Oliver raised his hand. The auctioneer smirked, perhaps at Oliver's youth.
'I have sixteen,' the man said, showing a sliver of optimism.
The lady in the dirty Irish sweater turned in her chair. Her face looked like soggy dough; her red-tipped nose was runny.
'Seventeen,' she cackled.
'I have seventeen,' the auctioneer said, his eyes shifting back to Oliver.
Oliver raised eight fingers, clearing his throat as well. The heavy lady huffed and shifted in her chair. Reaching into his pocket, he nervously pulled out his money. He had thirty-seven dollars, representing his total weekend tip income. If he got Cribb, he wanted to have some left for Molineaux.
'Nineteen,' the lady boomed out. A gust of rain spattered against the glass. The auctioneer ignored it, warming to his task. Oliver's heart pounded. 'Bitch,' he muttered.
'Twenty,' he shouted.
'Idiot,' the woman rebuked, turning to fix on him her gaze of utter contempt.
'I have twenty. Twenty once.' The auctioneer, a thin smile of satisfaction growing on his lips as he looked at the woman, raised the gavel. 'Twenty twice.' Oliver held his breath. Down went the gavel. 'Sold.'
'Goddamn,' Oliver muttered, energized by the experience, savoring the flush of victory.
'Well, you beat the old cow,' the Yankee beside him twanged.
The black figure came up a few moments later. Oliver felt his guts tighten. It's a pair, he told himself, pumping his resolution. He peeled off what he had spent on Cribb and tucked the money safely in his pocket, clutching the remaining bills in a sweaty hand. There was only seventeen dollars left.
'This is another Staffordshire pugilist, the fighter Molineaux, a former slave, who boxed in England in the early eighteen hundreds.'
'Ten bucks,' the lady in the dirty Irish sweater shouted. She did not turn to look behind her. Oliver shouted out, 'Eleven.' Please, he begged in his mind, enjoying the excitement, sensing his surrender to his determination. At the same time, he rebuked himself. He had no business squandering his money.
'Twelve,' a voice chirped from behind him. He turned quickly, startled by this new voice. Two rows behind him, a young girl with long chestnut hair hanging from under a sailor cap smiled primly, a flush on her apple-contoured cheekbones.
'Shit,' Oliver mumbled as the auctioneer responded.
'I have twelve.'
'Twelve-fifty,' the girl shouted without hesitation.
'Don't they know it's a pair?' he whispered to himself, as if their bids were, somehow, a form of vengeance. He held up his fist, in which he clutched the sweaty bills.
'I have thirteen,' the auctioneer called, staring directly at the girl. She's hesitating, Oliver thought.
'Do I hear thirteen-fifty? ... I have fifty - thirteen-fifty,' the auctioneer shouted. Oliver was sure the auctioneer was playing games and scowled at him, then turned and rebuked the girl with his eyes.
'Fourteen,' he growled. His throat was tightening. He felt the tension in his stomach. Damned bitch, he cried inside himself. It made no sense at all to break up the pair. The auctioneer looked toward the girl.
'I have fifteen,' the auctioneer shouted, warming to his task, ignoring the whiplash of rain that pounded against the house. The audience grew restless.
'Sixteen,' Oliver croaked.
'Seventeen,' the girl responded quickly, her voice carrying over the din.
'It's a damned pair,' Oliver shouted, shaking his head. He opened his palm and unrolled the bills, checking the denominations. Seventeen. That was it. Not even small change.
He turned again and looked at the girl. She was calm, almost serene. But there was no mistaking her determination.
'I have seventeen,' the auctioneer said, staring at Oliver, his glare offensive, intimidating.
'Eighteen,' Oliver shouted, his voice crackling. The room seemed to grow quieter. The sound of pounding rain faded. Knowing he hadn't the money, he felt sinister, manipulative. His breath came in short gasps.
'Nineteen,' the girl responded. 'Twenty,' he shot back.
The girl hesitated and a lump rose in his throat. He looked at the girl again. Their eyes met. There was no mistaking the fierceness of her determination.
'Twenty-one,' she snapped.
All right, he decided, nodding, thankful for the reprieve. Tough little bitch, he thought.
'I have twenty-one once.' The auctioneer paused, watching him. Oliver felt his blood rise. So I'm a coward, he told himself, wallowing in his humiliation.
'Twice ...' The auctioneer shrugged. Down went the gavel. 'Sold.'
Oliver sat through the rest of the auction in a funk. Hell, he could have borrowed the money. But why? What was the point? By the end of the auction he had calmed down, and when he went to pay for and collect his figure he confronted her.
'It's a pair,' he said. He must have been eyeing the figure acquisitively because she seemed to draw it closer to her. 'They go together.'
