Sold on a Monday: A Novel

The girl beamed with delight when Ellis approached her farmhouse. It was similar to the other, with a porch and screen door, but with white paint under its dingy sheen. “You wanna buy more, mister?”

“Actually, I was hoping your father might be home.” If around, the man of the house would want some say in any financial arrangement.

“He’s gone,” she said. The towheaded boy, barefoot and dressed in matching overalls, stood at her side.

“Off at work?”

“Nah. In heaven.”

Her matter-of-fact tone told him it wasn’t a recent occurrence, but still Ellis offered, “I’m real sorry to hear that.”

The boy tugged on the girl’s arm, as if skeptical about confiding in a stranger.

“Ah, don’t fuss. This here’s the fella who gave me the pennies.” She exaggerated an eye roll, a message to say the kid was just too young to understand.

Ellis smiled. “I assume this is your little brother?”

“Little is right. Calvin here’s only five.”

“I ain’t little.” His round face drew into a pout, a plum becoming a prune.

“And I’m Ruby. Ruby Dillard. I’m eight and a half. Nearly nine.”

Ellis’s guess on her age had been fairly close, though a decade short if measuring on a precocious scale.

“Well, Ruby, you wouldn’t have another brother around, would you?”

“Another?” She put her fists on her hips. “Heck no. I might not even keep this one.” She fought a smile as Calvin’s eyes, framed by thick lashes, sparked with defiance.

“Mamaaa!” He scampered into the house, their mother evidently inside. This provided a timely answer to Ellis’s next question.

“Hey, mister, listen here.” Ruby leaned forward and spoke in a stage whisper. “There’s a lady at church—sounds like a dying cat when she sings—she calls Mama ‘Geri,’ like short for Geraldine, but Mama hates that.”

“So…don’t call her Geri.”

Ruby nodded, an eyebrow raised, saying, Trust me on this.

Just then, her mother stepped out of the house. She was wiping her hands on the faded striped apron over her cotton housedress, Calvin peeking from behind. The sun highlighted her sandy-blond hair, loosely gathered in a bun.

“Can I help you?” Her tone was as even as her gaze.

“Mrs. Dillard, good afternoon. I’m with the Philadelphia Examiner. I apologize for troubling you in the middle of the day.”

“We’re not subscribing to nothing.”

“No…no, that’s not what I’m after.”

“What, then?”

All right, skip to the deal. “The thing is, there’s this article I’ve written for the paper. And I just need some photos of a few kids. It won’t take more than—”

“Not interested. Ruby, come do your chores.”

“But, Mama. Did you hear? I wanna be in the paper!”

“Young lady, I do not have the energy to repeat myself today.” The woman indeed appeared tired as she coughed and batted away dust in the air, though she still looked capable of doing the same to her daughter’s behind.

Ruby slumped her shoulders. As she trudged up the porch stairs, Ellis stepped closer. “Please, Mrs. Dillard. Before you make a final decision…” A few more seconds and these kids, like the previous two, would be gone. He scrambled to pull the curled bills from his pocket. “Rest assured, I can pay.”

Ruby wheeled around. At the cash, her dainty jaw fell open and Calvin cocked his head, his eyes growing impossibly large. Geraldine wasn’t taken in so easily, but neither was she turning away.

Noting his narrow opening, Ellis rushed to describe the photographs he required and the basics of the article. There would be no specific ties to her children. No names or other details beyond their township. The picture would simply represent the turmoil facing countless American families.

When Ellis finished, Geraldine crossed her arms. She studied him, evaluating, deciding. Her large, rounded eyes matched those of her children, but with a hooded quality underscored by dark circles, her ashen pallor suggesting a life drained of color. “I got laundry to hang out back. You can take your pictures till I’m done. Then the children got chores to do.” Leaving it at that, she disappeared into the house.

Ellis wasn’t sure how much time this gave him, but he guessed it wasn’t much. Within minutes, he arranged the kids on the porch steps, side by side, and the sign in the foreground. The camera was ready for clicking.

Through the lens, he repeatedly captured their dirt-smudged faces, charming with their cupid lips and their ears that came to gentle points. Thanks to Ruby’s coaxing, warmth increased in both their smiles, followed by their eyes.

Ellis was in the midst of snapping another picture—Ruby had just slung her arm around Calvin’s shoulders—when Geraldine reemerged from the front door. Palm raised, she averted her face from the camera. “That’s enough now. You got what you needed.”

The session was over.

With safely a dozen good images on film, Ellis thanked the kids before Geraldine herded them inside. He met her at the steps and handed over the money, catching the subtle desperation in her face.

“I appreciate this, Mrs. Dillard. You’ve truly been a lifesaver.”

She tendered a nod, but retreated without a word.

In the front window, lined with blue gingham curtains, Ruby suddenly appeared. As if taking the stage for a final bow, she waved, then slipped from view.

• • •

In no time, Ellis was back on the road.

Rumbling his way toward Philly, he pondered the new photos. The more miles he covered, the more his uncertainty stirred over the nature of the substitution. Though when he reached Center City, a dose of reality cut through his doubts. In front of Independence Hall, a group of browbeaten men milled about in suits and hats. Over their chests hung hand-painted boards.

Wanted: a decent job. Know 3 trades.

Will take any work. Do not want charity.

Family man. War vet. College trained. Need a job.

Collectively, they sent a stark message to Ellis: lose sight of his goals, and he’d soon need a sign of his own. If ever questioned, he’d undoubtedly admit the truth. He had no intention of swindling anyone…and definitely not outright lying…

At the corner, he opened up the throttle of his Model T and swung onto Market. For once, he was grateful for the rattling of his godforsaken engine. Anything to drown out the whispers of his conscience.