Waterbury Winter, page 7
“You’re lucky to have work you enjoy. Got to go. Thanks again for your help.”
“No problem. Come back in a day or so when the guy’s had a chance to reply.”
“I’ll do that. See you later.”
He retraces his steps homeward, hears the phone ring as he opens the door, and rushes to pick it up.
“Got your email. Sylvester here. Happy New Year! No time like the present. When are you going to get those images to me? I expected them already.”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about. I don’t have a computer and can’t send you anything electronically. But if you have time to come over, I can show you some original work. That’s better, anyway.”
“All right. I can get away this weekend. I live in Manhattan now, not far from my business, Goldstone Gallery in Greenwich Village. What’s your address?”
“55 Russell Road. How about Sunday?”
Barnaby hangs up the phone and sits down. Then he remembers he forgot to ask for the guy’s phone number. Damn. Now he really needs to clean up. How can he bring his wealthy friend into this dump? It would further humiliate him, and Sly would soon see that he’s no longer painting. Feeling panicky, he climbs to the studio. He can create something new that very day and find the paintings in the weather series, ones that might attract buyers. A small blank primed canvas sits on the floor, and he lifts it onto the easel, replacing the painting that’s there. Then he pulls more paintings out of the racks. It’s been several years since he examined them, and he’s surprised how good they are. Sunlit scenes burst with color and life—figures on beaches lying on striped towels with umbrellas, children splashing in the waves, white spray obscuring their faces. Other paintings are mysterious, with rocks and lighthouses barely discernible through the mist. He lines the canvases up against the wall. Twenty altogether. Too bad the one he considers his best isn’t among them, and he debates contacting the police with additional information about the cleaning woman who has a key . . . but he doesn’t have time now. He needs to paint—and clean.
He opens the drawer where he keeps his oil paints and chooses colors, then opens the tubes and squeezes the contents onto a palette. Thank goodness the paints are still usable. After pouring turpentine into a jar and picking up a thick brush to dip into the liquid, he coats the canvas with an underpainting of burnt sienna, a good choice for a bar painting. He’ll go to O’Malley’s to complete sketches of the figures and background. As the familiar smells of turpentine and linseed oil fill the room, a warm wave courses through his body. He has missed painting. It’s what he was born to do. How have I let so many years go by without following this lifelong passion? He needs to make up for lost time. Soon he has covered the canvas with a thin layer of the coppery-colored paint. He pours fresh turpentine into a tin and stashes the brush. That will keep the bristles soft until he can return to work on the scene.
He plans to spend the rest of the day cleaning and then go to the bar to sketch. He can have dinner there as well.
At four o’clock, he stands and stretches. Scrubbing the kitchen floor for hours makes his back hurt. Years of accumulated grime and dirt have disappeared and the tiles are dark red again. The parrot watches from her bird’s-eye view at the top of the cage.
“Helluva job,” she keeps saying, turning her head from side to side.
“You’re right, Popsicle. It is a hell of a job. Now don’t you go throwing food on the clean floor. No peanut shells, either.”
“Peanut,” the parrot says, opening and shutting her beak.
“All right,” he says, fetching a bag of nuts and putting a handful into a dish in the cage.
Popsicle claws her way down to reach them. Soon she pecks the shells off, drops them on the bottom of the cage, and eats the insides. A few shells drop onto the floor.
Barnaby shakes his head. Cleaning is a thankless task. He’s hungry. Grabbing a sketchbook and pencil, he heads for the door. Popsicle is too busy eating to tell him goodbye.
CHAPTER 9
After she returns home from her walk with Nancy, Julia calls Lisa.
“I had a great time last night,” she says. “Hope there wasn’t a pile of clutter to deal with afterward.”
“Glad you could come,” Lisa says. “I didn’t touch anything until this morning. Some guests stayed until three. Had to kick them out, finally.”
“Guess that’s the problem with New Year’s Eve. People drink too much.”
“Right. By the way, I noticed you got along well with Barnaby Brown.”
“Yes. I knew him years ago in Rhode Island.”
“Did you? Be careful. He has a lot of problems, you know.”
“Really? I wasn’t aware of any.”
“He sure does. Alcoholic. Lives in a pigsty. Could be one of our classic cases.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that. You’ve been to his house?”
“Yes. He’s a neighbor.”
“Well, he seems to be a decent guy. He’s an artist, too. A good one.”
