Zoie Jones
How to Run an Estate Sale
TAKE INVENTORY OF ALL ITEMS IN THE HOUSE.
“People will buy anything,” I repeated. A liquidless NYC snow globe sat on the walnut mantel; a boy and girl skated within the foggy glass dome. Yellowing fake snow surrounded their bodies.
“But Alice is – was – a hoarder,” Mr. Royce replied. We stood together in his musty, overcrowded living room in west Charleston – it was his first consultation with Estate Sale Genies after his wife’s death. Mr. Royce twirled his thumb around a stray thread on his shirt cuff while I popped the cap on and off my lipstick tube hidden in my jacket pocket.
A dresser peeked from behind stacks of naked aluminum cans; once we unearthed the piece it would go for at least one-fifty if the oak top wasn’t too scratched.
“All good, sir. We’ll make most anything work.”
Even 1920’s hand-lotion was collectible; who cares that it probably housed more bacteria than an abandoned petri dish? Antique junkies saw that shit and went bonkers. I’d even seen a frenzy over my late grandma’s stained childhood picnic blanket – they didn’t make them like they used to. Or, that’s what the tussle winner said when she handed me the five dollars in cash. Rock-hard blue gum stuck to the center of Lincoln’s face.
“It’s just – Alice,” Mr. Royce said. “I’m not sure how she’d feel about things getting sold.” He grasped his hands over his rounded belly, barely contained by the worn-brown leather belt set to the loosest notch.
“I understand,” I said, using my rehearsed speech. “Any family members who’d want anything before the sale?”
“No, Ms. Cathy,” he said.
“Cathy’s fine.”
“Cathy,” he amended. “I don’t want to hassle anyone.”
Family tension, then. I took a second inventory of his deep blue eyes. When I’d walked through the door he reminded me of someone I knew; I hated that feeling, when your brain couldn’t remember or your subconscious tripped you up, maybe for fun. Or, reincarnation is real, and we were lovers or dog pals in a past life.
7:00 PM. The nearest dispensary closed in an hour. “If it’s alright,” I said – my pay-grade only afforded so much consoling – “I’ll sweep through the house and note any big-ticket items.” I whipped out my clipboard: automatic respect. “Any rooms off limits?”
Mr. Royce insisted on giving a guided tour so I wouldn’t get lost. Twenty minutes later I checked my phone and ignored the three cracks that spiderwebbed across the front. The hard floors in the NICU hadn’t shown forgiveness towards my phone when I dropped it – nine months ago?
Time crawls like roadkill inching its way the side of the road.
“Alice had meant to send these to our grandbaby,” Mr. Royce said. “But she’s probably too big for them now.” He smiled as he held the pink onesie with a tiny white bow tacked onto the front collar.
“How old?”
“Just turned three,” he said. “Looks just like her mama.”
“That’s sweet,” I said and turned to leave the room. I felt eyes boring into the back of my lavender polyester blouse.
You’ll wish you kept the stained pink onesie in ten years, everyone had told me. The one from when Emily was two weeks old, when you’re sobbing on the bathroom floor because you’ll never see your baby again. I’d heard that phrase so many times, but it refused to leave me; I hated that my brain constantly dredged up that kind of shit.
USE DISCRETION; SOME THINGS NEED TO BE THROWN OUT.
Boiled water gargled as Dave poured equal sections into the two Styrofoam oatmeal containers – maple brown sugar for him and peaches and cream for me.
“What's on the agenda today?” he asked. “Going over to your client – Mr. Doyle?
“Royce.”
“Okay,” Dave said. “What’s he selling?”
“His wife died. Hoarder.” I took a long inhale from the joint between my fingers; I dangled it outside the open slider every time I removed it from my lips – Dave hated the scent it left behind. Honestly, so did I.
“It's either hoarder or minimalist,” he said. “Nothing in between.”
“Not now,” I said.
“Then when, Cathy?” he said. “Do you know how it feels to just wake up and –”
Should I have thrown out the pink onesie with the zipper instead of snaps? That’s what the targeted Facebook ads gave me at six months pregnant. But seeing the onesie – washed and folded for the final time – didn’t bring me an ounce of joy. But what about the hand-knitted blanket my mom made? We went together to Michael’s Memorial Day sale and picked out acrylic blue yarn seventy-five percent off; the sonographer had made a mistake at my fourteen-week scan so I thought Emily had been a boy. She still liked the blanket, though. Can babies see color?
Maybe my daughter never saw the color blue.
“I need a break,” Dave said.
“Hmmm?” I understood each word individually; together, they made zero sense.
“Exactly,” he said. “I’m tired of watching you throw your mind away by smoking weed and not caring about any worthwhile shit.” He slammed the Styrofoam oatmeal onto the table.
“Okay,” I said.
Dave grabbed me by the shoulders. “Just – fight with me,” he pleaded.
What about colors from the pink sunset the evening Dave drove me and the baby home from the hospital that very first time? I didn’t know then it would be twenty-three drives back and forth in only eleven months. The last departure from the hospital – just Dave and me – felt like some kind of fucked up relief.
GIVE ITEMS WORTH SELLING A PRICE.
