The Sold Man
by Timothy Dodd
Terry Mellon pulled out the black pocket comb he had won as a door prize and moved it across a skull feathered with thin, graying hair. To mask his breath of a country ham and fried potato lunch, lots of onions, he popped a Wint-O-Green Life Saver into his mouth. Then he reached across the front leather seat of his Buick Rivera and dragged a bulky black binder over to his lap. Terry opened the door and got out feeling good, feeling positive. He looked at the house in front of him and smiled, sucking on his mint.
A hundred look-alikes to the square mile, the two-story brick house sat back from the road. Its red quarry tile sidewalk sliced through a freshly mowed front lawn, ending at three stairs and a small porch hosting a few beds of petunias sprinkled around.
Terry Mellon’s loafers clicked on the street as he walked up to confirm the name displayed above the mailbox’s painted cardinal. The Andersons were a retired couple in their mid-70s and had called three times within the last six months for repairs. Ideal candidates produced genuine optimism, and Terry believed a good month was about to get better. Walking briskly to the front door, he held the black binder to chest with his right hand, keeping the left and its mild case of psoriasis in his pants pocket.
In his early fifties with a moderate paunch, Terry wore the blue blazer and khakis as commonplace as the house in front of him. His turkey neck stuck out and his protruding tummy fell over a waist that still fit into size 32 briefs. Terry’s teenage son referred to him as a “fat-skinny man” and “fencepost with a gut.” Born with poor eyesight, cornea transplants had saved his vision. Now he wore thick eyeglasses for nearsightedness and a stigmatism. Terry’s yap is what distinguished him most, however: despite a tiny mouth and the removal of a tumor leaving a three-inch scar on his jaw, people knew him as the man who could talk until the world fell asleep.
On the porch Terry put on an extra cloak of confidence and peered through the screen door. He rang the doorbell and took a few steps back, just as they taught him twenty-five years ago in his two-week sales class. He listened for anyone approaching, but heard no signs of life, so rang a second time. He removed his itchy, scaly hand from his pocket to look at his watch, then noticed the front window curtains twitch from the corner of his eye. Moments later a woman’s voice yelled inside the house.
Mr. Anderson soon appeared at the screen door, but didn’t speak. A wrinkled, expressionless face looked much older than his fact card stated. Thin-framed and beady-eyed, he wore a tan, button down shirt.
Terry Mellon wanted inside the house. He introduced himself and told Mr. Anderson what Sears & Roebuck could do. Mr. Anderson didn’t move or answer, then slowly turned from the door to look at his wife. Mrs. Anderson had crept closer and now stood in the hallway a few yards behind her husband wearing a red blouse and grey slacks. Mr. Anderson began to repeat to her a bit of Terry’s pitch.
“Well, don’t just stand there in the doorway. Invite him in then,” she said.
Mr. Anderson turned back to Terry as if pivoting in some sort of sticky substance. “She said to let you in.” Terry could have counted to a thousand during the time it took the elderly man to locate the screen’s latch and push the door open. Terry thanked him anyway and stepped inside the home, then waited some more while Mr. Anderson struggled to close the door.
Mrs. Anderson cut in. “Slip your shoes off and come on in to the living room and sit down, Mr. Mellon. If you wait on him to get that door shut you’ll be late with the Halloween candy and Christmas shopping, too.”
Terry anxiously removed his shoes and followed the heavy woman into a comfortable room that looked similar to his own living room. Mrs. Anderson sat down at the far end of a pale green sofa covered with tiny mauve flowers and invited Terry to sit and relax his bones in one of the matching chairs facing her. A coffee table stood between them on the dark green carpet. Mass produced watercolor paintings of gardens and gazebos hung on the wall, following the color scheme.
“So how long have you all lived here on Rummelbrown, Mrs. Anderson?” Terry asked as he nestled into the thickly cushioned chair, waiting for Mr. Anderson to appear before getting down to business.
“As long as we’ve been married. And before that we both lived around the corner. Known each other since we were two years old.”
“Ah, that’s nice,” Terry said. “A whole lifetime together.”
“Think it’s romantic? I think it’s damn depressing.”
“I guess you all were Mountain Lions then?”
“I sure was, but he went to Catholic schools,” Mrs. Anderson replied, pointing at her husband with some distaste as he entered the living room and sat down on the opposite end of the sofa. The elderly man wore old khakis that matched his oxford shirt. They were hiked up high on a narrow waist wrapped tightly by a black belt.