“I doubt he’s painting much these days,” Lisa says. “He works at Carano Hardware.”
“He didn’t mention that. I’ve got to run. See you at work. I only wanted to thank you for the party.”
Julia slams the phone down. Good grief, she’s done it again: made a connection with a loser. She had high hopes this time. Oh well, best to find out sooner than later. There’s a pile of laundry. She’ll wash it along with Barnaby out of her hair, but can’t help feeling disappointed. The memories of the South Pacific musical that they performed in together evoked nostalgic recollections. How sad that Barnaby slid downhill. That explains his changed appearance. But he told her he is working on a new painting. It’s possible Lisa is mistaken. In fact, why has she gone to such pains to tell her those unflattering details about the man?
Julia takes the rest of the day to run errands. There’s no point waiting for Barnaby’s call, especially since she’s no longer sure she wants to see him. She doesn’t need an alcoholic in her life. She shoves a pile of wet clothes into the dryer.
The phone rings several times before she answers.
“Hi, Julia? Barnaby here. I enjoyed seeing you at the party yesterday. Would you like to go for coffee and continue our conversation?”
“Uh, I’m pretty busy these days.”
“Okay, how about you call me when you have some free time. I’m busy during the day, but I have evenings and Sundays free.” He tells her his phone number and she jots it down.
“All right. I’ll call you. Thanks.”
She slowly replaces the phone. She needs space to think. It wouldn’t hurt to meet for coffee. That’s hardly a date, and he has given her the option of calling to set it up. Anyway, possibly he only wants friendship. Coffee is safe. She’ll think again about calling.
CHAPTER 10
On Friday Barnaby takes the bus to work. Sal is already there making coffee.
“Hey, how are you feeling?” Barnaby asks.
“Not bad at all. Still need to watch myself. I’m supposed to cut down on work hours for a while, so I’m only staying until lunch. Can ya handle things for the rest of the day?”
“No problem. Are you taking any meds?”
“Yeah, and I have a checkup at the hospital next week. Have to change my diet, too,” Sal says, groaning. “They told me this is a wake-up call.”
Barnaby nods. “Don’t worry about things at the store.”
“That’s a comfort, thanks. Saw ya did the inventory.”
“Most of it. I’ll finish this morning while you’re here to deal with the customers.”
“Great. Listen, don’t let anyone go in the basement. I’ve locked the door. Don’t want people poking around when I’m not there. Thanks again, and here’s yer paycheck.”
Barnaby pockets the check and sets up the ladder so he can access the higher shelves and continue taking inventory. His thoughts turn to Julia. He’s disappointed she didn’t agree to meet him for coffee when she’d seemed so agreeable the night before. Did something change? Did she learn more about his present conditions, which he took pains to hide? As uncomfortable as the thought makes him, he still wants to get together. He’s taking steps to improve his life and wants her to see him at his best. He’ll sell some paintings, fix his car, paint the kitchen. As he counts the bottles of Pine-Sol and cans of Comet, he’s reminded that he needs more cleaning supplies. Sal always gives him a discount. He’ll take some home.
He breaks early for lunch and calls the car repair shop. “Barnaby here. Want to ask if I can pay you in installments for the repair.”
“We don’t usually do that. You pay when the job’s done.”
“Well, in this case I hoped you could make an exception. I need my car.”
“How many payments are you talking about?”
“Two. I get paid every two weeks.”
“Tell you what. We’ll order the parts. You can pay for those. Then when you’re ready to pay again, we’ll start the work.”
“That sounds good. Please go ahead and place the order.”
He’s satisfied with the arrangement. He’ll have enough money left for at least one of the equity loan payments and can talk to the bank about those as well. Anyway, he plans to work every day now. If he doesn’t hit the bottle, he shouldn’t need to miss.
After work, Barnaby stops by the bank’s ATM to deposit his paycheck. If he sells the paintings and works regular hours, he’ll pay his equity loan off faster. In fact, he had planned to apply for a refinance so that the monthly payments would be lower. He can do that soon.
At home, he gathers the pile of mail on the doormat. He tosses it on the desk in the living room. An envelope from the bank catches his eye with the words LOAN PAST DUE stamped across the front. He tears the envelope open.
Dear Mr. Brown,
We regret to inform you that since you have missed three payments on your home equity loan, the bank has initiated proceedings to reclaim your property. Your house will revert to the bank’s ownership unless you make your payments immediately. If you fail to make them in a timely manner and wish to stay in the property, you will be charged rent. Otherwise, you will be expected to vacate the premises.
