the dandy on the doorstep
     by Daniel Powell

The knock on the door was firm—a quick succession of raps that, when sounded against the peeling old clapboard, ricocheted through the house like the report from some distant rifle. Three distinct, measured cracks that catapulted young Jim Roberts from his afternoon nap and green-vivid dreams of patrolling the outfield for the Baltimore Orioles.

With the pads of his fingers he wiped the last remnants of a late-August slumber from his eyes and pulled his shirt down over his belly. He could hear Bella hollering in the backyard—could picture the gangly hound on her back haunches, her paws perched on top of the gate, sounding her impotent warning to the wayward visitor.

They came again—three quick shots against the door. Keen, eager blows.

Jim padded through the living room, over cool hard wood and into the thick, warm carpet pooled in the foyer. He paused briefly, wrapped in the apron of the afternoon sun, and clenched and unclenched his toes inside his old striped tube socks. The carpet was warm, responsive, and he thought again of the soft green grass that grew in the outfield of Camden Yards.

He slid the catch off the little iron window in the door. He remembered the bad time, remembered the summer of two years before when a number of the kids, some of whom he even knew from school, had disappeared from their homes around Clackamas County. It had made the national news. After his father had passed on and his mother had gone back to work, he was extra careful, even with Bella out back and no kids going missing in the last year, to be wary of strangers.

He pushed up onto his tiptoes and peered out onto the porch. There, through the lattice of the little window and the dingy outer screen door, he saw—a dandy. At least, that’s what his father had always called them. They went door to door, calling on housewives and angling for iced tea as they peddled Bibles and vacuums and brush sets and cooking utensils and paperback books and reading glasses to look at those books. They sold coupon packets for goods you couldn’t buy in the unincorporated stretches of Clackamas County. They sold insurance and powdered drink mix and subscriptions to magazines with titles like Country Canning and Oregon Debutante. Dad had always hated them, called them buzzards, but his mother treated them with respect, allowing them a brief audience before politely declining and sending them on their way. And to Jim, these men had always held a special fascination.

Because he liked to hear them speak.

He wasn’t always sure of what they were saying, but just to listen was a special treat. They sounded like the lawyers from the Perry Mason television show he watched during lunch, methodical and rhythmic, the velvet tones of their voices rising and falling as they worked through the shiny treasures housed in their travel case.

Jim closed his left eye and got a full look at his visitor. The man was dressed in a funny black suit. The coat was buttoned neatly over a pearl gray vest. It sported a set of tails in the back. He wore a squat, wide-brimmed hat and black trousers over shiny black shoes that came to an impossible point in the toe. But the most distinctive article of dress he possessed, Jim thought, was the screaming red bowtie he wore over an immaculate white dress shirt. He had the duds, all right.

The man inside the clothes was more intriguing still. All angles, he looked as though he’d been carved out of driftwood, his skin a mild shade of olive. He had high cheekbones set beneath a pair of green eyes that glistened in the arid afternoon air, and he wore a pencil-thin moustache, silver-white, over a pair of thin, crimson lips. He was old, Jim thought. He should have wrinkles. But his hands, his face—all were as smooth as fine china.

“Good afternoon, young sir,” he said. He smiled, did a small pirouette, doffed his hat and then clapped it back down on his head. He finished the whole thing with a flourish, placing his hands neatly at his hips. A real dandy. “Is the lady of the house home?”

Jim smiled despite himself. He knew it was wrong to open the door, but this man was funny. He was interesting. He had style, and Jim knew there was no harm in listening to him talk, especially if it was just through the screen door. Besides, he could always tell him his mother was napping and didn’t want to be wakened. Talking smooth was a two-way street the way he saw it.

He undid the bolt and slid the heavy door inward. The salesman’s face lit up, and he shuffled forward in a strange little jig, hands still on his hips. He leaned toward the boy, separated now by only the flimsy screen and a scant few inches, and cracked a smile. Jim could smell him—a mixture of cologne and hair tonic. And something else, something underneath those pleasant odors. He smelled like dirt—that earthy, pungent smell of freshly tilled earth. Jim supposed he was selling garden tools.

“There’s a kind gentleman. It’s a real scorcher of a day out here, young man. One hundred and ten degrees in the shade, I think.” His voice was deep and rich, and he formed his words carefully, the pitch of his voice rising and dropping as he worked through a sentence. “I don’t suppose I can trouble you for a drink? Lemonade? Or perhaps just a glass of ice water?”

