Waterbury Winter, page 22
“Of course I do!” Sean smiles. “I’ll hang it right here.” He points to a space on the wall where the framed uniform hangs. “How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing. It’s a gift. O’Malley’s is a service to the community, and we’re all grateful.”
“O’Malley’s is more than that,” Professor Miller adds. “It’s the next salon, right here in Waterbury.”
Everyone laughs.
“Come on now, Professor,” Sean says. “We’re just plain folks here. Plain folks, with ordinary lives.”
Barnaby nods. “Exactly. As one of my art teachers told me, the purpose of art is to make the ordinary extraordinary.”
“Well said,” the professor agrees. “Even Yeats wrote poems about everyday life. In his words: ‘Think like a wise man but communicate in the language of the people.’” He raises his glass. “To artists everywhere.”
CHAPTER 41
Barnaby begins the week with two goals: to complete another bar painting and finish cleaning the house. He’ll then have three additional works to sell, and he can invite Julia over. They talk every night on the phone.
“When are we going to celebrate?” he asks at last.
“What’s left to celebrate? We’ve already celebrated my birthday, my victory at pool, and your winning the fishing contest. You’ve given me flowers, taken me to lunch . . .”
“But you haven’t heard the latest. I won the Art Commission’s mural contest. They’ve commissioned a mural downtown and will pay me $10,000.”
“Wow! Now that’s something worth celebrating. Congratulations!”
“Thank you. I’d like to have you over for dinner. You can meet Popsicle. Will you come?”
“I’d love to.”
After he hangs up the phone, Barnaby swallows hard. Why did he make such a bold offer? He worries about whether things are clean enough. He appraises the kitchen. The oven needs cleaning, and the sink could use scouring. He needs to run a newly repaired dishwasher. He needs to buy some place mats and new glasses at the hardware store. Sheets for the bed. And new pillows.
On the morning of Julia’s visit, he turns up the heat. When she arrives that evening, he helps her out of her coat and ushers her into the kitchen.
“It’s cozy in here,” she says.
He smiles.
Popsicle sits on top of the cage, peering sideways at Julia. “Good parrot,” the bird says.
Julia gapes. “Sounds like a human voice. What else can she say?”
“Lots of things. Sometimes she comes up with words that surprise you. You’ll hear her, I’m sure. She always speaks her mind.”
“She’s an honest bird?”
“I’d say so. More than many humans, anyway.”
Julia crosses the room to Popsicle’s cage. Using her beak, the bird claws her way lower down and views Julia intently.
“Heavens to Murgatroyd. Good stuff.”
Julia giggles. “I haven’t heard that expression in years. What does she mean, good stuff?”
“It’s a compliment. She likes you.”
“May I touch her?”
“Let’s see. She’s usually wary of new people.” He offers Popsicle his arm. After a few moments, she steps onto his sleeve. “You can try stroking the back of her neck like this,” he says, demonstrating.
Julia caresses the feathers. Popsicle lowers her head and rubs her beak against Barnaby’s arm.
“She does like you. She doesn’t let just anyone get close. Let me get you a drink.”
“One for the road,” Popsicle says.
Barnaby and Julia laugh.
“Is this a signal I should leave?” she asks.
“I don’t think so. She responds to the word drink. I sometimes take her to O’Malley’s with me.”
“That makes sense. She’s your companion. Most people talk to their pets, I guess, but yours talks back!” Julia says.
“True. She has opinions of her own, too. Probably that’s why she likes O’Malley’s. Everyone’s opinionated there. No shortage of conversation, ever.”
“With Sean, you mean?”
“Not just Sean. Professor Miller as well.”
Barnaby rises and returns Popsicle to her cage. She climbs up to the top perch and regards them, her black eyes unblinking.
“As I mentioned, I’ve had some good talks with the professor recently. He’s been reading poems from the local newspaper. Seems Sean is a poet.”
“Really? What fun. Did you know?”
“I wondered from time to time, but the professor figured it out. Sean’s been seeing a woman who also writes poetry. The professor compared the bar to a kind of salon, similar to ones they had in Paris in the nineteenth century. It’s surprising how creative some regular customers at Sean’s are turning out to be.”
“Yourself included, of course. Tell me, what makes people want to pursue art?”