If you have questions, you may call or talk to your local bank.
Sincerely,
Bank of Boston
Barnaby drops to the floor. He reads the letter again. Surely they wouldn’t take away his home. His chest tightens. How could things have gotten to this point, right when he’s getting his life in order? He plans to talk to the bank the next morning and tell them his circumstances have changed, and he now has additional sources of income. He’ll ask for a reprieve. Surely they’ll understand.
Damn it all. Damn everything. He heads to O’Malley’s for the TGIF special.
The packed bar forces him to push through the crowd to his usual seat at the counter near the cash register. Professor Miller is already uncertainly perched on a stool, one foot reaching toward the floor as if to steady himself.
“Hello there, Barnaby,” he says. “TGIF, right?”
“I guess so.” Barnaby would prefer a different companion on this day, but the professor is already in his cups and ready for conversation. A monologue, anyway.
“Did I ever tell you about my button collection?” the professor asks.
Barnaby yawns. “I expect so. I don’t always remember barroom conversations.”
“No.” Professor Miller nudges him. “I’ll bring mine in one of these days. It’s valuable. The designs are unusual, and you being an artist, they might interest you.”
“Whoever told you I’m an artist?”
“Your friend Sean here. He’s a fan of yours. Didn’t you know?”
Barnaby shrugs. He waves at Sean. “The usual, please.”
Sean places a tumbler of scotch in front of Barnaby. “Thought you were layin’ off . . .”
Barnaby holds up his hand. “It’s Friday. Thank God.”
Sean tightens his lips and moves along to serve another customer.
“As I was saying,” the professor continues, leaning closer. “I’m a member of the National Button Society. You’re aware that brass buttons were the first products made by the industry right here in Waterbury. They were actually the first buttons made anywhere in the country. They produced them for military uniforms. Envision that—in 1822 the Chase Company made twenty gross of buttons per day! The ones on that uniform Sean has hanging on the wall were undoubtedly made here.”
“You don’t say,” Barnaby says. He has finished his first drink while listening to the professor’s lecture and needs another. As he peruses the crowd, he identifies others he’d rather talk to, but he doesn’t want to give up his seat at the counter. It might be a night when he needs several drinks. The professor’s story has left him strangely depressed. He calls for a refill.
“One of these days I’ll make a deal with Sean for those buttons,” the professor says.
“He’ll never sell them. The jacket belonged to a relative who fought for the Union in the Civil War.”
“Is that so? I’d no idea Sean’s roots went back so far.”
“He’s of Irish descent, and his relatives came here early and worked in, of all places, the brass industry.”
“Interesting. I’ll have to talk to Sean about that. Did you know that brass is made of copper and zinc?”
“No, I didn’t.”
The professor opens his mouth to say something else, then turns his head and leaves his mouth hanging, speechless. Barnaby follows the man’s gaze. Brooke Taylor stands by the door wearing a form-hugging purple coat with shiny brass buttons. She doesn’t have to push through the mostly male patrons, who move aside to let her pass. There’s a noticeable hush in the room.
Sean immediately comes to take her order.
“Could you make me one of your specials tonight, a gin gimlet?” she purrs.
“Coming right up,” Sean says, smiling.
The buzz of conversation resumes, and the professor slips off his perch.
“Would you like a seat?” he offers.
“Thank you,” she says, as she takes it. Her perfect white smile dazzles.
Barnaby gulps two mouthfuls of scotch. What’s he going to say to this beauty, the heart throb of O’Malley’s, who’s sitting right next to him? Her scent teases his nostrils, reminding him of gardenias. He wishes the professor had stayed put.
Brooke holds the cocktail glass in a slender hand and sips the green drink.
“That drink reminds me of my parrot,” he says at last.
She turns toward him. “You have a parrot?”
“Yes, Popsicle. She’s a yellow-naped Amazon. Has green feathers.”
Her silvery laugh sounds like bells. “Does Popsicle talk?” she asks.
“Oh, yes. Keeps me company.”
“I had a parrot once. He died.”
“Oh, sorry. Do you miss him?”
“I was a child, and I did miss him.”
Professor Miller stands beside Brooke sitting in his old seat. He’d left his drink on the counter and, unable to attract her attention, reaches around her to grasp it.
“Excuse me!” Brooke says, shrinking from him. “Please keep your hands to yourself, mister.”
