Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 30, No. 13, Mid-December 1985

Yard Sale by David Braly

“Does this work?”

Horace turned and looked at the man who had asked the question. The man was about forty, unshaven, dressed in faded bluejeans and a T-shirt. A cigarette dangled from his mouth.

Horace smiled and walked over to him. The man looked down at the television set he’d asked about. It was a large portable RCA set with a nineteen inch screen.

“Yes, it works,” said Horace. “Great picture.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh. We’ve never had any trouble with it, except once when a fuse blew in it. That only put it in the shop for one day. We bought that set several years ago from J and T Electronics for one-fifty I think. It crackles some, especially late at night, but works fine.”

“Crackles?”

“Electronically, like the tubes were sputtering or something. But it’s always done that. I asked the repairman about it when the fuse blew, and he said some sets just crackle like that.”

The man in the T-shirt nodded, still looking at the set. “One-fifty, huh?”

“Yes. It was used, but J and T had rebuilt it. Great picture. Never any trouble with it other than that one time.”

“Why are you getting rid of it, then?”

“We got a new set. Color, with a larger screen.”

The man in the T-shirt walked around the set, looking closely at every part of it. He removed the cigarette from his mouth and held it between the fingers of his right hand while he rested both thumbs in his pants pockets.

“What’re you asking?” he said at last.

“Eighty.”

“I’ll give you fifty.”

“Sold,” said Horace.

They walked over to the table, waited for Horace’s wife June to finish with a customer, and then Horace wrote out a receipt while the man in the T-shirt counted out five tens.

After the transaction, Horace surveyed the scene around him. About seventy people were crowded into his front yard. Cars and pickup trucks lined both sides of the street for two blocks. His classified ad in the newspaper for the yard sale had paid off. That or the cardboard notices they’d tacked onto every telephone pole in the neighborhood.

Horace looked at the sky. Overcast, but no rain yet. When he’d first looked outside this morning and seen the grey blanket that stretched from horizon to horizon, Horace had feared that the sale would have to be cancelled. If it had been, they would’ve been out the cost of the newspaper ad and the time they had spent yesterday afternoon and evening getting things ready. But not a drop yet.

“Excuse me,” said a woman’s voice.

Horace turned and saw a dumpy, middle-aged woman in a faded red dress motioning toward him. He walked over to her.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Yes. This clock...” She was looking at the huge mantel clock that had once belonged to his Aunt Ruth. He wanted to keep it, but June insisted that it go. She’d been trying to force him to get rid of that clock for a dozen years, and had finally worn him down.

“What about it?”

“Well, it’s beautiful. Mahogany, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Swiss?”

“German.”

“My, my... Does it work?”

“No. It stopped working years ago. A clock repairman might be able to fix it, although I can’t swear to that. I never took it in to have it examined.”

“Why not?”

“We don’t have a mantel or anyplace else for a clock like that,” said Horace. “I wish we did.”

“How much?”

“Since it doesn’t work and I’m not absolutely sure it can be made to work although I think it can, only ten dollars.”

The woman stared at the clock for a minute, then gave one vigorous nod. “I’ll take it,” she said.

“Good.” Horace saw a man looking toward him, obviously wanting him to come over, and looked to see if June or his daughter were at the table. June was. “If you’ll take the clock to the table, my wife will take care of you.”

“Thank you.”

Horace walked over to the man who had been looking at him. He was a tall, well-dressed, lanky fellow in a grey suit. He was holding Horace’s old office stapler.

“Does this work?” he asked when Horace reached him.

“Yes, although occasionally it’ll jam up.”

“How much?”

“A dollar.”

A young woman in shorts strolled over carrying the bust of George Washington that Horace had bought a year ago during a warehouse auction. That moment of weakness had led to several days of complaining and belittling from June, and frequent barbed comments ever since from her and other family members. He had no hope that selling the bust would end their jokes, but at least the physical evidence would be gone.

“How much for this?” asked the woman.

Horace thought of the forty-two dollars he’d paid for it. “Forty dollars,” he said.

“How much?”

“Just joking. Five dollars.”

“Well, that’s a bit steep.”

“All right, for you, three.”

“I’ll give you two.”

Horace sighed. “Done,” he said.

Horace guided her to the table, where they completed the transaction. He wanted to handle it personally so that June wouldn’t know that he’d lost forty dollars on the venture. After the woman left, he altered the carbon copy of the receipt, turning the two dollars into twenty-five. He hoped he would get away with it. He had to press the five directly onto the carbon paper, and it looked darker than the two dollars on the receipt. He would also have to add twenty-three dollars to the till.

After he finished, he was signaled by a thin young man in denim. The man was unshaven and had a greasy appearance. He was holding Horace’s old Remington rifle.

“Does this work?” the man asked.

“Sure does. I went hunting just three years ago and got an eight-point buck with it.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding,” said Horace. “One of the best rifles I’ve ever owned.”

“Why’re you selling it then?”

“I have another rifle that’s even better. I don’t do much hunting or target shooting any more. One gun’s about all I can handle now. No sense in letting a fine gun like this one go to waste.”

“How powerful is it?”

“Plenty powerful,” said Horace. “It’ll bring down a full-grown stag at a hundred yards with one shot.”

The man balanced the rifle in his hands, then put the butt to his shoulder and aimed at the grey sky. He squinted his left eye, looking through the telescopic sights, then drew back his right index finger without actually touching the trigger. He brought the gun down again, caressing its stock with his right palm while he balanced the rifle in his left hand.

“What would this do to a person?” asked the man.

“Hurt.”

“Say you shot someone in the head with it.”

“It would blow his head apart like an exploding melon,” said Horace.

“Really?”

“Yes.” Horace smiled. “I never tried it, of course, but I know that’s what would happen.”

“I see... Are these sights accurate?”

“Sure are.”

“If a fellow were to lie up on a hill and look through these sights at the highway, could he hit people through the car windows? I mean, what with the distance — about eighty yards — and them moving along at fifty-five?”

“Sure. All he’d have to do is get those crosshairs in the sights right on their heads, a little toward the front, and squeeze the trigger.”

“And the car windows’ plastic glass wouldn’t deflect the bullets?”

“Not from a gun like that,” said Horace.

“How much?”

“Two hundred.”

“I’ll take it.”

Horace and the young man walked over to the table and completed the transaction.

Afterward, Horace looked up again. The overcast was still threatening, but no rain yet.

He saw a woman examining the old redwood chest that had been in the garage for ten years. He hurried over to her.