Hope Deferred

I miss the days of rolling rubber bands off the newspaper, circling classifieds and dotting my map in red ink. Even so, I am old and bored at times, and I know my librarian’s yard sale starts tomorrow, so I open the online marketplace to locate her address. I never find it. I’m detoured by someone cleaning out a storage unit in California. A stack of framed art, tied with twine sucks me into the ad. I refuse to hope. I’ve looked through hundreds of framed pieces over the last twenty-two years with nothing but dead ends and despair. But in this photo, on the left corner of the third frame, my eye lights upon a blemish in the wood. A small chunk missing from mahogany edging. A sliver of trim that might just be wrapped in a scrap of velvet in the bottom of my jewelry box.

I message the seller, asking for photos of the individual artworks.  He replies that he bought  the key to the storage unit at an estate sale, and already returned home after taking pictures. He will be on site Saturday for the sale.

The address listed is 887 miles from my home. Today is Thursday. If I drive, it will take me almost two days to get there. I could fly, but how would I get something that size back home on a plane? Jack is out of town on business until Sunday afternoon. I can make it there and almost be back before he checks in with me. He will not be happy with his mother.

From under my winter bathrobe at the back of the closet, I dig out an overnight bag and dust off the top with a stray sock. My toes tingle and my chest flutters. It’s been too long since I left this house for more than a trip to the grocery store or church on Sunday. I feel like a teenager sneaking out the back window at midnight. But it’s 10 a.m., and I need to hit the road if I’m going to make it to this sale on time.

A few toiletries, my best pajamas, two t-shirts an extra pair of capris, appropriate undergarments, my bag is packed. I load up on snacks, a thermos of black coffee and a jug of water. My trusty map of the western states lives in the glove box, and Jack showed me how to use the Maps App.  He even bought me a holder for my dash ( a decision he might regret once he discovers his mother’s escapade, but better to ask forgiveness than permission at this point.)

The garage door closes behind me and I blow a kiss to my little house. Gas enough to get me out of town, so no need to raise eyebrows at my station here. Once I hit the road, I turn up the radio and start singing along. I would open the windows and let my hair fly in the wind, but I just had it done yesterday, so I resist.

The road feels good under my tires. So many trips from years past ribbon through my head. Family vacations, conferences for work, any excuse to hit the road. 126 miles from home, I pull off the interstate and under the canopy of a full-service, two -pump station to fill up. I leave the attendant to manage my tank while I empty my own in the corner restroom.  I return renewed with an extra-large cup of ice cold unsweet tea.. Only 772 miles to go.

The route to California is straight West on I-80. Tough to get lost, but not your scenic drive like the back roads we used to take on our cross-country trips. I remind myself I’m on a mission, and it’s not grimacing at truckers when they box me in during their turtle races up the hills. It won’t help for a mad little grama lady to be honking or giving them the stink eye on the mountain pass.

The Travelodge in Elko seems a good place to stop for the night. $65 with my AARP discount gets me a room and coffee and breakfast in the morning. As long as the sheets are clean and bug free, it works for me. I lay my cash on the counter.

“You don’t want to put this on a card?”

“Well, no I don’t. That’s why I gave you cash. Is there a problem?”

“Uh, I guess not. I never had anyone pay in cash, that’s all.”

“I’ll still take a receipt, please.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“And a recommendation for a good place to eat nearby?”

“Shake shack right across the road. Burgers and shakes.”

“Well, that certainly sounds like a place I need to try. Thank you, dear.”

She smiles a little as she hands me my receipt and a room key. I make my way down the hallway to room 107. It’s definitely nothing fancy. The bedspread fabric is reminiscent of the decade Jack played sports in junior high and high school, and I followed the school bus to so many away games. I set my bags on the desk and feel the buzz of my phone in my purse.

“Hello?”

“Mom, are you okay? Why didn’t you pick up the first time I called?”

“Oh, Jack, hello. I’m sorry, I was…busy. How are you dear?”

“Busy with what, Mom? I’m fine, I wanted to check on you before my dinner meeting tonight. Is everything ok?

“Well, aren’t you a sweet boy? I’m fine, Jack. Just working on a little project.”

“What kind of project? “

“Oh, I’ll show you when I’m done, dear. Now, you go get yourself ready for your dinner and don’t you worry about me.”

“Ok, Mom, but keep your phone ringer on so you can hear it next time. I don’t need to be sending Sandy over to check on you, right?”

“Nope. All good. See you when you get back. Bye now, Dear.”

