Predictably, the Saturday yard-sale addicts would not be denied. By 9:00 a.m. most of the stuff that Judy and I had laid out on our front lawn just an hour earlier—old garden tools, dented pots and pans, rickety chairs, stiff baseball gloves, dog-eared do-it-yourself manuals, chipped picture frames, and other unwanted junk—had been snapped up, and $336 added to our petty-cash kitty. Only a wig inherited from Judy’s mom and a lumpy sofa that had served as bed for our 90-lb German Shepherd remained. For all our scrubbing, his paw prints still showed on its frayed upholstery.
The wig we tossed in the dumpster, and the sofa I was about to demolish and likewise commit to the dumpster, when a late-middle-aged couple in a vintage station wagon, the woman at the wheel and the man seated stiffly in the passenger’s seat, pulled up to the curb.
“How much you want for that sofa?” the woman inquired.
“Fifteen dollars,” said Judy. Though she would have gladly given the sofa away and spare me the trouble of disposing of it, she sensed that this woman was the kind who would derive more satisfaction from haggling a bargain than from getting a freebie.
“I’ll take off your hands for ten,” replied the woman, offering Judy two five’s.
“It’s a deal,” said Judy, taking the money.
I had meanwhile stepped to the tailgate of the station wagon and was waiting for the man to come and help me load the sofa, but it was the woman who came out instead. Shoulders drooping, flesh sagging, gray hair carelessly gathered up in a bun, she projected the fuzzy image of a woman who at one time might have been attractive, even beautiful, but had long since given up on life.
“My name is Mabel” she said in a half-hearted attempt at civility and, without given us time to introduce ourselves, she hastened to explain that the man in the passenger's seat, her husband, Paul, was an invalid. She opened the tailgate and, pushing a folded wheelchair aside, made room for the sofa.
“Been like that for four years since he had that stroke. Can barely walk or talk, grunts and mumbles mostly, like some sort of animal, and totally incontinent. A hopeless case, the doctors say, and because we can’t afford a nursing home—Paul never made much money—the burden of taking care of him has fallen entirely on my shoulders. Social Security and Medicaid is all we have to fall back on. The little money i made on the sale of the house will soon run out.”
Mabel scowled, sniggered. “Me, I’m still strong enough to get a job, but can’t leave him home alone. Our two sons, they moved to California and have plenty of stuff of their own to worry about, so they can’t help. Both on their third marriage and unemployed.” Then sighing deeply. “I don’t know how much longer I can stand it.”
The stroke had rendered Paul an invalid, but it was evident by the way the back of his neck reddened at Mable’s comments that his hearing and comprehension had not been affected; and, judging from the calculated brutality in her voice, it was further evident that this was no isolated incident, that she routinely tormented him with a litany of her wretchedness, in private and in the presence of strangers, as she was doing now.
The sofa loaded with Judy’s help and Mabel’s instructions, I stepped around to the open passenger window and gave Paul a congenial tap on the shoulder. “It's a pleasure doing business with you, Sir. Enjoy your sofa.”
Paul's head slowly swiveled toward me and, as our gazes met, the pained look in his eyes gave way to a strange twinkle. Then, to my astonishment, his left hand, as if having a life of its own, reached across his paralyzed body, took hold of my arm an gave it a firm squeeze. Big, sinewy, thick fingered, the hand seemed to have preserved and compacted the strength that the rest of the body had lost.
“That’s all that he’s got left, that hand,” sniggered Mabel, as she slipped into the driver’s seat. “At least he can feed and wipe himself. Thank God for that.” Then tugging at Paul. “You let go of that young man’s arm. I’m sure he’s got better things to do than stand there and watch you looking up at him.”
Reluctantly Paul did as told. He had meant to say something, but it wouldn't be until the following day that I realized what it was.
Spewing dark fumes from its tail pipe and making clunking sounds, the old station wagon took off down the street and turned the corner.
“Them there was Paul and Mabel Jackson. Used to live on Sunset Street,” offered the little old lady who had shuffled across the yard to watch the loading of the sofa. A never-married, retired postal worker, Mary Baker had lived all but three of her eighty-eight years in the house next door, and since retirement had assumed the role of neighborhood historian. Though she had trouble finding her way inside her own house, she could recount in detail the life stories of every neighbor for blocks around, going back to World War II, and the few blanks in her memory, she would fill in with plausible fabrications, as might any professional historian, so her accounts, on the whole, rang true.
