Waterbury Winter, page 3
“You have a studio?” she asks.
Barnaby watches her eyes light up.
“Do you have some paintings there? Mind if I see them? I love art. I majored in art history in college.”
“Sure.”
He leads the way up the staircase.
The studio has high ceilings and windows facing north. Paint of all colors splatters the floor and a rack with partitions holding canvases of different sizes extends along one side of the room. Brushes, tubes of paint, and piles of rags are scattered around. In the center a large oil painting rests on an easel. Lisa ambles over to it.
“Wow! I like this!” she says, turning toward Barnaby.
He shrugs. “Yeah, it’s not finished, but it’s the last piece I worked on before . . . well, before I lost interest.”
“Lost interest? In this subject? How could you? It’s so full of life and color. I love the figures fighting their way against the storm. Expressionist style. Fantastic.”
Barnaby’s face brightens. Then he takes a deep breath, as though readying himself to plunge into the high wave in the painting. “Thanks,” he says, exhaling. “I did a series of weather paintings, usually with figures, often at the beach. I didn’t really lose interest.” His eyes meet hers. “It was the drink. After I started drinking again everything went downhill.”
She grimaces. “I’ve got relatives with that problem. I understand how it is. But you’ve got something here, if this painting is any example.”
Barnaby blinks, then squints as a beam of sunlight streams through the window, illuminating the wall behind him.
“Do you have another to show me?” Lisa asks.
He strides to the rack of paintings and inspects them, pulling out each one. “It’s here somewhere, the best I did in that series.”
She examines some pictures propped against the easel while he continues to search. “I take it these aren’t yours—different style,” she says at last.
“Right. Those are by artists whose work I like. Damn it all, where could it be? I always kept the weather paintings in the order painted, and the one I’m trying to find must have been one of the last. Oh God. Maybe it was stolen. Maybe that woman, whoever she was, took it.”
He gazes at Lisa. Her mouth has dropped open. “Well, now you have another reason to call the police.”
“Guess so. First, I want to find out if any others are missing. Damned nuisance.”
“Okay, I’d better leave you to it. Sounds like you’ll be busy for a while.”
“I’d like to keep looking for that painting. I don’t want to report it missing unless I’m certain.”
“Sure. I’ll come back another day and see more of your work, if you’ll let me. Let me know if I can be of any help to you.”
“You’ve already done a lot. Thank you,” he says.
“Anything to help a struggling artist. You said your car broke down. I’d be happy to give you a ride to wherever it is. Here’s my phone number.” She hands him a business card, pauses for a minute, then retraces her steps downstairs.
Barnaby watches her go, but her words resonate in his mind. Struggling artist. Well, he’s certainly struggling, but no one has called him an artist in a long time. He reads her card. Lisa Nettler, Social Work, New Haven County. Straightening his shoulders, he leans over the stairwell banister and calls down. “Lisa, actually I’d appreciate a ride to the car, if you have time.”
“Sure. How about this afternoon? The snow’s stopping and the streets will be clearer by then.”
“Okay. I’ll knock on your door. Thanks.”
After she leaves, he continues to sort through the rack of paintings. His best painting is definitely missing. He remembers how happily he completed it at the beach—how happy he’d been in those days. Thrilled by the way he’d rendered the viridian waves swirling around squealing children filling buckets, he’d attempted other, more challenging water scenes, stretching his skills as an artist. And those summer afternoons . . . how he misses those times sitting with friends at the water’s edge, watching sanderlings chase then withdraw with the tide, and the warm nights sipping margaritas on the shore.
He slouches in the studio’s frayed armchair, his mind floating like flotsam bobbing up and down as the old memories wash over him. His head drops to his chest. After a while he can’t decide if any other paintings have disappeared because it has been so long since he worked on them and he can’t remember them all. It was a good and productive time for him after he got sober. His parents allowed him to move home on the condition that he quit drinking, but after they died, he slipped. He should now quit drinking and find inspiration to paint once again. It feels good to have someone appreciate his work, even someone who cares enough to steal it. Who would do that? Can the same person have taken Popsicle as well? It made no sense at all.
