Waterbury Winter, page 11
During her lunch break, Julia calls the hardware store. “May I speak to Barnaby, please?”
“Sorry. Not here right now. Can I help ya?”
“No, thanks.”
She hangs up. If he’s not at work, he might be at home. She lifts the phone again. No answer. The phone rings several times. No voice mail. He really needs to get with the times, she thinks. No voice mail, no cell phone—his old-fashioned naivete. But that’s part of his charm.
There’s nothing more she can do for now. She calls Elsa Hawkins to schedule a time to talk with Alma.
“And I have some good news for your mother,” Julia tells her. “Lisa figured out the artist’s identity. She talked to him, and he confirmed that he had intended to give the painting to Alma years ago. She used to work for his parents, and he still lives in their house on Russell Road. Alma must have a key. She let herself into the house to reclaim her painting. Barnaby Brown, the artist, will not press charges, and if Alma likes it, he says she can keep it.”
“Good heavens!” Elsa exclaims. “Glad to know the story. Thanks for telling us.”
Julia arrives at the Hawkinses’ later that day.
“Mother’s in the living room,” Elsa says. “She’s looking forward to your visit. Today she’s in a good mood and when she’s happy she likes company.”
Julia follows Elsa into the room and takes off her coat. Alma sits in an armchair with her braced leg propped up. She has gray wispy hair and watery eyes.
“Mother, this is Julia, the lady I told you about.”
Alma smiles weakly and extends a skinny hand. Julia takes it and sits next to her.
“What a pretty shirt you’re wearing, and I like that sparkly thing in your hair. It’s nice to meet you,” Alma says.
“Thank you,” Julia says. “How are you feeling today?”
“Right good except for my leg. That’s how it is at my age, you know, things break. I’m eighty-two. What brings you here?”
“I came to see you. There’s some good news. The painting you have, the one in a closet, is yours to keep.”
“Well, that’s not news. I knew that. Elsa here won’t let me hang it up. The young man who painted it promised it to me.”
“I’ll bring the painting out right away, Mother,” Elsa says. “Where would you like to hang it?”
“In my room, where I can see it. It’s a real nice picture. Reminds me of when I took you and your sister to the beach as kids. Long time ago.” A flicker of a smile crosses Alma’s face, and she closes her eyes.
Elsa goes out of the room and returns with the painting.
“Don’t go to sleep now, Mother,” she says, “we have a visitor.”
She holds the painting up and the three women examine it.
“He’s a talented artist,” Julia says.
“Always was, spent hours in that studio of his, painting,” Alma says. “Couldn’t get in there to clean. Mrs. Brown always said not to worry about it. She was a fine woman, Mrs. Brown. Young Barnaby had his problems but when he was off the drink, he was okay. Kind. Liked to help carry my water bucket up the stairs. But he let me go, though the house could use cleaning. Wouldn’t give me the work. I hated that.” Alma stares past the painting toward the window.
Julia follows her gaze to the gray sky with its pale wash of pink where the sun sets. A winter sky. “Alma, I expect the painting would fit well in your new home,” she says.
Alma sniffs and gropes in her pocket for a tissue. “What new home?”
“One that will be yours, and where they can take care of you. You know your daughter is tired and has to work. It’s getting hard for her to look after you.”
“Why’s that? I never heard her complain.”
“That’s because she enjoys helping you and wants to keep you comfortable. But you might enjoy being in a place where you can have more visitors and people around.”
Alma glances tearfully at Julia. “It gets lonely sometimes. I do like visitors some days. Don’t see many here.”
“Well, if you move to a group home, you could have a good life, and Elsa will visit you.”
“I dunno. This is my home,” Alma says glumly.
“We’ll talk about it some more another day. You could visit some places soon to find one you like.”
“I suppose so. Anyway, I’m glad my painting has come out of that closet. You’re a friend, I guess.”
“I’d like to be your friend.”
“Anyone who can bring back the past is a magician, I think. Some want you to forget it all and you, as you once were, especially when you’re old.”
