The hidden room

Maria and Dave inherit a beautiful farm, that had been in his family for generations. But the bills are overdue. The property taxes are 3 years behind and close to foreclosure. How do they pay those bills?

I stood in my kitchen shuffling through a pile of bills. Some of the envelopes were stamped in blood red past due. I tapped my chapped fingers on the wooden table and drank black coffee. A cool morning breeze blew through the window screen carrying the scent of lilacs. A rooster crowed and chickens scratched the earth searching for insects. The early morning sunrise shone over oak trees and rows of crops.

I heard the back door open. My husband took off his leather work boots. He walked into the kitchen and set a wicker basket full of blue, green and creme chicken eggs on the table. He washed his hands with homemade soap and dried them. He smiled revealing laugh lines and white teeth. His reddish brown hair and beard needed cutting, but his body was lean and his face tanned. He poured himself a cup of coffee into a happy face ceramic mug.

He leaned against an ancient wood cabinet. He glanced at the pile of unpaid bills. "The chickens laid well today. Rose bushes and lilacs are in bloom. It is a beautiful day."

"Always the optimist."

He kissed me on the head. "What else can we do?"

"Worrying doesn't help." my hands shook.

"Maria why don't you cook breakfast. Then we can load the truck for the flea market tomorrow. "

"These bills! The property taxes are 3 years behind. If there not paid?"

"I know an auction. Homestead sold to the highest bidder, pennies on the dollar. " he left eye twitched. "I'm open to suggestions. "

"Everything's old. The house and barn were built in the 1800s. Would you mind having an antique dealer take a look?"

"Go for it, but ask before you sell anything. I don't trust them. "

'That sounds reasonable,"

"Let's eat and get to work."

The next day, Dave drove our old black pick-up truck through the pouring rain. Windshield wipers screaked, barely moving enough rain drops for visibility. Headlights glared weakly through the gloom. The dirt road turned to mud.

The flea market was a success. Eggs, flowers and vegetables flew out of the stall. I counted out over 2 thousand dollars not bad for a week's work. Our farm was worth saving.

Dave and I moved to the farm when his grandfather died. Dave's widowed grandmother needed help. Both our companies were bankrupt. Unemployment checks ended. Neither of us could get hired. We agreed to help his grandmother and inherit. The next 10 years were awesome. Living on a farm just felt right. I loved the solitude, the changing of the seasons and living close to mother nature. Dave loved being his own boss.

Grandmother died. She left a hole in my heart and in my wallet. The day after the funeral, reality hit hard. The only bill not past due was the electric bill. She juggled debts for years. Back property taxes due in October, if not paid the farm would be auctioned to the highest bidder. There had to be a way to pay those taxes. Money from the sell of eggs and produce was good but not enough.

Two days later, I waved good-bye to an antique dealer. His vintage baby blue Lincoln Town car left a trail of dust, but no hope. His tall thin body moved awkwardly throughout the house and barn. He tapped the grandfather clock and looked at the bottom of cast iron cookware. He assessed porcelain dolls and ceramic statues. He looked at the backs of wooden furniture and inside of drawers. He sighed and hummed. He ran his hands over a steam engine tractor. He climbed into the loft and looked down. He searched both buildings twice.

He handed me his business card. "I'm sorry I can't help you." He humbly spoke. "Nothing here is valuable. It's high quality, will outlast your lifetime but it's common. The best you can do is scrap out the metal in your barn. "

I sighed. "Thank you for your time. " He slammed his car door and drove away. I choked on the dust from his tires.

That night at dinner I gave Dave the news.

"Scrap prices are down."

"Damn it! None of that stuff is valuable. "

He sighed. "You know that farm east of here? It sold at auction. "

"Never saw it."

He frowned. "Sold for 5 cents an acre. "

"What that wasn't sold that was robbed. " I screeched.

"Only one person bid. "

"So sad."

"Tomorrow I'll see about selling some of the old farm equipment. "

We finished the meal in silence.

I lay in bed unable to sleep. Dave snored. The grandfather clock rang 3 times, the witching hour. I crept outside. A quarter moon shone brightly in a cloudless sky. An owl hooted. Fireflies flickered their lights on and off.

