Tesla's Attic (9781423155126) (2 page)

I
f you asked Caitlin Westfield why she bought that old tape recorder at the garage sale, she'd have tons of logical explanations:

1. It was a “found object” she could use for her art project, arranging the parts into a deconstructed assemblage.
   
2. It was a cool-looking piece of retro technology, probably worth something to a museum if she didn't smash it to bits.
   
3. The new kid in town, who was selling it, looked like he could use all the money he could get.
   

All of those reasons would be true, but none of them was the answer. In all honesty, Caitlin couldn't say why she felt so compelled to buy it, except that she was drawn to it in an uncanny way.

It all began with a green flyer.

If it had been any other color, Caitlin might not have stopped to read it, but bright green was her favorite shade. She often painted her nails the exact same green. She took it as coincidence, though she would eventually come to doubt the very concept of coincidence.

ANTIQUES, VINTAGE TOYS, FURNITURE, TONS OF COOL STUFF
, the flyer read, and Caitlin's mind was already spinning. Her calling—although her parents and her boyfriend, Theo, would call it a “hobby”—was taking charming, rustic, and sometimes rusting objects from years gone by and smashing them with a sledgehammer.

The results she would glue in aesthetically challenging patterns on canvas, turning garbage into art. She called it
garbart
.

Her art teacher, of course, was the highest order of imbecile, and kept failing her because she couldn't draw a bowl of fruit.

But, man, could Caitlin
smash
that fruit bowl.

She was one of those rare girls who managed to strike a perfect balance between being wildly popular and wildly original. She was the only cheerleader in her school's history to have her father file a patent for her, because she had personally redesigned the pom-poms that her entire squad now used: a clever accumulation of shiny objects that caught the eye—both figuratively and, occasionally, literally.

While garage sales were the prime hunting ground for her
garbart
, she had a particular interest in
this
garage, because she recognized the address. The house was something of a local legend, a sprawling eyesore plopped into an otherwise conventional suburban neighborhood. Not quite a mansion, but bigger than most of the homes on the street. Caitlin imagined someone would eventually buy it and turn it into either a bed-and-breakfast or a funeral parlor.

At any rate, she was curious to see who had moved in.

Her plan had been to go with Theo, but as usual he texted
rl
. Which meant he was “running late.”

She texted back
mut
, their standard code for “meet you there,” though she knew Theo wouldn't bother to show. Especially if there was a game on. So she called to remind him that he had promised to join her.

“Well, it's like they say,” Theo told her, “the best-laid plans of bison men often go away.”

Caitlin chose to believe that his habitual mangling of common expressions was clever and intentional, because the alternative was too troubling to consider.

In the end, Theo had said he'd come “if he could,” which meant he wouldn't, so she resolved not to miss his presence.

She was just getting ready to leave her house when the storm hit. After a change in barometric pressure that fogged all the windows of her house, the sky let forth with the kind of psychotic determination that made people build arks. Caitlin had to admit that as much as she cared about the sale and the house, she didn't care enough to weather the weather.

She was ready to settle in for popcorn and a movie when she felt a sudden change of heart and raced outside into the rain.

Nick stood helplessly looking at the junk spread out on the long driveway, now getting even more ruined than it already was by the sudden downpour.

“Don't just stand there!” his father shouted. “Let's get this stuff into the garage!”

Nick, his father, and brother hurried out into the rain, frantically trying to carry it all to safety, but who were they kidding? It had taken more than an hour to put it all out. There was no way the three of them could bring it all in.

“I don't get it,” Nick said, darting back to the garage, his arms full of stuff. “I checked the weather report. It said partly cloudy. No rain in the entire state.”

“Weather forecasts never get it right,” his dad pointed out. “Remember back home?”

“That's Florida!” He felt a little pang, because even his dad still thought of Florida as home. “This is the Midwest. Rain isn't supposed to be crazy here.”

“
Mid
west?” asked Danny. “I thought Colorado was the
West
.”

“It's the Rockies,” their dad explained. “More west than Midwest, less west than west West.”

Danny nodded, like somehow that made perfect sense to him.

After two shuttle runs to the garage from the driveway, all three were drenched to the bone, and only a handful of items had been gathered.

“What's the use?” Nick said. “Even if we get it all into the garage, no one's going to come in this rain. We're screwed.”

“Tell you what,” Dad said. “You made a great effort. It's worth something.” He reached into his wallet and handed Nick three twenties. “Sixty bucks. You probably wouldn't have made more than that anyway.”

Nick got a peek inside his father's wallet. Those three bills were all he had in there.

“Keep it, Dad,” he said, waving him off. “I'd probably just waste it on junk food anyway.”

His dad held out the money hopefully for a moment more, then put it away.

“Well,” he said, “at least let's appreciate Colorado rain.” Then he opened up three sagging lawn chairs and set them up in the garage, looking out.

That could have been all there was to it, had the storm not had consequences completely unintended by those who had created it.

The storm could not exist without a substantial accumulation of storm clouds, which by their very nature block out a sizable amount of sunlight. Thus the garage was dim, even at nine o'clock in the morning. Such a dim space required light, but it was an old garage that had never had a ceiling light installed.

“I can't see my comic book!” Danny whined as they sat there.

“So go in the house,” Nick told him.

“No!” Danny said. “I want to appreciate the rain, like Dad said.”

