Waterbury Winter, page 17
“Well, my friend, if you don’t mind my sayin’, you’ve been livin’ in a bit of a fog for a while now. Nice to see you’re comin’ out of it.”
“Yes. Amazing, all the things I’ve missed.”
“Oh, forgot to tell you. There’s a contest. Whoever gets the most fish wins. There’s another prize for the biggest fish. I wouldn’t mind winnin’.”
Barnaby laughs. “I’ll do my best to let you win. What kind of fish are we looking for?”
“Lake trout, bass, and catfish. The biggest ones are often trout.”
“Will we keep the ones we catch?”
“Sure. Eat ’em, too.”
Well, this might not be so bad, Barnaby reflects as they rattle along. Freezing temps, though. He shivers, despite the blast of warm air coming from the truck’s heater. “How did you learn to fish, anyway?” Barnaby asks.
“My dad taught me, and he learned from his dad. They both fished in Ireland. River fishin’ mostly, for trout. They never went ice fishin’. I learned that myself. My dad thought it was a stupid idea.”
A man after my own heart, Barnaby thinks.
“He always ended an outin’ with a visit to a pub,” Sean goes on, smiling. “He liked good company, beer, and Irish Whiskey. That’s why, after he lost his job in the ’70s when the brass factory closed, he bought O’Malley’s. We enjoyed fishin’ together in good weather, though, and tendin’ bar.”
Barnaby looks at his friend with envy. He wishes he’d had a father who shared his interests. His father worked all his life as an accountant and never understood Barnaby’s passion for art. It was his mother who’d persuaded him to pay for Barnaby’s studies in art school. But he couldn’t fault his father, who came around in the end and expressed admiration for his son’s talent.
When they arrive at the lake, Sean pulls equipment out of the truck bed. Barnaby can already see that his friend is better prepared for the weather. He has boots with thick soles and a heavy jacket. Barnaby wears only his overcoat on top of several layers of sweaters. His stomach rumbles, and he wishes he had eaten a more substantial lunch. Perhaps this adventure is a mistake. Several other fishermen are already scattered on the ice.
“Give me a hand, would you?” Sean says, handing Barnaby an ice chest. “Let’s set up over there.” He points to an open area, and the two men trudge across the frozen lake. As they organize their things, they hear a voice booming from several yards away.
“Hey, Sean. You competing?”
Barnaby turns in the speaker’s direction. Even though the hefty man wears loose clothes almost obscuring his face, Barnaby can easily recognize him.
“Sure, Horace. You, too?” Sean calls.
“Yeah. Well, may the best man win. Is that Barnaby with you? The one who Julia’s dating these days?”
“Yes. Barnaby.”
Barnaby follows Sean back to the truck, wincing at the mention of Julia and his befuddled situation.
“Damn him, Horace would show up,” Sean says. “He’s such a sore loser it almost makes me not want to compete. He still resents me for callin’ the police on him in the bar that time. Takes all the fun out of things, havin’ him here.”
“Don’t worry. Enjoy the fishing. It doesn’t matter who wins.”
“Suppose you’re right. Here, take these.” He hands Barnaby two folding chairs, and they return to their spot on the ice. He holds up the hand ice auger, a tall metal pole with a handle on top and screws below. “First, we need to drill holes. You can help by removing the ice and slush while I make the hole.”
He cuts through the first layers of ice, then stops to allow Barnaby time to scrape the shards away. After a while, he has bored a hole about eight inches wide.
“Almost ideal conditions today,” he says. “Some days it’s so frosty you have to use a heater to keep the holes from freezing up. Today they might just melt.”
Barnaby privately considers the conditions far from ideal. “I hope we don’t fall through the ice, then,” he says. “What’s next? When does the contest begin?”
“At two o’clock. We’ll fish for an hour.”
“So you’ll start fishing right away, then. I’d like to do a sketch while you do.”
“What? You’re going to draw? That’s crazy! And not why you’re here. No, man, you’re goin’ to fish. I’ll make you another hole.”
