Waterbury Winter, page 5
“Oh my God. Terrible news. Sal’s a regular bull of health, uh, I mean, he’s always had a clean bill of health, hasn’t he?”
“Until now, he has. Can you manage to keep things going while he’s away? Today’s the thirtieth, and the store’s not open on New Year’s Day, so you’ll only have to cover today and tomorrow.”
“Of course I can manage. What a shock! Poor Sal. Please send him my best wishes and tell him not to worry.”
“You’re a brick. Thanks, Barnaby.”
Sal had a heart attack? He’s only a few years older than Barnaby, though he eats rich food and has the bulging waistline to prove it. Barnaby’s sorry for Sal, but now he, Barnaby, can’t take time off to manage his own problems. But that’s okay. He’s tired of dealing with them, anyway, and he’s glad to help his boss. He’ll manage the store, even work overtime. It would be good to have the extra pay.
The day passes quickly. He counts the cash, deposits it in the safe, locks up, and takes the bus home. On his door mat he finds the mail in a pile, mostly bills, but there’s a handwritten envelope as well, a woman’s hand, curvy and neat. He takes the card out. It’s an invitation to a New Year’s Eve party at Lisa’s house. He sets it on the mantelpiece next to the framed photograph of his wife. No one has invited him to a party for years, and he usually celebrates the new year at the bar. It might be good to have a change. He picks up the phone and leaves voice mail for Lisa telling her he’s pleased to accept her invitation.
He goes to bed at eleven. From a deep sleep, the shrill sound of the telephone startles him awake. He throws the covers off, leaps to his feet, and fumbles in the dark for the handset. A woman’s voice screams into the line.
“You thief! You lying bastard! I only took what’s mine to take. You’re a life wrecker, Barnaby Brown.”
And the phone goes dead.
He drops the receiver. Who on earth can she be? Who did I hurt, and whose life did I wreck, apart from my own? Whoever it is must be deranged. She said she only took what was hers to take. Could that be the painting? Of course. His parents’ house cleaner who had a key has taken his painting. He still doesn’t remember her name. He’ll investigate tomorrow. Grateful he has re-keyed the locks, he goes back to bed imagining shadowy figures peering at him from behind the curtains of his bedroom, his parents’ old room. Those ghosts again. How can he ever escape them, living in their house, with their former maid stealing precious pieces of his earlier life? He falls into an uneasy sleep.
In the morning he wonders if the phone call was just a figment of his guilty imagination.
CHAPTER 6
On New Year’s Eve, Barnaby manages the store alone again. He doesn’t expect many customers, and more storms are forecast. Icy winds buffet the few brave pedestrians, hunched over and scurrying along the sidewalk. God-awful weather, he thinks. He brews a pot of coffee to drink with his morning donut. At lunch time, he debates braving the cold and running out for a sandwich. Hunger pangs win out, and he posts a BACK IN 15 MINUTES sign on the door.
He spends most of the day after lunch taking inventory. He knows this will please Sal, and having it done will spare him some stress—bad for a person with heart problems. Wanting to know how his boss is doing, he picks up the phone. A woman’s voice answers.
“Gina? Barnaby here, calling to see how Sal’s getting along.”
“Well, thanks. He’s okay. Wants to get back to work. They’re discharging him this afternoon. I’m guessing he’ll be in on Friday. Wants to pay you.”
“Tell him there’s no hurry, though I’d appreciate the check. I could stop by and pick it up, if that would be easier.”
“Let’s wait until Friday and see how things go. How’s everything at the store?”
“Fine. Taking inventory. Tell him not to worry, and happy New Year to both of you.”
He hangs up, turning his thoughts to the party that evening, thinking he should have done some laundry last night. What does he have to wear that’s halfway decent? He might still have a good shirt and some dark pants. Time to shave again to get rid of the stubble from several days’ growth. Conjecturing why that matters, he recognizes it’s because he’d like to make a good impression on Lisa. A new sensation—he can’t even remember the last time a woman caught his attention.
