Empty Arms: A Novel (32 page)

“So how does this work?” I ask.

He rocks on his feet. “We take care of everything,” he says making a sweeping gesture with his short, pudgy arms. “Advertising, organizing the sale items, setting the prices, running the auction, collecting the money and, of course, paying you.”

“And how much do you charge for
everything
?” Paul asks.

“Forty percent.”

Paul whistles and folds his arms. “That’s awfully steep.”

Earl kneads his hands, but his tone yields to Paul’s appraisal. “Look around you. It’s a lot of work. That attic alone will take days to get through.”

Paul shoots me a glance and I shrug. I’m fine with any price that keeps me out of the attic.

“Thirty percent,” Paul counters, “and you’ve got a deal.”

Earl comes back fast. “Thirty-five.”

“Thirty.”

Earl looks at me. I cross my arms, stone-faced. He reaches for Paul’s hand. “Deal.”

Over the next two weeks, work keeps my mind off the fact that Earl Sunlap and his crew are riffling through every last one of my parents’ possessions. The estate sale is scheduled for the middle of January, and I’m surprisingly calm when the day finally arrives.

I’m in the bathroom putting on makeup when the phone rings. A couple of minutes later, Paul appears next to me in the mirror looking forlorn.

I lower my mascara wand. “What’s wrong?”

“Marty’s toilet is leaking down through the ceiling and into their kitchen.”

I cringe at the image, and then I understand his torn expression. “He’s your friend. Go be there for him.”

“But I want to be there for you.”

“It’s an estate sale. I can handle it.”

He studies my face. “You sure?”

“Trust me, I’ll be fine.”

He pulls me into him and plants a kiss on my forehead.

C
ARS FILL THE DRIVEWAY
and line the street in front of Mom’s house. When I step inside, it takes a moment for me to remember that she’s not there to greet me. Every room is filled with tables that are piled high with my parents’ things, and people, armed with numbered paddles, rummage through the wares hunting for treasures among the relics. It’s weird to see all of their stuff on display like this. Mom would’ve hated it.

“Good turnout,” I comment, approaching Earl and his team, who have built a makeshift cashier station in the kitchen.

“Catharine, glad you could make it.” He shakes my hand and introduces me to the Sunlap team: his wife, Edie, their son, Earl Jr., who’s playing a handheld video game, and their daughter, Erin, who’s absorbed in an issue of
Seventeen
.

“The E-team,” Edie quips with a smile.

“You’ve done a wonderful job here,” I say, eyeing rows of neat tables. “I hope the attic wasn’t too much trouble.”

Edie waves her hand. “I’ve seen much worse.”

I can’t tell if she’s serious or trying to placate me, but either way, I’m relieved it’s done.

“We found this with your mother’s things.” She hands me a small white box, the kind an engagement ring comes in.
Catharine
is written on the top in her handwriting. I already have her engagement ring, what could this be? I open the lid, and tucked beneath the leather flap is a key. It’s bigger than a house key; one end is flat and rectangular, and the other has large, chunky teeth jutting off the top and bottom.

“It must unlock something important,” Edie says.

I inspect the key for clues, but only a nebulous series of numbers is engraved on its side.

“Looks like a safe deposit box key,” Earl says coming up behind her.

I’ve never had one, so I wouldn’t know. “How do I find it?”

“I’d start with her bank.”

I nod and make a mental note to stop by West Falls Bank on my way back to Lowville.

“There were also quite a few boxes of personal paperwork,” Edie adds. “We set those aside for you. Earl Jr. can load them into your car. “Early,” she calls over her shoulder to the boy. He looks up from his game. “Be a dear and load those boxes into Mrs. Chase’s car, would you?”

I can tell he’s annoyed we’ve interrupted his game but he reaches for my keys and I point to my silver Volvo wagon parked in front of the neighbor’s house.

“Thanks,” I call as he lifts a box and heads out the front door.

He waves without turning around.