Barnaby shrugs. Too bad. He could do a good painting of the scene. He likes the soft gray clouds on the horizon and the blue shadows cast by the fishermen on the ice. It would make a fine monochromatic painting in bluish gray. Well, he can fish for a while and do a sketch later.
Soon Sean has made an identical hole. He demonstrates how to bait the small fishing rod and lower it into the water. “You have to keep movin’ the pole now and then to attract the fish,” he says. “When you get a bite, pull the rod in. He may fight, so lower the pole until you can get the head through the hole.”
“Thank for the explanation, but I don’t expect to catch anything,” Barnaby says as he looks around. He sees several contestants lifting bottles of beer out of coolers. “Say Sean, where’s the beer?” he asks.
“Back at the bar.”
Barnaby figures it’s just as well, but beer would go a long way toward making the fishing expedition more pleasant.
They take their seats on the chairs and lower the poles. Ten minutes later, a gunshot sounds, signaling the start of the contest. Barnaby’s feet already feel numb. It’s going to be a long, cold hour, he thinks.
Almost immediately, Sean pulls fish out of his hole. Barnaby forgets to tug the pole and hopes he can get away with sketching his companion without him noticing. He reaches for the backpack lying beside him. As he does so, he jerks his pole. All of a sudden, it almost twists out of his hands.
“Help! I’ve caught something!” he shouts.
Sean rushes over and grabs the line. “It’s a big one. Hold tight.” He lowers the rod into the ice-frozen water. It thrashes around, and both men grasp it tightly. Sean cautiously pulls it up, then pushes it down, then up again, until the fish head appears out of the hole.
“Quick, fetch the chest.” he says.
Barnaby reaches for it, sets it down, and opens the lid.
“He’s a beauty. Must weigh nine pounds, at least. You did it, Barnaby! Caught a big fish! You might even be a winner!”
Barnaby throws back his head and roars with laughter.
Sean thumps him on the back. “Well, keep goin’. There’s still half an hour.”
“Thanks, but I’ve had enough. You keep going. I’ll draw you.”
“You’re not a fisherman, I can tell. But go ahead.”
Barnaby sits back on the chair, changes his gloves so he can control the pencil, then pulls out his sketchbook and draws. He barely notices his numb feet and hands now. The gunshot signals the contest’s end, and the participants collect their gear and drift across the frozen lake back to their cars. Horace passes by them. He holds a large fish suspended from a line.
“Ain’t he a trophy? Might win this time,” he says, then regards Barnaby. “What are you doing? Making pictures?” He sniggers. “Takes all types, I guess.”
After he leaves, Sean checks the fish in the cooler.
“I think yours is bigger,” he says, beaming. “Let’s go weigh it.”
They pick up the equipment and edge gingerly over the ice to a table in a tent at the edge of the lake. The line of competitors waits for results. Horace stands by the entrance, swinging his fish. It’s wriggling, and its eyes are wild.
When it’s Barnaby’s turn to weigh the fish, the man in charge greets them. “Hey there, Sean. How did you do?”
Sean places the fish on the scales. “My friend Barnaby here got a big one.”
“Yep. Looks like a winner. Six ounces more than yours, Horace.”
Horace growls. “Whatta you mean, his is bigger? Let me see. This nerd here’s a painter, not a fisherman, for Christ’s sake.”
The man shows Horace the numbers he’s written on a chart.
“Goddammit,” he says under his breath as he stomps away. “Can’t believe I’d lose to a rank amateur, a Sunday painter, besides.”
Barnaby frowns. He knows he’s a newcomer at fishing, but how dare Horace attack him as an artist.
“What does he mean, a Sunday painter?” Sean asks.
“He means someone who’s a dilettante, amateurish. It’s an insult.”
“So I guess you’ve made an enemy. Wouldn’t wish that on anyone,” Sean says. “But you’ve won five hundred bucks!”
“Are you kidding? There’s money? Beginner’s luck, I guess.”
He takes the envelope and whistles, shaking his head in disbelief as he counts the cash. They load the truck and drive back to the bar.
“Let’s split the winnings, and you keep the fish,” Barnaby says. “It’s too big for me to eat by myself and anyway, I couldn’t have pulled it in without your help. I’ll be happy to exchange it for some of the smaller ones you caught.”