The grass was soaked in dew. A cool breeze blew oak leaves. I wandered aimless past rows of crops. Moonlight danced on a small pond.

I found myself standing next to a cast iron fence, the family cemetery. Inside lay graves. Some were Dave's ancestors, some former employees, some unmarked graves contained the remains of slaves. A stone carved in the shape of a dove marked my mother-in-law's last resting site. A voice whispered sleep. I felt exhausted. l laid down.

"What the! Maria, why are you asleep on the floor? Your covered in leaves and grass!"

I woke up on the hard wood floor looking into Dave's frowning face. Good question, I had no idea, how I got from the graveyard to the living room.

"Help me up."

He crossed his arms and glared.

A warm breeze blasted me in the face. There was a hole in the wall behind a mahogany hutch. I crawled over and tapped the wall. It sounded hollow.

"Dave, why is this wall cheap paneling. It looks old but it's not. "

He reached over me and tapped the wall. "Your right, help me move this hutch. "

We moved the hutch and paneling. Underneath the cheap paneling was old wood paneling that matched the rest of the walls. It held a heavy wooden door with a locked brass doorknob. Dave used WD-40 and a file on the lock. It opened. Revealing a hidden room. I ran to find a flashlight.

The room was long and thin. It's walls were covered in shelves, filled to overflowing with books, knick knacks and boxes. I grabbed a book, it was covered in dust.

The book wss bound in old brown leather. I turned the yellowed pages. My hands trembled. Was it worth anything? The title page said Uncle Remus, his songs and his Sayings by Joel Chandler Harris, published in 1881. I set it down.

Dave shone a flashlight into the room. "Maria, what is this?"

"Don't know, let me grab something. " He moved over. I grabbed a stack of books. There were 9 more Uncle Remus books, several books of poetry and an atlas.

Dave found a pocket watch, some dueling guns in a red velvet lined wood case and a lot of dust.

The rooster crowed. "Oh no! We better get moving. Those chickens are hungry."

"What about the books and guns?"

"Just leave em for now. If those chickens get stressed they'll stop laying. "

We fed, watered the chickens and collected their eggs. They followed us around peeking at our legs and squaking. They puffed up their feathers and stomped their feet. It took forever to calm them down. Finally they gathered in a group and took dirt baths. We finished the chores in a mad rush.

"Help me put the hutch back in place. " Dave asked.

"Why?"

"I can't move it myself. "

"Just leave it. "

"Maria, help me move it in front of the door."

"No!"

He crossed his arms. "We need to hide this door."

His mind was made up. So, I helped him. He wasn't satisfied until the door was completely hidden and every speck of dust cleaned up. He burned the paneling. I found the antique dealer's business card and left a voice message on the answering machine.

Two days later the tall thin antique dealer sat on my sofa. He appraised all 10 Uncle Remus books, the poetry books and the atlas. He smiled and hummed. He held up the pocket watch, opened it and read the dial. He opened the wood case and ran his hand over the red velvet. He picked up one of the dueling pistols and took a deep breath. He assessed the second gun. Under the lid on a faded piece of paper said Gustinne Renexxe France.

"Mrs Brooks, you have some valuable items here. The Uncle Remus books are all first editions each in mint condition. Separately there worth $8,000 to $12,000 but in a complete collection at auction the bidding would start at least $120,000." He picked up the poetry books. "These books are in good condition but there written by unknown authors." He turned pages of the atlas. He took his time, admiring the maps, slowly closed it. "I've never seen an atlas like this. It's beautiful, I have no idea what it is worth. I can do some research and get back to you." He picked up the pocket watch. "This is a Benson, a common brand of pocket watches, inexpensive and durable. It's like our modern day timex, good quality, save it for your personal use." He stroked the wooden box and opened the lid. He caressed the dueling pistols. "These are a complete set of Gustinne Renexxe dueling pistols made in France. Bidding could start at $150,000. Do you have any questions?"

My mouth felt dry like moth balls. I stuttered. "Can I get my husband?"

He laughed, "of course."

I ran outside, scattering chickens, the birds screeched. The rooster puffed up his chest and crowed his complaints.