“I’m sure you’re right, and I’d like to hear more about your life, Alma, though not today. I have to leave now, but I’ll come again, and we’ll have a long talk.”
“I’d like that.”
Julia gives Alma’s hand a squeeze. “See you soon,” she says.
Elsa hands Julia her coat and escorts her to the door. “That went well for a first visit. She likes you. What’s next?”
“With your permission, I’ll research some affordable places suitable for your mother. I’d suggest that you, your sister, and I check them out. You’ll need to fill out some forms. All the facilities will want to evaluate your mother’s state of health, medications, level of assistance needed, and financial position.”
“I’m grateful to you for the help. I can talk more to Mother about the idea. She may come around in time. I know she’d enjoy having her own living space.”
“Good. I’ll be in touch.”
Julia leaves, satisfied that the meeting with Alma had been successful. She feels sympathy for both women and will talk to Lisa about next steps. Again she questions why Lisa has shown such unprofessional behavior in her handling of the case.
She appreciates Barnaby’s willingness to let Alma have the painting he promised her. If only he could overcome the drinking. From experience she knows how difficult that can be, especially for someone with a longtime problem, but if he can do so, who knows what he might become. She drives home from work in the darkening gloom. The weather channel forecasts snow for the next several days.
No point in calling Barnaby for coffee yet. She’ll bide her time.
CHAPTER 17
Barnaby can hardly wait for Tuesday, the day he will own a new car. The snowflakes fall thicker as he stands at the bus stop clutching one of his larger paintings wrapped in several layers of bubble wrap. He won’t miss standing at the bus stop in the freezing weather. On his lunch break, he takes a taxi to the auto body shop with the painting. He finds Tom waiting for him in the office.
“Your car is ready for you,” he says. “Looks almost brand new. I have the paperwork here, ready for your signature.”
“Fine. I’ve brought the painting we talked about.”
“Good. I hoped you wouldn’t forget. Let’s see it.”
Barnaby unwraps the picture and sets it on a chair.
“I like it,” Tom says, stepping nearer. “I think my wife will, too. The shine on the water and the clouds and lighthouse are especially nice. Blue is her favorite color. It’ll make a fine gift. How much did you say you wanted for it?”
“A thousand dollars.”
“I’ll take it. Now that’s settled, let’s get this paperwork signed and the Honda will be yours.”
Barnaby fills out the forms and writes a check. Tom hands him the key and title to the car.
“Be careful driving in the snow and don’t go too fast. The Honda has a lot more pickup than your old Ford.”
“I know. That’s one reason I’m buying it. Thanks again.”
Barnaby unlocks the car and slides into the seat. He adjusts the mirrors and turns on the windshield wipers. Then he backs carefully out of the lot into the street. The car moves smoothly, and he can feel the power of the engine. It’s a terrific vehicle. His heart bursts with pride as he parks in front of the hardware store.
“What’s this about? Ya win the lottery, or something? That’s a good-looking car ya have there, man,” Sal greets him.
Barnaby beams. “Just sold some paintings. Time I got rid of the clunker.”
“I’ll say. Good for you. Oh, I forgot to tell ya. A lady came in here askin’ for ya yesterday. Wanted advice about a floor.”
“Really? Do you know her name?”
“Didn’t ask. Pretty, dark hair. Come to think of it, she paid by check. I can find out who she is.” Sal goes to the till and pulls checks from the day before. “Julia Morgan,” he says.
“Oh, Julia,” Barnaby says excitedly. “Someone I used to know years ago. I met her again recently. I’m curious to know how she discovered where I work.”
Barnaby can’t fathom his luck. Would Julia like to go out with him after all? Too bad he’s already invited Lisa to the concert. He might give Julia a call soon. He can afford to take her out to dinner now. Dinner would be preferable to coffee. He whistles as he gets to work arranging the paint supplies on the shelf.
At the end of the day, he hurries outside, eager to drive his new car again. The snow hasn’t let up since morning, and there are six inches of soft powder on the ground. He wipes it off the windshield with his sleeve until he remembers he’s wearing a new coat that he doesn’t want to get wet and dirty. He goes back inside the store.
