Beyond the Grave

ONE

I almost missed the auction because of Mama being in the hospital. She'd been rushed there the night before, after collapsing in the recreation center of the mobile-home park where she lives. Her doctor had diagnosed a bleeding ulcer, and they were now running tests to see if she needed an operation. Mama wasn't saying much, but I could tell she thought she was going to die; there was a quiet resignation in her eyes-so dark against her drained face-and her work-worn hands lay still and protectively curled on the coarse hospital blanket.

I might have panicked had it not been for Nick Carillo, Mama's seventy-nine-year-old boyfriend. His manner was relaxed as he lounged on the chair next to her bed, and the smug expression on his bony, tanned face said that he was looking forward to many more years of taking Mama and her diet in hand. Nick is a health nut and constantly lectures both of us about our wicked ways with overly spicy and impure foods. Now he probably envisioned a million occasions upon which to say “I told you so.”

But he hadn't stalled in on it yet, and even though I knew neither Mama nor I would ever hear the end of this episode, I was grateful for his steadying presence. Nick had eleven years on my mother, had been through the countless illnesses of friends and relatives, and was far more realistic than any member of the Oliverez family. When the time for the auction approached and I said maybe I shouldn't go, he told me I was being foolish. “Attending the auction is your responsibility to the museum, Elena,” he said, “and besides, your Mama and I will be here when you get back, waiting to hear what treasures you've bid on.” So-ignoring Mama's dramatic farewell look-I went.

The sale of old furniture was being held in a cavernous building that used to be an auto showroom, on the frontage road where Route 101 cuts through Santa Barbara. I'd gone over there the afternoon before-Friday-to preview the items, and there were several I planned to bid on in the hope of acquiring them for the museum. When I arrived there that morning, I parked my car-a vintage VW beetle convertible that I had bought for a song the summer before and was unashamedly proud of-at the far side of the lot where no one could open his door into it and ding its costly yellow paint job. Then I looked in my purse to make sure I had the auction catalog and hurried over to the showroom; the sale was to begin at noon, twelve minutes from now.

Inside, the temperature was at least ten degrees warmer than in the parking lot. Although it was a balmy April day, overhead fans worked sluggishly, and even the most scantily dressed browsers waved catalogs to supplement the fans' ineffectual efforts. Several rows of folding chairs had been set up in the center of the room, in front of a raised platform, and some of the smaller items had been moved up there behind the podium. Other pieces, many of them quite massive, ranged along the sides, where would-be buyers were inspecting them. I took a seat in the front row of chairs and waited for the auction to start.

As director of Santa Barbara's Museum of Mexican Arts, I am not strictly responsible for acquisitions. However, our curator, Rodolfo Lopez-better known as Rudy-had only joined the staff last November, and he was still bogged down in learning the myriad details of the position I'd vacated nearly a year ago when I'd been named director. Rudy was in Los Angeles this weekend attending a big estate auction, and he'd asked me to cover this smaller one here at home. I was only too glad to do so; basically I'm a curator at heart, not an administrator. And the auction promised to be a good one: What Rudy wanted to buy was furniture for a display that would show how Alta Californians had lived in the era of los ranchos grandes, and there were several good pieces here that dated from that fabled period. I had my eye on a pair of convent chairs, a hand-carved dining table, and a small marriage coffer. The coffer-a low chest measuring three feet long by two feet tall and incongruously resembling a coffin, which had once contained a bride's dowry-was a particularly fine piece, hewn of dark wood, with a boldly carved crucifix pattern around its edges and hammered brass fittings on the hinged top and on the shallow drawer below the main compartment.

I sat there for a few minutes, feeling beads of sweat break out on my upper lip and forehead and trying not to worry about Mama. An insidious sleepiness crept over me-I'd been up all night at the hospital-and to banish it, I turned my mind to practicalities. Nick would see to Mamai's trailer in her absence, so I wouldn't have to deal with that. I hadn't been able to reach my older sister, Carlota, in Minneapolis either last night or this morning; it seemed to me that the last time we'd talked she'd said something about a weekend conference with some fellow sociologists up in Duluth, but I couldn't recall exactly when that was to take place. No matter, I'd try her again anyway before I went back to the hospital. And maybe I should cancel my dinner date with my boyfriend, Dave Kirk-well, tentative date, providing he got back as scheduled from the mysterious trip he'd gone off on four days ago. It was lucky I'd arranged to take the next week off in order to use up some of my accumulated vacation days; before, it had seemed a luxury I could ill afford, but now …

A man climbed up on the platform, set a sheaf of papers on the podium, and began to shuffle through them. He was short, somewhat tubby, totally bald, and dressed in a red shirt and loud red-and-blue-plaid pamts. The auctioneer? I wondered. He wasn't what I had expected. Actually I didn't know what I had expected, but this refugee from a golf course wasn't it. As I stared at him, the last-minute browsers began to drift over and find seats, and there were a few moments of chairs scraping and catalogs rustling and people coughing before all quieted down.

Finally the man looked up. He had little piggy eyes and a cherubic mouth, and his bald head was shiny with sweat. He surveyed the crowd for a moment and then said, quiet as a college professor, “Good afternoon. My name is Al Doolittle, and I'm your auctioneer here at the Cabrillo Auction Center. Before we get under way with today's sale, I'd like to fill you in on how I'm going to run things.”

