Waterbury Winter, page 16
The next morning, Barnaby gets up late, deeply disappointed, both with Julia and himself. He replays in his mind the course of their date and how his desire to show her how he has changed went so badly awry. O’Malley’s clearly has memories for Julia as well, not good ones, and he wonders why she accepted the invitation to go there in the first place. Will she want to see him again? Perhaps not.
Popsicle has already greeted him and waits in the kitchen. When he comes in, she flaps her wings on top of the cage, flies down to the table, cocks her head, and regards him silently.
“Top of the morning?” she asks at last.
“Not the top, not this morning. More like the bottom. Guess you’re hungry. How about nuts and an apple, you silly bird?” He puts them on the table and the parrot sidles over to them.
Actually, she’s not a silly bird. He’s often amazed at how well she picks up on his emotions. He runs his hand down her feathery back. Birds are less complicated than people, and Popsicle is a fine companion, besides.
Three hours later he returns from the store with a new laptop computer and printer. He hopes he has bought all the right software. Next, he calls Lisa’s brother to find out how to use the equipment. Alan is happy to come over the following day.
“Don’t know how to thank you,” Barnaby says after their training session.
“No need to thank me. I’ve told you, anything for my sister Lisa. I’m so glad she’s met you.”
What has Lisa told him? Barnaby wants to clarify that they’re not romantically involved, but says nothing. Stay focused on the computer, he reminds himself, as he shows Alan out. He can’t help wondering about Alan. Something doesn’t seem quite right, but Barnaby is grateful for his help and has no desire to get drawn into personal discussions.
Pleased with his accomplishments, he hauls out supplies to continue his house cleaning project. He works on the windows, then vacuums the floor. Sneezing from the dust, he lets the fresh air in, taking care to keep the kitchen window closed. He doesn’t want to lose Popsicle again.
“Don’t even think about it,” he says to her, eyeing her sideways.
Soon the house smells fresh. He’s amazed how much more light streams through the windows now. Working in the house reminds him of his mother, a careful housekeeper. He conjures a mental image of her setting the table and calling up to the studio that dinner would be ready in ten minutes. He’d just enough time to clean his brushes. She cooked simple meals. Where did she keep her recipes? He should find them and attempt to recreate the dishes. Be more domestic. He especially liked her chicken pot pie. He’s momentarily ashamed how he has let the place decline, surely disappointing his parents. It’s another reason to keep pulling himself up. He can shop for food and cook a nice dinner for himself. He rummages in a kitchen cabinet for her recipe book, recalling it has a picture of an apple pie on the cover.
After pulling out the contents of the cabinet, he finds the book. As he turns the pages, an envelope falls out. It’s addressed to him. His throat constricts as he sees the familiar curves of his mother’s hand and unfolds the letter.
June 11, 1988
Dear Barnaby,
Your father and I are thrilled to hear of your engagement. Anna is a lovely young woman and a suitable partner for you. We’re sure you will make a good life together. She believes in your talents, as we do. Please let us know what we can do to help with your wedding. We’re so proud of you, son.
Love, Mom
Barnaby sits at the kitchen table and buries his face in his hands. How could he have let his promising young life slip away? He failed his parents, especially his mother. He lost his wife and his art and allowed drinking to overtake his life. But the awful truth is that he can’t face life without it. Too many ghosts. He finds his coat and heads for O’Malley’s.
Sean’s not there. Robert, the new assistant bartender, takes his order for a drink and sets it in front of him. Barnaby reaches for it, and as he does, senses a hand on his arm.
“You don’t need it.”
He turns his head to find Brooke Taylor’s eyes on him. He sets the glass down.
“I’ve seen it so many times,” she says. “Lives ruined by the bottle. You have a gift to offer the world. Don’t squander it.”
He’s so taken aback he can’t come up with a response. The beautiful woman regards him with unblinking steel-gray eyes. He gulps. “Too late. I’ve already ordered it.”
She hands him a newspaper clipping, then turns and leaves. He gapes after her, as though she’s a mirage. Then he reaches across the counter, dumps the drink into the sink, drops some money on the counter, and goes home.
CHAPTER 26
Brooke’s words echo in his mind. He has not thought of his painting as a gift to offer others, but he appreciates the concept. He doesn’t want to let anyone down—his parents, his friends, or himself, and it’s not too late to redeem himself. Brooke did him a favor by reminding him that drinking and defeating his artistic impulse isn’t the way to live.
There’s no time like the present to start the new painting of O’Malley’s, the place that has recently been the cause of both his demise and inspiration.
He ascends the stairs two at a time to his studio and places his largest primed canvas on the easel. He sets his earlier study of the O’Malley’s scene on a chair beside him along with some sketches, then chooses his base color of raw umber mixed with turpentine to complete the underpainting. The familiar aromas raise his temperature, chasing coldness from the room. He’s often feverish when he works on a painting that arouses his interest, and it has been a while since he felt the sensation. It feels good. Spreading a thin wash over the surface, he tries to match the values in the composition. The lights over the bar call for almost no pigment, but the rich mahogany of the counter requires a heavier application. Using a rag to wipe the surface, he lightens some areas. Once he has covered the entire canvas with the raw umber wash, he stands back to appraise it. The compositional elements of the painting are clearly outlined, and he’s content with the result.
