"A thousand dollars, maybe more. A Vionnet sold at auction a few years ago for about eight thousand."
Cheryl's eyes grew round as silver dollars. "Jeesus! Here, get it off me."
"Don't be silly. Everything has to go to the cleaner before it's sold; they've all been hanging in an attic for decades. Actually," Karen added, "I'm glad you inspired me to get these things out. According to the books I've been reading, some of them shouldn't be on hangers. See here, on this Poiret, how the weight of the beaded skirt has pulled the threads loose."
"If you can't hang them up, how do you store them?"
"Lying flat, and unfolded. They ought to be wrapped in cotton or acid-free paper, because regular tissue contains chemicals that will eventually damage the fabric. I got out some old muslin sheets of Ruth's-she saves everything!-to put around them, but I just haven't had time."
"Can I help? Please?"
"Twist my arm," Karen said, smiling.
As they folded and wrapped the dresses, Cheryl said hesitantly, "I'm awfully dumb. I never heard of Vionnet or some of those other people."
She stumbled a little over the name. Karen didn't correct her. "I'd never heard of them either, until I started reading. Oh, I knew a few names-don't ask me how, I guess if you like clothes you absorb some information without realizing it. Worth, for instance; he was the first of the great designers. An Englishman, surprisingly enough; we think of haute couture as French. He did open his salon in Paris, and most of his successors were French. Paul Poiret, Callot Soeurs-they really were sisters-and Jeanne Lanvin were among the first. Madeleine Vionnet was another great designer who wasn't really successful until the twenties, but she has been called 'the architect among dressmakers.' Her clothes looked soft and flowing, but they were so cleverly constructed that they emphasized all the wearer's good points and glossed over the defects. This is one of hers; isn't it a lovely blue? Supposedly the color was her own special discovery."
Much as she admired the designer clothes, it was the "whites" that pleased Cheryl most. "They're more my kind of clothes. Simple cottons and crochet, like my grandma used to do. I don't feel as if I was a bird in borrowed feathers."
"They look good on you," Karen said, admiring the sleeveless camisole and full, ruffled petticoat Cheryl was modeling. "I think it's because you have the right kind of figure."
"Big boobs and a fat tush," said Cheryl, making a face.
"The Edwardians wouldn't have put it that way. An hour-glass figure, madam, nicely rounded as a woman should be. Now I look ridiculous in clothes of that period. I'm too tall and I'm practically flat fore and aft, with no visible waistline."
"This is your style." Cheryl held up a shimmering peach nightgown, cut low in front and clinging across the hips. "What do you call it?"
"It's a bias-cut satin nightgown from the thirties. The Jean Harlow look. I might have been able to wear it once…"
"Try it on. Come on, you have to play too."
Karen had to tug the gown down over her hips, but it was something of a boost to her ego that she could get it on at all. "If I don't breathe I'm all right," she said, sucking in her stomach.
"You look absolutely super. That's your style all right, lean and slinky. You know, you may have something with this idea of analyzing women's figures according to historical periods. Maybe we-I mean, you-could start a fashion-guidance salon, like the color-analysis business. You know, winter, spring, fall, summer colors?"
"The world is full of opportunities," Karen said ironically, peeling the nightgown cautiously over her head.
Later, as she sat cross-legged on the bed watching Cheryl rummage through a box of odds and ends, she was still thinking about what she had said, and regretting her lapse into cynicism. Cheryl had not complained or asked for sympathy, and heaven knew she had a right. She had obviously been deeply in love, and to lose a young husband so unexpectedly, to find herself poor and untrained, with a child to support, was a much more difficult situation than Karen had to face.
"Some of these things are awful dirty," Cheryl remarked, still rummaging.
"They aren't as bad as the lot I acquired last night. I dropped a few off at the cleaners today, but I doubt he can do much with them."
"This would be real pretty if it was clean."
"Let's see."
Cheryl tossed it to her-a lavender crepe-de-chine blouse with cap sleeves and a scalloped hem.
"I'll try washing it," Karen said doubtfully. "Some silks wash in cold water and turn out well, but in this case the fabric is so worn it will probably tear. What's that one?"
Cheryl straightened, holding a short jacket with leg-o'-mutton sleeves and a high collar. The fabric was silk taffeta with tiny black-and-white checks, and a complex scrolled pattern of black braid edged the lapels and waistline. From top to bottom the entire garment was cut by parallel slashes. Only the stitching at the shoulder and around the hem held them in place; they fluttered like strips of bunting as Cheryl lifted the garment.