“Them two,” Mary went on, “they were once your Hollywood couple. Met in college. Paul was the star football player and Mabel president of the student body. After graduation Paul went to work for a company that made parts for NASA. He was one of them rocket engineers. Mabel, she became a big-time real estate agent. Sold most of the houses around here, including yours, when it was built, back in 1962, for $23,000, a lot of money back in them days.”
“Yeah, I could tell that the guy was a former athlete,” I said. “Or maybe a construction worker. Stroke and all, he still looked strong, and the grip of his good hand, it was pretty powerful.”
“Problem was they were too incompatible, like oil and water. Mabel was your big spender, flashy dresser, big on parties, while Paul, he was your quiet, stay-at-home type. Spent his off hours taking long walks by himself and tinkering in his garage. They had no friends or in interests in common to speak of.”
“So how did they manage to stay married so long?” Judy asked.
“Well, at first Paul made pretty good money. Invented some kind of device for making rockets work better. In a year his company’s stock went though the roof, and Paul got promoted to Vice President, then to CEO. But he was no good at management. Nearly ruined the company with costly mistakes. At age 50 the company had to retire him, fire him, really, and he never again could land a decent-paying job. Mabel’s real estate business, on the other hand, was taking off. The year Paul got retired she raked in over a million in commissions.”
The little old lady who had shuffled into our yard to tell us the story of Mabel and Paul was on a roll, and the more she talked, the stronger and younger she looked. Reminded me of Judy's vivacious 64-year old mom.
“But that device he invented," commented Judy, "that alone should have made him, if not rich, at least financially secure for life.”
“Well, problem was that it was patented under the company’s name, not his, and he agreed to it, because he figured he was working for the company at the time he invented it, though he did most the work in his garage.”
“True to his football captain ethic," I said.
“Yes, that’s the kind of man Paul was. Mabel, she hounded him to sue the company for the patent, contacted a hot-shot lawyer from D.C. to take the case, but Paul would have none of it. She could have killed him.”
Mary’s voice had developed a hiss. From talking with such verve, her dentures had worked loose. Giggling apologetically, she readjusted the dentures and resumed her story.
“Then Mabel’s career began to slip as well. Their two sons, no doubt, had much to do with it. Both got into drugs. Dropped out of high school and did time in juvenile detention, for theft, drug dealing, stuff like that. Eventually they went off to live in California and, from what I hear, they haven’t changed much. The grief they caused their mother made her bitter, rude with customers, so her sales record dropped down to zero, and her bosses finally had to let her go.”
“Sad story,” I said, with Judy nodding in agreement.
"Yes, very sad indeed. With no money coming in, they were forced to sell their nice home on Sunset Street, together with all their valuable antiques and move into a cheap condo, and when Paul got the stroke, into subsidized housing. The rest of the story you can guess from their condition when came to buy your old sofa.”
Her account of the Jacksons’ sorry life told, Mary’s vitality suddenly left her. Her shoulders, then her legs drooped, and she was again her 88-year-old self. She shuffled across the yard back to her house and, for a long while, stood confusedly in front it, looking around, as if in a strange, unfamiliar strange place. Finally she opened the door and went in.
That afternoon we took York for a fetch-the-ball game in the park. After dropping him off at home, we treated ourselves to a full-course sea food dinner at the premiere restaurant in Old Towne, Alexandria, and a paddle-boat cruise down the Potomac River, all paid for by the money we had made on the yard sale, with some left over.
I was weeding our flower garden next morning when Mary Parker strode over.
“Did you hear the news?”
“No, what news?
“Mabel and Paul Jackson! They were killed in a car accident. On their way home after buying your sofa. Crashed into one them concrete light poles on Duke Street. “
“Both killed? Jesus! How did it happen?”
“The police figured that Mabel must have taken ill or dozed off. Paul apparently tried to take control of the car because when the paramedics arrived they found him with his good hand clutching the steering wheel.”
As usual, the more Mary talked, and the more tragic the subject, the younger and stronger she waxed.
I paused a moment to gaze at the old woman, at the marigolds and zinnias blossoming in our garden, at the rich, dark soil, at the cumulus clouds drifting against the immensity of the blue sky overhead.
“Yeah, that must have been what happened,” I nodded, though I knew different.
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