Mark Dunn - American Decameron

Once the man had emptied his wallet and departed, Natalia found herself alone. She took a sip from either her third or fourth cup of coffee of the morning (she’d lost count) and took a bite of her crumbly blueberry muffin. It was a little after ten. There were fewer buyers in the house now, but she could still hear the sound of people commenting to each other on all the remaining merchandise. She could hear something else as well — an odd noise coming from somewhere behind her. The only thing behind her was a door that she assumed opened onto a kitchen pantry.

It was a scratching sound with a little thumping mixed in. A mouse? Do mice “thump”? she wondered. Natalia was frightened to death of mice and had no desire whatsoever to investigate. She tried to distract herself by looking over the contract that Erin and Jeremy had signed. At the top of the page were the words “Estate Sale on Behalf of Tyler Enger. Authorized agents: Jeremy Enger, Erin Enger.” This reminded her of the autographed picture that had been personalized to someone named Patrick. It was a little thing, really, but most collectors didn’t like to buy items with personalized autographs unless the recipient was somebody famous.

And still there was the scratching and the thumping. This was no mouse. This was something much bigger. A chill shot through Natalia. She got up from her chair to go and ask Erin about it. Then there came from behind the door a different sound altogether: a moan. A human moan.

Something was going on — something disturbing that she would have to look into, whether she wanted to or not. Natalia recalled that Erin and her brother had struggled a little with answers to a couple of her questions about their grandfather. And earlier the brother and sister had contradicted their own statement about the arrangement the old man had made in terms of dividing the proceeds from the sale. It had seemed suspicious. Everything seemed suspicious to her now. Where were their parents? Why was it only the old man’s grandchildren who had been assigned the task of unloading his extensive Roy Rogers memorabilia collection?

Natalia went to the door. Not knowing what or who she might find, but hoping against hope that it had absolutely nothing to do with the old man, she slowly opened the door. It wasn’t a pantry that lay on the other side; it was a basement — or rather, stairs leading down to a basement. And it wasn’t Tyler Enger whom she found on the stairs. In spite of the disturbing picture in front of her, she almost sighed with relief. Erin and Jeremy hadn’t imprisoned their grandfather in the basement so they could sell his Roy Rogers collection. They’d imprisoned someone else — a much younger man. The young man was gagged and bound, but had apparently, over some period of time, managed to get himself two-thirds of the way up the stairs. He was looking up at her, pleading with his eyes for assistance.

Natalia found the light switch and flicked on the naked bulb that dangled over the stairs. She descended a couple of the steps and then closed the door behind her. Hopefully, this would buy her a minute or two. If Erin or Jeremy or Erin’s friend Betsy came into the kitchen, they would, perhaps, conclude that she had momentarily ducked into the bathroom.

Natalia took the three additional steps necessary to put herself next to the hog-tied young man. She fumbled with the knot that held the gag tightly in place and was able to undo it so that the man could speak.

“Praise Jesus,” he said. “Can you untie me?”

“I’ll try. Who are you?”

“I’m Patrick. Erin and Jeremy’s brother.”

“What’s going on?”

“Isn’t it obvious? My brother and sister tied me up and left me in the cellar so I wouldn’t interfere with their plans. We have to hurry or they’ll have everything sold right out from under me.”

“From under you? I thought all of this stuff belonged to your grandfather.”

“We don’t have a grandfather.”

“Everything upstairs — it all belongs to you?”

“That’s what I’m saying. You’re really going to have to work to loosen the rope around my wrists. It’s pretty tight.”

“Why are they doing this?”

“Why do you think?”

“Because they want to sell all your stuff and run away with the profit?”

“Now that would be interesting — a good storyline for one of Roy’s Western adventures. No, it’s not nearly as thrilling as that. They’re doing this for ‘my own good.’ Because they think I’ve turned loony after all these years of collecting Roy Rogers memorabilia and living alone and really not getting out very much except to go to my night job at the electrical power plant. This is an intervention. Problem is, they’re liquidating my huge investment here, and they aren’t even going about it the right way. You don’t sell a quality collection like this in a garage sale. You go to dealers who specialize in Royandalabilia. Who are you, anyway?”

“I’m the woman they hired to sell said quality collection.”

“Oh. Well, what do you know about Roy Rogers?”

“I know that there are some serious collectors out there. I was hoping we’d end the day with a nice chunk of change.”

The rope was off Patrick’s wrists now. He rubbed them where they were reddened and chafed. “I can’t believe that it actually came to this. That’s okay. I can do the ankles myself.”

“Should I call the police?”

“Yes. And tell them to bring a couple of straitjackets. Talk about loony: my brother and sister should have been put into a padded cell a long time ago. Jeremy tried to burn down the Corn Palace a few years ago. Granted, he was high on patio sealant at the time, but that’s no excuse.”

“What do I do about the other girl who’s been helping them?”

“What other girl?”

“I think her name is Betsy.”

“Betsy’s here?” Suddenly Patrick’s expression changed. It softened.

Natalia nodded. “Do you know her?”

“Yeah. Kind of. Isn’t that a pip? Betsy’s here.”

Natalia started up the stairs. “I’ll call the police. They can sort everything out when they get here.”

“No! Wait!” Patrick grabbed Natalia’s leg. It startled her and she almost screamed.

“I don’t want Betsy arrested.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m madly in love with her, that’s why. I always thought she considered me a hopeless freak. But now you say she’s here. Now you say that she’s upstairs helping Erin and Jeremy rid me of this, this, this sickness —”

“Patrick. I’m very perplexed.”

“Our parents died when we were young — Erin and Jeremy and me. That’s not to say we probably wouldn’t have been messed up anyway. It’s in the genes. Anyway, Erin and Jeremy— they decided to engage the world. On their terms, obviously, but I have to hand it to them — at times they appear almost normal.”

“I thought they were normal.”

“Whereas I disengaged. I retreated into my—”

“Royandalabilia?”

“That’s right. I took the happy trail. You know the song that Dale wrote — their theme song—‘Happy Trails’? I’ve spent my life looking for good role models, you know, being an orphan and all. But you know who it is I need more than anyone else right now?”

“Betsy?”

Patrick nodded. “See? This means she loves me. This means she has hopes that I can turn my life around, begin to get out in the world. If I were to have her thrown in jail, I’m not sure she’d ever forgive me. No, don’t call the police, okay?”

“Should I at least stop the sale?”

Patrick didn’t reply. He stared off into the middle distance. “In their own way, I do think they mean well.”