Chapter 20: Auction Day

The bank called Whiting Home's loan on the fifteenth of January, and the auction was set for the twenty-sixth.

I had not expected to feel anything.

I stood at the back of the empty packing floor in my good coat, and my chest felt tight.

The sorting tables were gone, and so were the shrink-wrap machine and the pallets with my labels.

The loading dock was open to the cold.

An auctioneer in a camel coat stood on a crate with a clipboard.

About sixty people had come, mostly equipment buyers, with a few curious neighbors in the back.

Marge stood beside me with her arms folded.

Behind her stood the forklift driver, holding a bidding paddle with the number eleven on it.

"I'm bidding on my own forklift," he said. "I've been wanting to do it for nine years."

"What's your limit?" Marge said.

"Fifteen hundred."

"It's worth four."

"The auctioneer doesn't know that yet."

Mitch had come as well, in a plain coat.

He stood a little behind me, where I could feel him.

On the far side of the floor, alone, stood Joan.

She wore the cream suit and her silver bob was perfect.

She was looking at the empty place where the wall of candles had been.

I crossed the concrete to her, and my boots were loud.

"Come to gloat?" she said, without turning.

"I came to buy a forklift."

Her mouth moved, and it was almost a smile.

"I used to stand here every morning at six," she said. "Your father and I, when it was a garage."