“I need an ice scraper and a brush,” Barnaby says. “Forgot to keep mine when I picked up the new car.”
“Sure. Help yerself,” Sal says, “and drive carefully in this God-damned weather.”
“I will. I’m going to take good care of this baby,” Barnaby replies.
Soon the windshield is clear and he’s on the road. He drives slowly, enjoying the purr of the engine. If it weren’t January, he might just keep on driving west.
Next day the temperature rises, causing rivers of water to run into gutters. Piles of rutted slush line the roads, but the news predicts snow and Barnaby hopes it won’t spoil his plans for the concert. What will he do if they can’t get out, or if they cancel the performance? Will he still see Lisa? Will she still want to see him? She is a neighbor, so he could invite her over, but then he’d have to offer her something to eat. His anxiety reaches new levels as he considers his options.
On Friday evening he stops at the market to buy some fresh food, a good idea if he’s going to be snowed in. He turns into the supermarket lot and parks the car. What should he make for Lisa? His cooking skills are limited, and he hasn’t asked anyone over for a meal for a long time.
He takes a cart and wanders up and down the aisles. Perhaps he could offer spaghetti. That’s easy and most people like it. He can make garlic bread and a salad as well. Ice cream for dessert. He buys hamburger meat, cans of tomatoes, pasta, onions, garlic salt, and a loaf of French bread, along with lettuce and a carton of vanilla ice cream. She might want some wine to drink. Actually, he’d like some himself, but then scolds himself that he’s trying to cut down, and he decides not to buy any. He fills the cart with a few more easy meals for himself and goes to the checkout stand. The clerk titters as he checks out the pile of goods.
“Expecting company, are we?” he says. “Not your usual groceries, I see.”
Barnaby nods.
“Different coat, too.”
“Yeah. It’s a new year, and I’m making some changes.”
“Good for you. Maybe I’ll see you at the next AA meeting. You haven’t come in a while.”
“When is it?”
“Tuesday night at eight.”
“Okay, thanks. Maybe I’ll go,” Barnaby says as he picks up the bag of provisions.
Alcoholics Anonymous had been helpful to him in the past. He questions whether he still needs the program to keep his resolve of giving up. He hasn’t had a drink for several days now. His happier state of mind makes it easier to resist temptation. Seeing Lisa tomorrow will help to reinforce his decision to stay sober, too. She’s one of those people who won’t let you forget. It’s one of the annoying characteristics about her, even though he knows she means well. He drives the negative thoughts from his mind. She’s a friend, and he looks forward to paying her back for her kindness.
At home he feeds Popsicle and stores the food. By the halo of the streetlight, he watches snowflakes whirling thicker. Maybe the concert will be cancelled and he’ll have to serve dinner at his house. He moans. The kitchen floor and stairwell are the only places he has cleaned well, and he’s supposed to work tomorrow. They should eat in the dining room, but he hasn’t used it for that purpose in years. The surface of the table is barely visible for all the papers stacked on it. And he doesn’t have a tablecloth or place mats. Damn it all. He’s over his head, trying to entertain, and almost wishes he hadn’t invited Lisa to the performance. Even that is cause for distress. He hasn’t attended a classical music concert in years and knows he should dress up. He doesn’t own a tie. Feeling overwhelmed, he peeks out again at the snowy scene and craves a drink to ease his worries.
As he contemplates the weekend with increasing dread, Lisa calls.
“I want to talk to you about our date,” she says. “Looks like it’s going to be a blizzard. If the concert is cancelled, how about coming over here for dinner? I’d love to cook for you.”
He lets out a big sigh of relief. “That’s good of you,” he says. “I’d have you over here, except I’m not set up for entertaining. Let’s talk about this again tomorrow, when we know more about the weather.”
“Great. Until tomorrow, then.”
Barnaby collapses onto a chair.
“Good parrot,” Popsicle says as she flies onto the table.
