Waterbury Winter, page 2
His mind wanders back. He and Sly had spent Christmas Eve together in Vermont one year. They rented a lodge, planning to ski on Christmas Day, when the slopes would be empty, but they lapsed into talking by the fire and drinking eggnog until well after midnight. They woke with headaches, never made it to the lifts, and went snowshoeing instead. It didn’t matter. Barnaby privately preferred the sparse beauty of a silent hike through snowy woods, anyway.
Shaking his head to clear the memory, he throws on his frayed robe and shuffles to the kitchen. Popsicle must be hungry. Strange that she hasn’t yet woken him up with her usual cries of “hello, good morning, hello, top o’ the morning.” They had a custom of calling to each other. He had heard parrots did that in the wild as well to maintain connections. Popsicle would call and he’d answer, the parrot would call again, and so it went, sometimes for a full five minutes or more.
But this morning, Popsicle is silent.
The large metal cage by the kitchen window is empty, and the door gapes open.
His heart skips a beat.
“Popsicle?” he calls. “Hello! Good morning! Where are you?”
An icy breeze draws his attention to the sash window, also gaping wide. Stomach clenching, he rushes to it, and leans outside.
“POPSICLE,” he yells.
His voice, swept away by the wind, sounds weak and forlorn. He senses at once that it’s useless. She’s probably dead already. How could she, a tropical bird, survive in the frigid temperatures outside? Barnaby shuts the window and sits down at the kitchen table. On second thought, he opens it again, thinking there’s a chance the parrot will fly back in. Resting his head in his hands, he lets tears run through his fingers onto the wooden table top as he gives way to his grief, and sobs. He remembers opening the window the evening before to leave breadcrumbs for the birds outside. He must have forgotten to close it, and Popsicle’s cage as well. He had been drinking. A cold, dead feeling fills his chest, and he sits there with it for a long time, shivering in the drafty room, knowing his luck has finally run out, not that he ever had much of it in the first place. But this time, it’s his fault, and he hates himself. Reaching for the bottle of scotch on the counter, he pours a glass. He has never felt worse in his life. Perhaps life isn’t worth living.
After his fifth glass, his mind swimming in circles, he staggers to the threadbare couch in the living room. He plops down, allows his head to crash against the cushions, and soon falls into an uneasy slumber.
He wakes in darkness. Five o’clock. He has slept the day away.
Remembering his parrot has disappeared, he stumbles into the kitchen to see if by some miracle she’s back. But the cage remains empty, and fresh snow on the windowsill blocks the three-inch gap between the window sill and sash. Popsicle is dead, and I murdered her. Screaming with shame, he slams the window shut.
He wonders if O’Malley’s is open. At least he can have a drink, get something to eat, and talk to the bartender. He stops at the bathroom on his way out, gets dressed, then reaches for his coat, ties a scarf round the collar, crams a hat on his head, and bends to pull on the damp boots. The right one leaks, he recalls, and finds a plastic bag to stuff in it. It’s freezing outside, but the snow has stopped falling. Few cars pass as he sets out to walk the several blocks to the bar, and he meets no one along the way. Bright lights sparkle from trees in neighbors’ windows. He ignores them, not wanting to think too much about the holiday he isn’t celebrating. Head bowed, he plods slowly along the slippery sidewalk.
As he nears O’Malley’s, the flashing red neon signs of Budweiser beer beckon. An orange glow glimmers through the windowpanes. Thank God they’re open, he thinks. He picks up his pace as he senses gnawing hunger pains. As an afterthought, he reaches for his wallet. He hopes he has enough cash for a few drinks and dinner.
O’Malley’s has been his home away from home for years. It’s dark inside, but the bottles filled with multi-colored liquids on the shelf behind the bar shine, lending a warm ambiance to the place. The long counter, made of heavily varnished mahogany, is edged with brass. This metal strip, polished by decades of unwitting patrons, reflects the yellow lights above. An old army jacket hangs in a frame on the wall facing the customers. Two pool tables take up space in the middle of the room, their green linings lit by low-slung lights. Wooden booths and tables occupy the sides under small slitted windows with blinking signs. Barnaby takes his usual place on a stool near the cash register at the bar.