At two o’clock Barnaby bundles up for the weather and trundles along the sidewalk to Lisa’s house. The temperature has risen to above freezing and all around he hears melting snow dripping from skeleton trees, poking dark holes in the slush. A truck roars past, throwing a tide of black sludge onto the sidewalk, narrowly missing him. He curses under his breath.
Her modest two-story house has wooden siding and sash windows like his and others in the mostly Irish East End neighborhood. But she has kept hers in good condition, with fresh white paint. A fence surrounds the property. She spies him through a window, waves, and steps outside. Her car sits in the driveway.
“Hop in,” she says. “Where to?”
“Jackson Street. I’ll have to get it towed.”
“Okay. Let’s find it and go to a repair shop on Broadway. I know a first-rate mechanic there.”
After a while they turn onto the side street where Barnaby left the car.
“I parked right here,” he mutters. “Goddamit.”
“Are you sure this is the place?”
“Definitely. It ended up in a snowbank. They’ve plowed the street. Must’ve towed the car already.”
“Bummer. You sure seem to have had a run of bad luck lately. There’s a place nearby where they keep towed cars. Let’s go there.”
They stop at a parking lot surrounded by a chain fence. The gate is locked, but he spots his car inside the lot. There’s a sign with a phone number to call to retrieve vehicles. She hands him a pencil and scrap of paper, and he writes it down.
“Guess there’s not much more we can do today, a Sunday. Looks as if no one’s around,” he says. “You’ve been a great help, Lisa. Can I buy you a drink or something?”
“Thanks, but not today. I’ll take you home.”
Back home in his kitchen, he considers having a drink but thinks the better of it and puts a kettle on the stove to make tea. Lisa is a kind woman, and attractive. He wishes he had met her under different circumstances, when he wasn’t in such dire straits and when he had more to offer. Possibly she can become a friend. He needs one now, especially since Popsicle has disappeared from his life.
He feels hopeful until he contemplates all the things he has to do and the expenses to come. It will cost money to get the car to the shop and more money to repair it. He should call a locksmith to change the locks, and he supposes he should call to report the thefts as well. That can wait—he doesn’t want the hassle of dealing with the police. He stares at the parrot’s empty cage. There’s no way he can drive out West without Popsicle. She has been the one genuine pleasure in his life for the past several years, a loyal friend who doesn’t judge him, and something to care for. In fact, he takes better care of his parrot than he does of himself . . . and she’s gone. Perhaps he needs a drink after all. For comfort.
He turns off the stove and reaches for the bottle of scotch.
CHAPTER 4
His alarm goes off at six. Barnaby crawls out of bed as he remembers he has to take the bus to work. He checks himself in the mirror. No bloodshot eyes. He must have stopped drinking early last night, he thinks with relief. There’s no doubt that he appears better—younger—without the beard. He takes a quick shower, dresses, and leaves the house. The bus takes him downtown, to a stop close to the hardware store. He picks up a donut at a coffee shop on the way.
“Morning, Barnaby,” Sal says when he arrives. “How was Christmas?”
“Don’t ask. Lost my parrot, and I think someone broke into my place. I’m afraid I’ll have to make some phone calls on my break.”
“I understand. Did they take anything?”
“Don’t know if the same person took the bird, but one of my painting’s missing.”
“Bad luck.”
“I’ll say. So how did yours go?”
“Great. Family came over, brought presents. Got a new sweater,” he says, pointing to his chest. “Hey, see you got rid of that beard. Looks good.”
“It’ll grow back. Don’t know if I want to make a habit of shaving.”
The first customer arrives, and soon both men get busy. There’s a lot of demand for shovels and sand. At ten, Barnaby goes to the office in the back of the store and pulls out the scrap of paper with the towing service number.
