The Antine Bay Magenta

"My God, could it matter less?" Brubaker said. "One piece out of five?"

"It matters," Charles Nicholson said. "It matters to me. If it didn't, I'd let you have it."

A cold wind ran down the valley. It lifted the ash on the hearth. The logs flared. Twenty feet over them, the foot-square beams worked, creaking.

"Try some port, Charles," Allen Brubaker said. "It's uncivilized, Scotch after dinner."

"When did I testify I was civilized?" Nicholson said.

"True," Brubaker said. "Nobody would accuse you of it. Nobody would accuse you of common civility, comes to that." He sucked softly on his cigar.

"Speak for yourself," Nicholson said. He unstoppered the decanter and poured whisky.

"I had a British dealer here the other day," Brubaker said. "Fellow named Farquharson. He buys for the Queen sometimes."

"What'd he want?"

"He didn't say. But he set me thinking. I was eighty-two, Christmas. Time I decided what to do with my collection. I can't just leave it lying around for the Federals to grab."

Nicholson drank.

"Thing is, there's still the one stamp I want. If I had that ... I'd tell Farquharson to come back ... maybe. Or I'd call Casimir there at the Smithsonian."

"No," Nicholson said.

"I've got six thousand, two hundred and eighty-one stamps," Brubaker said. "The best collection of mint colonials in this country. Maybe in the world. You own five stamps. Five."

"Right. But one of them's a fourpenny Antine Bay magenta."

"No better than my own fourpenny."

"Didn't say it was. But it's the only other one."

"And you carry it around in your wallet. You're crazy. You could lose it tomorrow, a stamp that's worth, say, fifty thousand dollars. Or what is it worth to you?"

"Save your wind. You haven't got enough money, and if you have, I don't need it," Nicholson said.

Brubaker gave himself port. He held the glass by its foot to watch the fire through it. He sighed and drank.

"What did I ever do to you, Charles?" he said. "Hell, I didn't marry your girl. You married mine. What have you got against me? Sitting on the one thing I want in the world. By God, sitting on it. What's the point? Look, can't you see those two stamps, the only two four-penny magenta Antines in the world, side by side in the Smithsonian, where they belong, where people for generation after generation can enjoy them, take pleasure out of them? Can't you?"

"I got nothing against you, Allen," Nicholson said. "I wouldn't believe you if you said today was Wednesday unless I looked at a calendar, but I got nothing against you."

"Sell me the stamp."

"No."

"Then you can go to hell. That was the last time. I'm tired of this, it's been going on too long. The hell with it."

"I said I wouldn't sell. I didn't say I wouldn't trade."

"Trade?" Brubaker said. "You trade? You haven't bought a stamp, or traded one, in thirty years."

"I'll trade you the stamp. For this house."

Brubaker put down his glass. "Even? Do you know what this place is worth? Twice the price of the stamp. At least twice."

Nicholson nodded. He could close his eyes and see the place as from the air--the river, the great stretch of lawn running up the hill and the only octagonal house in the whole valley, white and perfect.

"I know what it's worth," he said. "And I know what the stamp's worth. Take it or leave it. The deed's in your safe. Thomas and his wife can witness. Take it or leave it."

Twice, Brubaker had his hand over the bell. The third time, he dropped it; and when Thomas came in, he asked him to fetch his wife. When all four had signed and they were alone again, Brubaker handed the paper to Nicholson.

"True what you said," Nicholson said. "I took your girl. And I've got your house."

"Give me my stamp," Brubaker said.

He looked at it. He split the end of a fire lighter with his thumb, slipped the bit of faded lavender paper into the cleft, held it to the fire. It went in a puff.

"I never wanted both," Brubaker said. "I just wanted the only one, that's all. The only one."