Livvy Krakower (17)
The Auctioneer’s Wife
“Can I get 100? 100. Now 150? I see you looking, ma’am. Can I getta 150 from you?” The auctioneer points to me, his eyes bright and eager for the bidding to ramp up. I nod and raise my hand high to cut through the humid Texas air. The auctioneer continues to bounce around his wooden stage, sneaking in jokes between bids while still keeping a steady pace; not like a metronome, though. A metronome is order, class, something I could fall asleep to; this is quite the opposite.
The auctioneer looks at me again, but Cathy from church lets out a yelp before I can raise my hand. It is now at 300, and chaos begins to emerge from the people around me, waving hands crashing into yells, the mixture of sounds tangling together like cheesy scrambled eggs. But the auctioneer still dances to it and on beat, too. I raise my hand for 375 while Cathy instantly yells for 400.
“Looks like we got a catfight here,” the auctioneer jokes to some men who sit up front. I smile at him because that is what I am supposed to do and bid again knowing the echo of Cathy will soon follow.
All of this for a dead woman’s truck.
There is a tingling sensation on my right big toe. I look down to see a small black spider resting on the teal surface of my messy pedicure, the one my middle daughter did last night. By the shade and size of it, it could be a black lace weaver spider, my favorite type. I move my head down to get a better look at her, wondering if she is carrying eggs.
“500!” Cathy yells, and I jerk my head back up to raise my hand before the auctioneer can call me ma'am again.
The spider leaves my toenail, and I watch as she zigzags away from me to the auctioneer’s wife, who sits between two empty metal folding chairs. The spider finds a place to sit on her unpainted toenails as the auctioneer’s wife crosses and uncrosses then crosses her legs again.
The auctioneer’s wife is not actually the auctioneer’s wife. They have just been together for eight years now, and none of the church ladies want to think about what an unmarried couple has been doing living together for so long. The fact that they don’t have children is a slight redeeming factor, but even that causes people to stir.
The auctioneer’s wife has many names in this town. Peggy from church calls her Ms. Thin. Ada from the diner calls her The Mime. Violet from down the street calls her The Walking Ghost, and most of the kids just unoriginally call her The Witch. Cathy was the one who decided we all should call her the auctioneer’s wife in public since all the other names were quite unpleasant.
Oh shoot—Cathy! I raise my hand again, not sure what the bid is even up to. “Happy to see you back in the game, pretty lady,” the auctioneer says. “725. Now 750. Can I getta 800?” Some men yell and the auctioneer continues to shuffle back and forth, taking bid after bid.
From my peripheral vision I can see the spider crawl up the auctioneer’s wife leg. The spider circles around in a thin loop accentuating just how pale she is. The August sun seems to repel off her, not even penetrating her fair skin at all. Rita, who teaches at the Sunday School, says that the auctioneer met her on one of his trips in Austin and thought she looked so beautifully sad that he just had to have her. Shirley, who has a son who went to college, says that the auctioneer actually met her in Nashville and he just has a thing for skinny gals. Wilma, who sweeps the floors of the corner shop, says that she came from New York City to care for her late
mother. But nobody believes that.
“Miss,” the auctioneer calls to me, “Can I getta 900 from you?” I give him a nod and his big country boy eyes gleam as he continues his chat to rile up more action. I try to imagine him and his “wife.” It seems like just the weight of his forearm around her would break her shoulder. Maybe Shirley's right; maybe he has a thing for skinny girls.
The black lace weaver spider crawls up to the auctioneer’s wife’s hand as she looks at it the way I do, as if she knows what’s about to happen when the spider leaves. The spider will lay two sets of eggs, one that will hatch and one that will not; her babies will feed on the eggs that did not hatch, but even after they will need more food to keep them alive.
“950. Now 975,” the auctioneer chats. Cathy is smirking at me, reminding me of how she winks at the pastor.
“1,000,” I call out which is followed by crowded yells; Cathy’s voice is the highest pitch of them all.
There is one rumor that always comes up first when you mention the auctioneer’s wife. One that all the gossips of this small town can agree on. Last July on the second warmest day of the summer, when Randy’s kid broke his leg on the swing set, the auctioneer’s wife drove way down to San Antonio to get an abortion.
“1,250. Now 1,275. Now...” I raise my hand quickly as the other bidding layers on top of mine like the insides of a fruit cake.
The auctioneer’s wife lowers her cupped hand to allow the spider to leave.
Once the spider’s babies eat the eggs, they will still be hungry. The mother spider will release a vibration for them, a message, an invitation. Her babies will come to her and, like a cup of sweet tea, sip the life of their mother away. In the books, scientists say this is an act of cannibalism but I have always seen it as an act of love, of sacrifice. The auctioneer’s wife gently lets the spider crawl away with respect; she watches her like I do, to make sure she is safe. Somehow the auctioneer’s wife glows a little warmer.