“Sir, my mom’s sleeping. I can’t open this door, and I won’t wake her up, so I’m sorry. I can’t get you anything to drink,” he replied.

The man tilted his head, as if considering a business proposal. His smile stretched just a fraction wider. “I see,” he said, “very bright young fellow. It’s an admirable quality to state one’s position definitively.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jim replied. He tried to sound strong, like his dad would want him to when dealing with a salesman, but his voice wavered.

“Well in that case, young Mr. Roberts, if you would allow me to demonstrate my wares, perhaps you’ll find an item so suitable to your disposition that waking your sleeping angel of a mother would seem wholly necessary. Do you want to take a look?”

Jim did, but he was taken aback. “How do you know my name?”

“Why, it’s there, plain as day, on the mailbox at the end of your drive.” He tipped the boy a wink. “You didn’t answer my question, though. Care to look?”

“I guess. What do you have?”

The dandy scuttled back to his case. In one effortless motion he swooped up the contraption and, with a deft flick of his wrist, he snapped the case open. A set of folding legs clicked into place beneath it. The case was now horizontal, about waist-high to a grown man. Looking closer, Jim could see that the dark exterior leather was interwoven with thin crimson threads. It was like the skin of some horrible animal, foreign and reptilian.

“I hold inside this case, young man, something for just about everyone.” He stepped to the side and indicated the case with a flourish of his hand. “I’ve scoured the markets of Scotland and perused the carts of Peru. I’ve bartered in Beirut and traded in Trinidad. The jewels of Atlantis have surfaced inside my case; the work of long-dead poets still sings inside its confines. Mementos and keepsakes and trinkets and gifts. Hoaxes and potions and sands that still shift. There are things in this world to treasure, Mr. Roberts, and prices at which they can be had. Tell me now, what is it you treasure?”

The dandy opened the case and Jim felt his jaw go slack.

It seemed deeper, much deeper than it had looked when it was folded up. The walls of the case were enfolded in plush red velvet, a velvet so deep and soft it looked to Jim like flesh. It was lined with various items, some shiny, some opaque. There was a set of false teeth, cast of shimmering steel, glinting and reflecting light even in the shade of the enclosed porch. They were spread ominously wide, and razor-sharp. He noticed a series of small, colored bottles—blue, green, red—each stoppered with a cork. He couldn’t make out their contents, but on the other side of that smoky, colored glass, something jumped in each. They seemed to hum with activity. Jim pictured himself opening one of them and a flock of tiny moths, each no larger than a speck of pollen on the summer wind, escaping and flying high toward the sun. There were books covered in symbols and pen sets carved of bone and antler and thick golden bracelets that looked a hundred years old. And then, in the corner, Jim saw it.

A singular pack of trading cards. By the look of it, an older package of Topps baseball cards, wrapped in faded wax paper. His heart raced with longing.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Roberts!” the salesman exclaimed. He clasped his hands before him in delight. “The trading cards interest you, do they not?”

“Well, sir, I do collect them. I managed to collect a full set from last season, and I’m working on this year’s right now.” He eyed the cards. “When do those cards come from? I don’t recognize them.”

With one fluid motion he snatched up the cards. The pack slid to the tips of his slender fingers, and the salesman presented them to the boy. “1982, young sir. These cards are better than twenty years old, and in mint condition, I might add. A fine year, that one. Lots of activity in the trade industry, if I recall correctly. Of course, 1982 was long ago. How could these cards possibly be of any interest to a gentleman of only eight years, residing in this, the glorious age of the new millennium?”

Jim didn’t understand the last of what the man had said, but his blood had run cold. The man knew his age—had guessed somehow that he was eight. Jim wanted him to leave, but there was something else. Something that made him almost dizzy with excitement.

1982 was Cal Ripken, Jr.’s, rookie year. The first trading card ever made of his hero, his idol, the greatest Baltimore Oriole, could be inside that pack. It was all he could do to keep that screen door latched, but first he needed to ask a question.

“Mister, how is it you know how old I am?”

The salesman shot him a cunning look in return. “Good question. Good question, indeed! Why, I’m as old as the hills! I’ve covered this territory for many years. I’m surprised you’ve never seen me! I stop by here at least every other year or so. I used to trade with your father, and I’ve seen you grow throughout the years, young man. I’ve seen you grow from a just a half-pint into the strong fellow who stands before me today.” He smiled, not unkindly, and returned the cards to the case. “So tell me, are you interested in acquiring these trading cards?”