"That's beyond repair," Karen said. "Too bad; it was a pretty thing once. Shattered silk."
"Shattered? It looks like it had been slashed by a knife."
Karen laughed. "Nothing so dramatic. It's a condition you sometimes find in silks from around the turn of the century, when manufacturers used a finishing process to weight the fabric and improve its appearance. The substance contained metallic salts; eventually they rotted the fabric, but only along the warp-hence the parallel tears."
"Can't it be repaired?"
"According to one of my books, 'there is no remedy.'"
"What a sad phrase!"
"It is, rather. True, though. Just toss it into the wastebasket."
"You're going to throw it away?"
"Might as well. 'There is no remedy.'"
"Can I have it?"
"Why… Of course you can. Though what you are going to do with it-"
"The trimming can be salvaged," Cheryl said, examining the jacket with a pensive expression. "The braid and the cute little buttons."
"You're welcome to it. It's of no use to me."
From Cheryl's grateful thanks one would have thought she had had a Chanel gown bestowed upon her. She really does love these things, Karen thought.
"I guess I'd better get going," Cheryl said reluctantly. "Mark said to call him when I was ready to leave…"
She looked doubtfully at Karen, who said calmly, "That's a good idea. It's not easy to get a cab on Saturday night."
But the suggestion had cast a slight air of constraint, and when they went downstairs to wait for Mark, Cheryl was obviously ill at ease. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in going to an auction tomorrow," she said.
"An auction?"
"Yes, up in central Maryland. You mentioned you'd have to start finding other sources of merchandise and I just thought… But I don't suppose you want to."
Karen had not realized until that moment how much she had dreaded the long Sunday alone. "That sounds like fun."
Cheryl's eyes lit up. "Does it really? Would you really like to go? I'm crazy about auctions, but it's not so much fun going alone. I've been buying some things for Mark. You wouldn't believe the junk that boy has, and a man in his position needs classy furniture, don't you think? And I've seen old clothes-what do you call them, vintage?-at auctions, and you said you'd be needing jewelry and other things too- Oh, that's great. I hate Sundays, there's nothing to do except study, and I've already done my next assignment. I'll see if Mark needs the car."
"I have a car. It's my uncle's, actually; he made me get a D.C. license so I could keep the car in running order while he's gone. I've only driven it once since he left, so I guess I ought to take it out again."
"That's good, because then we can stay as long as we want. I know how to get there. I made Mark take me once, but he hates auctions."
"I'll pick you up," Karen said slowly. She had just realized what she had gotten herself into by admitting she had a car.
"You don't have to do that." Cheryl's exuberant grin faded. "I'm being pushy again," she muttered. "I should have waited for you to call me, I'm always the one who… But I thought maybe you didn't like… I don't know what happened with you and Mark, he never said, honest he didn't, but I wondered… So that's why I keep inviting you all the time."
It may have sounded like a non sequitur, but Karen had no difficulty in following Cheryl's train of thought.
She laughed lightly. "I don't know why you should think I want to avoid Mark. We were… we were good friends once, but that was a long time ago. My feelings toward him are… are perfectly amiable. Casual, but-er-amiable."
"Really?"
"Really. What time tomorrow?"
"We ought to leave early so we can be there when it starts. But you don't have to come get me, it will save time if I take a cab here, then we can get right onto the parkway. Suppose I come at eight. Is that too early?"
"No, that's fine."
"There's Mark. I'd better run. I hope they have some old clothes! But even if they don't, it will be good practice for you, bidding and all that. You have to be very sly and tricky."
Karen laughed. Cheryl being tricky was a sight she wanted to see.
She stood watching as Cheryl got into the waiting car. Mark didn't get out, or wave. I got more attention from Horton, Karen thought wryly. But of course Mark's windows were closed because of the air-conditioning. The night air was hazy with mist and close as a steam bath.
He did sound the horn, though, as he drove off- a familiar syncopated signal that sent a stab of memory along Karen's nerves.
A lurid pinkish glow lit the sky. Faintly to her ears came the sounds of revelry by night-isolated shrieks of laughter, the beat of music, the throb of automobile engines. As usual, every legal parking space along the street was filled. People were more cautious about parking illegally these days; the District police didn't fool around, they booted or towed violators instead of issuing meaningless tickets. Shadows passed along the sidewalk; people hurrying to and from the night spots on Wisconsin, residents walking dogs or taking a late-night stroll. Lots of people around. Nothing to be nervous about.