Dave's truck was in the driveway. I heard noise coming from the barn. I ran to the barn. Breathless I stood in front of him. I tried to catch my breath.

He stood holding a pitch fork. "What is wrong with you."

I gasped and pointed at the house.

'I'm busy."

"Dave, that antique dealer, says our stuff is worth over $200,000."

He set the pitchfork against the wooden barn wall. "He said what?"

"Just come inside, NOW" I trotted to the house. Dave followed me.

The antique dealer stood looking out the window. His corduroy jacket had leather patches on the elbows. He hummed.

Dave entered the living room. "Hello...... you've got my wife all excited."

"Miles Benson, sorry about that."

"So what do you need to tell you?" Dave asked in a bored voice.

Miles replied. "I'd like to auction your collection of Uncle Remus books and the dueling pistols."

Dave shook his head. "No way auctions are pennies on the dollar."

"Reserve price would be $120,000 for the books and $150,000 for the pistols. Auction house takes a 15% commission."

"What if the reserve isn't met?"

"No sale, no fees, you retain all your property."

"Excuse me, but auctions are scams." I complained.

Miles agreed. "Unfortunately some auction houses are dishonest. I work for Lord and Ladies of New York city, a very reputable auction house. My employer has been in business for over 200 years.

Dave picked up the pistols. "Do you think you could get $150,000 for these?"

Miles smiled. "No, I think bidding could start at $150,000. Depending on who is in the auction house bidding could go higher or no sale at all. Any and all sales under the reserve will be refused."

Dave crossed his arms. "How do I get paid?"

"After the buyer pays and all payment is collected, the auction house takes 15%, you receive the rest. Of course everything will be in writing."

"How soon can I get paid?"

Miles shifted in his seat. "Auctions start in November and continue until March. You will be paid after the buyer pays. Buyers are required to pay within 24 hours after sale."

I stammered. "That's too late, we need the money by October."

Dave glared at me. "Maria please."

Miles, "that is none of my business. I can write up a contract now. My company can advance you a loan at 2% interest, that will be taken out of the sale."

Miles took some papers out of his briefcase. He filled them out with a ball point pen. He handed Dave the forms.

"You can take this paperwork to any attorney. You may also wish to get a second appraisal."

Dave escorted him out to his car. The blue Lincoln Town car drove away in a trail of dust. Dave strolled to the barn.

The next day, Dave went to the attorney's office.

I waited at home attempting to get chores completed but I just couldn't concentrate. I spilled chicken feed over the barn floor and flooded the water trough. I burned dinner and broke a smiley face coffee cup. Finally in defeat, read the poetry books. A couple of books were sermons. A handwritten book by Anna Sexton was unique. Her poems were written about love, human nature and struggles. I lost track of time.

Dave surprised me. "You lazy woman." He grinned and pinched my butt. "What did you do all day?"

"Waiting for news, don't keep me waiting, or I'll turn into a complete disaster."

He hugged me. "Mr Miles Benson is legit. The contract is signed. Loan cash is in the bank."

"What about the bills? What about sending the stuff to auction?"

Dave kissed me. "Tomorrow we'll deal with it tomorrow."

Miles Benson picked up the books and dueling pistols.

Dave paid the property taxes with the borrowed money.

I kept busy, waiting for a successful auction. I drove myself crazy with worry. What if nothing sold?"

Thanksgiving arrived and left, no auction sale.

Christmas celebrated and a New Year arrived, no sale. I checked the auction news daily and hoped some rich collector would buy our stuff.

Finally at the end of February, a collector brought the dueling pistols. Dave took a picture of the check, then handed it to me.

I dropped the piece of tan paper and watched it flutter to the floor. My hands shook. I picked it up. I was afraid to look. How much was it? I turned the piece of crisp paper over. "Oh my! Dave it says $800,000" I froze. IT WAS SO MUCH MONEY. "Dave, we could go to dinner or Key West!"

He stroked my cheek and kissed me. "I like it here." He pinched my butt. "How about starting a family? You know 10 or 12 kids just like you."

I punched his arm. "What do you think I am a baby maker."

"Well, maybe start out with one or two and see how it works out."

"I'll think about it."

Tears streamed down my face. Our home was safe.