Light streaked through distant gray clouds in the night sky. The stench of damp grass seeped into my nose, and my jeans and t-shirt felt cold and clammy. My head throbbed like my heart had migrated to my brain. I tried to remember the moments before I fell asleep – passed out? – but it was a blur. The budtender didn’t bluff when he’d said this would do the trick.
Face down in the grass. A raised dirt mound pressed against my stomach.
My vision cleared; I lay on the patch of grass where Dave had buried the cat four years ago. In loving memory of Blossom, 1993 – 2007 filled my vision from the headstone we custom ordered online for more than we could afford.
The back pocket of my jeans vibrated. I pushed myself onto my knees and answered the number without checking the caller ID.
“Should I put Alice’s socks in the 'sell’ pile?”
“I don’t – Mr. Royce?” I said and pulled the phone away from my ear to check the time. “It’s 4:00 A.M.?”
“I just figured young people stay up late,” he said. “But what should I do about the socks? Old baby clothes? Do people buy them used?”
“Just make sure –” My free palm dug into my right eye still throbbing from whatever shit coursed through my veins. “What if I come over later to help sort?”
“That’d be fine, but I don't want to trouble you.”
“Part of my job. No worries.”
“Alright. Call if you need anything.”
He hung up. Call if you need anything? What the hell. Mr. Royce probably thought he was on the phone with his dead wife. Or I hallucinated that call – the pot wouldn't fade for another few hours. I needed a shower.
Crunch. A garden snail met its end beneath my muddy slipper. I took off the sopping pink shoe and chucked it into the weeds spreading through the overgrown grass.
I could imagine Mr. Royce’s face when he smelled the weed that lingered on my clothes. Can’t believe they made that stuff legal now, he’d say. Yeah – tell that to my insurance that doesn’t cover my Zoloft for the month. It’s either weed or laying in bed for six weeks and my insomnia and depression having a heyday. Then he’d look away, uncomfortable because no one likes to talk about that kind of shit.
Six hours later – and a thirty-minute shower – Mr. Royce walked me back into his kitchen; a lime-green Pyrex set sat on the floor beside the olive-green archway. That could bring in at least two hundred.
His nose twitched the second I walked through the kitchen door. I’d put on fresh clothes and washed my hair but maybe he had some sixth sense.
“Eggs and toast?”
My gaze snapped to him. Two white plates sat side by side – overcooked scrambled eggs and blackened toast with jam. “You want me to eat breakfast with you?”
“Figured you haven’t eaten yet,” he said. “Most young people have too much on their plates to make the time.”
“Yeah.” My throat worked itself into a knot. Dave’s car was gone when I woke up; breakfast had always been on him because I liked cooking dinner more.
As we ate, he read a list of items he wasn’t sure to sell: antique hairbrushes, desilvered compact mirrors, 1960s Vogue editions – would anyone buy an original Ken doll without an arm? – faux palm trees, and a hip-height Santa holding a rifle and an American flag. I repeated myself fifty times: yes, people will buy it. I told him to use his best judgment, though. Not everything is worth selling.
He gave me a look, like he appraised my eyes this time. Mine were a muddled dark brown – the color of earth after it’s soaked up rain for a straight week.
“Everything needs a price,” I said. “You sort, and I’ll appraise.”
We started in the kitchen. Easy enough, since Alice deemed the kitchen the only place worth organization. My fingertips became smeared with black Sharpie from touching the plastic stickers before the ink dried. I caught Mr. Royce with his eyes closed every so often. His chest moved rapidly, and it looked like he tried to hold it together; for who, I wasn’t sure.
AN ESTATE SALE IS NOTHING WITHOUT BUYERS.
I smeared my lips with cherry red and tried to ignore Dave’s empty spot next to mine in the driveway. The receiver played a message last night – his voice sounded dull and tired and thoroughly over me. He crashed at a college friend's who I’d never met.
I took the main avenue down to Mr. Royce’s house. He insisted on being there for the actual estate sale, so we were meeting an hour before it began.
If I’d have kept the pink onesie – shit, all of it – Dave would have been reminded of Emily every day. Life was a living hell enough.
Ambulance lights spun on Mr. Royce’s driveway and the front door swung on its hinges. I threw the car into park and ran.
A massive EMT put his hand in front of me to block the front door. “Ma’am, you shouldn’t go in.”
“What’d you mean?” I demanded.
“Heart attack this morning,” he said. “What’s your relation?”
“I – We were going to have an estate sale today,” " I said. “For his wife’s stuff.”
Two hours, I snuck into the house through the unlocked back door to take a final inventory. His daughter would decide whether or not to proceed with the sale.
In the kitchen, next to the pristine Pyrex bowls, a green hand-knitted baby blanket sat on the worn oak table, ready for buyers. Mr. Royce had told me Alice and he had bought the table two weeks after their wedding – their first big purchase together.
I took the blanket and breathed in the plasticky scent of unwashed acrylic yarn. Alice probably had knitted it for her grandbaby who was grown up and happy and breathing.
The blanket was chunky – if someone saw me with it would they know I’d stolen it? – so I slipped it under the front of my shirt and walked to my car with hands over my stomach; maybe they’d think I was still a mother.
Zoie Jones lives in the greater Los Angeles area where she is pursuing a degree in English literature. Her debut short story, “Natural Shocks,” was recently published in Drunk Monkeys literary magazine.