She went back in and followed Alexander through his nightly routine-the final trip to the comfort station in the back yard, and the reward for good behavior, a gourmet dog biscuit. He didn't linger over his outdoor activities, and Karen was glad to close the door against the shrouded night. There were lights outside the back door, but they did not extend far into the darkness.
She handed over the biscuit and then dropped her hand onto the dog's head in a brief caress. "No squirrels out there tonight, Alexander? Let's hit the sack, okay?"
KAREN
cut her jogging short next morning, but Cheryl was early and she was still rummaging through her clothes trying to decide what to wear when the doorbell rang. She had no idea what constituted proper attire for a country auction; presumably pearls and mink were not appropriate, which was just as well, because she possessed neither. Except, of course, for the tiny pearls in Dolley's necklace and the mink trim on the Schiaparelli gown.
She ran downstairs to admit Cheryl and apologize for being late. When she explained her dilemma about what to wear, Cheryl looked surprised.
"The coolest thing you've got. It's already pushing eighty degrees. And comfortable shoes."
She was wearing sneakers almost as battered as Karen's, and her legs were bare. A sleeveless white blouse and a dirndl skirt almost old enough to qualify as vintage completed her costume, and as Karen dashed back upstairs to finish dressing she thought how relaxing it was to be with someone who dressed for comfort instead of style- and who wouldn't make malicious remarks about how other people looked.
When she came back down, Cheryl was sitting on the stairs talking to Alexander, who sat with his fuzzy head tilted to one side as if listening.
"I'm sorry, I didn't even offer you a cup of coffee," Karen said.
"No time; we'd better get going if we want to be there before the auction starts. Do you have a couple of lightweight stools or lawn chairs? This place doesn't have seating, and it could be a long day."
Carrying the chairs, they walked to the garage where Pat kept his car, several blocks from the house.
"Wow," Cheryl said admiringly. "What a car! It's a Porsche, isn't it?"
"Yes. The MacDougals have a weakness for fancy automobiles. Frankly, I hate sports cars, I always feel as if I'm sitting right smack on the pavement, and trucks look like cliffs. Can you squeeze in, or shall I back out?"
"No problem. There's not much trunk space, is there? I hope we don't fall in love with anything bigger than a breadbox today. I suppose you'll be getting a station wagon, or a van?"
"Oh, Lord, that's another problem I hadn't considered." Karen eased the car carefully out of the garage. "I don't know what made me think I could go into business for myself, I'm so damned disorganized…"
"Nobody who was disorganized could do those things you did for your husband-taking notes and reading all those books."
"I didn't do anything a halfway competent secretary couldn't do. And according to Jack, I didn't do it very well. Do I turn right or left at M Street?"
Cheryl gave her a peculiar look but said only, "Right. Then straight on."
Traffic patterns had changed in the past ten years and Karen was a little nervous about Pat's valuable car. Not until she had left the Washington Beltway and was heading north on 270 did she really relax.
"The worst is over," Cheryl said encouragingly. "You're a good driver."
"That kid in the pickup didn't think so. What was it he said?"
"Don't ask. He was drunk anyhow."
"This car is Pat's baby," Karen explained. "He'd kill me if anything happened to it. And I haven't done much city driving lately. Jack always…"
She fell silent; she had determined she wasn't going to say anything that could be interpreted as a complaint or a demand for sympathy. After a moment Cheryl said, "I had the same problem."
"You did?"
"Sure. The trouble with being married is that you let the other guy do so many things. You share. Then, when you're alone… I suppose it's just as hard for men. They feel as helpless about cooking and cleaning as we do when we have to fix a leaky faucet or put oil in the car."
"Help," Karen said. "Don't remind me of all the things I can't do! I don't think I've ever put oil in the car."
"I'll show you, it's easy. The only thing to remember," Cheryl said solemnly, "is that the oil doesn't go in the same little hole the dipstick is in."
"Dipstick?"
"I'll show you that too." Cheryl grinned, then sobered again. "There were times when I thought it wouldn't be the big tragedy that defeated me, but the constant little aggravations, day after day. At least you can learn to handle the little things. You can't fix a broken heart or a broken spirit so easy… The next exit is ours."