“Law have mercy,” Mrs. Anderson said. “How many times do I need to tell you to lose them smelly slippers when we have guests?” Mr. Anderson stood up, but she told him to sit back down. “Don’t make any difference now. You’ve already embarrassed yourself.” Mr. Anderson sat back down and began gently rubbing the arm of the sofa.
Terry began his sales pitch. “Now I’ve been informed that you folks have contacted repairs three times in the last month for your washer and dryer. I can tell you from twenty-five years of experience that when those kinds of things start to happen then it’s time to get new ones. Things won’t magically get better, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, and you don’t want to be calling repairs every month or you’ll end up paying more.”
“I do all the washing,” Mrs. Anderson said. “Nobody’s surprised when I tell them he don’t care whether his clothes are clean or not.” She looked over at her husband. “And I thought I told you to stop that rubbing. You’re going to put a hole in this sofa before it’s over with.”
“So how many washers and dryers have you had since living here?” Terry asked.
“Let’s think now,” Mrs. Anderson said as her husband took his hand down from the sofa arm and stared at his lap. “I guess this would be the fourth one we’re on now. We got every last one of them from Sears, too.”
“Well, Mrs. Anderson, we certainly appreciate our loyal customers. And just for that, Sears and Roebuck is going to put a new washer and dryer in your hands that’ll last longer than the roof on this house, longer than the carpet you’re resting your feet on.”
“Guess they’d outlive us too then because this carpet ain’t but three years old.”
“Now don’t say that Mrs. Anderson. I was reading about a woman last week in Tupelo, Mississippi who recently turned 109,” Terry replied as he began to open his black binder. “But I see you take real good care of this place and that’s why I know I’m going to set you up with a long lasting washer and dryer. One that will last fifteen or twenty years, just like they used to years ago, I’m sure you remember. I don’t offer this washer and dryer to anyone, not if I see people who won’t take proper care of it.”
“We ain’t bought nothing before but Maytag.”
“Now I’ve got plenty of Maytag models that I can show you if that’s what you want,” Terry said, turning pages. “But this one I have in mind is a Whirlpool and it would be a perfect fit for someone who takes as good a care of things as you do.” Terry looked down in his book, acting like a boy in a candy shop. “Boy, oh boy, I was just telling my wife Vicky the other day how I’m going to get her one of these next time. Take a look at it, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson.”
Terry put the book on the coffee table in front of the old couple and began rattling off features and advantages as they leaned forward to peer at the glossy pages. “It’s a 4.3 cubic feet front-load washer and a 7.4 cubic feet electric dryer,” he said. “Now this washer automatically senses the size of your wash load and adjusts the water accordingly to provide the cleanest wash of any machine I’ve ever known. The dryer’s got an advanced moisture sensor and has an automatic stop function to prevent excessive drying and wasting energy. Also has a steam cycle that prevents wrinkles. The washer has a 6-point suspension system and is quieter than a mourning dove at midnight. It’s got a built-in fan that activates once the wash cycle is over and it’ll even tumble your clothes for up to sixteen hours so you can wash and dry a small load of clothes in the washer by itself. Amazing machine is all I can say.”
Terry stopped to look at the Andersons’ faces. Mrs. Anderson’s showed a mix of awe and confusion, like she had just watched a magic trick.
“I guess we’ve had our washer and dryer for about ten years now so I figure we’ve got a few more years before we need to buy a new set. But how much do these run anyway?”
Terry didn’t like the sound of that and was ready to continue the offensive, but the telephone rang in an adjacent room and Mrs. Anderson stood up to leave.
“Give me a minute,” she said to Terry. “And don’t tell him anything or you’ll just have to repeat it when I get back.”
From lost sales over the years, Terry had learned not to assume which marriage partner would ultimately decide on a purchase. He waited a moment until Mrs. Anderson was out of earshot and then quietly asked, “So what do you think about this set, Mr. Anderson?”
Mr. Anderson looked off to the side and didn’t reply. Terry waited a minute before repeating his question.
“We better wait until she comes back.”
Terry conceded by changing the subject to the weather, but Mrs. Anderson’s return interrupted him in mid-sentence.