“I don’t know about everyone, but for me it has never been a choice. I’ve always wanted to paint and feel worse about myself when I don’t. That’s part of the reason I fell into bad ways. Couldn’t live with myself.”
She nods thoughtfully. “Well, you’re painting again, and I can tell it makes all the difference.”
“It does. Everyone should express themselves. They don’t have to call themselves artists. You, too. You demonstrated great artistry at the pool game the other night. Your assessment of the balls’ placement on the board, the angle of your shots, the way you held the cue—you used it to create patterns as an artist uses a paintbrush.”
She stares at him, wide-eyed. “I’ve never considered myself an artist, but I understand your point. Actually, I’m beginning a new project. I’m finishing the family history that my mother started.”
Barnaby sits back and flings his hands behind his head. “Good for you. How’s it going?”
“Slowly. I’ve read papers and journals for research, and I’m excited about this. I’m finally fulfilling a promise I made to my mother years ago.”
“So wonderful to hear this,” Barnaby says. “It means we’re both engaged in creative endeavors that we’ve denied ourselves for years. You know all of this is restorative.”
“That’s what I’m discovering. You know, I got a letter from Lisa recently. She explained everything and apologized to me for her behavior.”
“Good. She’s taking steps to improve her life, it seems, like the rest of us.”
“Right. It all seems so simple once you find the right direction.”
“It’s like painting. You have to reach beyond the vanishing point on the horizon for something important you can’t quite see, but know is there.”
“Spoken like a true artist,” Julia grins.
Two hours later, they lounge at the table with the remains of their dinner.
“I didn’t know I liked artichoke hearts on pizza,” he says.
“I didn’t know I liked olives.”
Barnaby understands then that sitting right there in his kitchen with Julia is a moment to cherish. The present moment. Maybe if the present is right, the future will take care of itself. He glances at the clock, surprised at the late hour.
“Would you like dessert?” he asks, wanting to extend her visit, his mind working furiously to recall the contents of his freezer.
“I couldn’t eat another bite,” she says, “but I’d love to see your studio and new paintings.”
He rises and gestures toward the stairs. She peeks into the rooms without being intrusive. As he guides her through the house, he considers it has indeed been an enchanted evening.
“The house has good bones,” Julia says. “Just like the dollhouse I dearly loved as a child,” she continues. “I found it in my father’s attic recently and have it now in my condo. Seems strange, but this house reminds me of it. It’s a real home, with heart.”
“Thank you,” he says, warming to her. “It’s where I grew up. My parents left it to me. I’ve let it decline a bit, but I’m fixing it up now. They worked hard to afford it, and I owe them.”
When they reach the studio, he flips the switch, and the room blazes with light. His most recent canvas sits on the easel. She crosses the room to examine it.
“I don’t know much about painting, but I love those layers of pigment. The whole thing glows. I like the way the sun shines through the windows, bringing out the warmth in the planks of wood. I don’t know how to describe it, but it gives me an appreciation for the work those men are doing, stacking the lumber.”
“A perfect reaction!” Barnaby says. He looks at her with new appreciation and the sense that he might always enjoy learning new things about her. He lifts the painting from the easel and sets another in its place.
“I like this one even more,” she says. “It’s O’Malley’s, isn’t it? And that’s Sean, and Charley. Lovely, full of atmosphere. How did you manage to get the brass to shine? It jumps right off the canvas.”
“Yellow ochre, a touch of viridian, cadmium red, and a little black for the base color. Titanium white for the highlights.”
“Marvelous.”
“I’ll complete others in this series of oils. Farmers tending a herd of cows. People ice fishing. I may do a watercolor or two as well.”
“I’m sure all will be equally good. But I’m curious. No palm trees and sandy beaches? Nothing that represents your dream of going out West?”
“No. I painted beach scenes in Providence. None since then.” He pulls one of his old paintings out of the rack. Tanned children build sand castles beside aqua seas, while a girl in a sunhat stares upward to a cloud-pocked sky.
“That’s how I remember it all,” she says, bending down to examine the painting and fingering the outline of the girl’s long braids on her back. “So let me ask again, why aren’t you painting scenes of California?”
“Maybe because I don’t need to. California is like Bali Ha’i—a place where you dream of going, but can never reach. Something has changed in me as well. This is where I belong, and I don’t want to leave.”