Barnaby watches the professor’s face contort with horror.
“I’m sorry, didn’t mean anything . . .” he stammers. “Just wanted to get my drink.”
She hands him the glass. “Please thank Sean and do me a favor and give him this book.” She lays a slim volume on the counter. The white lettering of Shakespeare’s Sonnets gleams in the dusky room. She leaves cash for her drink by the till and gets up to leave. Once again, the crowd stands aside to let her pass. A whiff of perfume hovers in her wake.
Barnaby pats the stool beside him. “Sit back down, Professor. I know you didn’t mean to harass the lady.” He feels sorry for the old man. “Tell me more about the brass business.”
Professor Miller hauls himself up. “You know, people come here for different reasons,” he says, “but what brings a woman like that into a bar, alone? I’ve never seen her come in with anyone, and she never goes out with anyone, either.” He hands the book to Sean.
“What happened? Did you scare her off, Barnaby?” Sean asks, winking.
“Nah. But maybe you know the answer to the professor’s question. Why does a woman like her come here, apart from enjoying your superb gin gimlets, of course?”
“She doesn’t usually come on Fridays, when the place is crowded,” Sean says. “Her favorite time is early Sunday afternoon, when no one else is here. She only has one drink. I like to think she’s here to see me, but more’s the pity, I don’t think that’s so. I’m thinkin’ she wants peace. She makes an impression wherever she goes, and she must get tired of bein’ stared at. ‘And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dripping slow.’”
“My heavens, do you know what you’re saying, man? That’s Yeats, from ‘The Lake Isle of Innisfree,’” the professor says, his eyes brightening.
“My father used to quote those lines. He came from Ireland, you know.”
“Are you a poet, by any chance?” the professor asks, staring at the book of sonnets.
“Are you kiddin’?” Sean laughs. Barnaby looks from one to the other in surprise. There are always surprises. That’s one of the reasons he frequents this bar. And that the people amuse him, and he feels accepted. He doesn’t really want to give up drinking. What else would he do with his time, and where else would he find such good free entertainment?
“Hit me,” Barnaby says, pushing his glass toward Sean. “Double.”
CHAPTER 11
Barnaby wakes up on Saturday with the familiar headache and foggy mind. He overdid it last night. Sean understood, as always. His drinking buddies expected no less from him than the usual too many glasses of scotch. Charley, a regular customer on Fridays, had treated everyone to a round, he remembers, or maybe two. He grunts. He has to go to work. It’s late, but better late than not at all, he tells himself. He skips the shave and shower, dresses in overalls, his usual work clothes, and catches the bus downtown.
“No problem. Come back in a day or so when the guy’s had a chance to reply.”
“I’ll do that. See you later.”
He retraces his steps homeward, hears the phone ring as he opens the door, and rushes to pick it up.
“Got your email. Sylvester here. Happy New Year! No time like the present. When are you going to get those images to me? I expected them already.”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about. I don’t have a computer and can’t send you anything electronically. But if you have time to come over, I can show you some original work. That’s better, anyway.”
“All right. I can get away this weekend. I live in Manhattan now, not far from my business, Goldstone Gallery in Greenwich Village. What’s your address?”
“55 Russell Road. How about Sunday?”
Barnaby hangs up the phone and sits down. Then he remembers he forgot to ask for the guy’s phone number. Damn. Now he really needs to clean up. How can he bring his wealthy friend into this dump? It would further humiliate him, and Sly would soon see that he’s no longer painting. Feeling panicky, he climbs to the studio. He can create something new that very day and find the paintings in the weather series, ones that might attract buyers. A small blank primed canvas sits on the floor, and he lifts it onto the easel, replacing the painting that’s there. Then he pulls more paintings out of the racks. It’s been several years since he examined them, and he’s surprised how good they are. Sunlit scenes burst with color and life—figures on beaches lying on striped towels with umbrellas, children splashing in the waves, white spray obscuring their faces. Other paintings are mysterious, with rocks and lighthouses barely discernible through the mist. He lines the canvases up against the wall. Twenty altogether. Too bad the one he considers his best isn’t among them, and he debates contacting the police with additional information about the cleaning woman who has a key . . . but he doesn’t have time now. He needs to paint—and clean.