Barnaby closes the store early, as he knows Sal would do on New Year’s Eve, and goes home. Popsicle squawks hello when he opens the front door. He returns the greeting, then cuts up an apple for her. She takes it, eyeing him with appreciation. The party starts at nine, and he has plenty of time to find suitable clothes. Why is he so nervous, acting like a teenager? He hasn’t concerned himself much about his appearance for years, but now he regards himself critically in the full-length mirror in the bedroom. Unable to see through it, he fetches some window cleaner and wipes the glass. He’s a little taken aback at the face that emerges. His stringy hair is in need of a good cut and his hollow cheeks give him an emaciated expression, as though he hasn’t eaten well in years. Well, there’s some truth to that. He hasn’t paid much attention to the food pyramid advised by the government for healthy eating, and he knows he’s had more than his quota of alcoholic beverages. That reminds him: he must be sure not to drink too much tonight.
It’s too late to go to the barber, but he can shave, take a shower, and trim the worst of the shaggy hair around his face. His smile is his best feature. He practices smiling in front of the mirror. He finds a blue shirt that compliments his eyes and a pair of corduroy pants. They’re a bit large in the waist, but he tightens his belt and figures they’re all right. At least he has a brand- new pair of boots to wear.
“Well, bless my buttons,” Popsicle says, extending a wing and preening the feathers.
Has she noticed he’s wearing different clothes? And that his trouser button needs to be tighter? Surely not. She’s not prescient. Or is she?
“See you soon,” he says, slipping a smile.
As he approaches Lisa’s house, he hears music and laughter. He stops. Does he really want to go in? Socializing was never his strong point, and it has been a long time since he attended a party—he’ll go home and tell Lisa he’s sick. As he vacillates, rocking from one foot to the other by the front door, a couple passes by.
“Guess you’re going to Lisa’s. I’m Harry, and this is Olivia,” the man says.
“I’m Barnaby.”
“Well, come on in,” Harry says, holding the door open.
Barnaby squares his shoulders and steps inside. Lisa takes his coat.
“So glad you came,” she says. “Don’t you look nice. How’s it going?” Dressed in a silvery blouse and black pants and her hair swept up, she appears stylish.
“Got the parrot back,” he says.
“Well, that’s good news.”
At that moment, two women wearing fur coats and heavy perfume arrive. They hug Lisa and talk to her, gesticulating wildly.
Lisa gives Barnaby a wink. “Talk to you later.”
He’d prefer to continue the conversation with her, but obviously she has other guests to attend to. He surveys the scene. The floor plan is similar to his, but renovations have changed the appearance entirely. It’s much better. Her kitchen, a separate room in his house, opens to a sitting area with a fireplace. On the table there are piles of sandwiches, bowls of fruit, oatmeal cookies, various cuts of meat, and a platter of cheese, olives, and sliced baguettes. In the middle of the spread, like a monument, stands an enormous chocolate cake on a platform. He saunters over and stares. It’s at least three layers high, with “Happy 2009” on top in pink icing.
He turns to the woman standing next to him and tries to think of something to say. “Better than a donut,” he says.
She turns to face him. “What’s better than a donut?”
“That cake. I bet it’s better than the donut I eat each morning.”
“Well, I guess so,” she says, giving him an uneasy stare and moving away.
Barnaby considers going home. He’s no good at small talk, and the crowd of strangers talking with such animation intimidates him. Then he hears a woman’s soft voice behind him.
“Is that Barnaby Brown? What are you doing here?”
He spins around. A younger woman smiles up at him. A sparkling barrette accents her long dark hair cascading over her red dress, holding back a curl, artfully arranged above one ear.
“Julia!” he says. “Haven’t seen you in a donkey’s age—sorry, don’t mean to use that old expression—it’s been years. How are you? What brings you here?”
“I’m a friend of Lisa’s. We work together. Why don’t you get a drink and we can sit down and catch up?”
“All right. Can I get you something as well? What will it be?”
“A Diet Coke, thanks. Don’t drink alcohol much anymore.”