“Thanks. My mother sure will appreciate that. Good that you came along. And congratulations.”
On his way home Barnaby feels chilled and expects a hot shower and fish for dinner. He can’t help chuckling to himself at his luck. He can use the money, but can’t imagine he has made an enemy simply by winning a fishing contest. It has been a good day. He has the beginnings of a good painting, and a chance to compete for a mural contest. He doesn’t need a woman in his life. Too complicated, and he wants nothing to interfere with his plan of moving to California. He has bigger fish to fry.
CHAPTER 29
“Hello, Father? This is Julia.”
A long silence ensues. Then a gruff voice resounds.
“Julia. A surprise, after how many years?”
“Twenty, I believe. I hope you’re well.” Of course he doesn’t remember my birthday this week, she thinks.
“Well enough,” he grunts. “Never expected to hear from you again. I take it you have a reason for calling.”
“I do. I’d like to come to Boston.”
A deep inhalation reverberates through the line. “I see. Well, I suppose I can’t deny my only daughter a visit. I take it that’s what you want.”
“If it’s convenient for you and your wife.”
“Edna. She died five years back. I’m alone now.”
“Sorry to hear that. I was hoping to come soon, this week. The weather’s all right for driving. I’ll be driving up from Waterbury.”
“Guess that’s okay. Let me know when you expect to arrive.”
“How about tomorrow, around noon?” Before I change my mind.
“All right then.” The line clicks off.
Julia’s shoulders relax. She doesn’t recognize her father’s voice, but he has aged and must be close to seventy. He had always been a domineering man, one who wouldn’t let others talk until he finished what he had to say. As a lawyer, he could assume that authority, or at least, he did. Conversations at home had rarely been two-way.
It would take all her courage to face the man again after all these years. But he’s the gatekeeper to her mother’s legacy, and she has no choice.
After calling into work saying she needs a day off, Julia fortifies herself with an extra shot of coffee, tosses a bag of snacks on the passenger seat of her car, and sets off along Interstate 84 East toward Boston. She expects a two-hour trip, depending on traffic. After a while, the road becomes Wilbur Cross Parkway, a well-designed four-lane highway that prohibits commercial and other large vehicles. She always enjoys driving this stretch, appreciating the curving stone bridges and corridor of well-groomed trees which, even in winter, hug the road, softening the thrust of swishing cars.
After Hartford and the Interstate 90 interchange, the traffic volume increases. The emergence of trucks, trailers, and buses causes cars to slow down, crawling like reptiles along multiple lanes, red tail-lights flashing and brakes squealing as they stop and start. A siren wails from behind, and drivers pull over to the right. An ambulance streaks past, and the sluggish vehicles resume their forward roll.
Julia punches the radio button, wanting distraction from her mounting anxiety. Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony blares from the dashboard. She shuts it down. Too dramatic. She slips a CD into the slot and soon the airy sounds of Enya float inside the car. The gurgling in her stomach subsides.
As she approaches Boston, her trepidation and dread increase. After a gas station restroom break, she approaches her old neighborhood. Somehow the two-hour journey has taken on almost epic proportions. In fact, she has already extended the time she had allocated—she wanted to be finished with the visit, its purpose accomplished, and back on the road before dark. Despite the cold, her hands sweat on the wheel and the knot in her stomach tightens.
Within minutes of entering the city limits, she turns onto her father’s street, which is exactly as she remembered it with proud old townhouses. Her family’s home stands in the middle of the block. Its exterior appears unchanged, the white paint of the window frames setting off the dark brick façade. Traditional, tasteful, and thoroughly intimidating. She parks the car and mounts the front steps. A brass plate by the door reads JULIUS MORGAN, ESQ. Her instincts tell her to turn and run, but she stands firm, and after a few moments rings the bell.
A middle-aged woman wearing a scarf around her hair opens the door. “You must be Julia,” she says. “Mr. Morgan told me he expects you. Come in.”
Julia steps into the oak-paneled foyer. The familiar scent of lemon oil polish permeates the air.
