the backhoe over the rumble of the diesel engine,
“Yeah, got here late,” Joe yelled, walking to the mound of earth. “Do you mind?” he asked, removing one of the shovels.
“Knock yourself out!” came back with a rev of the engine.
Joe, holding the full shovel, looked into the grave. “Preston, what the hell went on here today?”
Chapter 4
WESTFIELD, NJ SEPTEMBER 2000
GEOPOLITICAL SYSTEMS 1945–1955 wasn’t high drama, but Joe managed to keep awake in class and stay current with the work. He was mired in writing a twenty-page paper due at the end of the week. Saturdays were supposed to be relaxing. He needed a break.
Joe put on his Westfield P.D. windbreaker and picked up his five-iron. Ripping August from the calendar tore the heart out of summer. It had turned cooler. With the light drizzle, it felt as if it was fall. An estate sale was in its final day at the Swedge house. Joe heard the house was sold to a “nice” couple who were going to level it and build their dream castle. He wasn’t surprised. Proceeds from the sale were to go to an un-named charity.
Lighting a cigarette, Joe walked to the curb. What was it that drew the bargain hunters? A statuesque blonde in designer jeans was loading pots and pans not worthy of the Salvation Army into trunk of a $90,000 BMW 750.
Ed Stoval wasn’t wielding his rake. He had gone to his daughter in Chicago to avoid the tumult. Despite his outward giddiness at Preston’s demise, Joe sensed a deep-seated sadness. It was the end of an era.
Joe crossed the street. Four silver helium balloons tattooed with “Sale Today” were tethered to a lime green Attic Finds sandwich board positioned on the driveway apron. Poking at the bobbing targets with the five-iron drew a dirty look from a gray haired gentleman walking toward him. Joe waggled his fingers under his chin as they passed.
A garbage dumpster piled with cardboard boxes, black plastic trash bags, an upright freezer, and several mattresses blocked the garage. It explained two weeks of vans, station wagons and a collection of south of the border types coming and going from the house. The heavy drapes that prevented the outside world from entering had been removed. The Tudor looked scared. It was being devoured a piece at a time.
A tan beaten up Ford pickup truck with more rust than paint blocked the flagstone walk. Willie Reynolds Odd Jobs and Hauling was stenciled in red paint on both doors. An area rug with a $35 price tag and a rag tagged sleep sofa were in the cargo bay. Joe ground his cigarette in the flowerbed and skirted the truck. He paused at the threshold of the open door. Two black handymen struggled to remove the crystal chandelier. An extension ladder too short to reach the vaulted ceiling leaned against the fascia of the second floor landing. Clothesline, tied to one of the wings of the chandelier, ran to a pulley screwed to the ceiling.
“For Christ’s sake, Willie, be careful!” screamed a woman no taller than four-eleven, wearing a lime green pantsuit highlighted by red hair tied in a bun on the back of her head. She touched a large gold cross dangling from a matching chain as the ladder momentarily rocked back from the landing.
Joe watched with amusement. Willie, the fifty-something salt and pepper haired owner of the truck, had the physique of a football tackle. His biceps rippled against the sleeves of his gray T-shirt as he stretched from the top rung of the ladder to release the chandelier from its electrical connections. His forehead glistened with beads of sweat.
“Listen Ruth,” Willie replied, rearranging his grip on the ladder, “you told me we was removing a ceiling light. Nothing was said about a two-hundered pound crystal chandelier. We’ll get it down if you leave us alone.”
Ruth stared at Willie. “What did you…”, she started to say then threw her hands up in frustration. “Let’s get the damn thing down. It’s getting late.”
Willie wiped his face with his arm. “Son. Pay attention!” he said to his cohort holding the end of the rope. “James!”
Joe felt the tension between the two. The younger Reynolds was the opposite of his father—bean pole thin, dreadlocks, and hadn’t worked up a sweat. With his mind, on the song streaming into his ears from his Walkman, he looked at his father and pulled on the rope.
Joe stepped into the foyer, squeezed around a couple holding a torch lamp,