He makes his way to the kitchen counter, finds a can of Diet Coke, and pours himself a glass of scotch over ice. He hands her the can, and she goes back to fetch a glass. Flinching—he’s forgotten his manners—he starts to apologize. She smiles and holds her hand up to silence him, and they sit together on the couch.
“So Barnaby, tell me what you’ve been up to. I last saw you in Providence, twenty years ago or so. You taught art at that girls’ school. Are you still teaching?”
“Sadly, no. You may not have known that Anna died. Cancer. I left after that. Haven’t kept up my teaching career.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, and about Anna. What a lovely girl, and you both had so much talent.”
Barnaby looks down at his hands. “There has never been anyone like Anna.”
Julia touches his shoulder. After a minute Barnaby clears his throat and says, “What about you? You were still in college when we knew each other. I remember you dated my old friend Sly.”
She smirks. “Yeah . . . along with everyone else, I guess. Still, we had fun in those days, didn’t we?”
“We did. Strange, seeing you here. I ran into Sly right before Christmas, here in town.”
“You did? Is he still teaching?”
“No. He said he’s in the art business, buying and selling art. He has a gallery. Seems to be on his second wife.”
She nods. “Sounds like him, always a bit of a salesman. I’m sorry—he was our friend. I don’t mean to speak badly of him.”
“It’s okay. He and I haven’t kept up our friendship. Anyway, what are you doing now?”
“As I said, I work with Lisa. Social work. Not always easy, but necessary.”
“I should think so. Helping people is important.”
“So is painting. We all need artists. I remember your fascination with the weather in Rhode Island. You’d go out on the rocks to watch approaching storms so you could paint the gathering clouds. Very dramatic!”
Barnaby’s face flushes. “Well, that was then,” he says, swallowing the last of his drink.
“Do you remember the time we all went night sailing? You, Anna, Sly and me? Now, that was wild.”
“Stupid, more like. We couldn’t see a thing.”
They both laugh.
“You have that same irresistible smile,” she says. “Dimples and all!”
He covers his mouth with his hand, and his flush deepens. “Think I’ll help myself to another drink,” he says, getting up. “Can I get you something?”
“No, thanks. It’s great to see you again, but I don’t want to stop you from visiting with everyone else.”
He sits back down. Maybe he doesn’t need another drink yet. “I’d rather talk to you. You’re the only person I know besides Lisa, and I’ve only newly met her.”
“I don’t know anyone else, either. Lisa thinks I need to get out more, so she invited me. I have to admit, I tend to stay home a lot.”
“Me, too.” Barnaby glances at her left hand. No wedding ring.
“I’d love to know about your art,” she says. “What are you working on these days?”
Barnaby waits before answering. He doesn’t want to tell her he’s not painting anymore and that he works at a hardware store. He’s already humiliated enough by running into Sly, and he likes Julia and wants her to think well of him. “Actually, I’ve started a new series of paintings of people in ordinary walks of life,” he lies. “Working, you know? Sly may even want to buy some.”
“That’s terrific. Do you have a studio? And do you live here, in Waterbury?”
“Yes, to both questions. What part of town do you live in?”
“North End. I have a condominium there.”
“Ah yes. I remember you were into acting. Are you still performing?”
“Occasionally, with a local group. It’s not as much fun as theater in college, though.” Her eyes light up. “Do you remember when we all had parts in South Pacific? You were Emile, and I was Bloody Mary. Anna played Nellie. She had a beautiful voice. It was loads of fun.” She searches his face. “You were perfect for the part, with your sun-bleached hair and deep tan.”
Barnaby shrinks at the notion of himself now, so much older. He runs his hands through his limp tawny hair as he struggles to think of a fitting response. After a few moments, he says, “It was fun. It’s where I got to know Anna. You know she taught English at the same school where I taught art, but I never knew her well at work. Then when she tried out for the play, I saw a different side of her.”
“I remember. We all envied you two, especially when you sang, ‘Some Enchanted Evening.’ It was obvious you were singing it to her.”
He smiles. “She did well with the song about washing that man right out of her hair, too.”
