TITLE:  Going Once
AUTHOR:  Jesemie's Evil Twin
EMAIL:  jesemie@hotmail.com
DISTRIBUTION:  Wherever.
SPOILERS:  None
RATING:  G
CATEGORY:  VA
KEYWORDS:  Mulder/Scully
DISCLAIMERS:  They are not mine.  What a shocker.
THANKS:  to Jill, for the title, the much-appreciated help, and the secrets

FEEDBACK:  Please.  jesemie@hotmail.com

Dedicated to the Virginias - Thank you, ladies, for everything

=~=~=~=

I think I'm too young to be this tired this early.

Another case, another small uncharted nook of land.  Oakville sits  between
haphazard hills and checkered farms and residents as scattered  as
dandelion seed, and is home to what Mulder probably believes, with  immense
honesty, is a reincarnated pack of juvenile gypsies.

They could be a roving pack of rabid clones and I'm not sure I'd care.
The words whine through my head like an ache:  I want to go home.

The taupe room cloaks me with the same stiff scent every motel wears  like
cheap perfume, and I focus on the staleness of it, tuning out  Mulder's
grumbling.

He has discovered that the local schools aren't in session for a day due
to teacher in-service meetings, which means that the Ouija Board  wielding,
all-powerful high school drama class who's suspected of  terrorizing the
second-semester-musical's middle school cast members are  given a one-day
reprieve from our mind-numbing investigation, since  apparently the whole
class has gone to Nashville for some major consumer  cavorting.

I try very hard not to laugh when Mulder relays this information to me.
He seems crushed, today's chances for posing earnest, pointed questions  to
melodramatic teenage girls, who each appear to defy both gravity and  every
other scientific law of good taste, slimmed to nil by the  insatiable,
otherworldly call of the shopping mall.  I'd like to remind  him that no
one is, at this time, under arrest, and that we could always  interview the
victimized thirteen year olds.  I'd also like to tell him  that his chances
of charming any of the students are less likely than  the students' ability
to curse their younger cast mates.

Instead, I say nothing, and leave him pouting in his room, chewing on a
stale doughnut.

It's ten a.m.  Notes typed, breakfast eaten, shower taken, etc.; I have
nothing to do and nowhere to go.  I used to fantasize about silence, a
place as pure blank as clean white sheets on a clothesline, but right  now
my room is too quiet.  I pull on a thin navy sweater, wash-worn  jeans and
my favorite ratty pair of sneakers, and head outside.

Just once, I want to do that and feel like a normal person on vacation.
Except that I never am, not really.

There aren't many people on the streets, but a steady rumble of pick-up
trucks streams through the main intersection.  I can see signs, at the
edge of the motel parking lot, for an auction:  Grimstead Estate, 9  a.m.,
Tuesday, Two Miles, Tambor Green Realty.  Antiques, Collectibles,
Property, Tools.  A tiny map shows that the trip would be quick and
simple.   Why not? I think.  I slip back into my room and grab my cell
phone and  some cash.  Seconds later, I start walking to the auction.

Spring, it seems, resides here, humid, mild and sweet, with sunlight the
color of daffodils.  I take deep breaths as I walk, gulping the new
warmth.  I watch the flannel clouds and the small grasshoppers that  shoot
from the ground in march time to my steps.  I flex my fingers and  hum.

Agent Scully wouldn't and Dana is tone deaf.  I don't remember the last
time I hummed.

The two miles are two country miles, full of gravel and weeds and  awkward
shoulder slopes, but the closer I get to the estate, the less  winded I
feel.  When I arrive at the auction, I feel refreshed somehow.   Yes, the
lure of shopping is truly a wondrous mystery . . .

Just as I start walking up the driveway, my cell phone rings.

"Scully."

"Where are you?"

"I'm up the road at an auction, Mulder."

"An auction?  You didn't tell me you were leaving."  Mulder sounds
indifferent, in that authoritative way he sometimes still wears on a  case,
but his voice masks a slight hint of panic.

"Sorry.  Did you need something?"

There's a long pause.  I swear I can feel my nails growing.  "Mulder?"

"We are on an investigation."  Each word is brisk, a little whisk of
brittle ice.