“Santa been good to you this year then, Barnaby?” Sean asks.
Sean, the bartender, is a few years older. He has a shock of dark hair, and his sharp blue eyes peer directly into Barnaby’s.
Barnaby drops his head. “Not this year, Sean. Lost my parrot.”
“You lost Popsicle? Now that’s too bad. Fly away, did she? Forget to feed ’er, did you?”
Barnaby meets the bartender’s gaze with cold eyes.
“Nah, just kiddin’,” Sean continues. “I know you take good care o’ that bird. She used to like comin’ here when you brought her in, sittin’ on your shoulder. Got people laughin’ when she started talkin’. ‘One for the road,’ she’d say. ‘One for the road.’” He smiles. “I’m real sorry. What’ll you have?”
“The usual, scotch on the rocks. And a burger and fries.”
“Burger and fries on Christmas? Don’t you want the special? In honor of the occasion, we have a turkey sandwich with dressin’ and cranberry sauce. Five bucks.”
“Thanks, but I’ll just have the burger. Not in the habit of celebrating. Haven’t done so since my wife died. Anyway, who are you to talk? Working tonight, I mean. Surprised you’re open.”
“Yeah, well, things don’t go so well sometimes at home, and there’s always folks like yourself, needin’ a place to go,” Sean says.
“How’s your mother?” Barnaby asks.
“Not so good. We had a late Christmas breakfast. She didn’t want a big meal for dinner. Doesn’t eat much anymore. Think she’s been depressed since my dad passed away.”
Barnaby nods. “How long has she lived with you now? Must be going on two years.”
“Yep. Two years this Christmas. It’s always a hard time for her.”
Only two customers sit at the counter and Barnaby doesn’t know either of them. The tables are empty.
Sean puts a glass of scotch in front of him. “So tell me what’s goin’ on, Barnaby,” he says. “I can see from that glint in your eye that somethin’s wrong. Out with it.”
“You never miss a thing, my friend. Of course, the big thing is Popsicle, but my car bit the dust as well.”
“That old clunker? No surprise there. Why don’t you talk to Phil over at the auto-body shop? He’s got cars, cheap ones.”
“I need a good one. That guy sells lemons. I plan to go out West next year.”
“I know, but you don’t seriously think you’d get there with that old wagon o’ yours, do you?”
“Sean, I don’t know. Just need to get away for a while. Start again.”
“You mean, leave off the drink. Well, you don’t hafta leave town to do that.”
“What are you saying? You want to lose me? I’m a good, regular customer.”
“You are that, but I know what’s good for folks, and the drink ain’t doin’ you any favors.”
“Okay. Like I said, I want to start over.”
“Fine. As your friend, I wanna help. Have one drink tonight and go home.”
“We’ll see.”
New customers arrive and take seats at the far end of the bar. None are regulars. Sean goes over to take their orders. Barnaby downs his drink.
“Hit me again,” he says to the bartender.
Sean sighs, but refills the glass.
The food arrives and Barnaby digs in. He feels better. The world does, too, as the familiar warmth of alcohol spreads through his body. Unaware of time passing, he sits at the bar, comfortable with the low lights and quiet conversation around him. He orders several more drinks.
“Another,” he says as he again shoves his glass across the wooden bar top.
“I think you’ve had enough, Barnaby lad.”
“Tis my business, and it’s Christmas,” Barnaby says, slurring his words.
“Go home, Barnaby. I’ll see you later.”
Sean places the glass in the dishwasher and wipes the counter. Barnaby stares at him for a moment, slides off his stool and plants his feet on the floor. The bartender hands him his hat and coat.
“I’ll be back,” he says, and shuffles unsteadily out the door.