“You are a good parrot, and I’m neglecting you. How about chicken for dinner tonight?”
“Good stuff,” the parrot says.
Barnaby runs his hand along the bird’s back. He’s relieved not to have to entertain Lisa at his house and remembers that Popsicle doesn’t like her. Had she called their outing a “date”? Yes, those had been her words. Good grief. His world has become bigger, but more complicated as well. And he wants to paint. His life, once again, is impeding his elusive goal of being an artist.
But at least he has a new car, and he can plan the trip to California as soon as winter’s over.
CHAPTER 18
On Saturday morning Barnaby shuffles barefoot to the window. The snow lies in white piles at least a foot deep. Plows have not yet arrived to clear the way for traffic; the neighborhood lies silent. Likely he’ll stay home today. He can wait a while before he calls Sal and goes back to bed.
An hour later he turns on the television and hears the report: more snow expected, as much as three feet in some areas. Travel advisory: stay home. That settles it. He won’t be going to work or to the concert. He calls the store, but there’s no answer.
Barnaby dresses in his warmest sweater. It has holes, but it’s wool. He fries some eggs and makes toast and coffee. Since the concert won’t happen, he guesses he and Lisa will have dinner instead. Otherwise, he’ll have a day to himself, a day to paint.
He goes upstairs and turns on the portable heater in the studio, then sets up his palette and mounts the sketch he made at O’Malley’s on the wall. Finally he adjusts the canvas on the easel he’d prepared with the underpainting. Since it has been years since he’s painted anything, this will be a preliminary study for a larger work he’ll complete later. Or so he hopes. He’ll soon find out if his skills have deteriorated, along with everything else in recent years. But no use dwelling on that, he tells himself firmly.
Dipping a narrow brush in turpentine and saturating it with Prussian blue, he blocks the architectural details of the bar, then draws a line on one side of the canvas to make space for a color chart. He works out the important elements of the painting: colors in the room, bottles shining in the background, the yellow light casting radiance on the patrons’ heads and echoing in their drinks. Blue and silver mirrors reflecting figures will contrast well with the darker shapes.
Using different brushes, he mixes the colors on the palette and smears paint on the color chart. He begins the painting with big shapes—furniture and walls. As he works, he can feel the ambience of the bar, the low conversation, the tinkle of ice in glasses. He outlines the figures—Charley holding his pool cue in a menacing way, the professor reading a newspaper at the counter, Sean serving drinks. Working with such familiar subject matter, Barnaby hopes he can create a fine work of art. The composition shows promise, but it will need more details. Absorbed in his work, Barnaby paints until his rumbling stomach tells him it’s past lunchtime. Standing back to examine the canvas, he notices his style differs from earlier paintings; it’s now darker and bolder. His progress so far satisfies him, but this painting is too small to capture the magnitude of O’Malley’s as he wants to portray it. It’s not finished, but already he looks forward to attempting a larger painting as he gains confidence in his skills. He cleans his brushes, turns off the heater, and clatters downstairs.
After making a ham sandwich, he considers calling Lisa about the evening. No, he reasons. She might have thought the better of it, and he wouldn’t be sorry. He’d prefer to go to O’Malley’s, anyhow.
Lisa calls, interrupting his deliberations. “It’s supposed to snow all day,” she says. “Come over at seven.”
“Fine, I’ll see you then,” he says, trying to sound cheerful.
But he’s not cheerful. The thought of spending an entire evening with nothing to do but talk to Lisa without a drink to calm his nerves is daunting. He climbs the stairs to take another look at his painting. It’s coming along, but needs more light. He could add liquor bottles of different shapes and colors lit from behind, and that means going along to the bar to sketch them. It’s two o’clock. He has plenty of time before dinner.
Bundling up, he goes to O’Malley’s.
“Well, hello stranger,” Sean says. “Haven’t seen you the last few days. How’s things?”
“Pretty good. Actually, pretty complicated.”
“How so?”
“I’m supposed to have dinner tonight with a woman.”
