Day 7-
Flaky's eyes were still puffy and red the next morning. When she touched them they felt swollen and itchy, so she got an icepack out of the fridge and sat down for the next message. Hopefully it wouldn't be another emotional day.
"Flaky, today I need you to visit an address. Petunia will be picking you up at noon."
The message cut off, and Flaky was starting to get used to the feeling of being in the dark until someone came and picked her up. It was only 9:30, so she laid down on the couch and placed the ice pack over her eyes, flipping on the TV and relaxing into the cold. It felt like she was getting a routine going; listening to the messages every morning and coming home late every night, sometimes more confused than sure of her decisions. So far she had been doing what felt like a mix of everything, some fun and some a little more emotional. But what they all had in common was that they had all been discussed that night Flaky had visited her house. She tried to think back and catalogue all they had talked about, but it was hazy and too overshadowed by the disastrous events that followed. She wished she had some kind of idea what she had said, but she knew most of it had just poured from her mouth uncensored. They had both opened up that night in a way she never had before, practically spilling her life story to him without a second thought. The only thing she HADN'T talked about was her father, but she never talked about that anyway. Had he really remembered all that she'd said in all its insignificance and then used them to create this elaborate plan? He was definitely smarter than he looked.
At 12:10, Petunia's jeep pulled up to the house. She greeted Flaky warmly and with a small note of I'm-still-sorry-about-the-tarp-thing. She had her hair braided to the side, the same beret pulling the sides back, Capri shorts and a multicolored tank top. She looked like a girl who just got back from surfing the coasts of California.
"Well, where to?" Flaky asked, buckling her seat belt.
"You know I can't tell you that," she smirked.
"Can't blame me for trying."
When they pulled out onto the highway Flaky cleared her throat.
"By the way, who is Handy?"
"Who is he?" Petunia furrowed her brow before her eyes went wide, "Oh you mean who he is to ME! He's my boyfriend. And hopefully soon my fiancé, but that's just between you and me."
Flaky smiled, already having a hunch they were more than friends by a long shot.
"You guys are cute together."
"Really?" She sounded proud.
"Yeah, really."
Fifteen minutes later, Petunia parked beside a house in a quiet, rural neighborhood. It was one story, red brick and well kept. The mailbox said, "457 Moonlight Trail" and had a sign taped to it that had an arrow pointing to the front door and, "Auction outside."
"Do you know who lives here?" Flaky asked as they walked up the driveway to the front porch.
"Nope," Petunia smiled, opening the front door and going inside with no reservation. Flaky followed close behind, taking in the modern design and upscale furniture. It was bigger than it looked to be on the outside; the floors a wide expanse of deep orange, the walls tall and beige, the furniture looking fresh out of a catalogue and a TV bigger than a refrigerator. The only off putting thing were the boxes scattered across the room and the voices of people coming from the back door. They stepped out onto the back porch to rows of wooden chairs in front of a stand, boxes set up behind it and a stack of wavers on a dried up bird bath. Petunia took two, handing one to Flaky, before directing her over to one of the seats. There was a good crowd, some old some young, but most alight with the buzz of voices and anticipation. Flaky looked down at her waver and saw it had a number on it; 74. A look at Petunia's and she saw it was 75.
"This is an auction isn't it?" she whispered.
"What was your first clue?"
"I've never been to an auction before."
"It's easy, just raise your number and say how much you'll pay for the item they're showing."
"I didn't bring any money."
Petunia turned and gave Flaky a wide grin, her eyes narrowed slyly.
"Just try and stay under $1,000."
"-"
The auctioneer's voice was high pitched and lightning fast from his stand, his arms waving around and pointing in his smart shirt and tie. Beside him was a table with a vintage lamp on top, a tall, skinny man waiting beside it to wrap it up and give to whoever won the bid.
"-"
Petunia looked engrossed, smiling and looking at all the people. Flaky felt the auctioneer's words fly over her head under all the people holding up their numbers. The bid got up to $70 before it was called and a very gauche looking gentleman stood up to retrieve his prize. Flaky would be lying if she said she wasn't intrigued, but she also knew she had never mentioned anything about an auction to Flippy. It wasn't on her list of things to do and he hadn't said anything about going to them…
She felt Petunia elbow her gently in her side, and she looked up to see a painting being lifted onto the table. A sheet was over it, draped over the edges in secrecy.
"AND HERE LADIES AND GENTLEMEN WE HAVE AN ANTIQUE MONET PAINTING, YES THAT'S RIGHT MONET, ORIGINAL COPY, ONLY 10 IN THE WORLD!"
Flaky felt her heart swell as the sheet was pulled off, revealing Monet's "Cliff Walk at Pourville" on a framed canvas. Even if it wasn't the real, genuine painting, the details were exquisite and clear, no visible damage to the print.
"STARTING THE BID AT THIRTY, DO I HEAR A THIRTYFIVETHIRTYFIVE-"
Monet was Flaky's favorite artist. In college she had visited an art museum that had a Monet exhibit and immediately fallen in love with Claude's work. She didn't know why, but the sceneries and style was elegant and gorgeous to her, something she could only dream of having in her home.