"Do you have something for us to investigate?" I ask.  "You weren't full
of ideas for the day thirty minutes ago."  I feel soaked in anger all of  a
sudden.

"Fine.  I'll see you when you get back."  The line clicks dead.

An elderly man is traipsing down the driveway carrying three rotary dial
wall phones, an obvious purchase.  He nods at me as he passes, and then
greets his probably-wife.  They start chatting about his great bargain.

I stand and try to decide whether or not to go back to the motel.  I  can't
concentrate, though; I keep thinking about the time, when I was a  child, I
demolished my parents' old basement phone.  I don't know where  I had
gotten the idea, but I hit away at the hard plastic of the phone  until the
shell crumbled away, revealing shrapnel, mysterious metal and  endless
wire.  Such delicate wire, like spun sugar, like lace.  I was  amazed at
the time that anything could be traveled across wire and air.

For just a moment, I want to hit the speed dial #1, and hear Mulder's
number chatter through the line.  For just a moment, I want to apologize
and say, I'll see you in ten minutes, Mulder.

Instead, I stand at the end of the driveway in the lemonade sunshine and
stare at my silent cell phone, again impressed at how little power it
takes to press the off button, to disconnect.

 The Grimstead Estate occupies forty acres.  The house - stone, slate,  and
wooden slat, with a wrap-around porch and a yard of old stoic trees,
honeysuckle bushes, and tulips just beginning to peel from the ground in
neon green - is in a clearing by the meandering road.  There's a garden
down a gentle tumble in the backyard, full of ratty asparagus and
sunflower skeletons.  A barn, surrounded by a field of cornflowers and
wild blueberry, dwells before of a patch of forest.

It would be picturesque if not for the five white tents of tables and
folding chairs, the rows of furniture and boxes, the hot dog stand, the
six dozen vehicles, and the hundreds of people.  An auction must be a
social event without parallel in this area.

I let myself drift through the crowd, feeling better with people
everywhere around me.

A makeshift stage has been set in front of the garage, and at the
microphone a short gawky man in a John Deere cap rattles off ascending
numbers in the warbling drone of all auctioneers.  The audience hangs on
his every syllable, furious debate occurring over a painting of an oil
lamp.

I browse, anonymous, and enjoy the weather and the clatter of the crowd.
There is laughter here, like a happiness of music, as friends,  relatives,
neighbors and co-workers scrimmage through all the *stuff*  for sale.

Vases - swooping, hand-blown, depression glass and '70s kitsch, cut
crystal ones large enough to hold a dozen daisies and dainty ceramic  ones
for a single bud - cover an entire six foot table.  Some are  beautiful,
but I'm never home to relish a bouquet.

A line of boxes by the front porch yields a cornucopia of knickknacks:
old marbles, with glass scarves of color swirled frozen inside, in a  glass
boot; plaster butterflies; butter molds; brass bells; figurines of  birds
perched on branches; amazingly real-looking fake fruit.  I sigh,  not
needing anything else to dust on my few days off.

I walk behind the house, where a woman is spreading a crazy quilt on the
lawn.  Several women kneel to admire the craft, the illogical scrap
pattern and tiny uniform stitches.  From a purely aesthetic perspective,
it's hideous, probably made from pillow ticking, old pajamas, table
napkins, and outgrown church dresses, all clashing prints and dizzying
patchwork.  With an artistic eye, however, it's amazing, and in pristine
condition despite having been sewn decades ago.  Alas, I haven't $400 in
cash in my pockets.

In front of the lower-level patio doors, boxes have been plunked, some
with taper candles or Christmas ornaments, some overflowing with picture
frames and cola bottles.  There are beer steins, buttons in bell jars,
wooly baby bonnets, postcards, pocket knives, bakelite pins, an old  sewing
machine and empty wooden thread spools, railroad lanterns, end  tables, a
pie safe with a punched tin face, tea kettles, galvanized  buckets, a couch
with cat-clawed corners, toasters and copper-bottomed  oven pans, hardbound
romance novels, do-it-yourself maintenance guides.

I'm thumbing through an egg basket of embroidered handkerchiefs when I
overhear a snippet of a conversation between a couple beside me.

"Why are they having the sale again?" the man asks his companion.