“Well, why’s that complicated? Are you seein’ the woman you told me about, the one who used to come here?”
“Sorry. Not here right now. Can I help ya?”
“No, thanks.”
She hangs up. If he’s not at work, he might be at home. She lifts the phone again. No answer. The phone rings several times. No voice mail. He really needs to get with the times, she thinks. No voice mail, no cell phone—his old-fashioned naivete. But that’s part of his charm.
There’s nothing more she can do for now. She calls Elsa Hawkins to schedule a time to talk with Alma.
“And I have some good news for your mother,” Julia tells her. “Lisa figured out the artist’s identity. She talked to him, and he confirmed that he had intended to give the painting to Alma years ago. She used to work for his parents, and he still lives in their house on Russell Road. Alma must have a key. She let herself into the house to reclaim her painting. Barnaby Brown, the artist, will not press charges, and if Alma likes it, he says she can keep it.”
“Good heavens!” Elsa exclaims. “Glad to know the story. Thanks for telling us.”
Julia arrives at the Hawkinses’ later that day.
“Mother’s in the living room,” Elsa says. “She’s looking forward to your visit. Today she’s in a good mood and when she’s happy she likes company.”
Julia follows Elsa into the room and takes off her coat. Alma sits in an armchair with her braced leg propped up. She has gray wispy hair and watery eyes.
“Mother, this is Julia, the lady I told you about.”
Alma smiles weakly and extends a skinny hand. Julia takes it and sits next to her.
“What a pretty shirt you’re wearing, and I like that sparkly thing in your hair. It’s nice to meet you,” Alma says.
“Thank you,” Julia says. “How are you feeling today?”
“Right good except for my leg. That’s how it is at my age, you know, things break. I’m eighty-two. What brings you here?”
“I came to see you. There’s some good news. The painting you have, the one in a closet, is yours to keep.”
“Well, that’s not news. I knew that. Elsa here won’t let me hang it up. The young man who painted it promised it to me.”
“I’ll bring the painting out right away, Mother,” Elsa says. “Where would you like to hang it?”
“In my room, where I can see it. It’s a real nice picture. Reminds me of when I took you and your sister to the beach as kids. Long time ago.” A flicker of a smile crosses Alma’s face, and she closes her eyes.
Elsa goes out of the room and returns with the painting.
“Don’t go to sleep now, Mother,” she says, “we have a visitor.”
She holds the painting up and the three women examine it.
“He’s a talented artist,” Julia says.
“Always was, spent hours in that studio of his, painting,” Alma says. “Couldn’t get in there to clean. Mrs. Brown always said not to worry about it. She was a fine woman, Mrs. Brown. Young Barnaby had his problems but when he was off the drink, he was okay. Kind. Liked to help carry my water bucket up the stairs. But he let me go, though the house could use cleaning. Wouldn’t give me the work. I hated that.” Alma stares past the painting toward the window.
Julia follows her gaze to the gray sky with its pale wash of pink where the sun sets. A winter sky. “Alma, I expect the painting would fit well in your new home,” she says.
Alma sniffs and gropes in her pocket for a tissue. “What new home?”
“One that will be yours, and where they can take care of you. You know your daughter is tired and has to work. It’s getting hard for her to look after you.”
“Why’s that? I never heard her complain.”
“That’s because she enjoys helping you and wants to keep you comfortable. But you might enjoy being in a place where you can have more visitors and people around.”
Alma glances tearfully at Julia. “It gets lonely sometimes. I do like visitors some days. Don’t see many here.”
“Well, if you move to a group home, you could have a good life, and Elsa will visit you.”
“I dunno. This is my home,” Alma says glumly.
“We’ll talk about it some more another day. You could visit some places soon to find one you like.”
“I suppose so. Anyway, I’m glad my painting has come out of that closet. You’re a friend, I guess.”
“I’d like to be your friend.”
“Anyone who can bring back the past is a magician, I think. Some want you to forget it all and you, as you once were, especially when you’re old.”