“Who do you figure that was?” she asked her husband without giving him time to answer. “Doctor Fletcher’s office confirming your appointment for Friday. Anyway how much did you say this washer and dryer costs?”
“Mrs. Anderson, the sticker price on these is $2,899, but Sears is offering them at $2,499 and I was thinking while you were in the other room that if you buy them here today I’ll even knock off an extra two hundred.”
“So what’s the total then?”
“That would be $2,299, Mrs. Anderson. Taxes are included and so is free delivery and installment.”
“I paid less than half that last time.”
“Mrs. Anderson, the cheapest washer and dryer set we sell now is $1,199, but I don’t recommend those types. The model that we sell today that’s an equivalent to the washer and dryer you currently have would be $1,899. But the little extra you’d pay to get this set here would easily pay for itself,” Terry explained, his finger pointing emphatically at the pictures. “First off it’s got the automatic drying as I mentioned and it’s proven to last longer than any of the other models or brands. It’s Energy Star qualified and it uses 76% less water and 68% less energy compared to any of the pre-2004 models. To save even more you can put the dryer on its EcoBoost option and that uses only half the dryer’s heating elements. Research shows that on average this washer saves you $2,247.37 in lifetime water and energy savings during its first ten years of use. That right there pays for itself. You’re hardly paying for a thing.”
Mrs. Anderson surprised Terry when she sat back against the sofa as if disinterested. Then she turned to her husband. “You still don’t have a bit of manners. The man’s been sitting here working, trying to give us a good deal, and you haven’t even offered him something to drink. Tell me what you’d like to drink, Mr. Mellon, and we’ll get this man to be useful for a change.”
“Cup of coffee would be appreciated if it’s no trouble,” Terry answered.
“Go on and make him a cup of coffee. Folger’s is in the cabinet,” Mrs. Anderson said to her husband. Mr. Anderson stood up and left the room. “He’s a retired postal clerk of thirty years.” Then she lowered her voice. “Look, Mr. Mellon, to be honest with you, I want that washer and dryer. Any way you could bring it down a hundred dollars more?”
“Well, Mrs. Anderson, I’m not sure. I’d have to call my manager and see what he says about that. The price I’m offering you is already bottom dollar.”
“You know what, don’t even worry about it. I’ll take them.”
“All right, that will be fine, Mrs. Anderson,” Terry said with some surprise. “Excellent decision. They’re wonderful machines. Now how would you like to pay? I’ll be glad to explain our various payment plans.”
“Won’t be necessary. You can write out the receipt and I’ll pay you cash before you leave. But do me a favor. Don’t mention this while my husband’s here. He’s got some issues with his heart and he gets nervous about these things.”
“Okay, that’s no problem. I’ll write the receipt now and you can give me the cash before I leave.” Terry slipped a hand inside his sport coat and took out his receipt pad.
“Tell you what. I’ll go and get the cash now since he’s not here.”
“That would be fine, Mrs. Anderson. I can telephone you later to discuss whether or not you want a service plan. By the way, when would you like us to deliver your washer and dryer?”
“Friday would be best. About noon when he’s at the doctor.”
“Okay, let me make a note of that. Shouldn’t be any problem. And would you like us to take the old washer and dryer away for you at no additional cost?”
“I’d appreciate that.”
Mrs. Anderson got up a second time and left the room. Terry began scribbling out the receipt and checked off the rarely used “Cash” box under form of payment. Mr. Anderson soon returned with a tray of yellow mugs filled with hot water, a canister of instant coffee, sugar, and milk. Terry put the receipt aside and removed his black binder from the coffee table so that Mr. Anderson could set down the tray.
“Help yourself,” Mr. Anderson said.
Terry thanked him, reached out to pick up a mug, and poured in hot water. Mrs. Anderson returned as he added milk and sugar.
“Is it so hard to make the coffee for him?”
“I didn’t know how he likes it,” Mr. Anderson defended himself.
“Good grief, Harry. All you got to do is ask him!”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Anderson. Everything’s fine,” Terry assured her, focusing on securing the payment and planning now to drink the coffee as quickly as possible.
“Well, you better fix mine for me. I can tell you that much,” Mrs. Anderson said to her husband.
Mr. Anderson fixed coffee for both himself and his wife while Terry blew on his own and burned his lips trying to take a gulp. Mrs. Anderson bent her neck down for a sip.