“Barnaby Brown here. You’ve got my car in your lot, and I need to get it out. Can you tow it to the shop on Broadway?”
“You have to come by and pay first.”
“How much will that be?”
“Depends on how long it’s been here.”
“I think you towed it yesterday or the day before.”
“It’s one hundred dollars, then twenty for each day.”
“So how late are you open?”
“Close at five.”
Barnaby groans, hopes sinking to his boots. That means a hundred and twenty dollars already, and the clock is ticking. He must retrieve the car today. He picks up the phone again and calls the repair shop. If he can get the car there, they might work on it tomorrow.
“Sal, I need to leave early today to deal with the car,” he says.
“Okay with me, but yer’ll have a short check this week. Ya missed a lot of days before the holiday, and we agreed no work, no pay. Sorry to do this to ya, Barnaby, but business is business.”
Barnaby nods dully. He needs the car. He also needs the job. He takes the bus to the tow lot and enters the office.
“I’m here to pick up my car,” he tells the attendant.
“Which car is that? Do you have proof of ownership?”
“Somewhere, but not on me.”
“We need a document.”
“I think I put a copy of the registration in the glove compartment. If you let me go to my car, I can check,” Barnaby says.
“Okay. Need to see your driver’s license first.”
Barnaby takes his wallet from his pocket and pulls out the license.
“All right. You can go check.”
Barnaby goes through the door into the back lot and rushes to his car. He unlocks the passenger door and slides into the seat to search the glove compartment. There’s nothing there except a flashlight.
“Goddammit,” he says out loud and returns to the office.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” the attendant says.
“I have the papers somewhere. They must be at home. I took off work to come here. Will you let me pay now so you won’t charge me for an extra day? I can come back tomorrow with the documents.”
“Sorry. Got to follow the rules,” the man says, pointing to a sign on the wall.
Barnaby grunts with annoyance as he leaves. As he passes Horace’s Joint, a bar he would normally avoid, he thinks a drink might be the thing to soothe his nerves. He’s about to enter the saloon when the door bursts open and three men emerge, two dressed in black leather, their necks collared by a beefy man with a red face. A smell of vomit emanates from inside.
“Get outta here, you bastards, and don’t show your scrawny asses here again,” he roars.
The men rev their motorbikes and screech out of sight.
“Freakin’ yahoos,” the man growls. He catches sight of Barnaby. “You comin’ in?”
Barnaby wavers.
“Barnaby!”
He turns to see Lisa’s car by the curb.
“Saw you as I passed by,” she calls through the lowered window. “Did you get your car back?”
“No. Forgot the registration.”
“Oh. Need a ride?”
He throws a glance at the saloon. Could be a bad idea to go in that place. He’s not that desperate, and he’d prefer to drink at O’Malley’s anyway. He shakes his head at the man waiting by the door.
“Sure,” he says to Lisa. “If you’ve got time.”
He climbs into the car, and they head to Russell Road.
“Have you figured out who your intruder was?” she asks.
“No.”
“Did you call the police? Get the locks changed?”
“No.”
Out of the corner of his eye he sees her glance furtively in his direction. Squeezed next to the door, slumped in the seat, he stares at his hands. They drive to Barnaby’s house without talking. He opens the car door and steps out.
“Thanks again,” he says.
He knows he ought to be grateful to her, but feels vaguely irritated. He’s embarrassed that she has helped him yet again, and he’d rather have had a drink. He turns toward O’Malley’s, then stops in his tracks. He wants the car back and needs to find the registration.
He lets himself into the house and makes for the living room, opens the desk drawer stuffed with bills, receipts, and envelopes, pulls everything onto the floor, then kneels to sort through the jumble. He sees a notice with PAYMENT OVERDUE printed in red letters. It’s his loan invoice for November. He must have forgotten to pay. Now he’ll have a penalty on top of the usual bill. He can hardly stand to search any further. It’s time to fix the car and drive away from his miserable life in Waterbury.
