Ebony, ivory and a chicken without a head

Armed with quarters and eager for a bargain, hagglers, browsers and mothers with babies sift through the second-hand treasures.

"Mom, take a look," I say, counting the crowd lured by the garage sale signs. 

Still recovering from her stroke, Mom shuffles over to the window with her cane. A large "For Sale" sign looms on the lawn. Outside, my siblings flock around potential buyers. Mom's life packed and discarded into boxes, she turns away and sighs.

In the family room, Madeline, the master of let's-make-a-deal, sells the upright piano to an elderly man and closes the sale, "No problem. We'll load it into your truck."

The buyer backs his Ford up the steep driveway, tail first.

The group gathers to rid the family of the unwanted heirloom. Madeline moves to the far side of the truck while my sisters’ husbands, Roger and Jeff, push the mahogany eyesore out into the driveway. I carry the piano bench, snug against my hip.

"Use your back, bend." Madeline says and demonstrates the movement.

I glance at my brother-in-laws, measure their collective biceps and wonder if it’s too late for the Final-Day-Special at the local fitness club.  

With a grunt, the men guide the piano onto the truck.  The instrument balances perpendicular on the tail gate. Trapped underneath, his knees buckling and tendons strained, Jeff groans. Roger trembles.

I note, buy gym memberships for birthdays.

“Come on, shove it up.” Madeline commands from the gravel driveway. “I’ll push from behind.”

Meanwhile, Elizabeth, my sister-of-wisdom, dangles a wind chime for a prospective customer.  Witnessing the chaos, she drops the brass pipes and sprints across the yard. 

"Stop! You're going to get killed."

"But we sold him the piano," Madeline sputters, her face redder than the surface of Mars. "We told him we'd get it on the truck."

Jeff shudders and trails of perspiration track down his crimson cheeks. Roger heaves in ragged gulps, his legs quiver to the rhythm of indecision. The buyer squats in the bed of the truck holding the front end of his purchase. He hits a key and an E-flat travels in the confused air.

"Ya'll now said you'd get my piano loaded up nicely in old Bessie here." The end of the instrument teeters under his wobbly grip. "Maybe I ought not buy this after all."

He lets go of his end of the ivory-and-ebony and the piano slides backwards.

"All sales final," Madeline scolds the man as the piano careens down the tailgate. The guys scramble to grasp control of the returning heirloom.

“My back…I can’t hold this--“Roger spies Mom in the bay window and he swallows profane words. I check my pocket for antacids.

Mom spots the wooden giant angled like the doomed Titanic and gasps. She raises her palm, closes her eyes and calls for the heavy artillery. "Oh God, send angels to help them lift that piano."

As a line of buyers gawk and whisper, I disinherit myself and take refuge near a large camellia bush.

"Call 911!" Madeline shouts. "They can hoist the piano with the Jaws of Life."

Elizabeth counters in reproach. "That's only for emergencies."

"What do you think this is?" Madeline puffs in panic and orders. "Push!"

"Stop that." Elizabeth grabs Madeline by the shoulders, "Breathe, breathe…"

Downstream of the pandemonium, reinforcements arrive. My brother Keith and nephew hustle by the onlookers and ask, "What’s all the commotion?"

"Bunch of fools trying to load a piano into a truck," the spectator inhales and spews a load of gossip.  “You see, first this redheaded dame…”

Keith plants his hands on his hips and listens to the animated update.

"A dollar says the old guy gets his money back." A scrawny woman nudges the bystander.

The storyteller pockets his fingers for a stray buck. "You're on."

“I’ll take that bet.” Someone cries and anticipation of a win fuels the crowd. I reach between the shrubs and place a dollar on the underdog.

Meanwhile, the piano man rests against the cab of old Bessie.  He strikes a match along the sole of his boot and lights a stogie.  Fumigated, I gag behind the pink camellia blooms.

Make that two dollars, I reconsider.

"Anyone got a video camera?" An entrepreneur checks the crowd.  "We might win $100,000 with this one."

Hmm, I have a video camera in my trunk. 

"Help, Keith. They're going to be killed any minute." Elizabeth shouts. 

Mom leans against the porch rail, Bible in hand, a floral hanky at her nose. "Oh Lord, watch over my family.”

"Okay, lower the piano, gently." Keith guides with soft commands. "That's it and for Pete's sake Madeline, breathe."

Keith looks at his son and the young man nods knowingly.

My nephew jets down the road, rummages in the garage and returns with a dolly. By day's end the piano gets a new home, Mom nets $403, and I win $25 on the underdog.

THE END

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