Guilt makes it impossible to order a gut bomb, though the bacon double cheese on the menu looks divine. I settle for a small cobb salad and a chocolate malt with whip. I didn’t lie to Jack. I am working on a project. I am fine. I just left out details of my current location and destination. He’s a good boy, he really is. He constantly reminds me he’s not a boy, but he is my boy. The Sandy factor is not one I’d considered, but as long as I don’t provide any reasonable cause, my absence should remain unnoticed. My daughter-in-law doesn’t really consider me any of her business, which is fine. She seems to keep Jack happy, that’s enough for me.

I leave a ten on the table to cover my ticket and a tip, then head back to the hotel, brush my teeth, don my pj’s, call the front desk for a wake up at six, and I’m out for the count.

---

The phone jangles, shaking me out of my sleep, I have no idea where I am. It takes a few minutes to slow my heart rate from banging in my ears to reassemble my thinking. Last thing I need is some small-town headline reading that a little old lady passing through town dies of a heart attack in bright yellow pajamas.

I regather my nerves and escort my bladder to the bathroom, splash my face, and change into my Day 2 shirt. I gather my things, make sure my phone volume is turned up before I put it in my purse, and head down to the lobby. Laying out my paper map to get a better overview of my drive for the day, I sip slightly burned coffee as I trace the route with my finger. I don’t plan to stop for lunch until Reno. I need to fill up with gas. I should make it to Sacramento before rush hour, and on to Elk Grove by supper time.

The road is not nearly as familiar or friendly today. Sagebrush and nothingness. And heat. Radio stations are intermittent, and I feel like I am pedaling up the inclines. My sense of adventure and independence give way to second guessing and a growing regret for going this alone. I send up a few breath prayers, hoping the Lord will chalk up these transgressions on the “we’ll talk about it when you get here” side of things, which I prefer to be after, rather than because of this trip. I promise myself to send a message to Jack when I get to Reno. A semi passes me. I have to laugh at the Lord’s humor. A verse imprinted on the back of his trailer reads ...”If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.” And so I do. The rest of the way to Love’s truck stop in Reno.

“Hi Jack. It’s your crazy Mama. Just want you to know I’m taking a little road trip. I might have found Grama’s painting. Sorry for not telling you. I’m fine.” I pause on the send button, then close my eyes and send the text off into Jack’s world. Fifteen seconds later it buzzes back. “MOM. Do NOT move until I call. I’m in a meeting, Ten minutes.”

I shrink into a booth. A busy waitress asks what I want. “A menu would be nice, and a glass of water, please.” She grabs a menu off the next table and slaps it on the table in front of me.

“Lunch special is meat loaf and mashed potatoes with green beans.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, more concerned with the impending phone conversation. “Actually, if there is any left, the special sounds fine.”

My phone buzzes angrily.

“Hello, Jack.”

“Mom, where ARE you? What on earth is going on?”

I face the window in hopes my flushing face won’t attract attention. Or the tears forming on the ridge of my eyelids. Which of course makes my nose run.

“Well Dear, I am in Reno, on my way to check out a sale at a storage unit in Elk Grove, California tomorrow morning. I think Grandma’s painting is there.”

“Mom, how many times have you said the same thing? You’re in Reno? By yourself? What were you thinking?”

“I thought it would be an adventure. I was afraid you wouldn’t let me go.”

“Oh, Mom. What am I going to do with you? How many road trips have we taken together? You couldn’t wait for me?”

“Well, no, the sale is only tomorrow. I have to check. You know I do.”

I can hear him sigh and imagine him shaking his head.

“How much farther do you have to go?”

“A little over two hours.”

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. You need to share your location with me. I’ll walk you through how to do it on your phone. You call me as soon you get there and let me know where you’re staying. I’ll figure something out from there.”

“Ok Jack…”

The waitress plunks a plate on the tabletop and a glass of water from the crook of her elbow. The beans and mashed potatoes run together, but the home-cooked smell of meatloaf makes up for the lack of presentation. I let Jack navigate me through the technology needs, make my promises, then hang up and dig into my lunch.

“Excuse me, ma’am, I hope you don’t mind if I interrupt…” A burly trucker stands at the end of my table.

“Can I help you?” I try to swallow my green bean.

“Well, Ma’am, I couldn’t help but notice you tailin’ me the last hundred miles or so. I wanted to make sure your vehicle is ok.

“Why don’t you sit down and join me?”

“I already ate, ma’am, but I’ll sit for a minute. Where are you headed, anyway?

“Just outside of Sacramento.”

“Well isn’t that just the Lord smiling down?  I just happen to be finishing my run just past there this afternoon. Would you mind escorting me another few miles?

“That is so thoughtful of you. I’m afraid the Lord has too many of my shenanigans on His list to be smiling much. I am grateful for your kindness. What is your name, young man?”