Jim wanted to shout his desire at the salesman. He was willing to do almost anything for those cards. But Emma Roberts hadn’t raised an idjit, and he knew he needed to keep his enthusiasm in check.

“Well, they are kind of old, sir. And I don’t really have any money . . .”

“Money! Who needs it? I’m a trader more than a salesman, truth be told. Necessity is the mother of invention. At least that’s what a wise old man once said. Surely we can strike a deal. What have you to offer?”

Jim thought on the request for moment. “I have trading cards myself. Are you interested in looking at them?”

“Actually, I’m looking to liquidate my meager position in these particular items,” he replied with a frown. “As you can probably guess, the market for these wares is remarkably narrow. This single package is the last I have to offer. What else have you got?”

“Marbles. I just bought a brand new cat’s eye with last week’s allowance. It’s pretty neat. I’ve got a copy of Carrie—only been read a few times. I’ve got lots of things, actually. What is it you need, mister?”

The man smiled. He crossed his arms over his chest and stroked the silver points of his moustache in reflection. “Well, you could agree to an arrangement, I suppose. I could let you have them on credit, for the promise of payment due at some point in the distant future.”

Jim had an understanding of credit. His mother used it at Pop’s Grain and Feed at the end of the month, when things were “a little tight.” He knew it meant you got something right away, and didn’t have to pay until later.

“How much would I have to pay? I was planning on getting a job picking strawberries up at the Luscher Farm, but mom won’t let me until I turn ten. It might be a few years before I can pay.”

The dandy made a neat little gesture, a quick overture of the wrist “Don’t concern yourself with the details, son. I’ll collect paper on our transaction, and I won’t bother you for some time. As I said, I’ve been coming by here for years. Your mother, I’ve never traded with. But your father . . .” He smiled, and leaned toward the boy, as though they were conspirators in some nefarious scheme. A wolf, Jim thought. He looks just like a wolf from one of those fairy tales we used to read at Ascension Primary School. “Your father and I struck an agreement. I still hold his paper.” He turned and fiddled with the case before producing a yellowed, decaying scrap of parchment. Jim studied it. His father’s precise, severe signature seemed to bleed from the corner of the page.

“What do you say, Mr. Roberts? If I’m good enough for your old man, I’ve got to be good enough for you, eh?” Without taking his eyes off the boy, he produced another scrap of paper from behind his back, this one crisp and bright, covered with tiny black letters. There was a line on which to sign, marked with a peculiar ‘X’ along the bottom margin. “Just sign this agreement, and the cards are yours. Simple as that.”

Jim looked hard at the document and, as he did, the wind picked up. A cloud of errant debris, dust and twigs, and dried-up cherry blossoms, came alive and scurried over the wooden porch steps. A thunderhead appeared suddenly on the horizon, crawling across the sky like milk spilled on a tile floor. Where did that come from? he thought. It soon blocked out the sun. The air grew cooler, and Jim felt confused. Things outside were changing quickly. He peered behind the dandy, who paused to follow the boy’s gaze. The great oaks in the grove out front twisted and groaned in the sudden tempest.

“Why don’t you come outside? Come on out and we’ll get you signed up and on your way.”

Jim considered the pack of cards. He stared hard at it, and perhaps it was just an optical illusion, one of those strange tricks of the light and the eye when you focus on something so long that you lose focus on it, but the ballplayer on the front of the package winked at him. Jim couldn’t think of any other explanation. The ballplayer, some Yankee he couldn’t place, hunched over casually in a relaxed hitting stance, winked his left eye at him, drawing the corner of his mouth up into a brief, shrewd smile. Sign the paper kid, and I’m all yours. And who knows? Cal might even be in here with me. You got nothin’ to lose.

Jim took a step back. The dandy took a step forward. He could break the door down any time he wanted. Outside, the wind howled and the trees danced in the yard. He wished his mother was home.

“Open this door and just step on outside, Jim.”

Jim was horrified. “How do you know my name? Did my father tell you?”

“I know all about you, Jim. And I know you’re mother’s not here right now. She’s working in the tannery, skinning animals and cleaning away their insides, washing their guts into a dirty hole in a cement floor. Your mother works overtime to hold onto this house. I know she wouldn’t have to do overtime if she was willing to work with me. Willing to make a deal . . .”