“I’m sure you’re right, and I’d like to hear more about your life, Alma, though not today. I have to leave now, but I’ll come again, and we’ll have a long talk.”
“I’d like that.”
Julia gives Alma’s hand a squeeze. “See you soon,” she says.
Elsa hands Julia her coat and escorts her to the door. “That went well for a first visit. She likes you. What’s next?”
“With your permission, I’ll research some affordable places suitable for your mother. I’d suggest that you, your sister, and I check them out. You’ll need to fill out some forms. All the facilities will want to evaluate your mother’s state of health, medications, level of assistance needed, and financial position.”
“I’m grateful to you for the help. I can talk more to Mother about the idea. She may come around in time. I know she’d enjoy having her own living space.”
“Good. I’ll be in touch.”
Julia leaves, satisfied that the meeting with Alma had been successful. She feels sympathy for both women and will talk to Lisa about next steps. Again she questions why Lisa has shown such unprofessional behavior in her handling of the case.
She appreciates Barnaby’s willingness to let Alma have the painting he promised her. If only he could overcome the drinking. From experience she knows how difficult that can be, especially for someone with a longtime problem, but if he can do so, who knows what he might become. She drives home from work in the darkening gloom. The weather channel forecasts snow for the next several days.
No point in calling Barnaby for coffee yet. She’ll bide her time.
CHAPTER 17
Barnaby can hardly wait for Tuesday, the day he will own a new car. The snowflakes fall thicker as he stands at the bus stop clutching one of his larger paintings wrapped in several layers of bubble wrap. He won’t miss standing at the bus stop in the freezing weather. On his lunch break, he takes a taxi to the auto body shop with the painting. He finds Tom waiting for him in the office.
“Your car is ready for you,” he says. “Looks almost brand new. I have the paperwork here, ready for your signature.”
“Fine. I’ve brought the painting we talked about.”
“Good. I hoped you wouldn’t forget. Let’s see it.”
Barnaby unwraps the picture and sets it on a chair.
“I like it,” Tom says, stepping nearer. “I think my wife will, too. The shine on the water and the clouds and lighthouse are especially nice. Blue is her favorite color. It’ll make a fine gift. How much did you say you wanted for it?”
“A thousand dollars.”
“I’ll take it. Now that’s settled, let’s get this paperwork signed and the Honda will be yours.”
Barnaby fills out the forms and writes a check. Tom hands him the key and title to the car.
“Be careful driving in the snow and don’t go too fast. The Honda has a lot more pickup than your old Ford.”
“I know. That’s one reason I’m buying it. Thanks again.”
Barnaby unlocks the car and slides into the seat. He adjusts the mirrors and turns on the windshield wipers. Then he backs carefully out of the lot into the street. The car moves smoothly, and he can feel the power of the engine. It’s a terrific vehicle. His heart bursts with pride as he parks in front of the hardware store.
“What’s this about? Ya win the lottery, or something? That’s a good-looking car ya have there, man,” Sal greets him.
Barnaby beams. “Just sold some paintings. Time I got rid of the clunker.”
“I’ll say. Good for you. Oh, I forgot to tell ya. A lady came in here askin’ for ya yesterday. Wanted advice about a floor.”
“Really? Do you know her name?”
“Didn’t ask. Pretty, dark hair. Come to think of it, she paid by check. I can find out who she is.” Sal goes to the till and pulls checks from the day before. “Julia Morgan,” he says.
“Oh, Julia,” Barnaby says excitedly. “Someone I used to know years ago. I met her again recently. I’m curious to know how she discovered where I work.”
Barnaby can’t fathom his luck. Would Julia like to go out with him after all? Too bad he’s already invited Lisa to the concert. He might give Julia a call soon. He can afford to take her out to dinner now. Dinner would be preferable to coffee. He whistles as he gets to work arranging the paint supplies on the shelf.
At the end of the day, he hurries outside, eager to drive his new car again. The snow hasn’t let up since morning, and there are six inches of soft powder on the ground. He wipes it off the windshield with his sleeve until he remembers he’s wearing a new coat that he doesn’t want to get wet and dirty. He goes back inside the store.