Franny, the seamstress, says that the auctioneer’s wife is the female reincarnation of the devil. Birdie, who works at the gardening shop, believes that she killed her baby on purpose because the auctioneer had an affair. Little Amy, who recently ran away to God knows where, says she didn’t want to have an abortion but the auctioneer was so worried that she would die during childbirth that he made her. But nobody listens to Little Amy.
“1,550 going once,” the auctioneer’s voice booms through me. “1,550 going twice.” He is leaning towards Cathy, ready to congratulate her.
“1,600,” I yell from the crowd. The auctioneer looks at me, back to Cathy, to me again.
“Ma’am?” he asks her, but Cathy just shakes her head. She already went over her budget. Her husband doesn’t like when she does that. Being married to a dry drunk is rough.
“1,600 going once! 1,600 going twice! Last call for 1,600! Sold to the pretty missus on the right.” And just like that, the auctioneer moves onto another dead woman’s item, this time selling her dresser.
The auction comes to an end, and the auctioneer’s wife stands with the auctioneer against my new truck. Her hands wrap around his arm, and her head rests on his shoulder. She whispers something in his ear and he laughs, causing his beer belly to stretch the bottom of his flannel. From a distance, with the disappearing sun reflecting off of the truck’s windows, they make a little more sense. She makes a little more sense.
The auctioneer hands me the keys as I shuffle through my bag for the money. My son must’ve gone through my wallet last night because I am thirteen dollars short, but the auctioneer’s wife, without saying anything, reaches in her purse and hands loose bills to the
auctioneer.
“Thank you,” I say. She responds with a small smile.
The truck moves smoothly, even when it goes over dirt roads. At home, my oldest will insist on naming it while the young twins collect stickers to decorate the windows; those darn things never come off. But for a moment, before the twins, before the naming, before dinner has to be made or sheets have to be cleaned—it’s just me... alone.
Maybe I’ll invite the auctioneer’s wife over for coffee.
I wonder what her name is?
Livvy Krakower is a high school senior from New Jersey. She has previously been published in Jewish Women of Words, Blue Marble Review, The Writers Circle Journal, and others.
The Auctioneer’s Wife
“Can I get 100? 100. Now 150? I see you looking, ma’am. Can I getta 150 from you?” The auctioneer points to me, his eyes bright and eager for the bidding to ramp up. I nod and raise my hand high to cut through the humid Texas air. The auctioneer continues to bounce around his wooden stage, sneaking in jokes between bids while still keeping a steady pace; not like a metronome, though. A metronome is order, class, something I could fall asleep to; this is quite the opposite.
The auctioneer looks at me again, but Cathy from church lets out a yelp before I can raise my hand. It is now at 300, and chaos begins to emerge from the people around me, waving hands crashing into yells, the mixture of sounds tangling together like cheesy scrambled eggs. But the auctioneer still dances to it and on beat, too. I raise my hand for 375 while Cathy instantly yells for 400.
“Looks like we got a catfight here,” the auctioneer jokes to some men who sit up front. I smile at him because that is what I am supposed to do and bid again knowing the echo of Cathy will soon follow.
All of this for a dead woman’s truck.
There is a tingling sensation on my right big toe. I look down to see a small black spider resting on the teal surface of my messy pedicure, the one my middle daughter did last night. By the shade and size of it, it could be a black lace weaver spider, my favorite type. I move my head down to get a better look at her, wondering if she is carrying eggs.
“500!” Cathy yells, and I jerk my head back up to raise my hand before the auctioneer can call me ma'am again.
The spider leaves my toenail, and I watch as she zigzags away from me to the auctioneer’s wife, who sits between two empty metal folding chairs. The spider finds a place to sit on her unpainted toenails as the auctioneer’s wife crosses and uncrosses then crosses her legs again.
The auctioneer’s wife is not actually the auctioneer’s wife. They have just been together for eight years now, and none of the church ladies want to think about what an unmarried couple has been doing living together for so long. The fact that they don’t have children is a slight redeeming factor, but even that causes people to stir.
The auctioneer’s wife has many names in this town. Peggy from church calls her Ms. Thin. Ada from the diner calls her The Mime. Violet from down the street calls her The Walking Ghost, and most of the kids just unoriginally call her The Witch. Cathy was the one who decided we all should call her the auctioneer’s wife in public since all the other names were quite unpleasant.
