Free Antiques Maul by Barbara Allan

might be making fun of him.
    “Not at all graciously! She called me…I won’t tell you what she called me.”
    I sighed. “An Indian giver?”
    “Yes! Yes, can you imagine? What a terrible, horrible, repulsive thing to say.”
    I had to agree; the phrase was offensive.
    “After all,” Mother huffed, “it was she who gave it to me , so that would make her the Indian giver, wouldn’t it?”
    My migraine was crawling out of its corner, a bear ready to trade hibernation for the nearest victim….
    I rubbed my temples and said, “I’m against putting that distasteful thing in our booth.”
    Mother looked puzzled. “Why ever not?”
    “Why ever not? The unofficial historian of the Mascoutin Indians has to even ask me that? Because it’s racist , that’s why!”
    Mother frowned, considering as she studied the Indian, who was keeping his opinion to himself. “Dear, may I ask you a question?”
    “Why not? This can’t get worse, can it?”
    “Did cigar stores exist in the olden days?”
    “Yeaaaah,” I said slowly.
    “And were there Indians?”
    “Yeaaaaah.”
    “ Well? ” Her eyes were huge behind the glasses.
    “I, uh, don’t get your point.”
    Mother gawked at my sheer stupidity. “ Must the unofficial historian give her daughter a history lesson?”
    “Apparently.”
    She sighed in exasperation. “The reason the American Indian became associated with tobacco stores was because it was they who first introduced smoking the noxious weed to the early settlers. Consequently, a wooden Indian statue was placed outside a frontier establishment to inform a mostly illiterate public that tobacco was sold inside…much the way a red-and-white-striped pole denoted a barber shop.”
    I ventured, “There’s a difference between using a striped pole and a Native American as an advertisement.”
    Her eyes flared behind the magnifying lenses. “Brandy! Yesterday can not be changed just to suit today. This statue is a wonderful, valuable example of American folk art and should be—”
    But before I admitted she had a point, I interrupted, “How much is valuable?”
    Mother appraised the statue. “Well, taking into consideration that it has been repainted, and the cigar that should be in the hand is missing…I’d estimate, oh, four to five hundred dollars.”
    New tires for the car.
    My political correctness vanished in a puff of smoke signal. “Okay, then. I’ll load ol’ Chief Big Wampum up….”
    Under Mother’s watchful eye, I hauled the unprotesting Indian to my car and leaned him into the backseat so that there would be room for Jake.
    Then Mother and I returned to the house where Jake was finishing up with Sushi’s bath, gently drying her with a towel, her fur restored to its natural white and brown.
    Soosh gave Jake a lick on his face, and he kissed her back. Dogs are forgiving (unlike cats, who will pretend to forgive you, then later spray your favorite Jimmy Choos with urine).
    We were all gathered in the entryway, getting ready to leave for the antiques mall, when Sushi started in with a hissy fit.
    “Mom,” Jake said, “she wants to go along.”
    “Well, she can’t. We’ll be busy, and she’ll be in the way. Not to mention being blind in unfamiliar territory.”
    “Mom,” Jake said again, but with conviction, “Sushi thinks she deserves to come with us after what happened….”
    I looked down at the yapping, jumping dog whose just-washed hair had tripled in volume, making her look like a bouncing beach ball. Had my son just managed to make me feel guilty for what he had done to her? Is every son the hood in motherhood?
    “I’ll wear Sushi,” Mother announced, as if Soosh were a scarf or a hat. “I’m mostly supervising, after all.”
    Caving in, I retrieved the baby harness from the front closet and, after letting the straps out as far as they’d go, secured it across Mother’s ample bosom. Then I put in Sushi, whose tiny smile seemed to say, “I knew I’d win.”
    We had