“I need an ice scraper and a brush,” Barnaby says. “Forgot to keep mine when I picked up the new car.”
“Sure. Help yerself,” Sal says, “and drive carefully in this God-damned weather.”
“I will. I’m going to take good care of this baby,” Barnaby replies.
Soon the windshield is clear and he’s on the road. He drives slowly, enjoying the purr of the engine. If it weren’t January, he might just keep on driving west.
Next day the temperature rises, causing rivers of water to run into gutters. Piles of rutted slush line the roads, but the news predicts snow and Barnaby hopes it won’t spoil his plans for the concert. What will he do if they can’t get out, or if they cancel the performance? Will he still see Lisa? Will she still want to see him? She is a neighbor, so he could invite her over, but then he’d have to offer her something to eat. His anxiety reaches new levels as he considers his options.
On Friday evening he stops at the market to buy some fresh food, a good idea if he’s going to be snowed in. He turns into the supermarket lot and parks the car. What should he make for Lisa? His cooking skills are limited, and he hasn’t asked anyone over for a meal for a long time.
He takes a cart and wanders up and down the aisles. Perhaps he could offer spaghetti. That’s easy and most people like it. He can make garlic bread and a salad as well. Ice cream for dessert. He buys hamburger meat, cans of tomatoes, pasta, onions, garlic salt, and a loaf of French bread, along with lettuce and a carton of vanilla ice cream. She might want some wine to drink. Actually, he’d like some himself, but then scolds himself that he’s trying to cut down, and he decides not to buy any. He fills the cart with a few more easy meals for himself and goes to the checkout stand. The clerk titters as he checks out the pile of goods.
“Expecting company, are we?” he says. “Not your usual groceries, I see.”
Barnaby nods.
“Different coat, too.”
“Yeah. It’s a new year, and I’m making some changes.”
“Good for you. Maybe I’ll see you at the next AA meeting. You haven’t come in a while.”
“When is it?”
“Tuesday night at eight.”
“Okay, thanks. Maybe I’ll go,” Barnaby says as he picks up the bag of provisions.
Alcoholics Anonymous had been helpful to him in the past. He questions whether he still needs the program to keep his resolve of giving up. He hasn’t had a drink for several days now. His happier state of mind makes it easier to resist temptation. Seeing Lisa tomorrow will help to reinforce his decision to stay sober, too. She’s one of those people who won’t let you forget. It’s one of the annoying characteristics about her, even though he knows she means well. He drives the negative thoughts from his mind. She’s a friend, and he looks forward to paying her back for her kindness.
At home he feeds Popsicle and stores the food. By the halo of the streetlight, he watches snowflakes whirling thicker. Maybe the concert will be cancelled and he’ll have to serve dinner at his house. He moans. The kitchen floor and stairwell are the only places he has cleaned well, and he’s supposed to work tomorrow. They should eat in the dining room, but he hasn’t used it for that purpose in years. The surface of the table is barely visible for all the papers stacked on it. And he doesn’t have a tablecloth or place mats. Damn it all. He’s over his head, trying to entertain, and almost wishes he hadn’t invited Lisa to the performance. Even that is cause for distress. He hasn’t attended a classical music concert in years and knows he should dress up. He doesn’t own a tie. Feeling overwhelmed, he peeks out again at the snowy scene and craves a drink to ease his worries.
As he contemplates the weekend with increasing dread, Lisa calls.
“I want to talk to you about our date,” she says. “Looks like it’s going to be a blizzard. If the concert is cancelled, how about coming over here for dinner? I’d love to cook for you.”
He lets out a big sigh of relief. “That’s good of you,” he says. “I’d have you over here, except I’m not set up for entertaining. Let’s talk about this again tomorrow, when we know more about the weather.”
“Great. Until tomorrow, then.”
Barnaby collapses onto a chair.
“Good parrot,” Popsicle says as she flies onto the table.
“You are a good parrot, and I’m neglecting you. How about chicken for dinner tonight?”