He opens the drawer where he keeps his oil paints and chooses colors, then opens the tubes and squeezes the contents onto a palette. Thank goodness the paints are still usable. After pouring turpentine into a jar and picking up a thick brush to dip into the liquid, he coats the canvas with an underpainting of burnt sienna, a good choice for a bar painting. He’ll go to O’Malley’s to complete sketches of the figures and background. As the familiar smells of turpentine and linseed oil fill the room, a warm wave courses through his body. He has missed painting. It’s what he was born to do. How have I let so many years go by without following this lifelong passion? He needs to make up for lost time. Soon he has covered the canvas with a thin layer of the coppery-colored paint. He pours fresh turpentine into a tin and stashes the brush. That will keep the bristles soft until he can return to work on the scene.
He plans to spend the rest of the day cleaning and then go to the bar to sketch. He can have dinner there as well.
At four o’clock, he stands and stretches. Scrubbing the kitchen floor for hours makes his back hurt. Years of accumulated grime and dirt have disappeared and the tiles are dark red again. The parrot watches from her bird’s-eye view at the top of the cage.
“Helluva job,” she keeps saying, turning her head from side to side.
“You’re right, Popsicle. It is a hell of a job. Now don’t you go throwing food on the clean floor. No peanut shells, either.”
“Peanut,” the parrot says, opening and shutting her beak.
“All right,” he says, fetching a bag of nuts and putting a handful into a dish in the cage.
Popsicle claws her way down to reach them. Soon she pecks the shells off, drops them on the bottom of the cage, and eats the insides. A few shells drop onto the floor.
Barnaby shakes his head. Cleaning is a thankless task. He’s hungry. Grabbing a sketchbook and pencil, he heads for the door. Popsicle is too busy eating to tell him goodbye.
CHAPTER 9
After she returns home from her walk with Nancy, Julia calls Lisa.
“I had a great time last night,” she says. “Hope there wasn’t a pile of clutter to deal with afterward.”
“Glad you could come,” Lisa says. “I didn’t touch anything until this morning. Some guests stayed until three. Had to kick them out, finally.”
“Guess that’s the problem with New Year’s Eve. People drink too much.”
“Right. By the way, I noticed you got along well with Barnaby Brown.”
“Yes. I knew him years ago in Rhode Island.”
“Did you? Be careful. He has a lot of problems, you know.”
“Really? I wasn’t aware of any.”
“He sure does. Alcoholic. Lives in a pigsty. Could be one of our classic cases.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that. You’ve been to his house?”
“Yes. He’s a neighbor.”
“Well, he seems to be a decent guy. He’s an artist, too. A good one.”
“I doubt he’s painting much these days,” Lisa says. “He works at Carano Hardware.”
“He didn’t mention that. I’ve got to run. See you at work. I only wanted to thank you for the party.”
Julia slams the phone down. Good grief, she’s done it again: made a connection with a loser. She had high hopes this time. Oh well, best to find out sooner than later. There’s a pile of laundry. She’ll wash it along with Barnaby out of her hair, but can’t help feeling disappointed. The memories of the South Pacific musical that they performed in together evoked nostalgic recollections. How sad that Barnaby slid downhill. That explains his changed appearance. But he told her he is working on a new painting. It’s possible Lisa is mistaken. In fact, why has she gone to such pains to tell her those unflattering details about the man?
Julia takes the rest of the day to run errands. There’s no point waiting for Barnaby’s call, especially since she’s no longer sure she wants to see him. She doesn’t need an alcoholic in her life. She shoves a pile of wet clothes into the dryer.
The phone rings several times before she answers.
“Hi, Julia? Barnaby here. I enjoyed seeing you at the party yesterday. Would you like to go for coffee and continue our conversation?”
“Uh, I’m pretty busy these days.”
“Okay, how about you call me when you have some free time. I’m busy during the day, but I have evenings and Sundays free.” He tells her his phone number and she jots it down.
“All right. I’ll call you. Thanks.”
She slowly replaces the phone. She needs space to think. It wouldn’t hurt to meet for coffee. That’s hardly a date, and he has given her the option of calling to set it up. Anyway, possibly he only wants friendship. Coffee is safe. She’ll think again about calling.
CHAPTER 10
On Friday Barnaby takes the bus to work. Sal is already there making coffee.
“Hey, how are you feeling?” Barnaby asks.
“Not bad at all. Still need to watch myself. I’m supposed to cut down on work hours for a while, so I’m only staying until lunch. Can ya handle things for the rest of the day?”
“No problem. Are you taking any meds?”