“Can’t you ever get the sugar right?” Mr. Anderson didn’t respond.
Terry continued slurping mouthfuls of coffee, all the time wondering how and when Mrs. Anderson would hand him the money. After a few minutes he finished his cup and set it back down on the tray.
“Say, Mrs. Anderson. I hate to bother you, but would you have a restroom that I could use?”
“Oh, sure we do. Let me show you where it is.” Terry followed the woman out of the room, leaving Mr. Anderson alone with his coffee.
At the bathroom door Terry held up the receipt and asked for payment.
Mrs. Anderson reached into the pocket of a jacket she had just put on in her bedroom. “Now remember not to mention a thing to him about it.”
Terry agreed, handed Mrs. Anderson the receipt, and began counting the money as he turned to the bathroom. “Now wait a moment, Mrs. Anderson. This is only $2200. It’s a hundred dollars short.”
“Oh, is it? Then you go on and do your thing while I grab you another hundred.”
Terry tucked the wad of hundred dollar bills inside his sport coat and closed the bathroom door. He relieved himself and gingerly washed his irritated hands. When he opened the door, Mrs. Anderson stood there with an additional hundred-dollar bill.
“Now we’re all squared away, right?” she asked, voice lowered.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay, now remember that washer and dryer gets delivered Friday on time at noon.”
“That’s right. And I’ll call you tomorrow to speak about the service plans in private. Now if you don’t have any other questions, Mrs. Anderson, I won’t take any more of your time.” They turned and walked down the hallway.
“Well, thanks for coming, Mr. Mellon,” Mrs. Anderson said loudly so that her husband heard. “Maybe next time we’ll purchase something, but I think we’ve got a ways to go with what we’ve got.”
“I understand, Mrs. Anderson. Keep us in mind.”
Terry Mellon planned to tell Mr. Anderson goodbye, but Mrs. Anderson blocked his view as they passed the living room. Behind her, Mr. Anderson remained seated on the sofa, hands on knees and arms fully extended, his tiny eyes peering toward his wife.
“Don’t worry about him,” Mrs. Anderson whispered. “I’ll tell him you were late for another appointment.” She opened the door and wished Terry a good afternoon as he stepped out of the house into a breeze.
Pleased to be out of the house, Terry took a deep breath of fresh air and put a hand on the thick wad of hundred-dollar bills in his pocket. He took out a piece of paper and made a note to call the Andersons the next day about service plans.
Terry walked to his car, opened the door, and sat down behind the wheel. Ordinarily he would take out his roll-a-dial from the glove compartment to locate his next sales visit, but in this case company policy required that any agent with over five hundred dollars in cash first return to the department store. Terry turned on the engine and readied himself to pull out when he glanced back at the Andersons’ home.
Mr. Anderson had pulled back the curtains again, squinting as his forehead pressed against the bay window. Terry considered waving, but didn’t.
With the sunlight shining on Terry Mellon’s car, Harry Anderson wished the salesman wouldn’t leave. He wished Terry would get out of his car and come back into their living room. He wanted him to return, sit back down, and ramble on some more about washing machines and dryers. He’d love to listen to more unimportant facts, half-truths, cover-ups, and lies wrapped in such a loving and positive tone. Mr. Anderson enjoyed the sound of a different voice so much that Terry Mellon could stay right through dinner and even spend the night in the spare bedroom.
Mr. Anderson thought that after all the talk about washing machines, whenever it finished, he’d like Terry Mellon to tell him about his family, too. Then maybe Terry would ask him if he had any children himself, where they were now, and what they were doing. Mr. Anderson would have liked to get a few things off his chest, including finally telling someone what the doctor had said. He’d like to tell Terry he was dying of cancer.
In the fog of Mr. Anderson’s mind, a heavy voice told him to get out of the window—she had just cleaned it yesterday. And as he broke from his daydream, Harry Anderson stared for a final moment at the empty space in front of his home where Terry Mellon had pulled out with one last toot of his horn.
