

Normally, of course, she wouldn’t be noticing what her neighbors were doing, especially this early in the morning. She wasn’t one of those nosy neighbors. But she’d woken up in a sweat and there wasn’t any going back to sleep. (Hot as H-E-double-chopsticks for December. Everybody’s jabbering about it being that Y2K end-of-the-world millennium silliness, but this is Texas, for pity’s sake.) So she’d popped in her hearing aid, then headed for the kitchen. And just as she’d taken her first swig of her morning Dr Pepper, she glanced through the front window’s venetian blinds and coughed it right up her nose at the sight of the floating wingback chair. When the chair dropped with a plop, who does she see but Faith Darling herself, all dressed up in a starched white summer dress with a matching sun hat, no less, giving commands to the teenage boy lugging the thing.

What the devil is that woman up to? Maude wondered. The Darling place had been so quiet for so long, seeing any sign of life over there was a bit of a shock. Lord only knew the last time she saw her longtime neighbor poke her nose out of those big carved doors. Nothing but a stream of home delivery people and errand boys and cleaning ladies for years now. And lately that fancy yard of hers had gotten so unkempt as to be the topic of neighborly concern. Maude sniffed: Faith Darling always was wound as tight as a clock, all prim, proper, and neat as a pin. Everybody knew she hadn’t been right since Claude up and died way back when. Of course, Maude reminded herself, the woman definitely had her trials. Lost that fine son of hers in that awful accident with his daddy and that colored boy. And that daughter of hers was a ring-tailed-tooter even back when Maude had the child in Sunday school, nothing but a pill until the day she ran off. But that didn’t make the woman special. Don’t we all have troubles? Maude muttered into the venetian blinds she was spreading to get a better view.

But then Maude saw the homemade Sale sign hanging around Faith’s peeling old lawn-jockey hitching post by the curb.

SALE?

And that sent her scooting straight across the street in her slippers. I’m eighty-two years old! she griped. I’m too old to be putting up with such foolishness around here!

Holding up the hem of her bathrobe, Maude stepped onto the mansion’s big front lawn. Faith Darling, have you lost all good sense? she called across the yard. Do you know what kind of people this will bring to the neighborhood?

Faith turned to see her old neighbor heading up the brick walkway in her fuzzy slippers and pink chenille bathrobe. She shot her a sour-milk stare. What are you talking about, Maude?

Only riffraff shop at yard sales—looky-there! That scruffy little urchin just snatched something—I saw you, child! Maude shrieked at a little girl with a mess of yellow hair in a dirty T-shirt and unlaced sneakers, running the opposite way with a pair of small red cowboy boots. Where’s that urchin’s mama? Those dirt-road kids just run wild day and night. And look at that boy! She wagged a finger at one of the young helpers. Put that box down right now, young man!

Faith propped her hands on her hips, already having quite enough of Maude Quattlebaum, still the most irritating woman she’d ever had the displeasure of knowing. Leave the boy alone, Maude. He’s been helping me bring the furniture out, if it’s any of your business.

Maude harrumphed, already having quite enough of Faith Bass Darling, still the most infuriating woman she’d ever had the displeasure of knowing. She took a closer look at the boy. And lo and behold, it was Dr. Peabody’s youngest child, Eddie, her paperboy. No wonder she didn’t get her paper this morning. When she turned back, Faith was giving her that arched-eyebrow look she hadn’t missed a bit all these years—a mixture of holier-than-thou Bass and high-and-mighty Darling. She hated that look. But a yard sale, Faith! Maude said, offering up her best Quattlebaum glare. How could you sell your beautiful things? Have you lost your mind?!

As we speak, Maude.

As we speak? Maude’s eyebrows scrunched up. Now, what did that mean?

And considering this is my last day on earth, Maude, I don’t much care to waste any more of it talking to you, Faith added, walking away.

Well! Maude exclaimed, her hearing aid missing the last day part. There’s no reason to be snippy!

I need a cigarette, Faith suddenly said, stopping in her tracks to pat her pockets. As Maude stared, Faith pulled out a pack of filterless Lucky Strikes and a fancy brass and silver lighter, tapped out a cigarette like some field hand, placed it between her lips, lit it and sucked on the foul thing as she flipped the lighter shut with a click—all in one motion. Like she’d done it all her life.

And that just made Maude throw her hands toward heaven. Claude was the smoker. Faith didn’t smoke—no proper Baptist woman smoked. Sweet Baby Jesus, Faith, wailed Maude, what is going o . . . ? But instead of finishing her wail, she all but swallowed her tongue. Because that’s when she saw another boy come bumbling down the front steps almost dropping the most gorgeous lamp she ever laid eyes on. And Maude started to wonder whether maybe the world was coming to an end, because she never thought she’d live to see the day.