Surprised by his own words, he senses a distant voice calling. His head swirls as though he’s in the grip of a riptide sweeping him away from shore. He grabs onto the easel to steady himself. Anna held special affection for the young girl he captured in the painting. The girl learned to predict weather by observing cloud formations. With uncanny instinct, she was rarely wrong. Barnaby loved Anna for her recognition of people’s quiet strengths. He feels her presence in the room and knows at that moment that she wants happiness for him, and for him to live and love again, in strength.
He slumps into the old armchair. The sweeping riptide turns gentle and recedes. When he looks up moments later, he finds Julia’s eyes searching his.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
He pulls himself upright. “Never better.”
He takes her into his arms and melts into the soft warmth of her body.
Popsicle’s voice rings clear from the kitchen.
“Heavens! Lord love a duck!”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A book needs many players to bring it to completion, and this one is no exception. I’m so grateful to all the people who gave their time and thoughts to Waterbury Winter as it evolved from first draft to final manuscript.
Thanks to those who read early drafts: Rebecca d’Harlingue, Carol Masters, Doug Bachmann, Eve Austen, Cathy Hill, Martha Moody, John Moody, Dick Robblee, and James Keul. Special thanks to Dick for his invaluable help with the pool scene and to my son James for his artist’s perspective.
Probably every writer needs encouragement, and I’ve been fortunate to have the support of wonderful cheerleaders during the long writing and publication process. I’d especially like to acknowledge Celia Chandler, Denise O’Neil, my UK family, members of Skyline Book Club, my daughter Jenny Keul.
How could I have polished the book without the amazing editing and coaching given so generously by Ellen Notbohm? She helped me through many dark moments, times when I doubted the story would see the light of day. I valued her presence as though she were a kind friend looking over my shoulder.
All the people at She Writes Press are knowledgeable and responsive, and they were a pleasure to work with for the second time. Thank you for accepting Waterbury Winter for the Spring 2022 list, and special thanks to Brooke Warner, Lauren Wise, and Julie Metz.
My publicist Caitlin Hamilton Summie deserves a shout-out, also for the second time.
I’d like to acknowledge Peanut, my family’s yellow-naped Amazon parrot as the inspiration for Popsicle. Peanut was with us for years, and his expressions (“Good stuff,” “Good parrot,” “Hello”) were daily utterances and the source of much attention and amusement.
Finally, many thanks to my husband Vince, who offers unfailing encouragement and, importantly, is the cook in our household, providing food for thought as well as meals.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Author photo © Mark Gardner
Linda Stewart Henley is the award-winning author of Estelle: A Novel. Waterbury Winter is her second book. She lives in Anacortes, Washington, with her husband.
SELECTED TITLES FROM SHE WRITES PRESS
She Writes Press is an independent publishing company founded to serve women writers everywhere.
Visit us at www.shewritespress.com.
Play for Me by Céline Keating. $16.95, 978-1-63152-972-6. Middle-aged Lily impulsively joins a touring folk-rock band, leaving her job and marriage behind in an attempt to find a second chance at life, passion, and art.
The Black Velvet Coat by Jill G. Hall. $16.95, 978-1-63152-009-9. When the current owner of a black velvet coat—a San Francisco artist in search of inspiration—and the original owner, a 1960s heiress who fled her affluent life fifty years earlier, cross paths, their lives are forever changed . . . for the better.
The Velveteen Daughter by Laurel Davis Huber. $16.95, 978-1-63152-192-8. The first book to reveal the true story of the woman who wrote The Velveteen Rabbit and her daughter, a world-famous child prodigy artist, The Velveteen Daughter explores the consequences of early fame and the inability of a mother to save her daughter from herself.
The Geometry of Love by Jessica Levine. $16.95, 978-1-938314-62-9. Torn between her need for stability and her desire for independence, an aspiring poet grapples with questions of artistic inspiration, erotic love, and infidelity.
Beautiful Garbage by Jill DiDonato. $16.95, 978-1-938314-01-8. Talented but troubled young artist Jodi Plum leaves suburbia for the excitement of the city—and is soon swept up in the sexual politics and downtown art scene of 1980s New York.
Linda Stewart Henley, Waterbury Winter