“He’s a good kid,” Edie comments, watching after him. She turns to Erin at the cashbox. “Do you have enough change in the till?”

“Yes, Mother,” she says without looking up from her magazine.

Edie shoots me a look.
Teenagers
. The sharpness of Erin’s tone reminds me of exchanges with my own mother, when every comment felt like criticism, every question made my blood boil. I want to tell Erin to savor her mother’s annoying questions because once she’s gone you’ll miss her love in a way you never fathomed.

When Earl announces that the auction is about to begin, the crowd convenes in the master bedroom. The first item is my parent’s oak bedroom set. A four-poster bed, two night tables, a dresser, mirror, and hutch. Several women raise their paddles when the bidding begins. Earl talks fast, the numbers roll off his tongue. Paddles dart up, he points fast; the numbers climb until a brunette woman tops out at $1,000. The whole thing happens fast as I watch from the back of the room. My bedroom set and the furniture in the guest room sells just as fast.

We work our way downstairs to the living room. Next up is my piano. A 1962 Howard by Baldwin spinet with a bench full of music books. A little girl tugs on her father’s sleeve and looks up at him with pleading eyes. He raises his paddle when the bidding begins. An older gentleman bids against him. The little girl crosses her fingers. Her father raises the paddle with reluctance as the price climbs higher. The man with gray hair raises his paddle again. I look to the father, willing him to raise his paddle. The price has climbed up to $475. “Going once.” He swallows at the price tag. “Going twice.” He looks down at his daughter who hangs her head in defeat. He raises his paddle. Earl points to him. “We’ve got $475. Do I hear $500?” The old man whispers with his wife. Two men, trying to please their leading ladies. Finally the old man shakes head. “Sold for $475,” Earl says pointing at the father. Relieved, he bends down and scoops up his little girl, who wraps her arms around her father’s neck and giggles with delight. I smile as I watch them make their way over to Erin at the cashbox.

The crowd follows Earl out to the garage. Next up is Daddy’s gun collection. Earl holds the gun up for the crowd to see. “This is a Browning BPS pump shotgun chambered for big three-and-a-half-inch ten gauge shells.” I’m impressed as he describes vent rib barrels and choke tubes. Apparently, so are some of the men; a dozen paddles jump up when the bidding starts. The numbers leap higher and higher until a portly man with a wiry gray beard tops out at $485. His buddies pat him on the back as he gets up and barrels inside to pay Erin.

“Next up is a .45 automatic Colt pistol.”

My head snaps in Earl’s direction. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of the gun resting in his palm. He presents it to the crowd. Several men lean closer. “This beauty was made in 1969. It weighs twenty-seven ounces.”

I remember how heavy it felt in my hands.

“It has a blued steel finish and very few imperfections.”

My eyes, veiled in blue, staring back at me in its slide.

“The barrel is four and a quarter inches long.”

Infinite when you stare down it.

“The safety is fully functioning.”

It slides off with ease.

“It holds a single-column box magazine with seven rounds.”

One round was all it would’ve taken to end my pain. The sight of the gun in Earl’s hands takes me back to that day. Mom was at the grocery store, Daddy was outside mowing the grass, and I was in their closet with that pistol pressed to my temple, wondering what it would feel like to die. Would my guilt recede as blood pooled out of me? Would the aching stop along with my heart? The part of me that wanted to punish them for taking my baby hoped they’d find me before the smell of burnt flesh dissipated, before my body stopped twitching. Only then would they understand the rawness of the pain they’d caused. That day in the closet, with that Colt .45 gripped in my hand, I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger.

“No ammunition was found in the house.” Earl’s voice jars me from the morbid memory. “Today we’re auctioning just the gun, folks. Just the gun.” I slip out of the garage away from the flurry of paddles and my disturbing past.

T
HE LINE IS
practically out the door at West Falls Bank, and I’m surprised to find that many of the faces look familiar: Helen Stewartson, the librarian, is waiting with a deposit; Dennis Jones, the pharmacist, has a withdrawal slip in his hands. And when I approach, the teller offers her condolences. “I’m sorry again about your mother. She used to come in here every week.”

