‘‘Not even me?’’ asked Marsha.
‘‘Especially not you!’’ Mary’s laugh was meant to show that she was joking, but Marsha still looked miffed when they left.
True to their word, Marsha and Mary sent their teenage sons over to help, and they themselves came every evening after work to sort through the things three generations of Baxters had acquired. They even brought sandwiches and wine, and they helped dig a grave in the backyard for old Buster when he went to sleep on his rug beside their mother’s empty bed and never woke up again.
‘‘Just as well,’’ they said. ‘‘You couldn’t have taken him to your apartment.’’
True, but that did not stop her from grieving. Buster had been a part of her life since her twelfth birthday. She told herself she would have found a way to keep him even though her student apartment up at the university was too small to hold all the other things she wished she could keep. It was hard not to agonize over every teacup or knickknack that held its own special memory.
Uncle Carlton found a trustworthy appraiser who in turn recommended a buyer for all the furnishings. He was her rock when grief over what she was losing threatened to overwhelm her or when one of the twins wanted to take a particularly nice piece.
‘‘Let me see,’’ he would say, running his finger down the appraiser’s list. ‘‘Ah, here we are! Dining room. Family portrait. Original gilt frame. Twelve hundred dollars.’’
‘‘But that’s Great-grandfather Baxter with his little dog,’’ Mary cried. ‘‘He shouldn’t go out of the family.’’
‘‘You’re absolutely right,’’ he told her with an impish grin. ‘‘Offer Carlie a thousand and I bet she’ll let you have it.’’
‘‘Three hundred and fifty for that little cream pitcher?’’ Marsha was appalled.
‘‘Made around 1912 by a well-known potter, according to the appraiser,’’ Uncle Carlton said blandly, reading from the list. ‘‘If it didn’t have that chip in the handle, it’d be worth eight hundred.’’
‘‘Did you hear?’’ asked one of the boys as he came downstairs with a load of clothing to be donated to charity. ‘‘It was on the radio. That fourth jackpot ticket was sold right here in this city. Man! Think of walking around town with a ticket worth thirteen million!’’
‘‘Whoever bought it probably isn’t walking around with it,’’ said Uncle Carlton. ‘‘If he has any sense, he’s stashed it in a safe-deposit box. A lottery ticket’s like a bearer bond. You don’t have to prove it’s yours to cash it in.’’
By the end of the week, it felt as if they had barely scratched the surface, although most of the closets and cupboards had been emptied of personal keepsakes. Basement and attic were still jammed full and their father’s study had not yet been touched. Except for Mom’s bedroom, this was the most personal room in the house, and in unspoken agreement, the sisters kept putting off the dismantling of both rooms.
The corner bedroom was bright and airy. Organdy curtains hung at the windows, a flower-sprigged comforter covered the bed, and the carpet was bright with pink roses.
In contrast, the study downstairs had a single stained-glass window. It was small and dark with floor-to-ceiling bookcases that held nondescript paperback books of no particular value. The only furniture was a massive desk, a swivel chair and a comfortable leather recliner. Yet their mother had claimed the room as her own after their father died. She said the recliner made her feel as if he still had his arms around her. This was where she read in the evenings. This was also where she wrote letters, paid bills, and stashed receipts and proofs of purchase in the big rolltop desk. It had cubbyholes and slots and even a secret compartment that held a lock of their grandmother’s hair, placed there by their sentimental grandfather. On the shelves immediately behind the desk were stacks of unread magazines and plastic boxes stuffed to the brim with more bits of paper, most of which read ‘‘IMPORTANT!! Save this receipt! If yours is the winning number, you MUST present this stub to validate your prize.’’
All week Uncle Carlton had encouraged them to dump books and photograph albums and boxes of letters from other parts of the house inside the door for a more careful perusal later. Every time someone opened a drawer and found a new cache of papers, he told them a fresh tale of careless heirs who threw out stock certificates or promissory notes or valuable autographed letters in their haste to be done.
‘‘We ought to let the boys bag up all this stuff and haul it out to the curb,’’ said Mary, wearily surveying the messy stacks on the floor, the desktop, and the shelves around the desk.
‘‘No,’’ said Carlie. ‘‘Uncle Carlton’s right. One of us really ought to go through it.’’
‘‘Not me,’’ said Marsha, who was as thoroughly tired of the whole process as Mary. ‘‘Besides, if there’s anything valuable in that pile of trash, it would belong to you, not us.’’
Their sons were huffing impatiently. It was Saturday night and their plans for the evening did not include hanging around till their aunt decided what to save and what to toss.
‘‘I agree that one should never throw papers away without examining them first,’’ said Uncle Carlton, ‘‘but not tonight. Anybody up for Tunisian food? There’s a new little restaurant around the corner. My treat.’’
Mary frowned. ‘‘Everything’s changed so much. Isn’t that where Carlyle’s used to be?’’
‘‘Carlyle’s has been gone for five years,’’ Marsha reminded her.
‘‘And good riddance,’’ Uncle Carlton said cheerfully. ‘‘Tough steaks and soggy potatoes. This new place serves a wonderful felfel mahchi. Everything’s made fresh on the premises, and they go easy on the harissa so you don’t feel as if your mouth’s on fire.’’
‘‘Thanks, but no thanks,’’ said Mary. ‘‘Those places never look very clean to me.’’
They stepped outside into a hot summer evening and as they waited for Carlie to lock the door, they noticed a crowd of people clustered around a television camera truck parked in front of the corner bodega.
‘‘Go see what’s happening,’’ Marsha told the boys.
They were off like rabbits and back almost as fast. ‘‘Guess what? That’s where the fourth lottery ticket was sold!’’
‘‘Really? One of these people?’’ Impossible to miss the disdain in Mary’s voice.
‘‘They still don’t know who has it,’’ said one of the boys. ‘‘But it was definitely bought here about eight weeks ago.’’
Marsha sniffed. ‘‘Probably by someone who can’t read English and doesn’t know he’s won.’’
As they passed the little grocery store, people spilled out of the place laughing and exclaiming for the television camera. It was almost like a fiesta.
One of the new neighbors greeted Carlie by name and began to tell her their speculations about the lucky buyer.
Uncle Carlton looked pensive. ‘‘I wonder…?’’ he murmured. Then, ‘‘No, it’s too improbable.’’
Although he did not elucidate, Marsha glanced at Mary, whose own eyes had suddenly widened.
Shortly before midnight, Carlie was awakened by a thump from the study directly beneath the room where she slept.
She sat up in bed and listened. Only the sound of an occasional passing car broke the late-night stillness. She lay back down and was almost asleep again when another thump made it clear that she was not alone in the house.
The streetlights outside gave more than enough light as she slipped out of bed and looked around for a weapon. Nothing. And she had left her cell phone in her purse on a table by the front door. Carlie did not consider herself a brave person, but she could not cower up here while someone helped himself to whatever he could find. When she eased open the door into the hallway, she saw her father’s old leather golf bag at the top of the stairs. She carefully pulled out the nine iron and tiptoed down the stairs.