Timothy Dodd is from Mink Shoals, WV and is the author of three collections of short stories, including Small Town Mastodons and Men in Midnight Bloom published by Cowboy Jamboree Press, as well as four collections of poetry, the most recent of which is Orbits 52 (Broadstone Books). Also a visual artist who exhibits primarily in the Philippines, find him on Instagram @timothybdoddartwork and his humble website, timothybdodd.wordpress.com.
by Timothy Dodd
Terry Mellon pulled out the black pocket comb he had won as a door prize and moved it across a skull feathered with thin, graying hair. To mask his breath of a country ham and fried potato lunch, lots of onions, he popped a Wint-O-Green Life Saver into his mouth. Then he reached across the front leather seat of his Buick Rivera and dragged a bulky black binder over to his lap. Terry opened the door and got out feeling good, feeling positive. He looked at the house in front of him and smiled, sucking on his mint.
A hundred look-alikes to the square mile, the two-story brick house sat back from the road. Its red quarry tile sidewalk sliced through a freshly mowed front lawn, ending at three stairs and a small porch hosting a few beds of petunias sprinkled around.
Terry Mellon’s loafers clicked on the street as he walked up to confirm the name displayed above the mailbox’s painted cardinal. The Andersons were a retired couple in their mid-70s and had called three times within the last six months for repairs. Ideal candidates produced genuine optimism, and Terry believed a good month was about to get better. Walking briskly to the front door, he held the black binder to chest with his right hand, keeping the left and its mild case of psoriasis in his pants pocket.
In his early fifties with a moderate paunch, Terry wore the blue blazer and khakis as commonplace as the house in front of him. His turkey neck stuck out and his protruding tummy fell over a waist that still fit into size 32 briefs. Terry’s teenage son referred to him as a “fat-skinny man” and “fencepost with a gut.” Born with poor eyesight, cornea transplants had saved his vision. Now he wore thick eyeglasses for nearsightedness and a stigmatism. Terry’s yap is what distinguished him most, however: despite a tiny mouth and the removal of a tumor leaving a three-inch scar on his jaw, people knew him as the man who could talk until the world fell asleep.
On the porch Terry put on an extra cloak of confidence and peered through the screen door. He rang the doorbell and took a few steps back, just as they taught him twenty-five years ago in his two-week sales class. He listened for anyone approaching, but heard no signs of life, so rang a second time. He removed his itchy, scaly hand from his pocket to look at his watch, then noticed the front window curtains twitch from the corner of his eye. Moments later a woman’s voice yelled inside the house.
Mr. Anderson soon appeared at the screen door, but didn’t speak. A wrinkled, expressionless face looked much older than his fact card stated. Thin-framed and beady-eyed, he wore a tan, button down shirt.
Terry Mellon wanted inside the house. He introduced himself and told Mr. Anderson what Sears & Roebuck could do. Mr. Anderson didn’t move or answer, then slowly turned from the door to look at his wife. Mrs. Anderson had crept closer and now stood in the hallway a few yards behind her husband wearing a red blouse and grey slacks. Mr. Anderson began to repeat to her a bit of Terry’s pitch.
“Well, don’t just stand there in the doorway. Invite him in then,” she said.
Mr. Anderson turned back to Terry as if pivoting in some sort of sticky substance. “She said to let you in.” Terry could have counted to a thousand during the time it took the elderly man to locate the screen’s latch and push the door open. Terry thanked him anyway and stepped inside the home, then waited some more while Mr. Anderson struggled to close the door.
Mrs. Anderson cut in. “Slip your shoes off and come on in to the living room and sit down, Mr. Mellon. If you wait on him to get that door shut you’ll be late with the Halloween candy and Christmas shopping, too.”
Terry anxiously removed his shoes and followed the heavy woman into a comfortable room that looked similar to his own living room. Mrs. Anderson sat down at the far end of a pale green sofa covered with tiny mauve flowers and invited Terry to sit and relax his bones in one of the matching chairs facing her. A coffee table stood between them on the dark green carpet. Mass produced watercolor paintings of gardens and gazebos hung on the wall, following the color scheme.
“So how long have you all lived here on Rummelbrown, Mrs. Anderson?” Terry asked as he nestled into the thickly cushioned chair, waiting for Mr. Anderson to appear before getting down to business.
“As long as we’ve been married. And before that we both lived around the corner. Known each other since we were two years old.”
“Ah, that’s nice,” Terry said. “A whole lifetime together.”
“Think it’s romantic? I think it’s damn depressing.”
“I guess you all were Mountain Lions then?”
“I sure was, but he went to Catholic schools,” Mrs. Anderson replied, pointing at her husband with some distaste as he entered the living room and sat down on the opposite end of the sofa. The elderly man wore old khakis that matched his oxford shirt. They were hiked up high on a narrow waist wrapped tightly by a black belt.