“Thank you,” I say, touched by how many people knew her. I place the key on the counter between us. “She left me this, and I was wondering if she kept a safe deposit box here?”

The teller takes one look at it and shakes her head. “This isn’t one of ours.” “Do you have any idea where it might belong?”

She looks over and returns it. “Sorry, I don’t.”

There are only three banks in town. I try the other two, but meet the same reaction.

“H
OW DID IT GO?”
Paul asks when I walk through the door.

“It’s done.” I drop into the kitchen chair. My limbs feel like they’re filled with concrete.

“Did everything sell?”

“Pretty much. Earl’s taking the rest to the Salvation Army.” I slide the tiny white box across the table.

“What’s this?” He opens it and holds up the key.

“It’s a safe deposit box key.”

“What’s in the box?”

“The more pressing question is
where
is the box?”

“Did you try your parents’ bank?”

I nod. “And every other bank in town.”

“No luck?”

I shake my head. “None.”

He tucks the key into the box and slides back to me. “How did you make out on the house?”

“They bid it up to two forty-seven.”

He frowns. “That’s a steal.”

“Earl thinks we could’ve gotten more if the house had been updated.”

Paul’s ears perk at this, and I can see visions of knocking down walls, ripping out cabinetry, and framing additions dance in his head.

“Angel Falls is too far away,” I remind him.

“When does it settle?”

“It’s a cash buyer, so they want to settle next week. I’m meeting them at the Sunlaps’ office, so I’ll pick up the check for the rest of it then too.”

He nods, but I can see he’s still thinking about the renovation.

“Speaking of the Sunlaps, my car is filled with boxes of paperwork. Would you mind helping me bring it in?”

As I go to stand up, he puts his hands on my shoulders. “You relax. I’ll handle it.” He pulls on his boots and makes a dozen trips out to the car, hauling in box after box and stacking them next to the kitchen table.

By the time he’s done, his cheeks are red and his forehead and sideburns are damp with sweat. “What on earth is all this?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

He lifts a flap and peers inside one of the boxes. He holds up a flimsy booklet and rolls his eyes. “The owner’s manual for a Frigidaire Flair electric range from 1965.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

He digs deeper but resurfaces with a scowl. “This whole box is full of old manuals. Singer sewing machine, Plymouth Fury, Maytag washer and dryer, Minolta 35 millimeter SLR camera, it goes on and on.” He shoots me a glance. “Trash?”

I nod and he heaves the box aside and opens the next one.

“Now this is interesting.”

“What did you find?”

“A box full of old medical records.” He sifts through the mess of papers. “Hey, did you know your Dad had his tonsils out when he was twenty-five?”

I touch my throat. I had mine out when I was twenty-five too.

“Looks like your mom had gout.”

“I remember that. Her toe swelled up like a gourd but she refused to miss church, so she crammed her foot in her shoe and whimpered with every step. Such a devout Catholic she was.”

Paul grins. “I don’t know many devout Catholics who have tubal ligations.”

“Impossible. My mother always wanted more children, but she never had any. She said it was ‘God’s will’.”

“God and Dr. Zimmer,” he smirks, waving the papers in front of me.

“Let me see that.” I snatch it from him, but the medical records show exactly what he’s saying. My mother had her tubes tied in July 1956. “Wait a second. This was right after she had me. Why would she …? What else is in this box?”

We sift through the heap together. “I got your birth certificate. Whoa! No wonder your Mom got her tubes tied, you were a bruiser.”

“Very funny.” But when I look at the document, I see he’s not kidding. My birth weight was nine pounds one ounce. “That’s weird.”

“What?” He glances over my shoulder.

“My mother told me I was born three months premature.”

“So?”

I study the record. “I’ve cared for a lot of preemies over the years, and not one has ever weighed more than seven pounds. None have ever weighed nine pounds one ounce.”