"-"
The wavers began to shoot up around her, and Petunia had reached over to lightly grip her arm.
"Wait for it," she whispered, "wait until the numbers even out."
Flaky didn't have to ask how Petunia knew. She distinctly remembered gushing over Monet to Flippy that night.
"Eighty!" a voice called out, and they all turned their heads to see a man in a sharp suit and purple tie. He looked a little out of place, but his eyes were dead set on the painting.
"Ninety!" Another voice, this time from a middle aged woman.
Flaky watched silently as the numbers quickly escalated. She noticed an elderly woman sitting close by the auctioneer, a smile on her thin lips. She must be the owner of the items, hence the proud gleam in her eyes with each rising bid.
"-"
A couple more minutes passed and then Petunia hissed, "NOW!"
Flaky shot up, and all eyes focused on her.
"U…um…four-four hundred!" She squeaked, holding up her waver. She was about to sit down when she heard, "Five hundred!"
"Six hundred," she tried.
"Seven fifty!" they countered.
"Seven fifty five," she suggested.
"Eight hundred!" they retorted.
All eyes were focused on Flaky and the other bidder, who now stood up to show a young woman, middle height and face pointed. She didn't cast a look at Flaky, who shuffled nervously under all the eyes.
"Eight fifty," the woman continued, her face a little twisted as she said it. She clutched at the purse hanging on her hip. Her bid was obviously starting to dwindle down. Flaky felt a nudge on her thigh and she burst without thinking.
"One thousand!"
The woman's eyes narrowed, and with stiff limbs she lowered herself down. The auctioneer sputtered and straightened his tie in shock, trying to regain his composure.
"One-uh, ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS GOING ONCE, TWICE, SOLD! TO THE WOMAN WITH THE RED HAIR!"
The crowd laughed at her flushed cheeks.
The bidding ended around 4, and only after the crowd dissipated and the winners were loading their items into their cars did the elderly woman walk up and place a hand on Flaky's shoulders.
"You bought my Monet," she smiled warmly, leaning on a black cane.
"Oh, uh, yes," Flaky said nervously, "I did. Are you…are you the owner of this house?"
"Yes," she nodded, "I am. Lived here for thirty two years. All my stuff was piling up and I was very excited to sell it. I was hoping my painting would go to a good home."
"I, I promise I'm going to take good care of it, ma'am. Monet is my favorite. Um, just let me go find my friend and I'll see how I'm going to give you that $1000…"
"Oh, no need dear."
Flaky turned and looked down at her, surprised. She looked serious.
"No, no, no, no, ma'am please, it's your painting and I can uh, try and get you the money even though I have no idea where I'm actually going to get it from and-"
"Oh no dear, I assure you its fine. You must be Flaky, yes?"
Flaky furrowed her brow and nodded.
"Ah, I knew it. Don't worry, your friend Flippy has already paid for it. And in advance. I gave him a discount, since he did bring my grandson home."
In the setting sun, Flaky began to notice the slight purple tinge in the woman's hair. Her eyes were a crystal blue as they sparkled up at her.
Petunia walked over with the painting in her arms, smiling when she saw the two of them hugging each other close.
Day 8-
Flaky woke up to the afternoon sun fading back from her window. It was a little after 3, and in a panic she ripped the covers back and shot down the hall into the living room. Sliding to a stop in front of the answering machine half standing half on her knees she all but knocked it off the table as she slammed both hands down in search of the play button. The thought of sleeping through something possibly planned for the day made her stomach lurch. She heaved a sigh of relief as the message began.
"Flaky, at 6 o'clock, I need you to go down to the Presbyterian Church by the park. Go inside and into the chapel."
The message cut off and she couldn't contain the relief she felt knowing she hadn't missed anything. When had these messages become the deciding factors in her day?
Flaky had stayed up late last night, clearing off a space on her wall and hanging the Monet painting with Petunia's help. They got lost talking, Flaky explaining all of Flippy's messages and telling all about how she felt. She hadn't talked to anyone but Mime about the messages, and she thought Petunia deserved to know as well, even though she quickly found out her knowledge on the subject was already extensive. With a large, proud, and beaming grin, Flaky looked at the Monet painting hanging on the living room wall in all its glory. Petunia had explained she wasn't supposed to tell Flaky it was paid for until after the bid, saying it was supposed to be a surprise. It definitely had been a surprise, and she hoped to God the discount the woman gave him was of significance.
At 5:45 p.m. Flaky arrived at the church. There were no cars in the parking lot, shaded by tall weeping willows adjacent to the cemetery. The building was wooden, white, and almost vintage looking. Stained glass windows lined the walls and a steeple sat high atop the entrance. She had come in a skirt and nice blouse, since it was a church after all. Flaky herself was personally Methodist, but kept that to herself as she clicked her way up to the door in her white kitten heels.
