Antiques Swap Read Free Page B

head.”
    And she could, too. Stand on her head.
    Mother faced Phil, a thoughtful finger to her cheek. “For purposes of improv, shall we say I am browsing, on the prowl for new items for our shop?”
    â€œLet’s,” Phil said.
    Followed by Phil and Jena, Mother and I strolled down a blacktop path between rows of facing vendors, stopping at one selling linens in a tent, and another hawking antique dishes on a table under the sun. Phil seemed pleased with the shot he got of Mother and me looking over merchandise, chatting about potential buys. True, Mother was a tad over-the-top, but no more than usual.
    But when we visited the last pre-set-up vendor selling nautical curiosities, trouble arose between the dealer, one Mr. Snodgrass, and Mother.
    Mr. Snodgrass lived down the block from us, and I’d known him since I was in elementary school. Back then, he’d often yell at me for taking a shortcut through his perfectly manicured lawn.
    And his name really was Snodgrass—I didn’t change it to an appropriate echo, Charles Dickens–style, though I believe his name did have a lot to do with his lifelong obsession with grass (the green kind).
    Anyway, Phil had just finished shooting a little segment of Mother and me picking out an old brass clinometer (a navigational instrument used for recording a ship’s sideways tilt) when Mother handed the slice-of-pie-shaped antique back to the dealer.
    â€œI thought you were buying this, Mrs. Borne,” Mr. Snodgrass said, somewhat flummoxed. “I’ve already rung it up.”
    He’d been old even back when I was in the third grade; these were the same rheumy eyes and bulbous nose, the lines between his bushy eyebrows and around his mouth deeply grooved from years of yelling, “Stay off my grass!”
    Mother said, “Then after I’ve paid for it, I’ll be returning it for a refund.” She leaned forward and almost whispered: “We really have no use for such an item in our shop—it’s not like we have a nautical room.”
    The man’s face reddened. “All sales are final, Vivian.”
    Mother put hands on hips; her feet were already dug in. “I hate to quarrel with a dear old neighbor like you, Rodney . . .”
    Rodney Snodgrass. I wouldn’t kid you.
    â€œ. . . and I do hate to get you on a technicality, but it’s not a sale until I actually give you the money.”
    Mr. Snodgrass had the expression of a bull in an old cartoon, seeing a red cape—you know, right before steam comes out its nostrils and ears.
    Having seen this particular cartoon a number of times, I turned to Phil and whispered: “Need me anymore?”
    â€œNo,” he smiled weakly. “Brandy Borne, you’re wrapped.”
    That was TV talk meaning I was finished for the shoot —the whole darn pilot. Free at last, great God almighty, free at last....
    I patted his arm. “Safe trip back to LA.”
    â€œWish us luck selling this thing.”
    I raised a finger. “Be careful what you wish for.”
    After smiling a good-bye to Jena, I made my escape. Mother never missed me. Anyway, there was a purchase I wanted to make. It wasn’t for the shop, but my stomach.
    I made a beeline back to the fried butter stand.
    Yes, I knew it wasn’t good for me. That it was impossible to look pretty or dignified or to maintain any other respectable state of human appearance while eating a fried stick of butter.
    Which is why I retreated with my treat behind the stand, to an old oak tree, where I sat, Indian-style, with plenty of napkins in my lap.
    I was about to bite into the hot, gooey confection, when another carnival-food addict—also seeking cover—rounded the tree.
    Caught yellow-handed, we both laughed.
    â€œWhat would your wife say?” I asked.
    â€œWhat would the stockholders say?” Wes Sinclair responded. He wore a pale yellow polo shirt, tan Bermuda shorts, and