"The mother's sick, not expected to live much longer.  Cancer, you  know,"
the woman replies.

Terrific, I think.  I can't even go to a nice, innocuous, glorified yard
sale without it, in actuality, being held because someone is dying.  I
decide to take a break from shopping.

I walk along the brim of forest.  Birdbaths and feeders, rakes, three
lawnmowers, axes, a chainsaw, a hacksaw, a hatchet, and four wood piles
are for sale, and a clot of men huddle around the auctioneer.  I  sidestep
them and peer into the trees.

A path deep into the woods is visible, like a ribbon of mud and slick
leaves, though it looks as though it hasn't been traveled in months.  I
see a tree about fifty feet in.  Its trunk is a literal spiral,
corkscrewed like the thick body of a boa constrictor.  I walk down to  look
at it more closely.

As I reach out tentatively to touch it - and the thought goes through my
head that maybe I've lost my mind finally - a singsong voice bubbles up
behind me.

"It was granddaddy's tree, ma'am," the voice says.

I wheel around.  A small boy, no more than four or five years old, is
straddling a rotting log.  His overalls are smudged with dark brown  dirt,
the same color of his eyes.  I have no idea what to say.  "Your
granddaddy?"

"Louis Grimstead.  He was my age when that tree was planted.  He watched
it grow his whole life," the little boy says, drawling out the word
'whole' as he spreads his arms out wide.  He grins, gape-toothed.

I smile back, and he walks up to me.  He wraps his arms around the  tree's
slender body and actually hugs it.  He smiles up at me as though  he's
giving permission for me to do the same.  I don't, but I flatten my  palms
over the smooth bark.  I've never seen a tree like it.

The thought fleets through my mind that it looks enchanted.

The little boy and I talk for fifteen minutes, about the auction, a fox  he
saw earlier that morning ("It was a red fox, just like your hair"),  the
lost buckle on his overalls, and the tree, which creaks in the  breeze like
an old man rising from bed.

 My feet are growing weary, and I trudge out of the forest.  I notice  that
there are tables on the porch that I've neglected.  Tortoise cats  with
orange eyes zigzag on the steps as I walk up.

These tables are laid out with china, several different collections, all
silver rimmed and painted in Victorian pastels.  It's lovely, and I can
imagine feeling rather elegant if I had such expensive plates to eat my
microwaved macaroni off of.

I'm examining a flow blue tea set when an aged woman, sitting in a  rocking
chair by the door, speaks.

"We bought that in Massachusetts, I think.  A charming antique store.   It
was an anniversary present from me to my husband.  He bought me an  outdoor
gas grill."  She chuckles, letting me in on the joke.

I replace the creamer and pick up a cup and saucer from a different set.
They are pinkly purple, almost opalescent.  "My mother," I say, "would
love these.  She was a military wife and my father wanted none of that
fancy china.  Bone white was good enough for him."

"You should buy it for her," the woman says.  "Everyone can always use
extra dishes."

"Oh, I don't know if I can afford the whole set," I answer.

"Of course you can.  I'll make sure."

"You can do that?"

"Don't see why not.  It's my auction.  You visiting from out of town?"

"Something like that," I murmur.

"Mrs. Doogan Grimstead," she says, and holds out her hand.  "Welcome to
Oakville."

"Dana Scully.  Thanks."  Her hand feels as delicate as a tea cup in my
grip.  "It's a beautiful house."

"Yes, yes.  Thank you.  We had a good time here."  She smiles, sad lines
around her mouth.

"Well," I say.  I lean against the porch rail and look out over the  yard.
Mrs. Grimstead smells like lilac and dust.  I want to cry for her  as she
watches her home - her life - sold piece by piece, and I want to  cry for
myself, since I don't have any idea anymore what it's like to  have a home
to sell.

Self-pity vanishes when I turn to watch the auctioneer and his train of
men.  I realize that I recognize one of the prospective buyers.  He's
holding a chainsaw.  He's seen me, and he's coming up the stairs slowly.

 "You bought a chainsaw?"  I cannot control the incredulous strain in my
words.

"I always wanted one, Scully, ever since Texas got massacred.  What, you
don't want to help me cut down some trees?"

"You bought a chainsaw.  Mulder, you live in an apartment in the city.
*When* will you *ever* need a chainsaw?"