I stifled a giggle. He reminded me of a waiter in a trendy restaurant, the kind who introduces himself and then begins to reel off the list of specials that he's frantically memorized fifteen minutes before. Instead of dinner choices, the auctioneer presented us with a set of rules and then began describing Item Number One, a ten-piece lot of Early-American glass novelties that included hats, a lady's slipper, something called a “witch ball,” and a milk-glass chicken. I checked the catalog and was disappointed to see that the first of the items I'd marked to bid on-the convent chairs-would not come up until Number Eighteen.

I was not bored in the meantime, though. Al the Auctioneer kept the bidding moving, and after some spirited offers and counteroffers, a dapper-looking gentleman with white hair became the proud possessor of the box of oddly shaped glass objects. I then watched an elderly couple claim an equally aged Singer sewing machine in an oak cabinet. Two obviously gay men chortled over their success in purchasing a Sheraton chest of drawers. A young woman beamed at her new set of pink Depression glassware. A couple barely out of their teens lovingly stroked a carved Chinese chest that I suspected would do duty as a hope chest. When the convent chairs finally came up, I was first with the opening minimum bid of a hundred dollars. However, after several quick exchanges, I was bested by a man in a tan suit. I comforted myself with the thought that anyone with such a cool manner and flinty, appraising eyes could only be an antiques dealer, and thus more practiced at bidding and better financed than I.

Number Twenty-seven, the dining table, also went to the “gentleman in tan,” as Al the Auctioneer called him. When I turned to look at the successful bidder, who lounged against a pillar directly behind the last row of chairs, I could have sworn that he smirked at me. I narrowed my eyes and pursed my lips, annoyed. From the types of bids the man in tan was making, he obviously dealt in Hispanic antiques and would probably bid on the marriage coffer, too. My marriage coffer. Well, we'd just see if he'd get his hands on that!

When the little chest was brought to the platform for the bidding, I studied its fine carving and lustrous dark wood. The crucifix pattern was sharply defined, and the brass fittings had the natural patina of age. Yes, I wanted this piece for the museum-and I was not going to blunder in as I had before. Cleverly I held back, allowing the man in the tan suit to make the opening move-the minimum bid requested, fifty dollars.

“We have fifty,” Al Doolittle said. “Do I hear seventy-five?”

I hesitated, to see if anyone else was interested.

Al said, “Come on, folks, don't get me nervous. We can't let this honey of a chest go for the minimum, now can we?”

“Seventy-five,” I said.

“We have seventy-five. Do I hear one hundred?”

I glanced back at the man in the tan suit and saw him raise his catalog.

“One hundred now. We have one hundred,” Al said. “Let's go for one-twenty-five. Come on, folks, let's get this auction moving.”

Casually I raised my catalog.

“The little lady in the front row bids one-twenty-five. Any advance to one-fifty?”

A woman in the third row said “One-thirty-five.”

Al looked so stunned that his pudgy features quivered. “One-thirty-five? Is that all we hear for this honey of a chest? Come on, let's get this auction going!”

“One-fifty,” I said.

“Thank you, ma'am. One-fifty, folks. You heard it. Any advance on this bid? Ah, yes, the gentleman in tan is indicating he'll advance to one-seventy-five. Any further advances?”

I looked down at the scribbled notes in my catalog, which said I'd decided not to go higher than two hundred-and-fifty for the marriage coffer. I said, “Two hundred.”

Al the Auctioneer looked elated. He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, his double chins jiggling. “We have two hundred!” Then he turned to the chest and ran his hand over its dark satiny finish. “Look at this piece, folks. It's a beauty. At two hundred, we're practically giving it away.” He paused, looked around. “Ah, the gentleman in tan will advance to two-twenty-five.”

I turned to look at the man. This time I was sure he smirked. Quickly I said “Two-fifty.”

“Now we're going again. Two-fifty. Do I hear an advance to three hundred?”

“Advance,” the voice from the back of the room said firmly.

I looked over my shoulder and glared. The man smiled and nodded at me. No way, mister, I thought. There's no way you're getting my marriage coffer.

I looked back down at the catalog, at the figure “$250” printed in ink. But that figure was based on what I'd decided to pay when I'd hoped to buy not only the chest but also the chairs and dining table. Surely now I could go higher….

“Three-fifty,” I said.

Al nodded approvingly, hobbling his chins at me. “The lady in the front row says three-fifty. Do I hear four hundred?”

I sucked in my breath and glanced back at the man in the tan suit. There was no way I could go higher than four hundred.

The man paused for a moment, then smiled at me and remained silent.

I let out my breath in a long sigh.

“Three-seventy-five,” a female voice said.

Outraged, I swiveled in my chair. The woman in the third row who had bid earlier-a well-dressed matronly type-sat primly clutching her rolled catalog. I'd done all the work, and now she wanted to reap the rewards!

“Four hundred,” I said.

This time Al danced a little jig. “The lady in the front row is determined. Do I hear an advance on four hundred?”

Silence.

“This is an extremely fine piece for only four hundred dollars. Do I hear an advance to four-ten?”

The only sound was the whir of the electric ceiling fans.

Al's smile faded. The fleshy folds of his face drooped. He looked like a big baby getting ready to cry. “Do I hear an advance to four-ten?” he repeated.

No one spoke.

Al sighed. “I am going to sell it,” he said heavily. “For the second time … and the third time … and the final time….” Then he looked down at me, and his features did a quick reversal, into a huge, delighted grin.

“Okay, little lady,” he said, “you're going to take it away!”