“Yeah, and I have a checkup at the hospital next week. Have to change my diet, too,” Sal says, groaning. “They told me this is a wake-up call.”
Barnaby nods. “Don’t worry about things at the store.”
“That’s a comfort, thanks. Saw ya did the inventory.”
“Most of it. I’ll finish this morning while you’re here to deal with the customers.”
“Great. Listen, don’t let anyone go in the basement. I’ve locked the door. Don’t want people poking around when I’m not there. Thanks again, and here’s yer paycheck.”
Barnaby pockets the check and sets up the ladder so he can access the higher shelves and continue taking inventory. His thoughts turn to Julia. He’s disappointed she didn’t agree to meet him for coffee when she’d seemed so agreeable the night before. Did something change? Did she learn more about his present conditions, which he took pains to hide? As uncomfortable as the thought makes him, he still wants to get together. He’s taking steps to improve his life and wants her to see him at his best. He’ll sell some paintings, fix his car, paint the kitchen. As he counts the bottles of Pine-Sol and cans of Comet, he’s reminded that he needs more cleaning supplies. Sal always gives him a discount. He’ll take some home.
He breaks early for lunch and calls the car repair shop. “Barnaby here. Want to ask if I can pay you in installments for the repair.”
“We don’t usually do that. You pay when the job’s done.”
“Well, in this case I hoped you could make an exception. I need my car.”
“How many payments are you talking about?”
“Two. I get paid every two weeks.”
“Tell you what. We’ll order the parts. You can pay for those. Then when you’re ready to pay again, we’ll start the work.”
“That sounds good. Please go ahead and place the order.”
He’s satisfied with the arrangement. He’ll have enough money left for at least one of the equity loan payments and can talk to the bank about those as well. Anyway, he plans to work every day now. If he doesn’t hit the bottle, he shouldn’t need to miss.
After work, Barnaby stops by the bank’s ATM to deposit his paycheck. If he sells the paintings and works regular hours, he’ll pay his equity loan off faster. In fact, he had planned to apply for a refinance so that the monthly payments would be lower. He can do that soon.
At home, he gathers the pile of mail on the doormat. He tosses it on the desk in the living room. An envelope from the bank catches his eye with the words LOAN PAST DUE stamped across the front. He tears the envelope open.
Dear Mr. Brown,
We regret to inform you that since you have missed three payments on your home equity loan, the bank has initiated proceedings to reclaim your property. Your house will revert to the bank’s ownership unless you make your payments immediately. If you fail to make them in a timely manner and wish to stay in the property, you will be charged rent. Otherwise, you will be expected to vacate the premises.
If you have questions, you may call or talk to your local bank.
Sincerely,
Bank of Boston
Barnaby drops to the floor. He reads the letter again. Surely they wouldn’t take away his home. His chest tightens. How could things have gotten to this point, right when he’s getting his life in order? He plans to talk to the bank the next morning and tell them his circumstances have changed, and he now has additional sources of income. He’ll ask for a reprieve. Surely they’ll understand.
Damn it all. Damn everything. He heads to O’Malley’s for the TGIF special.
The packed bar forces him to push through the crowd to his usual seat at the counter near the cash register. Professor Miller is already uncertainly perched on a stool, one foot reaching toward the floor as if to steady himself.
“Hello there, Barnaby,” he says. “TGIF, right?”
“I guess so.” Barnaby would prefer a different companion on this day, but the professor is already in his cups and ready for conversation. A monologue, anyway.
“Did I ever tell you about my button collection?” the professor asks.
Barnaby yawns. “I expect so. I don’t always remember barroom conversations.”
“No.” Professor Miller nudges him. “I’ll bring mine in one of these days. It’s valuable. The designs are unusual, and you being an artist, they might interest you.”
“Whoever told you I’m an artist?”
“Your friend Sean here. He’s a fan of yours. Didn’t you know?”
Barnaby shrugs. He waves at Sean. “The usual, please.”
Sean places a tumbler of scotch in front of Barnaby. “Thought you were layin’ off . . .”
Barnaby holds up his hand. “It’s Friday. Thank God.”
Sean tightens his lips and moves along to serve another customer.
“As I was saying,” the professor continues, leaning closer. “I’m a member of the National Button Society. You’re aware that brass buttons were the first products made by the industry right here in Waterbury. They were actually the first buttons made anywhere in the country. They produced them for military uniforms. Envision that—in 1822 the Chase Company made twenty gross of buttons per day! The ones on that uniform Sean has hanging on the wall were undoubtedly made here.”