Though they were in good time, with a quarter of an hour to go before the auction was to begin, there were already cars parked on both sides of the narrow road leading to a graveled lot next to a low, sprawling building. A man directed them into a field, and Karen guided the car over bumps and humps to the end of a row of other vehicles. She gritted her teeth and prayed for Pat's muffler; the field had been roughly mowed, but not leveled.
"Looks like a big crowd," she said, as they got out.
"There are two kinds of people here," Cheryl explained. "Dealers like you-this is their business, after all-and people who just get a kick out of attending auctions."
Karen felt a small thrill at the matter-of-fact tone in which Cheryl had said "dealers like you." It was, however, partly a shudder of trepidation. "I don't know what I'm doing," she groaned.
"Well, you have some idea of what things are worth," Cheryl said. "What prices you can ask, I mean. You just figure out how much you can afford to spend and don't go over that amount when you bid."
"It can't be as simple as that."
"Just about." Cheryl gave a wriggle of pleasure. "This is such fun. I'm one of the second group. If I didn't have other things to do, I'd be at an auction or flea market or yard sale every darned day."
Innocently delighted at being able to display her knowledge, Cheryl explained the arrangements. The auction building, open on one side, contained the choicer items that were to be sold. The auctioneer's podium, at the front, was flanked by long tables piled with small items-glasses and china, clocks and lamps, linens and ornaments. Furniture was stacked around the perimeter, leaving the center open for the bidders. This space was already half-filled with portable chairs, some occupied, some empty.
They set up their own chairs in a strategic spot and then Cheryl led Karen outside. Here the less valuable merchandise was arranged in parallel lines. It was a motley, shabby collection-chairs with no seats, tables with no finish, chests of drawers with half the drawers missing, rusty tools and pieces of machinery, and dozens upon dozens of cardboard cartons filled with everything from books to empty jelly jars.
"This is just junk," Karen exclaimed.
"Junk to you, treasure trove to people who are willing to do some painting and repairing. Come on, he'll be starting soon, probably with these box lots. I want to have a look at the linens. You never know…"
That phrase, Karen soon realized, was the bidder's creed. You never knew what might have been overlooked by a busy auctioneer or an ignorant seller. Among the dime-store ornaments might be a Sevres saucer; a hand-knit cotton-warp bedspread could be hidden under piles of moth-eaten blankets. Watching Cheryl as she squatted and rummaged, her skirts trailing in the dust, Karen began to get the urge too.
When the auctioneer's voice rose over the hubbub, announcing the sale was about to begin, Cheryl rose to her feet and dusted off her hands. "We'd better get our numbers. There's nothing here you want, is there?"
Karen agreed that there was not. The most exciting thing Cheryl had turned up was a set of kitchen towels embroidered with puppies in strident shades of green and red.
They stood in line to register. After displaying her driver's license and giving her telephone number, Karen was issued a piece of cardboard with a number scrawled on it. The process struck her as extremely casual, but when she said as much to Cheryl, the latter shrugged.
"I guess the big expensive places ask for bank references and like that, but there isn't a lot of money involved in these small auctions. If you pass a bad check, the word gets around and then you can't play anymore. They don't usually take out-of-state checks, though, so it's lucky you have a local driver's license. The District is considered local, here and in Virginia. What you really ought to get is a dealer's number, then you wouldn't have to pay state sales tax."
Karen rolled her eyes and threw up her hands at the reminder of another chore to be done, and Cheryl laughed self-consciously. "There I go again. Why don't you just tell me to shut up when I butt into your business?"
They returned to the scene of the action, which had warmed up considerably in both senses of the word. A crowd surrounded the auctioneer; they attached themselves to the fringes.
At first Karen found the proceedings confusing. Microphone in hand, the auctioneer, a tall, rawboned man wearing a Western-style straw hat moved slowly down the line of merchandise. Sometimes one of his assistants held up the item being auctioned, but Karen was not always sure precisely what was about to be sold, and the bidding went with terrifying speed-or so it seemed to her. She had never attended an auction before. It was a popular avocation with some faculty wives, but she had never had time for such things. There was always a paper to be typed or a set of references to check, and besides, Jack despised secondhand merchandise. He didn't even like antiques, only neat, clean reproductions.