“My name is Josh, Ma’am. Joshua Walker.”

“And mine is Matilda. But most people call me Matty.”

“Well, Miss Matty, I’m going to run through my safety checks. When you finish your supper, I’ll meet you outside and check your engine fluids for you.”

“I’m going to let my son Jack know an angel has come my way.”

I text Jack and let him know I’m in good hands.

Josh lays on his horn as I take the exit to Elk Grove and he waves goodbye out the window. “Lord, bless him!”  I spring for more modern accommodations and pull up to the Hampton Inn. Since Jack knows what I’m up to now, I don’t mind using my card to check in. A fresh room with clean white bedding and a big window overlooking the town helps my weary body to let go of the tension of the road. I let Jack know where I am and where I’m going tomorrow for the sale. It’s so nice here. I might just stay an extra day.

Saturday sunshine wakes me instead of a phone call. Today’s the day. Jack’s right, I’ve hoped through hundreds of estate sales, garage sales, sidewalk sales, even art gallery sales. Hundreds of disappointments.

But I still hope.

I pull up to the gate of the storage place and down the rows until I finally spy the one I’m after. The contents spill out on the concrete between the rows, semi-organized and arranged, more stuff emerging from the back of the unit. I park, walk, search. I rub the velvet scrap in my pocket. Behind a rocker and a big steamer trunk, I spy the bundled frames from the photo online.

“Morning! I’m Matty, I messaged you last night.”

“Yeah, sale starts in 10 minutes.”

“Could I at least look through the artworks?”

“10 minutes. I need to finish pulling the stuff out.”

I position myself close to the stack of art without getting in the way. Seven frames. The mahogany frame is third in from the building, but the tell-tale corner faces away from me. Several customers gather and I cement my stance to prevent anyone cutting in front of me.

“It’s 7:30, here’s how this works,” the seller shouts to everyone. “Like an auction, I’ll hold up or point to an item with a starting price, and you can bid on it. Cash only. I’m out of here in two hours, so don’t mill about and gawk if you aren’t buying. Once you pay, you can take your items or take a label for a hold. You have one hour once the sale is closed to pick up your purchases.

“Can we look through them before we buy things?”

“No time to cherry pick. This is a bulk sale.”

I’m determined to get to that piece, even if it means buying 6 more I don’t need.

By 7:45, he’s already sold off a third of the contents of the building. At 7:50, he starts with the steamer trunk.

“Anything inside?” someone shouts from the back.

“Don’t know. Bid starts at fifty bucks.” There’s plenty of interest in the trunk, and it tops out at $250. The rocker is next and sells for $75.

“A set of framed paintings and photographs. Bids begin at $45.” I miss the bid but jump in next. More volleys. It seems to pause at my bid of $125, holding my breath, but then someone raises the bid to $130. I only have $175 left in cash thanks to Elko. I am willing to part with all of it. Within a few elongated seconds, I cast my final bid at $175.

“$185”

I try not to cry. I came so close.

“$200 closes the bids,” the seller shouts.

“$200.” A new voice in the mix of the crowd.

“Sold!”

I know this voice. I turn and see my Jack behind me, the new owner of 7 mysterious pieces of art.

“Jack? How? What are you doing here?”

“You think I’m going to let my crazy mother do a road trip without me?” He grins. He puts his arms around me and squeezes tight. “I’ll be back. I have a purchase to secure.”

Jack pays for the framed works and heaves them up on his broad shoulders.

“C’mon, let’s get out of here. I’ll meet you at the hotel.”

I practically race to the hotel.

“I flew into Sacramento this morning and rented a car. We’ll return it tomorrow, then I’m driving home with you.”

“Oh, Jack…”

“We need to see what we bought. Let’s take a look.” He pops the trunk and unties the twine binding the pieces together. The first is a cheap Van Gogh print. The second, a photograph of a fawn in a field. The third frame is the mahogany with braided wood trim. Aged. Dusty. I hold my breath as my Jack turns it toward me. Brushstrokes in the style of Monet. Muted colors reflected as if seeing the scene through a glass. A scene by the park’s riverbank, a picnic blanket, a young mother beneath a tree with baby boy crawling at her feet. My baby boy.  My feet. Sculpted in oils by my grandmother’s hands.

Her last painting. A frame grazed by Jack’s toy airplane at the braid edging. I hid the chip in my pocket. The painting disappeared when Gram’s death was liquidated.  Her estate swept clean of everything, including the artworks left in her apartment.

I feel for the velvet in my pocket. The chip of wood braid. I hold it up against the faded spot on the corner. And it fits.