Gone But Knot Forgotten

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by the nicks and dents along the bottom.”
    I examined the second candelabra. “This one has a big dent in the bottom. Someone must’ve dropped it.”
    We moved to the maid’s room. Lucy set up the bar-code equipment. Then she pulled down the carton from the top of the nearest pile and set it on the floor. The top of the box had already been slit open. I pulled back the flaps to find well-worn and stained white linen tablecloths and napkins with the letter “G” monogrammed in white thread. I looked at my friends. “These would have been precious to Harriet. They were hand-embroidered by her mother, Lilly Gordon.”
    â€œThey’re old and stained,” said Lucy. “What are you going to do with them?”
    I sighed and wrote Donate with a Sharpie on the outside of the box.
    Lucy lifted down the second box. “This is heavy. Feels like books.”
    The seal was broken on this box as well. Several oversized volumes of the Talmud rested inside. Harriet’s father, Herschel Gordon, and my uncle Isaac belonged to a group that studied a different page of the Talmud each week. I wrote on the outside of the box, Donate, American Jewish University Library.
    We discovered two sets of fancy Bavarian china. I once helped Harriet and her mother bring them out of storage for use during Passover week, one pattern for meat and one for dairy. Harriet had whispered, “Just more stuff to keep clean.”
    I marked each of the boxes and Lucy stuck bar codes on them.
    Lucy knocked on every wall, looking for a hidden cache. She even tugged at the corners of the wall-to-wall carpeting, but nothing came loose.
    Birdie laughed. “Heavens, dear. If I were going to hide something, I certainly wouldn’t choose the maid’s room.”
    We moved into the kitchen and opened every drawer and cupboard. Lucy threw her hands up. “Do you really want to bar-code everything in here? There must be a jillion items.”
    â€œYou’re right. I’ll hire an estate manager to sort them into lots for appraisal and sale.”
    I noted a couple of boxes of package brownies sitting on the shelf of the walk-in pantry and remembered, with a pang, the times Harriet and I made brownies during sleepovers.
    Lucy balanced on a wooden Windsor chair and reached into the back of every upper cabinet.
    I put my hands on my hips. “What in the world are you looking for up there?”
    â€œDang if I know.”
    We drifted into the family room and Birdie pointed to the pile of video cassettes. “My, these are old.”
    â€œJonah’s movies,” I said.
    Birdie read the titles and shook her head sadly. “Heartbreaking.”
    The media wall held a large flat-screen television and video components. Native American baskets and antique wooden toys sat on open shelves around the room, valuable items from the insurance rider.
    Carl’s heavy boots thudded on the kitchen floor. “Anyone hungry? It’s after one.”
    I found the flyer for the Salvadorian restaurant and ordered bean and cheese pupusas, fried yucca roots, chicken tamales in banana leaves, and fried platanos with sugar for dessert. A half hour later Pepe’s delivered two huge grocery bags full of hot food smelling like cumin, garlic, onions, and a hint of cinnamon.
    After stuffing our faces, we returned to the family room and carefully checked each basket against the list. I spotted a polychrome black on white basket shaped like a large pot with an opening just big enough for a hand. I carefully lifted it. “This was made over one hundred years ago by Dat So La Lee, a famous Washoe Indian weaver. It’s valued at one million dollars.”
    Birdie softly touched the dried grass coils. “Amazing. This looks so well preserved.”
    Lucy picked up the printout. “A penciled note next to the photo says Dat So La Lee’s main supporter and promoter was Abe Cohn, a distant cousin of Nathan

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