You’re selling your Tiffanys?

Without another word, Maude scooted right back home to fetch her purse.

Faith blinked.

Her nose was inches from a closed bedroom door and her sun hat was half off her head.

Oh, for heaven’s sake—

She wobbled back a step. Hadn’t she just been arguing with her neighbor Maude? But here she was upstairs in front of the master bedroom door—a room she hadn’t entered in twenty years. Dizzy, she reached to steady herself and found her silverware box stuffed under her arm. With money in it.

Then Faith remembered: The Sale.

Setting her jaw and straightening her hat, she quickly backed farther away from the insulting door. She would not go in that room. Oh no, no, that wasn’t part of the deal. And a deal is a deal, she said loud enough for Midnight Voices to hear, because not even the Lord God Almighty would ask her to do such a thing. Then she rushed through her mental checklist, a litany she always repeated after coming back from one of her moments:

My name is Faith Bass Darling . . . I live at 101 Old Waco Road in Bass, Texas . . . Today is December 31, 1999 . . . My great-grandparents were James Tyler Bass and Belle Bass . . . My parents were James Bass III and Pamela Bass . . .

There. Fine now, she thought, glancing uneasily at the door. This was just a coincidence. And coincidences happen—that’s why they’re called coincidences. After all, it’s not like this was the first time she’d found herself somewhere unexpected. It used to upset her, all this jumping around like a Mexican jumping bean. But it was happening so often she tried to look at such times as, well, surprises. And everybody likes surprises, she groused, letting out a tight-lipped little sigh as she turned toward the stairs.

Faith descended the grand staircase as fast as her old bones allowed, striding through the front doors, down her front steps, and back to the mansion’s contents spread from the porch to the curb and back again—armoires, oriental rugs, sideboards, secretaries, china cabinets, chest o’drawers, bookcases, love seats, highboys, lowboys, daybeds, night beds, and on and on.

Finally coming to a stop beside a leather wingback chair to catch her breath, she straightened her sun hat, her sundress, and her resolve. Then, with barely a thought, she passed a massive mahogany dining table completely covered with dozens of antique Tiffany lamps, stopping only to kick a dusty unmarked box aside so she could straighten a sterling-silver tea service on a French maple sideboard.

On some level, Faith knew these antiques had surrounded her throughout her life and that they’d been her only companions for two long decades. But at that moment, standing among her incredibly expensive worldly possessions, as garage sale customers began screeching to a halt by her curb, they were not much different than the broken tricycles and wobbly couches for sale at the other garage sales across town. Faith couldn’t remember that she’d once sold the family bank just for the privilege of continuing to own these antiques. She couldn’t remember that a century of Bass ancestors had bought, cherished, and handed down these antiques to her. Or that she’d spent her entire life preserving every piece as if they still embodied her family’s very souls.

Not even the dusty box at her feet meant anything to her. When the sight of it should have sparked fireworks. Inside were her white baptism Bible, her baby-blue graduation Bible, and the big, black red-letter Bible she’d read every day and twice on Sundays—all now piled in with dozens more, once cherished by pious Bass ancestors. One day twenty years ago, on the day she’d shut the mansion doors on everything, including God, she had stalked through the mansion finding and stuffing every last one of them into this box.

A tiny memory, no more than an echo, forced her to glance at the box, but Faith stuck out her chin and waited for it to fade, as she’d learned how to do. Squinting at the things spread across her yard, things not meant to be hit by the light of day, the scene turned surreal, material mirages dancing on her yellow-dead winter lawn . . . and for the slightest of heart-pausing moments, she almost remembered how she felt about every last possession surrounding her. Almost. It had all come at her like a flooding river, right to the edge of her awareness. And then just washed away.

Faith let out her breath, which she only now realized she’d been holding. Her hand went to her heart, sensing something more momentous happening now, her memories moving like a train more than a river, some having taken the last train, never to return.

But the memories she’d wish most to take a last train—the ones that would be a true mercy to never recall again—wouldn’t board: that she’d had a husband until she watched him die, that she had a son killed by an antique gun too old to shoot, that she had a daughter who’d run off with the family’s heirloom ring, and that she’d believed in a God who disappeared when she needed one the most. A lifetime of fading memories were now bouncing back and forth as half-forgotten echoes—but not those memories. Sooner or later, those always returned clear as a damn bell.

Mercifully, for the present moment Faith was not remembering them. Instead, she held herself completely still, waiting for the familiar touch of darn dizziness to disappear. When it did, she sighed slightly, dabbing at the sweat beads on her upper lip. Then she put her hands on her hips and turned back to her God Almighty–inspired sale, the thundering whispered notion she’d heard at midnight still echoing in her ears just like the "still,