“Which she apparently couldn’t do with you,” Julia says, nudging him with her elbow.
He laughs. “It’s good to talk about those times,” he says. “Makes me young again.”
“Me, too,” she says.
He sees a shadow pass across her face. “Do you have a family? Any kids?”
“No.”
Noting her sad expression, he figures it’s best not to pry. That would allow her to inquire more about his life, too, and he’s not prepared with answers.
The disc jockey in the adjoining room announces that he will accept requests for songs from the guests.
“Let’s have him play something from South Pacific,” Julia says.
Before he has a chance to respond she jumps up and marches to the DJ. In a few minutes he hears the strains of “Bali Ha’i.” Julia grabs his hand.
“Want to dance?”
He hesitates. He’s not sure he knows how to dance anymore.
“Come on, it’s New Year’s Eve,” she says.
He sets down his empty glass and eases himself off the couch. She leads him to the living room, and they join the dancers. Grasping her right hand, he winds an arm around her waist. She feels light and agile in his embrace. He catches the rhythm of the slow song and dances perfectly in step with her. A faint fragrance of coconut wafts from her hair. When the music stops, he’s suddenly aware of his heartbeat. As he steals a glimpse at her face, he notices her eyes are moist.
“Thank you, I enjoyed that,” she says.
“First time I’ve been dancing in a donkey’s age. There’s that old saying again. What’s a donkey’s age, anyway?”
She smiles. “How long do donkeys live?”
He returns her smile. “No idea, but I have a sudden yearning for a piece of that chocolate cake. Care to join me?”
“Only if it’s already cut. Lisa may be saving it for midnight. She likes ceremonies.”
Barnaby peers over her head at the table. The cake sits untouched. “Too bad. Guess that means we’ll have to wait until midnight. I had only planned to put in an appearance here, but thanks to you I’d like to stay longer. Would you like to dance again?”
She nods, and they step back into the throng. The music’s tempo picks up. They jump and sway and move their feet.
Lisa appears at Barnaby’s side and whispers into his ear. “Didn’t want to ignore you. Can you spare a minute for a chat?” She glances at Julia. “If you have time, I mean. Don’t mean to interrupt,” she says loudly.
Barnaby stops moving and looks apologetically at Julia.
“Go ahead and talk to Lisa. She’s the host.” Julia says. “I need to sit down, anyway. Dancing’s hard work. I’ll see you later.” She gives Barnaby a brief wave and leaves them together.
“Come into the kitchen, away from the mob,” Lisa says.
Barnaby follows her to the sink. Bottles of wine and liquor are assembled on the counter nearby. “Think I’ll help myself to a drink, if that’s okay.” He drops some ice cubes and pours scotch into a glass.
“So tell me. I’m dying to know. How did you get the parrot back?”
“She flew through my neighbor’s window.”
“Oh. Then I guess the woman I saw going into your house didn’t take her. How about the missing painting? Did you find that?”
“No, and I’ve no idea what happened to it. Maybe the woman you saw stole it, but maybe not. I called the police, but I didn’t have enough useful information.”
“That’s too bad, but I’d still like to see more of your paintings,” Lisa says. “May I come over sometime soon?”
“Sure. Name the day.”
“How about this weekend? Saturday?”
“Evening’s okay after seven. I work during the day.”
“Fine. I want to thank you for coming tonight. Hope you’re enjoying yourself. I have this party every year. We have cake and champagne at midnight, and we make all kinds of silly toasts. It’s a good way to begin the new year. Are you making any resolutions?”
“Sure. I want to solve all my problems. You know about some of those. And I plan to move out West.”
“I’ll be darned. Where, and why?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Tired of the snow. Santa Barbara or San Diego. Anywhere warm.”
“Well, you’ll have to get the car fixed first, right?”
“Of course.” He stares at his feet. He’s doesn’t want to be reminded of his problems after enjoying himself talking and dancing with Julia. “Lisa, it’s a very nice party. Thank you for inviting me,” he says, taking a sip of his drink.