Oh shoot—Cathy! I raise my hand again, not sure what the bid is even up to. “Happy to see you back in the game, pretty lady,” the auctioneer says. “725. Now 750. Can I getta 800?” Some men yell and the auctioneer continues to shuffle back and forth, taking bid after bid.
From my peripheral vision I can see the spider crawl up the auctioneer’s wife leg. The spider circles around in a thin loop accentuating just how pale she is. The August sun seems to repel off her, not even penetrating her fair skin at all. Rita, who teaches at the Sunday School, says that the auctioneer met her on one of his trips in Austin and thought she looked so beautifully sad that he just had to have her. Shirley, who has a son who went to college, says that the auctioneer actually met her in Nashville and he just has a thing for skinny gals. Wilma, who sweeps the floors of the corner shop, says that she came from New York City to care for her late
mother. But nobody believes that.
“Miss,” the auctioneer calls to me, “Can I getta 900 from you?” I give him a nod and his big country boy eyes gleam as he continues his chat to rile up more action. I try to imagine him and his “wife.” It seems like just the weight of his forearm around her would break her shoulder. Maybe Shirley's right; maybe he has a thing for skinny girls.
The black lace weaver spider crawls up to the auctioneer’s wife’s hand as she looks at it the way I do, as if she knows what’s about to happen when the spider leaves. The spider will lay two sets of eggs, one that will hatch and one that will not; her babies will feed on the eggs that did not hatch, but even after they will need more food to keep them alive.
“950. Now 975,” the auctioneer chats. Cathy is smirking at me, reminding me of how she winks at the pastor.
“1,000,” I call out which is followed by crowded yells; Cathy’s voice is the highest pitch of them all.
There is one rumor that always comes up first when you mention the auctioneer’s wife. One that all the gossips of this small town can agree on. Last July on the second warmest day of the summer, when Randy’s kid broke his leg on the swing set, the auctioneer’s wife drove way down to San Antonio to get an abortion.
“1,250. Now 1,275. Now...” I raise my hand quickly as the other bidding layers on top of mine like the insides of a fruit cake.
The auctioneer’s wife lowers her cupped hand to allow the spider to leave.
Once the spider’s babies eat the eggs, they will still be hungry. The mother spider will release a vibration for them, a message, an invitation. Her babies will come to her and, like a cup of sweet tea, sip the life of their mother away. In the books, scientists say this is an act of cannibalism but I have always seen it as an act of love, of sacrifice. The auctioneer’s wife gently lets the spider crawl away with respect; she watches her like I do, to make sure she is safe. Somehow the auctioneer’s wife glows a little warmer.
Franny, the seamstress, says that the auctioneer’s wife is the female reincarnation of the devil. Birdie, who works at the gardening shop, believes that she killed her baby on purpose because the auctioneer had an affair. Little Amy, who recently ran away to God knows where, says she didn’t want to have an abortion but the auctioneer was so worried that she would die during childbirth that he made her. But nobody listens to Little Amy.
“1,550 going once,” the auctioneer’s voice booms through me. “1,550 going twice.” He is leaning towards Cathy, ready to congratulate her.
“1,600,” I yell from the crowd. The auctioneer looks at me, back to Cathy, to me again.
“Ma’am?” he asks her, but Cathy just shakes her head. She already went over her budget. Her husband doesn’t like when she does that. Being married to a dry drunk is rough.
“1,600 going once! 1,600 going twice! Last call for 1,600! Sold to the pretty missus on the right.” And just like that, the auctioneer moves onto another dead woman’s item, this time selling her dresser.
The auction comes to an end, and the auctioneer’s wife stands with the auctioneer against my new truck. Her hands wrap around his arm, and her head rests on his shoulder. She whispers something in his ear and he laughs, causing his beer belly to stretch the bottom of his flannel. From a distance, with the disappearing sun reflecting off of the truck’s windows, they make a little more sense. She makes a little more sense.
The auctioneer hands me the keys as I shuffle through my bag for the money. My son must’ve gone through my wallet last night because I am thirteen dollars short, but the auctioneer’s wife, without saying anything, reaches in her purse and hands loose bills to the
auctioneer.
“Thank you,” I say. She responds with a small smile.
The truck moves smoothly, even when it goes over dirt roads. At home, my oldest will insist on naming it while the young twins collect stickers to decorate the windows; those darn things never come off. But for a moment, before the twins, before the naming, before dinner has to be made or sheets have to be cleaned—it’s just me... alone.
Maybe I’ll invite the auctioneer’s wife over for coffee.
I wonder what her name is?
Livvy Krakower is a high school senior from New Jersey. She has previously been published in Jewish Women of Words, Blue Marble Review, The Writers Circle Journal, and others.