"Here's a nice lot, folks," the auctioneer drawled as his assistant lifted a cardboard carton. "Sheets, towels, hardly used. Who'll start it off with ten bucks? Seven-fifty, then. Five…"
The bidding started at two dollars and went up by fifty-cent increments. "That was a good buy," Cheryl said, as the box was finally knocked down for eight dollars. "But it's early yet, the crowd is just getting started."
"Good buy? Who wants sheets other people have used?"
"You sleep on 'em all the time in hotels," Cheryl said practically. "Do you know how much new sheets cost, even on sale? How're you doing-getting the hang of it?"
"I need to scratch my chin," Karen said nervously. "But I'm afraid to move. Some of these people seem to bid by raising an eyebrow, or wriggling their ears."
Cheryl grinned. "No problem. Fred's a good auctioneer; he knows a serious bidder from a nervous twitcher. Just hold up your card when you want to bid. But watch out for auction fever."
"What's that?"
"Bidding on things you don't want and don't need."
"Why would anybody do that?"
"It's like a disease," Cheryl said seriously. "It still happens to me sometimes; comes on without warning. You find yourself going higher and higher and you can't seem to stop. If you see me doing it, just take my card away from me and don't let me have it back, even if I beg."
Karen laughed, thinking she was joking. Nothing like that would ever affect her! She decided, though, that she would rather accept some unwanted article than admit she had made a gesture in error; many of the bidders were known to the auctioneer, and he interspersed his droning spiel with jokes and friendly insults. "Sam, if you don't want the stuff, stop waving your hat; I don't care if the flies are driving you crazy. Lady, you're raising your own bid; it's okay by me, but try to keep track, will you?"
Cheryl bought a box of bedding for six dollars, and Karen regretted her earlier snobbish comment. The sheets weren't for Mark's expensive town house; they were for the home Cheryl hoped to establish for herself and her little boy.
The sun rose higher and the complexions of the bidders turned pink and shiny with sweat. A few people left, having attained their hearts' desires or lost them to higher bidders, but the crowd increased as late-comers arrived. The auctioneer turned his mike over to a colleague and retired into the shade.
Karen was about to suggest that they emulate him when the attack Cheryl had warned her of occurred. It came on her with the suddenness of a sharp pang of indigestion, when a box of odds and ends was about to be knocked down for two dollars. Before she knew what she was doing, she was waving her cardboard ticket high above her head.
"Two-fifty," the auctioneer droned. "Do I hear three bucks?"
He didn't hear three bucks, for the excellent reason that there was nothing in the box except two rusty license plates and a red plaster dog with a chipped ear. The auctioneer's assistant deposited the box at Karen's feet, and Cheryl giggled. "What did you do that for?"
"I don't know," Karen admitted.
She and Cheryl contemplated the red plaster dog. "A rare example of antique folk art," said Cheryl.
The two exchanged glances and dissolved into laughter. "I warned you," Cheryl gasped, wiping her eyes. "Give me your card."
"No, no. I'm all right now," Karen assured her, clutching the magic ticket. "I won't do it again, I promise."
When the auctioneer started on the last row of decrepit furniture, Cheryl glanced at her watch. "Let's get something to eat and check out the things inside. It should take him about half an hour to finish this lot."
"No, wait a minute," Karen said abstractedly. "I want to see how much he gets for that old rusty stove."
"No, you don't. Aren't you hungry?"
"No. I just might be able to use that-"
"Karen!"
"Oh, all right," Karen grumbled, and let herself be led away.
Karen was glad she had a knowledgeable companion; she would not have thought to bring something to sit on, and now that her fit of auction fever was subsiding she realized her legs were wobbly with weariness. They found their chairs and Karen collapsed with a sigh.
"I should have told you to bring a hat," Cheryl said, looking anxiously at Karen's flushed face.
"I'm fine. Just let me sit a minute."
"You stay there, I'll get us something to drink."
She returned with cold drinks and sandwiches and two pieces of cake. Karen decided to forget about her diet; the cake was homemade and delicious. Refreshed and revived, she got to her feet and headed purposefully for the tables at the front of the shed, followed by an amused Cheryl.
Karen was tempted to linger over the dishes and glassware. Some of the pieces, especially the hand-painted Bavarian and Austrian bowls, were quite charming. However, after having watched Julie sell a single goblet for three hundred dollars and another that looked identical for twenty-five, she had decided she would not deal in such items. She simply didn't know enough about them, and she couldn't become an expert in every field of antiques.