The woman smiled up from the table, her mouth a wonder of dentistry. “Welcome,” she said. “Remember, cash only.”
The house was modest, yet overfull. Every item bore a small yellow tag with its price. I stood in the living room in front of an empty china cabinet, its contents arrayed on the table behind me. I picked up a plate bordered with green and decorated with a Christmas tree.
A group of old ladies shouldered in. I set the plate down. A lady picked it up and flipped it over. “Spode,” she said to her friend. The friend came over to look.
I went down a flight of wooden stairs into a basement workshop. Shelves lined the walls, each stacked with tools of every description. A box on the floor contained calendars. I picked one up from 1956. Each month was adorned with a leggy girl.
Everything was for sale.