“Law have mercy,” Mrs. Anderson said. “How many times do I need to tell you to lose them smelly slippers when we have guests?” Mr. Anderson stood up, but she told him to sit back down. “Don’t make any difference now. You’ve already embarrassed yourself.” Mr. Anderson sat back down and began gently rubbing the arm of the sofa.
Terry began his sales pitch. “Now I’ve been informed that you folks have contacted repairs three times in the last month for your washer and dryer. I can tell you from twenty-five years of experience that when those kinds of things start to happen then it’s time to get new ones. Things won’t magically get better, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, and you don’t want to be calling repairs every month or you’ll end up paying more.”
“I do all the washing,” Mrs. Anderson said. “Nobody’s surprised when I tell them he don’t care whether his clothes are clean or not.” She looked over at her husband. “And I thought I told you to stop that rubbing. You’re going to put a hole in this sofa before it’s over with.”
“So how many washers and dryers have you had since living here?” Terry asked.
“Let’s think now,” Mrs. Anderson said as her husband took his hand down from the sofa arm and stared at his lap. “I guess this would be the fourth one we’re on now. We got every last one of them from Sears, too.”
“Well, Mrs. Anderson, we certainly appreciate our loyal customers. And just for that, Sears and Roebuck is going to put a new washer and dryer in your hands that’ll last longer than the roof on this house, longer than the carpet you’re resting your feet on.”
“Guess they’d outlive us too then because this carpet ain’t but three years old.”
“Now don’t say that Mrs. Anderson. I was reading about a woman last week in Tupelo, Mississippi who recently turned 109,” Terry replied as he began to open his black binder. “But I see you take real good care of this place and that’s why I know I’m going to set you up with a long lasting washer and dryer. One that will last fifteen or twenty years, just like they used to years ago, I’m sure you remember. I don’t offer this washer and dryer to anyone, not if I see people who won’t take proper care of it.”
“We ain’t bought nothing before but Maytag.”
“Now I’ve got plenty of Maytag models that I can show you if that’s what you want,” Terry said, turning pages. “But this one I have in mind is a Whirlpool and it would be a perfect fit for someone who takes as good a care of things as you do.” Terry looked down in his book, acting like a boy in a candy shop. “Boy, oh boy, I was just telling my wife Vicky the other day how I’m going to get her one of these next time. Take a look at it, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson.”
Terry put the book on the coffee table in front of the old couple and began rattling off features and advantages as they leaned forward to peer at the glossy pages. “It’s a 4.3 cubic feet front-load washer and a 7.4 cubic feet electric dryer,” he said. “Now this washer automatically senses the size of your wash load and adjusts the water accordingly to provide the cleanest wash of any machine I’ve ever known. The dryer’s got an advanced moisture sensor and has an automatic stop function to prevent excessive drying and wasting energy. Also has a steam cycle that prevents wrinkles. The washer has a 6-point suspension system and is quieter than a mourning dove at midnight. It’s got a built-in fan that activates once the wash cycle is over and it’ll even tumble your clothes for up to sixteen hours so you can wash and dry a small load of clothes in the washer by itself. Amazing machine is all I can say.”
Terry stopped to look at the Andersons’ faces. Mrs. Anderson’s showed a mix of awe and confusion, like she had just watched a magic trick.
“I guess we’ve had our washer and dryer for about ten years now so I figure we’ve got a few more years before we need to buy a new set. But how much do these run anyway?”
Terry didn’t like the sound of that and was ready to continue the offensive, but the telephone rang in an adjacent room and Mrs. Anderson stood up to leave.
“Give me a minute,” she said to Terry. “And don’t tell him anything or you’ll just have to repeat it when I get back.”
From lost sales over the years, Terry had learned not to assume which marriage partner would ultimately decide on a purchase. He waited a moment until Mrs. Anderson was out of earshot and then quietly asked, “So what do you think about this set, Mr. Anderson?”
Mr. Anderson looked off to the side and didn’t reply. Terry waited a minute before repeating his question.
“We better wait until she comes back.”
Terry conceded by changing the subject to the weather, but Mrs. Anderson’s return interrupted him in mid-sentence.