“Good stuff,” the parrot says.
Barnaby runs his hand along the bird’s back. He’s relieved not to have to entertain Lisa at his house and remembers that Popsicle doesn’t like her. Had she called their outing a “date”? Yes, those had been her words. Good grief. His world has become bigger, but more complicated as well. And he wants to paint. His life, once again, is impeding his elusive goal of being an artist.
But at least he has a new car, and he can plan the trip to California as soon as winter’s over.
CHAPTER 18
On Saturday morning Barnaby shuffles barefoot to the window. The snow lies in white piles at least a foot deep. Plows have not yet arrived to clear the way for traffic; the neighborhood lies silent. Likely he’ll stay home today. He can wait a while before he calls Sal and goes back to bed.
An hour later he turns on the television and hears the report: more snow expected, as much as three feet in some areas. Travel advisory: stay home. That settles it. He won’t be going to work or to the concert. He calls the store, but there’s no answer.
Barnaby dresses in his warmest sweater. It has holes, but it’s wool. He fries some eggs and makes toast and coffee. Since the concert won’t happen, he guesses he and Lisa will have dinner instead. Otherwise, he’ll have a day to himself, a day to paint.
He goes upstairs and turns on the portable heater in the studio, then sets up his palette and mounts the sketch he made at O’Malley’s on the wall. Finally he adjusts the canvas on the easel he’d prepared with the underpainting. Since it has been years since he’s painted anything, this will be a preliminary study for a larger work he’ll complete later. Or so he hopes. He’ll soon find out if his skills have deteriorated, along with everything else in recent years. But no use dwelling on that, he tells himself firmly.
Dipping a narrow brush in turpentine and saturating it with Prussian blue, he blocks the architectural details of the bar, then draws a line on one side of the canvas to make space for a color chart. He works out the important elements of the painting: colors in the room, bottles shining in the background, the yellow light casting radiance on the patrons’ heads and echoing in their drinks. Blue and silver mirrors reflecting figures will contrast well with the darker shapes.
Using different brushes, he mixes the colors on the palette and smears paint on the color chart. He begins the painting with big shapes—furniture and walls. As he works, he can feel the ambience of the bar, the low conversation, the tinkle of ice in glasses. He outlines the figures—Charley holding his pool cue in a menacing way, the professor reading a newspaper at the counter, Sean serving drinks. Working with such familiar subject matter, Barnaby hopes he can create a fine work of art. The composition shows promise, but it will need more details. Absorbed in his work, Barnaby paints until his rumbling stomach tells him it’s past lunchtime. Standing back to examine the canvas, he notices his style differs from earlier paintings; it’s now darker and bolder. His progress so far satisfies him, but this painting is too small to capture the magnitude of O’Malley’s as he wants to portray it. It’s not finished, but already he looks forward to attempting a larger painting as he gains confidence in his skills. He cleans his brushes, turns off the heater, and clatters downstairs.
After making a ham sandwich, he considers calling Lisa about the evening. No, he reasons. She might have thought the better of it, and he wouldn’t be sorry. He’d prefer to go to O’Malley’s, anyhow.
Lisa calls, interrupting his deliberations. “It’s supposed to snow all day,” she says. “Come over at seven.”
“Fine, I’ll see you then,” he says, trying to sound cheerful.
But he’s not cheerful. The thought of spending an entire evening with nothing to do but talk to Lisa without a drink to calm his nerves is daunting. He climbs the stairs to take another look at his painting. It’s coming along, but needs more light. He could add liquor bottles of different shapes and colors lit from behind, and that means going along to the bar to sketch them. It’s two o’clock. He has plenty of time before dinner.
Bundling up, he goes to O’Malley’s.
“Well, hello stranger,” Sean says. “Haven’t seen you the last few days. How’s things?”
“Pretty good. Actually, pretty complicated.”
“How so?”
“I’m supposed to have dinner tonight with a woman.”
“Well, why’s that complicated? Are you seein’ the woman you told me about, the one who used to come here?”
