Phoenix
Ian Christopher Hooper We were hunting for radioactive dinnerware, the kind made with those old uranium glazes—the reds as flashy as winter persimmons, the greens as rich as cardamom pods. We’d open a box and gasp at the yellows, at their creamy undertones and turmeric highlights, colors that dazzled on even the humblest plate. And the fancier pieces—the teacups, the juice pitchers, the elevated fruit bowls? They were like fantastic birds, slipping from their dull newsprint wrappings in bursts of fiery plumage. My mother’s Geiger counter guided us from room to room, box to box. The elderly woman who’d owned the house had been planning a move to Phoenix, but now everything needed to be unpacked instead for an estate sale. “Anything you want first dibs on, just give me a fair price,” her son told us. “I need the house empty before it’s listed.” We were looking for boxes that caused the Geiger counter’s probe to chirp, but my mother dutifully unpacked and priced everything in the deceased woman’s collection. Fine bone china. Depression glass. Porcelain figurines. My mother had been in the business for years and knew everything’s value, but I was just a kid who got bored quickly. I’d brought a book on mythological creatures with me, and settled into an empty corner to read. Then the counter went crazy. Chirp! Chirp! Chirp! “42,000 counts per minute,” said my mother. “Damn!” I put down my book and watched her move three big boxes to get at a fourth. She was thin and fit, but her hair was gray and her