Their father pointed to a back corner. “Why don't you plug
that
thing in?”

That thing
was an old stage light, basically a single oversize lightbulb atop a rusty pole. It looked like a giant electric Q-tip. This was one of the items Nick had brought down from the attic with considerable effort, since the thing was so heavy and tall. They hadn't put it out with the rest of the stuff because the slope of the driveway made it lean at a dangerous angle.

Nick stood up and found an outlet, moved the lamp to the center of the garage, and plugged it in. He found a small knob just beneath the bulb and twisted it a quarter turn to the right. The oversize bulb lit up like a beacon and, for better or worse, began the process of changing the world.

Caitlin was deathly afraid of getting struck by lightning again.

Intellectually, she knew how low the chances were; she had removed both of her earrings, and the only metal on her person was her phone. Although it had an internal antenna, it was hardly the lightning rod that metallic pom-poms were.

No one faulted Caitlin for her astraphobia—fear of lightning—because it was earned. But it was a nuisance nonetheless.

Today she put that fear aside as she strode through the storm, because for some reason she couldn't put her green fingernail on, something was drawing her toward that garage sale. Getting there was more important than protecting herself from a heavenly strike.

As she neared the house, Caitlin had to admit she was impressed by the size of the old Victorian. But up close it was even more run down than it looked from the street. Cracked beams. A few broken windows and torn screens. Some of the gingerbread trim had rotted through or was missing altogether. The entire structure needed work. She wondered what kind of family would move into a house like this. How bad off would they have to be if this was the best they could do? Not to mention having to sell their old junk at a garage sale instead of hauling it all to the dump.

To her surprise, in spite of the downpour, she found she was not the first to arrive. About a dozen people already stood in the rain, some with umbrellas, some without, searching through the waterlogged items with great purpose, even if they had no idea what that purpose was.

Inside the garage was a most compelling light. It seemed to almost have gravity, pulling her, and apparently everyone else, down the driveway toward the garage sale.

As Caitlin pushed through the crowd to the picnic table set up in front of the garage, she passed two desperately uncool kids she recognized from school. One was a gloomy dude dressed all in black, named Vince, and the other was a stocky Hispanic kid whose name she couldn't recall. She gave each a courtesy wave and kept moving forward.

The family running the garage sale—or, more accurately, the teenager running it—simply didn't have enough hands to take all the money that was being thrust toward him. His little brother kept having to kneel down to pick up the fallen bills.

At the picnic table, an older gentleman hefted a large multifaceted glass tube. He held it up to the lamp in the garage, watching as a prism at the core of the tube split the light into small rainbows.

“It's a genuine antique, probably worth a lot of money,” said the kid running the garage sale.

“I'll give you forty dollars for it,” said the man.

The new kid laughed. “I was gonna ask for twenty, but I'll take it.”

The man handed over two bills and walked away, cradling the glass tube in his arms like a baby.

Caitlin watched as two women vied for the boy's attention—one buying what looked like an electric flour sifter, and another who wanted some kind of old-fashioned salon-style hair dryer. Both of them held out money simultaneously.

“You must be quite a salesman,” Caitlin said to the kid after the two customers left with their purchases. “None of these things is worth what they're paying.”

“I know,” he whispered back to her. “I don't get it either.” He handed the bills to his brother, who was organizing the money in an X-Men lunch box.

Caitlin figured he was about her age. The Tampa Bay baseball cap he wore revealed dark hair that was cropped short and only partially hid a small bandage on his forehead over his left eye. He had a nice tan, but his clothes were about three years behind the times.
Florida
, she thought, with a mental snort, and felt a bit sorry for him. The word
assemblage
went through her mind: a found object that needed bits and pieces of other things to make it into something new. Something better.

The kid went on: “I never figured this part of Colorado had so much money.”

“It doesn't,” Caitlin said.

She paused, waiting for the kid to overenthusiastically introduce himself, which was the way most boys reacted to her. When he didn't, she took the astonishing step of introducing herself first. “I'm Caitlin, by the way.”

“I'm Nick.” He spread his hands wide over the table. “You're a little late for the good stuff, but there are still some things here, and there are a couple of bigger pieces in the garage I can show you if you'd like. Have fun!”

“Thanks, I will,” Caitlin said, vaguely disappointed in his response, and she looked over the collection of objects.

Vince, even gloomier than usual, walked up to the picnic table holding a black box that looked something like a car battery, yet not. Corrosion had eaten through the top surface, where wires, bent and frayed, were hooked loosely around electrodes.

“So what's this?” he asked Nick.

Nick examined it. “I think it's an old wet-cell battery. But it's dead.”

Vince shrugged. “Everything dies,” he pronounced. “Batteries are no exception. I'll take it.”

“Um, okay,” Nick said, handing it back.

“Vince, are you crazy?” Caitlin asked. “It's an old, dead battery.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Nick with a smile. “Killing a sale with the truth, now that hurts.” Then he turned to Vince. “But she's right. It's not worth—”

“I'll give you ten bucks for it,” Vince said, and Nick's brother opened up the lunch box like a waiting Venus flytrap.

“But it's not worth a penny,” Nick protested.

“All right,” Vince said. “Nine.”

“I'll take three,” Nick said. “And that's my final offer.”

“You drive a hard bargain.” Vince dropped three singles into the cash-stuffed lunch box.