“How much did you pay?”
Someone answered from behind him.
“Four seventy-two.”
Laughter began again.
Much softer this time.
Different.
Not mockery.
Disbelief.
The boy still had thirty-four dollars folded in his pocket.
Everything else he had earned over the summer had gone into those crates.
He had cleaned cattle stalls before breakfast.
Stacked hay in heat that made his shirt stick to his back.
Pulled wire along fence lines.
Helped an elderly neighbor replace boards on a hog shed.
Rebuilt two lawn-mower carburetors for cash.
His father had told him he could spend his money at the auction as long as he understood one rule.
“If you buy junk, it's your junk.”
The boy had accepted.
Now three wooden crates of his “junk” sat in front of thirty farmers who suddenly wanted to know exactly what was inside.
The telephone rang a third time.
The office worker came running outside.
He held a yellow note in one hand.
“A farm equipment dealer from Cedar Falls wants whoever bought eighty-seven.”
The retired dealer’s eyebrows rose.
“Already?”
The worker nodded.
“Says he'll pay twelve hundred for the lot sight unseen.”
The crowd erupted.
Not cheering.
Talking.
Questions.
Speculation.
One man whistled.
The thirteen-year-old stared at the worker.
Twelve hundred dollars.
More than twice what he had paid.
For a moment, the number swallowed everything else.
He imagined his savings restored.
Then doubled.
He could buy the used calf he had been watching at a neighbor’s farm.
He could replace the cracked toolbox he shared with his father.
He could buy a decent socket set instead of collecting mismatched pieces from coffee cans.
Twelve hundred dollars.
The auctioneer looked at him.
“Well, kid?”
The boy opened his mouth.
The retired dealer put one hand gently on his shoulder.
“Before you answer, ask why a man fifty miles away is offering twelve hundred dollars for something he hasn't seen.”
The boy closed his mouth.
The auctioneer frowned.
“Don't confuse him.”
“I’m trying to keep him from getting educated at an expensive price.”
The boy looked at the retired dealer.
“What do you think they're worth?”
The old man looked toward the crates.
“I don't know.”
“How can you tell me not to sell if you don't know?”
The dealer smiled.
“Good question.”
He crouched.
“Because I recognize at least four plates sitting on top that I haven't seen for sale in ten years.”
He pointed.
“That one.”
A large plate with twenty-four elongated slots.