Adding color will develop the painting, but in small steps. He starts at the top, loosely outlining bottles on the shelves. He’ll only tighten the shapes in the final stages of the painting. Working his way downward, he fills in figures, their backs visible as they straddle the stools beside the bar. The bartender stands prominently behind the counter holding up a cocktail glass. Barnaby squeezes beads of burnt sienna, cobalt blue, and alizarin crimson onto his palette, then mixes them to create the mood and shades he wants. He completes the first rough version of the bar scene before stopping to allow the paint to dry. He’ll continue in a day or so as the pigments allow.
Once again, he steps back to appraise his work. So far, so good. It’s the first large painting he has attempted in years. There’s nothing to compare with the feeling of satisfaction in completing a work that’s in harmony with his surroundings. It’s only possible to do this when things have a certain order, he thinks. For so long his life followed a pattern of disorder. Now he can create the illusion of a new life and perhaps make it a reality. His favorite college teacher’s advice comes to mind: the transformative value of art is in making the ordinary extraordinary.
He has found the right subject. He can almost spring from the studio into this painting, the rediscovered world of his art.
CHAPTER 27
Julia wakes with a headache. She hasn’t slept well. The evening with Barnaby had started out okay, but things went downhill after she stupidly told him about her dream of getting married someday. Of course, she didn’t mean to. It was far too early for such discussions. She scared him off. He said as much when he’d told her they need to take things slowly. And then running into Horace Holmes at O’Malley’s. Why did she agree to go there, anyway? She must be losing perspective. Rebuking herself for her foolishness, she runs a hot bath and submerges herself, her hair floating around her face like frayed nerves. Afterward she paints her toenails a hot pink, for extreme embarrassment.
As she mulls over their date, she replays their conversation about memories. She enjoyed the recollection of youthful times in the theater and notes the shared poignant feeling that life now appears flat, somehow lacking in passion. Her more recent memories are only ones she would rather forget. Surmising that indigestion is causing the uncomfortable feeling in her gut—the acidity of tomatoes in lasagna—she downs some Tums.
She drifts through the morning doing laundry, watering the plants, tending to the cat. Molière, a gray mound in a patch of sunshine, lounges on the living room floor. She brushes his fur. He stretches and allows her to work on his white front. He purrs softly as she rolls him around to reach his other side.
“Let’s watch TV tonight,” she says to him. “We can have dinner and a movie. I’ll steam some fish,” she says, scratching him behind the ears.
I could learn a lot from this cat, she says to herself. He knows what’s good for him, unapologetically, something I have trouble with. I make mistakes, and I may be about to make another one, getting involved with Barnaby. Sure, he’s a nice guy, but he’s afraid of marriage, and he’s planning to move to California soon. “I don’t want to waste valuable years on a hopeless prospect,” she tells Molière. “I’ll be forty in two days.” She twists the pearl ring on her right hand. The cat rubs his head against her arm, purring loudly.
But she knows she has far older mistakes to remedy, ones she has pushed away, hoping to bury them out of sight and mind forever. As she views the flickering TV, she can almost piece together scattered scraps, pieces of a fabric quilt, not yet sewn. Alice Lowell Morgan’s unfinished history. The uncomfortable notion bursts in her mind like a patient learning a diagnosis after years of suffering.
With a flick of her finger, she shuts off the television.
She needs to settle the old business, the promise she made to her mother. Now the task she has put off for years calls her with new urgency. She needs to clear the debt with herself as well as the one she owes her mother. She must complete the family story.
Julia’s pulse races as she contemplates the task before her. She’s not accustomed to writing long stories and wonders again, as she told her mother earlier, if she has the skills to do so. What will she learn that might disturb her? She has no idea what Alice has written so far and knows little of those old relatives. It’s a daunting prospect.
Exhausted from the force of her revelation, she falls asleep on the couch. But when she wakes in the early hours of the morning, she knows at once she must make arrangements to fulfill her mission.
The next day, Nancy calls.
“Hey. Are you out of the doldrums yet? Can we talk about New York?”
“Oh, Nancy. Something’s come up. I have to go out of town.”
“Really? What’s going on?”
“I have to go back to Boston to see my father.”
“Have you taken leave of your senses? I thought you and he didn’t get along.”
“We don’t—he’s as appealing as garlic ice cream—but I have a reason for going back. I have to talk to him.”
“If you say so. I don’t want the birthday to pass you by. Let’s talk when you get back. How about dinner?”
“All right, but no fuss. No card with jokes about getting old and over the hill.”
“Agreed.”
There’s no time like the present. This mission will be a birthday present to herself. To find her mother’s materials, she’ll have to go to the family’s home. She hopes they’re still there. And first she has to call her estranged father to arrange the visit. That will take all her resolve. There’s her father’s wife to consider as well. Will she want to allow a long-lost daughter into the house? But Julia is determined to succeed and to pack the remnants of her immature years in boxes, where they belong, at long last.