Inside the hallway was a deep red, extending and then breaking to the right into the chapel. Before she turned to corner, the sound of a grand piano reverberated off the hollow walls and flooded out of the chapel doors. She paused momentarily to enjoy the sound of the chords and slowly pushed open the double doors.
The chapel had two rows of pews leading to the front, a preacher's stand on top of a row of small stairs and surrounded by potted plants. Tapestries hung from the ceilings and each seat was a deep red and placed with a matching red bible. On the far left of the stage was a large, black grand piano, shining in the light of the window high above. At the keys was an elderly woman, at least in her 70's, tapping away at the keys and thrumming the pedal with her foot. She didn't stop until Flaky was halfway down the aisle.
"Hello, you must be Flaky," her voice was smooth, groggy yet soprano. She must have been a smoker at some point in her life. She had deep grey eyes; hollowed out, weary lines on her face and sparse white hair pulled back into a bun. Her brow was creased though, as if she had just smelled something rotten.
"Yes, hello," Flaky smiled shyly, "It's nice to meet you…"
"My name is not important," she snapped, "Now come have a seat next to me."
Flaky stood, surprised and confused.
"Come along now, I want to get home before it gets too late."
She quickly padded over to the stage, slowly sliding onto the bench beside the woman. She flinched when she suddenly took her hands firmly, splaying them across the keys and adjusting her fingers.
"Are you right or left handed?" she demanded.
"I uh, right, but what exactly-"
"Okay then we'll stay in G minor."
"Yes, alright but what-"
"Your right hand is on the C, D, E, F, and G keys. Now I-"
"Ma'am can you please tell me what-"
"Would you just hush up already!" her suddenly loud voice cut her off, the room filling with silence. "I am here to teach you piano. Franz Liszt La Campanella to be precise. Now if you follow my instruction we will maybe get through the prelude before our time runs up for today."
Flaky was stunned into silence. The woman's eyes were set on her's like icy daggers, the lines in her face firm. She had placed her ring and pinkie finger over Flaky's arm, her nails skimming her skin lightly when she gave it a quick squeeze. Something about her felt familiar, but Flaky had no idea what it was.
"Are you ready?" she asked, and Flaky nodded. She briefly remembered telling Flippy about her love for the piano. She had taken lessons as a little girl, but then had to stop them when they ran out of money that was invested in the divorce.
"Okay then. Now here is the sheet music we will be following."
The lesson lasted until 10:30 that night. She had fallen right into the rhythm, much to the woman's pleasure, and had slowly but surely played rows of the correct notes. When they were done Flaky had awkwardly stood up and extended a hand, only to find the woman making her way down the aisle and through the chapel doors. Flaky hurried after her, but she had disappeared. There was a large room lined with doors and a bathroom, a bulletin board on the wall beside some pastel paintings and a confession box. One of the doors was open with a light on inside, and Flaky walked up to it, seeing it was a main office. The woman was standing inside; her arms crossed and back turned to her. There was a desk and a computer to her left, a row of drawers and papers to her right, and a small ceiling fan spinning above. Flaky stepped inside and noticed she was facing a wall covered in photographs.
"Ma'am?" she said quietly, walking up to stand beside her. When she didn't say anything, she followed her eyes to the pictures and studied them. They were all grainy and filmy, only a select few shiny and clear. They absolutely covered the wall, images of people standing beside the church and under bake sell signs, children smiling in a circle around a woman with an open bible on her lap, time lines of the building through the years, adults and families smiling in aprons at a soup kitchen. Her breath hitched when she saw a very familiar photograph of her dad holding a small, red headed baby in his arms.
The woman must have felt her surprise, because she cleared her throat and said, "Your father was a very generous man. He donated a lot of money to the church years ago. He said he had no use for it. He used to talk for ages about you, only smiling when we mentioned you the days he brought checks down."
"My father left when I was a child," Flaky said, and we didn't even live here at the time.
The woman smiled slowly.
"You must not remember. You visited him every other 3 weekends for a while. He would take you to this church sometimes on Saturdays. He had a house down here with his sister I think, but he didn't stay long. He skipped town the summer of your 7th birthday if I remember correctly."
"How did you get this picture?" Flaky asked, ignoring the true statement.
"We found it actually. On his last trip it must have fallen out of his wallet. We intended to give it back, but he didn't come back. And as a memory we pinned it up."
It was in his wallet, Flaky remembered. She used to play with it and look through all the flaps, always finding it tucked away behind his credit cards. She only slightly remembered trips to see her dad on the weekends, since she only did it for such a short time. And when he left town she had stopped coming until she and her mom permanently moved here. Her mind had blocked out most memories of him in a futile attempt to erase that part of her past, so it all felt fuzzy. But that picture was unmistakably his. With a stoic face she skimmed the other pictures, stopping when she saw one of a teenage boy with unkept green hair in dirty overalls and a goofy grin. In his arms was a bucket of white paint and behind him a freshly painted church.
"Who is that," Flaky asked, though she figured she already knew the answer.
The woman's smile turned bittersweet and a sad gleam lit her icy eyes.
"That," she said slowly, "is my grandson, Flippy."