CHAPTER 3
December twenty-sixth. What’s special about this day? Barnaby asks himself as he rolls over in bed. Nothing. It’s the day after Christmas, the day he doesn’t celebrate, and he has a hangover. Well, so what else is new? Then he remembers. This might be the day that Sly will call about the paintings. Barnaby climbs out of bed. Yes, that’s what he said. He wanted to see them before he left town on the twenty-seventh. Barnaby surveys the surrounding scene. God, what a disaster. He has allowed the place to fall into disrepair and messiness. The only part of the house that’s even halfway presentable is his studio. He could do a little cleaning to improve things for the visitor.
His head hurts. Too much scotch the night before. He takes two aspirin and stumbles into the shower, allowing the water to stream over him. There’s still a little shampoo left in the bottle, and he suds his hair, stinging his eyes as he rinses. Amazing what hot water will do. He’s almost human again. Stepping onto the bath mat, he envelopes himself in a towel. He really should do laundry to keep the towels from smelling sour. Scrutinizing his reflection in the mirror, he decides he probably could use a shave. He soaps his chin and runs a razor through the uneven strings of his beard. After washing off and reapplying the soap several times, he succeeds in removing all remnants of it. The raw skin flushes red, and he nicks his skin, but he’s clean-shaven for the first time in years.
Sylvester calls later that morning. “Hey there, Barnaby. Wanted to let you know I can’t make it this time to check out your stuff. But I’m interested. How about if you send me some images so I can get a sense of what you’re doing? My email address is Sylvester@cuttingimage.com.”
Barnaby gulps, clearing his throat before answering slowly, “Sure, Sly. It may take me a few days to get them to you, what with the holidays and all.”
“That’s cool. Shoot me the info. By the way, I go by Sylvester now. Great seeing you.”
Damn him. He’s always been Sly. Shaved for no good purpose. And Barnaby is not accustomed to having his work photographed and sending it anywhere, especially not online. He doesn’t own a computer or know how to use one. Where’s he going to get the money and time for all that? He’s got a car to repair. Lower your expectations, Barnaby boy, he tells himself. This is a pie in the sky, like his plan of moving to California.
Stomach growling, he opens the cupboard. A few packets of crackers and two tins of tomato soup. Those will do for lunch. And breakfast? He opens the fridge. Three eggs and half a carton of milk. A chicken. That would have been his Christmas dinner, with the drumstick for Popsicle. Chicken was the parrot’s favorite—she would hold a drumstick in one claw, biting it as she sat, perching on one foot and tearing at the meat with her large hooked beak. “Good stuff,” she would say.
Good stuff, indeed. Barnaby shuts the refrigerator door. No chicken for the parrot this year, he thinks sadly, and none for him either. He couldn’t stomach it, eating by himself, without Popsicle. His eyes mist as he glances out the window. He had shut it the night before, when he came home, drunk and hopeless.
He fries the eggs, makes coffee, sits down at the table, and wolfs down his breakfast. Then he puts the dishes in the sink, adding to the pile that’s already there. For a minute he considers washing them, but quickly dismisses the thought. He has too many other problems to deal with and needs to make good use of the day. He needs to get organized. First things first. He finds a pencil and makes a list.
Hang up signs about Popsicle.
Fix car.
Drive west.
He takes some large sheets of paper and scrawls the words: Missing. Green Amazon parrot. Answers to name of Popsicle. Please call if found 203-555-7875 or contact owner at 55 Russell Road. Then he puts on his hat and coat and goes outside.
As he tapes the first sign to a lamppost, a woman taps him on the shoulder. “I know that parrot. Are you the owner?”
“Yes. Have you seen her?” he replies, his face brightening.
“No, but I’ve heard her. Amazing vocabulary. I heard her counting.”
“Yes, she liked numbers,” he says dully. “She knew how many tubes of paint I had. If I put them out on the table, she could count every one of them.”
“Did she like the colors as well?”