From the corner of his eye, Jim saw something move in the case. The steel dentures, razor sharp and ridiculously shiny, creaked slowly: creak . . . snap! – creak . . . snap! Whatever was inside those colored bottles was going crazy, also. They made a barely perceptible noise as they vibrated and hummed and occasionally clinked against each other. The Yankee on the baseball card was now moving his bat back and forth, cocking it menacingly in anticipation of some unseen heater, a fastball coming in high and tight.

“Your father was very cooperative, Jim. He had a great life, and he paid for things on credit. Things from my case. Things that I could give him. I think you’d do well to follow his example, and we can start with these trading cards. But I’ll be back, I always come back, and we can trade again. Step outside here, and let’s have a look at the contract.” He stood beside his case, head cocked expectantly to one side, the wide-brimmed hat flapping in the summer wind. Jim locked eyes with the man. A brief glint of color, the same crimson that lined the showcase, flashed in the dark circles of his eyes, and Jim gasped.

“Just come out here, Jim. Out onto the step.”

The screen door began to flap in the wind. The flimsy metal clasp, a cheap curved hook no thicker than a ten-penny nail, vibrated in its catch.

“I don’t trade on credit,” Jim said weakly.

The velocity of the wind picked up. The dandy took a step closer, his black suit unruffled in the weather that now engulfed this part of Oregon in near-tornado conditions. He bent at the waist, cocked a hand to one ear. “Beg pardon? You’ll have to speak up, I didn’t quite catch that.”

Jim leaned into the wind. He could here the papers flying off of his mother’s desk in the parlor. “I don’t trade on credit!” he shouted. “You need to take your things and leave. You’re not welcome to call here anymore.”

No sooner had the last word left his lips then the winds stopped. Jim’s mouth fell open in the quiet of the afternoon. He wiped a single tear from the corner of one eye.

The salesman touched a button on the top of his case and it folded neatly down into a suitcase once again. A benign, slightly weathered suitcase. The clouds began to dissipate and bright swatches of late-afternoon sunshine bathed the lawn, now covered with fallen clusters of elm leaves, in golden light.

Jim turned his back on the man briefly, to study the mess the wind had made in the parlor and the living room. The sunshine framed in the doorway cast the thick shadows of the elms on the carpet there. He saw the branches of the trees and the straight posts of the rails on the porch. He saw his own shadow, pooled around his feet like shed skin.

But the man and his case left no shadow on the ground.

Jim turned his attention back to the door, for a second believing that it had all been a dream, knowing in his heart and in the marrow of his bones that it hadn’t.

The dandy patted his hat down on his head and picked up the suitcase. “Very well, Mr. Roberts. Perhaps we’ll have occasion to meet again some time. I’m fond of travel, and I work all over the world.”

He turned on his heel and walked off into the bright day. Before he disappeared behind the hedge marking the line of the Roberts’ property, he fixed his eyes once again on the boy in the doorway. He paused, tipped his hat, and then stepped onto the sidewalk. Before he was down the road and out of sight, Jim was heartened to see his mother’s old Dodge in the street. She drove past the salesman, and the man in the black hat didn’t so much as spare her a glance—never moved his head in the slightest—to acknowledge the car turning into the drive of the home he had just left.

Jim watched the dandy until he disappeared over the crest of the hill that led into Molalla.

“James!” his mother shouted from the driveway. “Come give me a hand with these groceries, honey!”

Without hesitating, the boy slipped the clasp on the screen door and sprinted across the yard to where his mother was unloading groceries in brown paper bags. Before picking up a load, he threw his arms around her and buried his head in the folds of her dress. She smelled like sunlight and clean air.

“Whoa! Hey? What’s that for, kiddo? I love you, too.” She laughed. “Who was that man I saw? Did he come here to the house?”

His face still buried in her dress, Jim replied, “Just a salesman. Just an old salesman selling a bunch of junk.”

His mother laughed. “Well, you know what to do when they come calling. Be polite and give them a firm ‘no.’ Your father, bless his heart, was always such a sucker for those guys.”

She gathered up a sack of groceries and started toward the house. “Fried chicken sound okay for dinner, James?”

He picked up a sack of groceries. “Sounds great, Mom.” He followed her up the stairs.

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Daniel Powell teaches film criticism, literature, and English Composition at Florida Community College at Jacksonville. He is an avid outdoorsman and long-distance runner, and he enjoys fishing the waters of Northeast Florida from atop his kayak. Daniel maintains a journal online at www.danielwpowell.blogspot.com.

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© Sotto Voce, 2009.
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