Charles was unsure what he, the older brother, should do. For some reason, James started a story—about a friend of his who had his own bicycle—that had so many false starts that Sullivan finally put his newspaper down and stared, hard, at James. Charles wasn’t sure why, but he felt growing embarrassment for himself and his brother, as if they’d seen someone naked in the bath, and, even worse, they’d paid to do it. He began to take James by the hand. Butthen he glanced at Sullivan’s gloomy face once again, to tell him good-bye, and faltered.
“Excuse me,” Charles said. He tried to be polite, but excitement began to make him dizzy.
“We must be going,” James added. “Good-bye,” and he extended his hand to shake.
Sullivan squatted down. He slowly went onto one knee, his joints cracking as loud as pencils snapping, and put his massive hand out and gently curled it around James’s. James turned to his brother and said, with an angelic smile, “See, he ain’t gonna eat us.”
Sullivan looked at each brother slowly and carefully. Finally, he muttered, “Don’t say ‘ain’t.’” Crouching, he was still the size of an average, standing adult. He smelled like cough medicine. His lumpy white face, which Charles had to look up into, hadn’t changed expression, and perhaps couldn’t change. Charles still wanted to run away. But the decoration in the center of Sullivan’s bolo tie rooted him to the spot.
“Excuse me,” he said, trying to sound casual and mature, “is that a Gobrecht dollar?”
Sullivan touched his bolo tie with his fingers. “What?”
“If it’s from 1838, it’s worth over three hundred dollars.”
“This thing?” Sullivan struggled with the coin. “What are you talking about?”
“I collect coins,” Charles announced. “American coins, actually.” He continued, repeating something he’d heard his father say. “I know more about things of value than most ever will.”
He did not understand the look Sullivan gave him, but it wasn’t a respectful sort of look. Sullivan stuck the newspaper under his arm, loosened his bolo, and held it out so Charles could examine it. “What’s it say there, Elijah?”
“Oh.” Charles looked at the date carefully, disappointed. “It’s an 1850. And it’s scratched up.”
“Is it worth three hundred smackers or not?”
“It’s worth about five dollars.” Charles colored again.
“Well, why ain’t it worth three hundred?” Sullivan barked.
“In 1838 they only made thirty-one silver dollars, total, for the whole United States. But in 1850, they made forty-seven thousand five hundred. If you had an 1851 dollar, you’d be luckier, because then they made only one thousand three hundred of them, and so it’s worth—”
“Okay.”
“—worth about a hundred and fifty.”
“I get it, I get it,” Sullivan said, straightening so that the boys were eye level with the grass stains on his knees.
Charles pulled a coin from a fold in his cap. “Do you know what this is?”
“Some kinda five-dollar gold piece?” Sullivan shrugged.
Charles smiled. “You fell into the trap,” he said, as he’d said to a dozen adults. “This is an 1883 five-cent nickel in brilliant uncirculated condition. See, it says ‘five’ in Roman numerals on the back, but they forgot to say ‘five cents,’ and a racketeer dipped it in gold solution. And people who weren’t all that smart believed it was a five-dollar gold piece.”
“Huh.” Sullivan tapped his rolled-up newspaper against the leg of his trousers, and poked his tongue into his cheek. “Can I see that thing?”
It was the most valuable piece in the collection that Charles was allowed to handle himself. He wasn’t sure what it was worth, but he had never let anyone else touch it. Feeling triumphant, he handed it over.
Sullivan examined it, murmuring, “Well, whaddya know. Thanks.” He brought his hand down toward Charles, the gold coin braced between his finger and
“Excuse me,” Charles said. He tried to be polite, but excitement began to make him dizzy.
“We must be going,” James added. “Good-bye,” and he extended his hand to shake.
Sullivan squatted down. He slowly went onto one knee, his joints cracking as loud as pencils snapping, and put his massive hand out and gently curled it around James’s. James turned to his brother and said, with an angelic smile, “See, he ain’t gonna eat us.”
Sullivan looked at each brother slowly and carefully. Finally, he muttered, “Don’t say ‘ain’t.’” Crouching, he was still the size of an average, standing adult. He smelled like cough medicine. His lumpy white face, which Charles had to look up into, hadn’t changed expression, and perhaps couldn’t change. Charles still wanted to run away. But the decoration in the center of Sullivan’s bolo tie rooted him to the spot.
“Excuse me,” he said, trying to sound casual and mature, “is that a Gobrecht dollar?”
Sullivan touched his bolo tie with his fingers. “What?”
“If it’s from 1838, it’s worth over three hundred dollars.”
“This thing?” Sullivan struggled with the coin. “What are you talking about?”
“I collect coins,” Charles announced. “American coins, actually.” He continued, repeating something he’d heard his father say. “I know more about things of value than most ever will.”
He did not understand the look Sullivan gave him, but it wasn’t a respectful sort of look. Sullivan stuck the newspaper under his arm, loosened his bolo, and held it out so Charles could examine it. “What’s it say there, Elijah?”
“Oh.” Charles looked at the date carefully, disappointed. “It’s an 1850. And it’s scratched up.”
“Is it worth three hundred smackers or not?”
“It’s worth about five dollars.” Charles colored again.
“Well, why ain’t it worth three hundred?” Sullivan barked.
“In 1838 they only made thirty-one silver dollars, total, for the whole United States. But in 1850, they made forty-seven thousand five hundred. If you had an 1851 dollar, you’d be luckier, because then they made only one thousand three hundred of them, and so it’s worth—”
“Okay.”
“—worth about a hundred and fifty.”
“I get it, I get it,” Sullivan said, straightening so that the boys were eye level with the grass stains on his knees.
Charles pulled a coin from a fold in his cap. “Do you know what this is?”
“Some kinda five-dollar gold piece?” Sullivan shrugged.
Charles smiled. “You fell into the trap,” he said, as he’d said to a dozen adults. “This is an 1883 five-cent nickel in brilliant uncirculated condition. See, it says ‘five’ in Roman numerals on the back, but they forgot to say ‘five cents,’ and a racketeer dipped it in gold solution. And people who weren’t all that smart believed it was a five-dollar gold piece.”
“Huh.” Sullivan tapped his rolled-up newspaper against the leg of his trousers, and poked his tongue into his cheek. “Can I see that thing?”
It was the most valuable piece in the collection that Charles was allowed to handle himself. He wasn’t sure what it was worth, but he had never let anyone else touch it. Feeling triumphant, he handed it over.
Sullivan examined it, murmuring, “Well, whaddya know. Thanks.” He brought his hand down toward Charles, the gold coin braced between his finger and
Similar Books