“Not sure about that. She liked people more. Sat on my shoulder and talked to strangers. Better than me at socializing, I’d say.”
“So you’ve lost her?”
“Guess so. I left the window open.”
“Are you sure about that? I saw someone go into your house on Christmas Eve.”
“You did? My God. You’re kidding me. Excuse me, but who are you, anyway?”
“I’m Lisa. I live two doors down, at number 57.”
Barnaby scans her face. Almost as tall as he is, she is younger, her long chestnut hair gathered in a tail. She levels her gaze, her hazel-flecked eyes solemn.
“I wouldn’t lie to you,” she says.
“All right. Can you give me more details about the person who went into my house? I never leave the door unlocked, so how could anyone get in?”
“She seemed to have a key. I didn’t see her face. She wore a long coat and boots. I keep myself to myself and don’t like to pry, but I pass by your house regularly and I hardly ever see anyone going in the front door. Except for yourself, of course. That’s what caught my attention.”
“I’ll be darned. An intruder! How dare she . . . maybe she took Popsicle. If so, she’ll have hell to pay.” He shakes his head and stomps from one foot to the other. “Did you see her come out?”
“No. It was snowing, and I didn’t want to stick around. None of my business, anyway.”
“Well, thanks for telling me, Miss Lisa. I’m Barnaby. Surprised we’ve never met, but then I’m kind of a loner.”
Heading back to his house he ponders, so someone may have stolen Popsicle. Who on earth could that be? No one ever expressed interest in having the bird. And who has keys to his house beside himself? The contractors who did the work on his studio, but that was years ago. His parents, but they’re dead. He hasn’t changed the locks, and they could have given someone a key. Perhaps he should call the police. No point. Chances are they wouldn’t be able to help.
He’ll try to find clues about the woman’s identity himself.
He goes back inside, taking in every detail of the house as though seeing it for the first time. As he notes the torn wallpaper, the dusty floors, the pictures askew, and the shabby furniture, he feels ashamed. He’s done nothing to improve the place since his parents left it to him except build his studio. That had been a foolish project, too. It cost him all his savings, the small inheritance from his parents, as well as the equity loan he took out to pay for it. He still has loan payments to make each month, and he could definitely use another source of income. That, or he should sell the house and move out West, as planned. In any case, he needs to clean the studio. He climbs the stairs with a bucket and brush.
The doorbell rings and he clatters downstairs to open the door, holding the scrub brush dripping on the floor. Lisa stands outside.
“Sorry to bother you again, but I remembered more information about the woman who entered your house,” she says.
“Kind of you. Please come in, out of the weather.”
“It’ll only take a minute,” she says as she steps into the hallway.
“Let’s go to the kitchen where it’s warmer. I have the oven on. Please excuse the disorder. I’m cleaning up today.” He throws the brush into the sink, splashing water onto the wall, and pulls out a chair for her. “Coffee?” he asks.
“Thank you. Black.”
He pours her a cup. She takes a sip and sheds her coat.
“The woman came in a car. It stopped on the curb, and the driver, a man, waited while she slipped in. As I told you, I didn’t see her come out, but I have a description of the car if that would help when you talk to the police.”
“Thanks, but I haven’t called them.”
“You haven’t?”
“Not yet, anyway. I only want my parrot back. Not sure the police would care about a missing bird. I expect they have more urgent matters to attend to.”
“Yes, I guess so, but someone came into your house without your permission. That’s trespassing. And she may have stolen something besides the parrot.”
“Good point. I hadn’t thought about that. I’ve been distracted. You see, there’s Popsicle, and then my car broke down on Christmas Eve. I need to get it fixed.”
“Oh,” she says, standing up. “Well, I wanted to let you know about the car I saw. A dark green Mercedes.”
“Really? That’s curious. Someone with money. I might give the police a call, but I should probably find out if anything else is missing first, though there’s not much to steal around here. Actually, I was about to go up to my studio.”
