Page 17 of Spiders in the Grove

When the bidding starts, I use the distraction of the girls coming out on stage one by one, to continue to focus on the buyers. And after an hour, and still not seeing one person who I feel could be Vonnegut, I get frustrated. I knew this wasn’t going to be easy, and I knew there was really no chance in the world that I’d spot him at the first auction, but that doesn’t stop me from being impatient.

While I’m cursing myself, my attention breaks when I hear Joaquin laugh during one of the bidding wars.

I look up and every head in the theatre is looking at one woman in particular: long blonde hair, flashy silver dress—all I can see is her back. And she’s the only one in the room standing, which is odd because nobody ever stands while bidding; they just quietly raise their colored paddles when they see something they want.

“I don’t care who you are,” the woman says icily to a man at a table in front of hers—it’s Robert Randolph, piece-of-shit extraordinaire, “I want girl number eleven.”

Robert Randolph, like everyone else, looks at the woman with disbelief and confusion. Who does this crazy woman think she is? That’s the question on every face in the theatre. Including mine.

Joaquin is no longer laughing. He steps closer to the edge of the stage, his strong hands clasped together in front of him, and he gazes down at the woman critically. “Ma’am,” he begins, “the best way to…get what you want”—he opens a hand, palm-up, in gesture—“is to bid on it. Quietly. If you don’t mind.”

“Yes, I understand that,” she says, “but this man is determined to outbid me, and I will not have it.”

A low wave of laughter circulates around the room.

Joaquin tries to keep a straight face, but he finds the same humor in her comment as everyone else.

“That is the point, Miss…?”

The woman gasps dramatically; her hand flies gracefully to her chest. “Who am I?” she asks, so offended that I even feel offended for her. “Who am I?”—she gasps again, shakes her blonde head—“First, I get seated behind other tables; second, I don’t even get a place-card with my name on it; and now you ask me who I am—my father will be infuriated at how I’ve been treated here!”

I’m so stunned by this woman’s outburst, in a room literally full of the worst types of people, that I’m frozen on my chair. But I think I’m stunned more by how much I like her.

Oh. My. God. Is that Nora? Suddenly, my head feels hot, my blood pressure rising to furious heights. I’ll kill her…I swear to God…

Robert Randolph moves out his chair and stands. He opens his hand to the woman, tilts his head and says, “Ma’am, if you want the girl that badly, I will be a gentleman and let you have her.”

Gentleman, my ass, you prick.

The woman’s head snaps around—it’s not Nora. I’m so relieved, but have only a split second to enjoy it before this woman’s drama pulls me back in. She looks at the crowd aghast, oblivious to the fact that everyone thinks she’s nuts, and then she turns back to Robert Randolph.

“I will buy them all,” she says confidently, rounds her chin as if she’s the most important person in the room, and then she sits back down, bidding paddle in-hand, ready and waiting.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Cesara whispers next to me.

“Me either,” I whisper back. “She’s crazy. Does she really expect to buy every girl?”

“She’s pulled it off so far,” Cesara says.

I look at Cesara, and then back at the strange woman, and I realize just how much I’ve not been paying attention to the bidding process. She’s bought every girl so far? Wow. Of course, I pretend to already know this, or else Cesara will wonder what the hell I’ve been doing the whole time.

“Her father must be loaded,” a woman sitting at the table next to us says, “to be able to afford them all.”

“Loaded is what we like,” Cesara responds. “She may be a spoiled little bitch, but if Daddy’s got the money, she can throw as many tantrums as she likes.”

The woman nods, agreeing. “Mmm-hmm,” she says. “But it could put off the other buyers.”

“They’re big boys and girls,” Cesara says. “The best way any of them can handle it is by outbidding her. I look forward to seeing it, the look on her face when she loses.”

“That’ll probably happen soon,” the other woman says. “She’s going to spend all of her money on the opening girls, and not have anything left when the special ones are brought out. I’ve never seen anybody take such an interest in the openers.”

“Me either, but who cares?” Cesara says. “Though, when Daddy finds out, he won’t send her in his place anymore.”

“You know who she is?” the woman asks.

“I wasn’t sure before,” Cesara begins, “but now I remember—I ran her information myself. Her name is Frances Julietta Lockhart, daughter of Brock Lockhart, a wealthy investor and politician in the United States. I’ve seen him before, at previous auctions; first time I’ve ever seen his daughter come in his stead.”

“And probably the last,” the woman puts in.

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