“Who do you figure that was?” she asked her husband without giving him time to answer. “Doctor Fletcher’s office confirming your appointment for Friday. Anyway how much did you say this washer and dryer costs?”
“Mrs. Anderson, the sticker price on these is $2,899, but Sears is offering them at $2,499 and I was thinking while you were in the other room that if you buy them here today I’ll even knock off an extra two hundred.”
“So what’s the total then?”
“That would be $2,299, Mrs. Anderson. Taxes are included and so is free delivery and installment.”
“I paid less than half that last time.”
“Mrs. Anderson, the cheapest washer and dryer set we sell now is $1,199, but I don’t recommend those types. The model that we sell today that’s an equivalent to the washer and dryer you currently have would be $1,899. But the little extra you’d pay to get this set here would easily pay for itself,” Terry explained, his finger pointing emphatically at the pictures. “First off it’s got the automatic drying as I mentioned and it’s proven to last longer than any of the other models or brands. It’s Energy Star qualified and it uses 76% less water and 68% less energy compared to any of the pre-2004 models. To save even more you can put the dryer on its EcoBoost option and that uses only half the dryer’s heating elements. Research shows that on average this washer saves you $2,247.37 in lifetime water and energy savings during its first ten years of use. That right there pays for itself. You’re hardly paying for a thing.”
Mrs. Anderson surprised Terry when she sat back against the sofa as if disinterested. Then she turned to her husband. “You still don’t have a bit of manners. The man’s been sitting here working, trying to give us a good deal, and you haven’t even offered him something to drink. Tell me what you’d like to drink, Mr. Mellon, and we’ll get this man to be useful for a change.”
“Cup of coffee would be appreciated if it’s no trouble,” Terry answered.
“Go on and make him a cup of coffee. Folger’s is in the cabinet,” Mrs. Anderson said to her husband. Mr. Anderson stood up and left the room. “He’s a retired postal clerk of thirty years.” Then she lowered her voice. “Look, Mr. Mellon, to be honest with you, I want that washer and dryer. Any way you could bring it down a hundred dollars more?”
“Well, Mrs. Anderson, I’m not sure. I’d have to call my manager and see what he says about that. The price I’m offering you is already bottom dollar.”
“You know what, don’t even worry about it. I’ll take them.”
“All right, that will be fine, Mrs. Anderson,” Terry said with some surprise. “Excellent decision. They’re wonderful machines. Now how would you like to pay? I’ll be glad to explain our various payment plans.”
“Won’t be necessary. You can write out the receipt and I’ll pay you cash before you leave. But do me a favor. Don’t mention this while my husband’s here. He’s got some issues with his heart and he gets nervous about these things.”
“Okay, that’s no problem. I’ll write the receipt now and you can give me the cash before I leave.” Terry slipped a hand inside his sport coat and took out his receipt pad.
“Tell you what. I’ll go and get the cash now since he’s not here.”
“That would be fine, Mrs. Anderson. I can telephone you later to discuss whether or not you want a service plan. By the way, when would you like us to deliver your washer and dryer?”
“Friday would be best. About noon when he’s at the doctor.”
“Okay, let me make a note of that. Shouldn’t be any problem. And would you like us to take the old washer and dryer away for you at no additional cost?”
“I’d appreciate that.”
Mrs. Anderson got up a second time and left the room. Terry began scribbling out the receipt and checked off the rarely used “Cash” box under form of payment. Mr. Anderson soon returned with a tray of yellow mugs filled with hot water, a canister of instant coffee, sugar, and milk. Terry put the receipt aside and removed his black binder from the coffee table so that Mr. Anderson could set down the tray.
“Help yourself,” Mr. Anderson said.
Terry thanked him, reached out to pick up a mug, and poured in hot water. Mrs. Anderson returned as he added milk and sugar.
“Is it so hard to make the coffee for him?”
“I didn’t know how he likes it,” Mr. Anderson defended himself.
“Good grief, Harry. All you got to do is ask him!”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Anderson. Everything’s fine,” Terry assured her, focusing on securing the payment and planning now to drink the coffee as quickly as possible.
“Well, you better fix mine for me. I can tell you that much,” Mrs. Anderson said to her husband.
Mr. Anderson fixed coffee for both himself and his wife while Terry blew on his own and burned his lips trying to take a gulp. Mrs. Anderson bent her neck down for a sip.
“Can’t you ever get the sugar right?” Mr. Anderson didn’t respond.
