Dust still hung in the air as Lorna threw open the pickup's door and jumped down. Too far, in these boots. She wobbled. The dust swirled around her from the dirt parking area, chalky and thick in the still, hot air. Didn't matter, not in the slightest. She only had eyes for the canopy-covered booths set up alongside the highway.
ANTIQUES. CURIOS. ART. PEACHES. The letters on plywood signs in red on white.
"Mom, come on, it's hot," whined Nicky from the cab.
Lorna shifted her purse strap on her shoulder, holding the bag to her side. Her boy, her son, half lay on the seat, braced on his elbow as he leaned toward the open driver's door. Seven-years-old with a Beetles mop of dark straight hair and his Daddy's killer blue eyes. Such a cutie—when he wasn't being a pain-in-her-ass.
"Then stay there—but roll down your window. Don't want you to broil to death in my pickup," she said. "Even if you are so sweet I could gobble you up!"
He rolled his eyes, shook his head, and sat up. "Fine. I want ice cream, then."
"See? You're already looking for bargains." She pointed a finger at him. "I know a good deal when I hear it. I won't be long. Don't let any pervs in the truck and stay put."
"Yeah, sure thing." He grabbed the passenger-side handle in both hands and began awkwardly rolling down the window.
Lorna shoved the driver's door closed with a clunk. A logging truck, logs shedding bits of bark, rocketed past on the highway, roaring like it was pissed off and everyone better get out of its way. They should, too, Lorna's granddaddy had driven those rigs and had shared plenty of horror stories about idiots cutting off logging trucks. Not a contest you could win.
Didn't matter. She turned her back on the highway noise and picked her way across the dirt strip toward the booths. These things could be a place to get a good deal—if you knew what you were doing. Course they made their money off people who didn't have a clue. Tourists, people from the city that paid full retail markup for everything, and the plain stupid—any of those would pay extra and go away feeling lucky for the privilege.
Not her. Lorna's Daddy didn't raise her to pay asking price, not for anything. It didn't matter where you were, you could always haggle over the price. It wasn't like stores didn't mark things up for a profit. Knowing the real value was key. And if someone didn't want to haggle? So what? A couple minutes with her and she'd convince them that they did want to haggle. She'd skin them and they'd thank her for the privilege. Daddy always said she had the knack. By the time she was Nicky's age, she had her own business moving antiques. Nicky didn't like haggling—a pity, with his looks and charm, he'd make a killing. She loved him to pieces anyway. Let him get away with things Daddy would never have let her do.
Her boots crunched on the gravel, sand, and dirt of the highway turn-off as she walked along the booths. She smiled and gushed over the tourist crap. The peaches were ripe and luscious. Lorna recognized the man behind the table. Wind, his dark hair hung straight down his back, face weathered and worn by sun and work. In the heat, the scent the peaches gave off was mouth-watering and divine.
"Wind, good harvest! Smells divine."
Wind squinted at her and smiled. "For you, Lorna, six dollars a bag."
She nodded. "Really? You want me to pay six dollars for these unripe early pickings? That's how you're going to play it?"
He laughed, slapping knee covered by dusty blue jeans. "Call it reparations, for all the grief of my people."
"Call it literal highway—" she cocked a hip back at the noisy highway. "—robbery. How 'bout this? You give me two bags of the ripe peaches you've got beneath the table and I'll give you four dollars."
Wind shook his head sadly. "My wife would make me sleep in the barn. She'd accuse me of having an affair if I gave you such a price."
"I pity you, Wind. I'll give you five dollars for the two bags that are going to spoil beneath your table and earn you nothing, if it'll soothe your wife's suspicions."
Wind sighed heavily. "I'd planned to make a pie before they spoiled, but I will give them to you instead—for five dollars."
Pie was exactly what Lorna had in mind. She shook Wind's hands, gave him a Lincoln, and took the two reused grocery bags full of ripe and juicy peaches bursting with flavor and that heavenly scent. That was the trick, keeping the ripe or overly ripe peaches in the shade beneath the table where the scent made it seem like the early pickings were ripe.
She carried her juicy treasures down the short line of booths. The jewelry, the crafts, and the garden produce, she ignored. Nothing there worth her time. The booth on the end, though, that held several pieces of furniture under the canopy, and more under a second canopy behind the first. The long hauler behind the canopies likely held even more pieces, the ones that held actual value, kept out of the sun and dust.
It was a woman tending the booth. A large woman with fair, freckled skin pinked by sun. She had the breasts and hips of a woman that had birthed many children. The story of that written in the lines of her face. Red hair pulled back and twisted up into a bun tied with a colorful rainbow handkerchief. Her wore a blue and white gingham dress and sat on a folding chair. She smiled widely when Lorna walked up, inhaled deeply, and said, "You've been to see Wind. Nothing like the smell of perfectly ripe warm peaches, is there?"