She makes a cup of tea, steels herself, then lifts the phone.
CHAPTER 28
Barnaby stands and stretches, stiff after spending several hours using his new computer. He’s happy he can remember how to type—the last time he’d used that skill was on an electric typewriter in college. As a studio art teacher, he’d never needed to provide handouts, as many of his colleagues had. His speed improves as he practices. He enjoys researching information on the internet and sees that this new link with the world will present opportunities, and not only for selling his paintings. Alan Nettler had shown him how to scan small images on his printer and send them to the computer. Larger ones would have to be scanned by a professional copy service.
He wants to go along to O’Malley’s for lunch. Thinking of the bar reminds him of the newspaper clipping Brooke passed to him. What had he been wearing? He pulls a pair of pants out of the laundry basket, rifles through the pockets, and draws out the piece of newspaper. He flattens the wrinkles.
ARTS COMMISSION ANNOUNCES CONTEST FOR NEW MURAL
Artists should submit drawings and dimensions for a mural honoring Waterbury’s history by February 14. Winner will receive a $10,000 commission to paint the mural. Visit the City’s website for details.
He reads the words twice. What an opportunity! It might be a longshot, but he’ll enter the competition. He ought to thank Brooke. Almost skipping to O’Malley’s, he rushes to Sean at the bar. “Do you know how I can contact Brooke?” he asks, catching his breath.
Sean stops polishing a wine glass and narrows his eyes. “Why? You’re not interested in dating her, are you?”
“What? No. Of course not. I’d like to thank her for passing me some useful hints. That’s all.”
Sean shakes his head. “I only see her when she comes in here. Never asked how to contact her.”
“All right. Guess I’ll have to wait until I see her here, then.”
“Speaking of women, nice young woman, that Julia,” Sean says. “Saw you left in a hurry Saturday. Did Horace bad mouth her, or somethin’?”
“Not really. He did say she played pool well. That surprised me. I didn’t know she was the type to hang around pool halls.”
“She had friends who used to play here with Charley all the time,” Sean says. “Horace was one of ’em. They got into a nasty fight once, and Horace got arrested.”
“What was it about?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Julia.”
“She got involved in a fight? Hard to imagine.”
“Not directly, but she was there. I think I told you, but perhaps you don’t remember. I had to call the police; things got so ugly.”
“Ah, so that’s why she wanted to leave. Probably embarrassed and afraid Horace would talk.”
“He’s an ass. A gambler, and a bad loser.”
“I see. I don’t know him, only met him here with Julia. He mentioned a guy called Mike. Do you know anything about him?”
“Julia’s former boyfriend. I think I told you about him already. Nice enough until he got drunk, which he did quite often.”
“Now I remember. Well, who am I to judge?”
“Speakin’ of drinks, what’ll you have today?” Sean asks.
“Coffee. How about a chef’s salad to go with it?”
“My goodness. Still on the wagon and you’re turnin’ into a health nut, besides. Salad?” Sean eyes him suspiciously.
“As I told you, I’m turning over a new leaf. Salad is part of that. Leaves, you know?”
“I get it. Okay.”
This is a new side of Julia, Barnaby muses. It’s not necessarily bad, but he wants to know more about the incident and this group of people she had known. She was clearly embarrassed. Is that the reason she dismissed him at the end of the evening? He decides not to worry. He has other problems calling for attention.
Sean brings him the salad and coffee. “Say, Barnaby, what are you doin’ the rest of the day?”
“Nothing much. It’s a free day. I’ll probably work on my new painting. Why?”
“Would you like to go fishin’ with me?”
“Fishing? It’s winter, man. Freezing out there. Surely you don’t mean outdoor fishing.”
“I do. Ice fishin’. If you’ve never tried it, you should. Cold, but fun.”
“I don’t know, Sean. Not really my kind of thing.”
“Aw, come on. I’ve got a man to cover for me at the bar this afternoon. It’ll be good for you to have a change of scene, do somethin’ different.”
A change of scene, Barnaby thinks. Yes, it would be that. He could use it for a new painting, his new series of people at work, ice fishing. As he considers it, the idea grows more appealing. “Okay. When, and what do I need to bring? I don’t have any gear.”
“Put on the warmest clothes you have. I’ve got everythin’ we need. It’ll be good to have some company. Finish your meal first. How about if I see you back here at one o’clock? That’ll give us time to finish before it gets dark.”
Sean is waiting for him in his pickup truck when Barnaby arrives back at the bar. A stark sun shines brightly in the scarred winter sky, causing Barnaby to squint. He should have brought sunglasses to lessen the glare, but it’s too late now. He climbs into the truck with his backpack containing a sketch book and pencils and an extra pair of gloves.
“Where are the fish?” he asks.
“Crescent Lake. The top is frozen solid. The fish are underneath.”
“Hard to believe I’ve lived this long and never knew about ice fishing.”