Terry continued slurping mouthfuls of coffee, all the time wondering how and when Mrs. Anderson would hand him the money. After a few minutes he finished his cup and set it back down on the tray.
“Say, Mrs. Anderson. I hate to bother you, but would you have a restroom that I could use?”
“Oh, sure we do. Let me show you where it is.” Terry followed the woman out of the room, leaving Mr. Anderson alone with his coffee.
At the bathroom door Terry held up the receipt and asked for payment.
Mrs. Anderson reached into the pocket of a jacket she had just put on in her bedroom. “Now remember not to mention a thing to him about it.”
Terry agreed, handed Mrs. Anderson the receipt, and began counting the money as he turned to the bathroom. “Now wait a moment, Mrs. Anderson. This is only $2200. It’s a hundred dollars short.”
“Oh, is it? Then you go on and do your thing while I grab you another hundred.”
Terry tucked the wad of hundred dollar bills inside his sport coat and closed the bathroom door. He relieved himself and gingerly washed his irritated hands. When he opened the door, Mrs. Anderson stood there with an additional hundred-dollar bill.
“Now we’re all squared away, right?” she asked, voice lowered.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay, now remember that washer and dryer gets delivered Friday on time at noon.”
“That’s right. And I’ll call you tomorrow to speak about the service plans in private. Now if you don’t have any other questions, Mrs. Anderson, I won’t take any more of your time.” They turned and walked down the hallway.
“Well, thanks for coming, Mr. Mellon,” Mrs. Anderson said loudly so that her husband heard. “Maybe next time we’ll purchase something, but I think we’ve got a ways to go with what we’ve got.”
“I understand, Mrs. Anderson. Keep us in mind.”
Terry Mellon planned to tell Mr. Anderson goodbye, but Mrs. Anderson blocked his view as they passed the living room. Behind her, Mr. Anderson remained seated on the sofa, hands on knees and arms fully extended, his tiny eyes peering toward his wife.
“Don’t worry about him,” Mrs. Anderson whispered. “I’ll tell him you were late for another appointment.” She opened the door and wished Terry a good afternoon as he stepped out of the house into a breeze.
Pleased to be out of the house, Terry took a deep breath of fresh air and put a hand on the thick wad of hundred-dollar bills in his pocket. He took out a piece of paper and made a note to call the Andersons the next day about service plans.
Terry walked to his car, opened the door, and sat down behind the wheel. Ordinarily he would take out his roll-a-dial from the glove compartment to locate his next sales visit, but in this case company policy required that any agent with over five hundred dollars in cash first return to the department store. Terry turned on the engine and readied himself to pull out when he glanced back at the Andersons’ home.
Mr. Anderson had pulled back the curtains again, squinting as his forehead pressed against the bay window. Terry considered waving, but didn’t.
With the sunlight shining on Terry Mellon’s car, Harry Anderson wished the salesman wouldn’t leave. He wished Terry would get out of his car and come back into their living room. He wanted him to return, sit back down, and ramble on some more about washing machines and dryers. He’d love to listen to more unimportant facts, half-truths, cover-ups, and lies wrapped in such a loving and positive tone. Mr. Anderson enjoyed the sound of a different voice so much that Terry Mellon could stay right through dinner and even spend the night in the spare bedroom.
Mr. Anderson thought that after all the talk about washing machines, whenever it finished, he’d like Terry Mellon to tell him about his family, too. Then maybe Terry would ask him if he had any children himself, where they were now, and what they were doing. Mr. Anderson would have liked to get a few things off his chest, including finally telling someone what the doctor had said. He’d like to tell Terry he was dying of cancer.
In the fog of Mr. Anderson’s mind, a heavy voice told him to get out of the window—she had just cleaned it yesterday. And as he broke from his daydream, Harry Anderson stared for a final moment at the empty space in front of his home where Terry Mellon had pulled out with one last toot of his horn.
Timothy Dodd is from Mink Shoals, WV and is the author of three collections of short stories, including Small Town Mastodons and Men in Midnight Bloom published by Cowboy Jamboree Press, as well as four collections of poetry, the most recent of which is Orbits 52 (Broadstone Books). Also a visual artist who exhibits primarily in the Philippines, find him on Instagram @timothybdoddartwork and his humble website, timothybdodd.wordpress.com.