“He’s in his study. May I offer you a cup of coffee or tea?”
“No, thank you,” Julia says. She’s afraid her stomach might not tolerate any refreshment, and her knees shake as she advances along the hallway to the office on the left side. She knocks on the heavy door.
“Come in.”
She cracks the door slowly at first, then widens it as she peeks round to face the desk. Her father sits in his usual place almost enveloped by a leather executive chair. She hadn’t remembered him as small, but as he rises to greet her, she sees that he stands not more than a head taller than herself. He extends his hand across the desk as she grasps it. His steel-gray eyes glint behind horn-rimmed glasses as he scrutinizes her. She draws herself to her full height and meets his gaze.
“Well, well, well,” he says at last.
“Hello, Father. How are you?”
“Good enough, considering. You look older. What age are you now?”
“I’m about to turn forty.”
“Ah yes. Take a seat. I’ll have Mrs. Hall bring us some tea. Or would you prefer something stronger?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing for me, thank you.”
“Well, I could use a drink about now, myself.” He pushes a button on the desk and the housekeeper appears at the door. “A bourbon on the rocks, if you please.” Turning to Julia, he asks, “So to what circumstance do I attribute the pleasure of your visit?”
“Some forgotten papers. I should have taken them years ago. Now I have a use for them.”
“What kind of papers? School reports?”
“Nothing like that. Materials my mother wanted me to have.”
He grunts, shifts in his chair, and steeples his hands on the desk. “What makes you think they’re still here?”
“I don’t know if they are. They were in her closet, in a chest.”
“Cleared all that stuff away. Could be in the attic, though.”
“Yes. I expected that. Would it be possible for me to look?”
“I suppose so. Why do you want them, after all this time?”
“Let’s just say I’m recovering history.”
“Ah, yes. We all need to remember the past. I’ve spent my career basing decisions on past precedent. An important concept. So what do you do with yourself? Are you still married?”
“No. I work for the County of New Haven. Social work.”
“Interesting. Do they pay you well? Hate to think of that fine education you had going to waste.”
“It’s not about money. Listen, I’d like to start the drive home before dark. May I take a look in the attic for those papers?”
“Don’t see why not. You’ve never asked for anything since you left home. I’ll have Mrs. Hall bring you the key.”
Julia watches as he lifts the drink in a cut-glass tumbler from a tray offered by the housekeeper. In all these years, he hasn’t changed. He quaffs his afternoon cocktail, sitting at his desk in his big chair, perusing files and winning cases, solemn and unforgiving. His face reflects it all. Not a different face, but more entrenched lines. She waits for the key while he sips. The winter sun streams through narrow windows onto the polished wood walls. The grandfather clock chimes three muffled tones.
When the housekeeper returns, she hands Julia the key. Julia rises and inclines her head. “Good-bye. Thank you for seeing me,” she says, turning to leave.
“You remind me of your mother,” he calls.
She doesn’t reply. She knows. She has photographs.
Julia spends a half hour rummaging through items in the attic. She finds relics of her past: her old dolls, a dollhouse, and stacks of books. Remembering she last saw the papers in a wooden chest, she continues her search until she finds it buried under a pile of blankets. She pries the dusty lid open. Inside, piles of notebooks, envelopes, and photographs lie in disorder. Easier than I expected, she sighs. She drags the chest to the top of the attic stairs, then gently allows it to slide down, holding the handle on one end. On the third floor, she finds an elevator, a new installation. She enters, presses the button and stops at the first level. Mrs. Hall helps her carry the trunk to the street and load it into the car.
“Thank you for your help,” Julia says. “There’s something else I’d like to take home, but I can bring it by myself.”
She runs back upstairs to the attic. Her old dollhouse. She wants to retrieve it, with its miniature furniture and figures, an ideal family, the one she had always dreamed of having.
She had kept the card her mother had written to accompany that Christmas present: “To Julia, who makes an old house young. Enjoy yours, sweetheart, and fill it with love and kindness.” Julia understands now, as she didn’t then, how her presence as a child in that dreary home must have comforted her mother, giving her hope.