But he can’t leave without Popsicle. Somehow, he believes he’ll find her. She’s been his companion for years, and he can’t conceive of life without her. It’s only been two days, and his life already feels bottomless. She has given him roots, a grounding of sorts, and a continuing connection to Anna. He has to find her. He’ll hang up more signs. Surely someone noticed a person coming out of his house with the big green bird, a sight hard to ignore, or saw her flying away somewhere. He’s half crazed worrying about it all and resolves that if he gets Popsicle back, he’ll muster the strength to change everything.
He stuffs the papers back into the drawer. As he does so, a piece falls out of his hand. His car registration. Thank God! He picks it up, folds it carefully, and puts it in his pocket. If he hurries, he might still make it to the towed car lot before they close.
Three hours later, the car is at the repair shop and Barnaby’s back home. Having successfully accomplished one project, he wants chicken for dinner. Even though he’ll eat alone without Popsicle to share it, a meal will help his state of mind. Perhaps he’ll have a drink to go along with it. Only one drink. There’s not much left in the bottle, anyway. He considers inviting Lisa to share dinner, but he has nothing to go with the chicken except some stale crackers, and that’s hardly a meal. Perhaps he can invite her another time, after he’s had a chance to go grocery shopping and clean the house.
He turns on the oven. He’ll roast the chicken and open a can of tomato soup for an appetizer. If he puts the cracker pieces in the soup, he won’t notice they’re stale. He pours himself a drink and sits at the table while he waits for the oven to warm up. Life already seems brighter. After a while he puts the chicken in the oven.
The doorbell rings, and he rises to answer it. A young woman stands on the doorstep.
“Hi,” she says. “I read your sign, and I think I have your bird.”
“What? You do? You’re an angel!”
His mouth breaks into a wide smile, and he has a strong urge to fling his arms around her. She does look like an angel, and pretty too, with shiny blond hair and cobalt eyes. She smiles back.
“The bird flew into my window. I live next door but I only saw your sign this morning. I came earlier to tell you, but you weren’t home. Problem is, I don’t know how to pick her up. She has those claws, you know?”
“No problem there. I can come and get her.”
“Please do. I don’t know anything about parrots. I called the pet store to ask what to feed her. They said give her peanuts. So that’s what I did. She made a big heap, spitting out the shells and dropping them on the floor.”
“Yes, she does that. She likes chicken, too. I’ll give her some tonight. Well, let’s go.”
They walk to the house next door. On the way she tells him her name is Mary, and that she moved into the neighborhood a few weeks ago. She opens the front door cautiously.
“I don’t want the bird to fly out,” she says. “I’ve kept her in the kitchen, but this morning she got out and flew into the living room. She’s perching on the curtain rail.”
Barnaby follows her into the room.
“Popsicle!” he calls.
The parrot squawks loudly and flies down from the curtains, landing on Barnaby’s shoulder.
“Hello, hello, good parrot,” Popsicle says. “Hello. Good parrot!”
“Yes, good parrot!” Barnaby says.
The bird rubs her beak against his ear, and he strokes her back.
He beams at Mary. “I can’t thank you enough. I’ll think of a present to give you. This bird means the world to me.”
“I can see that,” she says. “I didn’t know what to do with her. If it hadn’t been Christmas, I probably would’ve given her to the pet store.”
“Glad you didn’t. I’m so happy she’s back.”
“How old is she, and how long have you had her?” Mary asks.
“She’s twenty-three. I’ve had her for eighteen years. My wife Anna gave her to me before she died. She had cancer.” He blinks, sniffs, and lowers his gaze, then glances sideways as Popsicle climbs down his arm and pecks at his sleeve. “I know, you’re hungry, old girl. We need to go. I’ve got a chicken in the oven.”
“Now I can understand why you’re so attached to her,” Mary says. “Thanks for telling me.”