"You never know," Mulder says, faking a mysterious voice.

"What are you doing here?"

"I came to see what was so fascinating about an auction."  He appears
interested in my pockets.  "You haven't bought anything?"

"No."

Mrs. Grimstead pipes up.  "She was thinking about purchasing the set of
lusterware."

"Oh, Mrs. Grimstead, this is my partner, Fox Mulder."

Her eyebrow raises a bit.  "Pleased to meet you," she says.  "That's a
fine chainsaw you've bought there."  She laughs and laughs.  A surge of
new shoppers billows onto the porch, and Mulder and I walk out into the
yard.

Mulder sits down beneath a maple tree so I do too.  "Did you walk down  or
drive?"

He doesn't respond for a long minute.  "Is something wrong, Scully?"

"What?"

"Have I done something to piss you off?"

I feel my spine straighten against the tree.  Maybe he does mean to use
that chainsaw, I think absurdly.  The morning's tired twinge tears into
me.  "Mulder, it's nothing."

"Nothing.  That's it?  That's the best effort you can make?  I'm getting
sick of this, Scully, this distance that's between us for no good  reason."

"What do you want me to say, Mulder?"  I lean my head back and wrap my
arms around my waist.

"I don't know," he mumbles.  "I miss you, that's all.  You act like you
can't wait to get away from me or the job."

"Ouija Boards, Mulder?  Do you really think there's a legitimate case to
be investigated here?"  Shrill, shrill, Agent Scully, I think.

"I don't know.  That's *why* we're here."

For some reason, this answer pacifies me.  I glance over at him.  He
stares at me.  His eyes are like green gild, and I see the hurt in them.
It makes me flinch.

"I'm sorry," I find myself whispering.  I turn away.

He nods.  "Okay."  We sit and watch the people mill around.  Applause
erupts on the other side of the house; I have no idea why, but it no  doubt
involved a staggering amount of money.  "Have you eaten?" Mulder  asks.

"No, not since breakfast."

"Barbecue and cokes?"

"Sure.  You're paying."

Mulder trots off to the food wagon, leaving me with the chainsaw.  Mrs.
Grimstead putters by carrying a handful of bizarre roses.

"They've gone wild," she says to me, sniffing the flowers.  "Cold snap  in
late spring several years ago completely killed the bush, or so we
thought.  It came back the next year all twisted.  Unusual blooms; I  like
them, though."

"I believe I met one of your grandsons earlier," I tell her.

"Really, now.  That must have been Timothy - he's the only grandchild I
have.  He graduates next month - going to be a pediatrician over at the
Oakville-Providence Hospital.  We're every proud of him."

She walks on, greeted by some friends.  I'm still rolling her comments
back and forth in my head when Mulder arrives with cardboard boxes of
food.  I must have an odd look on my face because he sits down  carefully.

"Something wrong?"

"Nooooo," I say.  I need therapy, maybe, I think, but other than  that . .
.

The sandwiches we unwrap are soft and warm and I realize I'm starving.   I
take a huge bite and experience sheer bliss.  Mulder is watching me  again.

"We should try and interview the middle schoolers this afternoon.  Maybe
pin down some idea of which kids exactly are being threatened and which
ones are doing the threatening and what, thus far, has actually  happened."

"Sure, Scully," he says, looking pleased.  "The principal faxed me a  class
roster after you left this morning.  We can go from there."

I take a swallow of cola.  He keeps watching me.  I give him my dill
pickle and he steals half my potato chips.

"Hey, Scully, did you know that there was once a Ouija Board imitation
called 'The Wireless Messenger'?  Predates cellular technology by, um,
years."

"What else do you know about the great Ouija?"

"It's mystifying," Mulder says, wadding barbecue into his mouth.

It's not the only thing, I think but don't say.  We keep eating, the
leisurely conversation about the case capturing my attention.  I realize
that I'm actually getting interested in solving it.  Go figure.

The auctioneer is at the microphone again, his voice playing across the
yard like a tin-can radio concert.  The earlier tension has washed out  of
me completely.  I don't want to go home.  We finish lunch on the  lawn,
sitting in this quiet spot of stained glass sun.

=~=~=~=