"No there isn't," Lorna said, agreeably, her eyes moving over the pieces with practiced evaluation. Worthless, most of it. Mass-produced furniture dressed to look like a valuable antique. Didn't matter to most of the highway trade. But Nicky was back waiting in the pickup and she was already taking too long. She turned, looking disinterested and ready to leave. She didn't even have to take a step before the woman's voice picked at her, pleading.
"None of this would interest you," the woman said, "you've obviously got sense enough to know that. I do have some genuine bargains in the trailer, if you want to take a couple more minutes?"
"I've got my kid waiting," Lorna said, half-turning, but making sure her boots still pointed away from the booth. Body language spoke in this game and she knew how to use it. "I really should be going."
"I understand," said the woman. "Never time enough, don't I know with my own brood! I don't think they ever know how many bargains we miss on their account—things that would benefit the whole family, but they don't have the long view. They only think about now."
It wasn't subtle or particularly artful, but Lorna silently conceded the point. And she did want to see what was in the trailer. Most likely not worth the time it'd take. On the other hand, you never knew for sure. This woman acted like she knew the business, but even experienced sellers sometimes didn't recognize what they had right under their noses.
"I suppose I could take an extra minute or two," she said. "A quick look couldn't hurt, but I'm not really looking to buy." She lifted the peaches slightly. "I only pulled over for these."
The woman laughed. "You and everyone else. This won't take but a minute. A quick peek, see if anything catches your eye—or your heart."
With a grunt, the woman heaved herself from the chair and beckoned. "Come on."
The moment they stepped into the somewhat cooler and dimmer back of the trailer, it might as well have been empty except for the hutch that stood against the side, midway down. Lorna wasn't even seeing the rest of the furniture along the wall. She didn't spare anything else a glance.
A late 19th century, maybe 1880s, dark oak hunting cabinet. Two doors at the bottom, two with glass on the top two-thirds. The carvings looked, for an instant to be leaves, flowers, cones, fruits, and vines coiling around the doors and frame, patterns carved into the thick bottom doors. Looping swirls across the top above the doors pointed to a face emerging from the leaves. Not a face, a skull. It wasn't alone, either. Other carvings held skulls. Vines coiled around and between bony fingers. It was a macabre hutch.
"It's quite something, isn't it?" The proprietress said. "Totally unique piece."
Lorna walked close to it, extended a hand, and stopped before she touched it. There was only a dim bulb on an extension cord giving the trailer light, but the way it fell, she couldn't see into the cabinet.
"Won't open," the woman said. "Locked. I don't have the key—and it's best that it stay locked."
"Why's that?"
"It's a spirit cabinet. Story goes that if a weapon used to kill is put in the cabinet, it will bring the spirit back to the cabinet. Store it there. Supposedly, if you held a seance in front of the cabinet you could ask the spirits inside questions and they'd answer by rapping on the wood or glass."
Wonderful. Lorna chewed her bottom lip. "Have you tried it?"
"No," the woman laughed. "Wouldn't dare. Not me."
A normal piece like this, in such exquisite condition, it'd go for an easy five grand. With the unique features of this one? Up to ten grand, maybe more if authenticated. No way she could come up with cash for it.
Lorna laughed and forced herself to turn away from the cabinet. "I don't believe in all that. It's unique, I'll give you that. Hard to authenticate, I imagine."
In the dim light she couldn't make out the woman's face. The proprietress said, "No, we've got it documented. Shipping records, bills of sale, all of it. Yours, if you want it, for two hundred bucks."
Lorna almost forgot to breathe for a second, then she relaxed. It was a scam. Only explanation for that price. Except... she looked back at it. Would it matter? If she wasn't trying to sell it, it'd be perfect for her bedroom.
Daddy would roll over in his grave. She said, "Deal. You have someone that can load it in my pickup?"
"Of course," the woman said.
🗡
The macabre cabinet looked wonderful against the wall opposite Lorna's bed. It was so unique, so deliciously weird. She'd get it checked, verify the authenticity, but she didn't doubt it. She had the feeling that she only got when she'd really skinned someone good—and this was the deal of her life.
It'd only taken a few minutes to pick the old lock with her knife. She placed it on the shelf and closed the doors. The she maneuvered her small table and chair over in front of it. She put her fingers on the table, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.
"Are you there, Daddy?"
Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!
This is a new challenge. I’m writing short short stories, under 2,000 words, many under 1,000 words. I’m sharing them to my Instagram stories. They’ll drop off that, but premium READINARY subscribers can read the full archive of stories here. When I have 100 stories, I’ll publish a collection of them all.
Best wishes, always — Ryan
THE CABINET
Copyright © 2022 Ryan M. Williams
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