Antiques Slay Ride Read Free

displays were concerned.
    The only difference was that Bernie and Emma had moved from Mulberry Street to just outside of town on River Road, a twisty two-lane hugging the banks of the Mississippi. As soon as word got out that their Christmas display was up and alighted, the narrow highway became congested with crawling cars loaded with kids of all ages. Folks would enter Bernie’s semicircle drive at one end, rubberneck, then slowly exit at the other end, and speed back to town past the endless caravan in the other lane.
    Locals knew enough not to take River Road that time of year if they were in a hurry, and used the bypass instead. But some had no choice, like Bernie’s next-door neighbor, Mr. Fusselman. Once, Mr. Fussy Man complained bitterly to the city council about the congestion, earning a collective hiss the following Sunday morning from the congregation of the Second Presbyterian Church. Nobody heard an anti-Christmas peep from Fusselman after that.
    Mother had taken me to Bernie and Emma’s one Christmas when I was just old enough to read. I had heard from another kid that there was a life-size Santa in the yard, holding a long list of the names of “good” kids, and that his name was on it! This kid was no prize, so I figured I was a shoo-in for the list—but when we got there, little Brandy hadn’t made the cut! I tearfully blurted out my protest at this injustice, inspiring Mother to grab a pen from her purse, jump out, and—
    ( Mother to Brandy : Dear, please do stay on point. You weren’t the first child to be disappointed at Christmastime, and you won’t be the last. And, anyway, Mother took care of it, didn’t she?)
    When Emma died last year, I suppose it was too hard (and sad) for Bernie to carry on alone with the Christmas decorating, and of course he wasn’t getting any younger himself. So it made sense that he might now want to unburden himself of his decorations and collectibles.
    Still in a hot oatmeal afterglow, I asked Mother, “So, does Bernie know we’re coming?”
    Another stupid question. Mother was strictly a drop-by.
    â€œNo, Bernie adores a good surprise. And whose face doesn’t blossom into a smile when they answer the doorbell and see that Vivian Borne has come to call?”
    â€œMost of the population of Serenity?”
    â€œTish tosh,” she said. Is that a saying? Does or did anybody else ever say that? Anyway, she rose from the table. “Dress warm, dear. It’s beginning to snow.”
    Sushi could tell whenever we were leaving, even though we did our best not to utter certain words, including “go” and “car.” And yet there she was, dancing at my feet.
    â€œAll right.” I smiled, scooping up the little devil. “You can go in the car, too.”
    And of course the word “car” coupled with “go” turned her into a wriggling furry mass of joy-to-her-world.
    Soon we were trundling off in our heavy coats, out through a dusting of snowfall to my gently dented Buick, me behind the wheel, coaxing the car to life, Mother riding shotgun with Sushi on her lap. Then we were headed to downtown, a grid of five blocks nestled on the banks of the Muddy Miss, with everything a little Iowa burg like ours could need. (Notice I didn’t say “want.”)
    Then we were tooling along River Road, the brightness of the sudden appearance of the sun glancing off the glistening water and the gathering snow along the roadside, a lovely sight that made me squint like a mole.
    Mother sneezed.
    Mother sneezed again.
    She gave me a look. “You didn’t say ‘Bless you.’ ”
    â€œThat’s because you didn’t say ‘Excuse me.’ ”
    â€œWhy should I do that?”
    â€œBecause you’re the one disturbing the peace.”
    â€œWell,” she sniffed, “the ‘excuse me’ is implied.”
    â€œDitto the ‘bless you.’