“You don’t say,” Barnaby says. He has finished his first drink while listening to the professor’s lecture and needs another. As he peruses the crowd, he identifies others he’d rather talk to, but he doesn’t want to give up his seat at the counter. It might be a night when he needs several drinks. The professor’s story has left him strangely depressed. He calls for a refill.
“One of these days I’ll make a deal with Sean for those buttons,” the professor says.
“He’ll never sell them. The jacket belonged to a relative who fought for the Union in the Civil War.”
“Is that so? I’d no idea Sean’s roots went back so far.”
“He’s of Irish descent, and his relatives came here early and worked in, of all places, the brass industry.”
“Interesting. I’ll have to talk to Sean about that. Did you know that brass is made of copper and zinc?”
“No, I didn’t.”
The professor opens his mouth to say something else, then turns his head and leaves his mouth hanging, speechless. Barnaby follows the man’s gaze. Brooke Taylor stands by the door wearing a form-hugging purple coat with shiny brass buttons. She doesn’t have to push through the mostly male patrons, who move aside to let her pass. There’s a noticeable hush in the room.
Sean immediately comes to take her order.
“Could you make me one of your specials tonight, a gin gimlet?” she purrs.
“Coming right up,” Sean says, smiling.
The buzz of conversation resumes, and the professor slips off his perch.
“Would you like a seat?” he offers.
“Thank you,” she says, as she takes it. Her perfect white smile dazzles.
Barnaby gulps two mouthfuls of scotch. What’s he going to say to this beauty, the heart throb of O’Malley’s, who’s sitting right next to him? Her scent teases his nostrils, reminding him of gardenias. He wishes the professor had stayed put.
Brooke holds the cocktail glass in a slender hand and sips the green drink.
“That drink reminds me of my parrot,” he says at last.
She turns toward him. “You have a parrot?”
“Yes, Popsicle. She’s a yellow-naped Amazon. Has green feathers.”
Her silvery laugh sounds like bells. “Does Popsicle talk?” she asks.
“Oh, yes. Keeps me company.”
“I had a parrot once. He died.”
“Oh, sorry. Do you miss him?”
“I was a child, and I did miss him.”
Professor Miller stands beside Brooke sitting in his old seat. He’d left his drink on the counter and, unable to attract her attention, reaches around her to grasp it.
“Excuse me!” Brooke says, shrinking from him. “Please keep your hands to yourself, mister.”
Barnaby watches the professor’s face contort with horror.
“I’m sorry, didn’t mean anything . . .” he stammers. “Just wanted to get my drink.”
She hands him the glass. “Please thank Sean and do me a favor and give him this book.” She lays a slim volume on the counter. The white lettering of Shakespeare’s Sonnets gleams in the dusky room. She leaves cash for her drink by the till and gets up to leave. Once again, the crowd stands aside to let her pass. A whiff of perfume hovers in her wake.
Barnaby pats the stool beside him. “Sit back down, Professor. I know you didn’t mean to harass the lady.” He feels sorry for the old man. “Tell me more about the brass business.”
Professor Miller hauls himself up. “You know, people come here for different reasons,” he says, “but what brings a woman like that into a bar, alone? I’ve never seen her come in with anyone, and she never goes out with anyone, either.” He hands the book to Sean.
“What happened? Did you scare her off, Barnaby?” Sean asks, winking.
“Nah. But maybe you know the answer to the professor’s question. Why does a woman like her come here, apart from enjoying your superb gin gimlets, of course?”
“She doesn’t usually come on Fridays, when the place is crowded,” Sean says. “Her favorite time is early Sunday afternoon, when no one else is here. She only has one drink. I like to think she’s here to see me, but more’s the pity, I don’t think that’s so. I’m thinkin’ she wants peace. She makes an impression wherever she goes, and she must get tired of bein’ stared at. ‘And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dripping slow.’”
“My heavens, do you know what you’re saying, man? That’s Yeats, from ‘The Lake Isle of Innisfree,’” the professor says, his eyes brightening.
“My father used to quote those lines. He came from Ireland, you know.”
“Are you a poet, by any chance?” the professor asks, staring at the book of sonnets.
“Are you kiddin’?” Sean laughs. Barnaby looks from one to the other in surprise. There are always surprises. That’s one of the reasons he frequents this bar. And that the people amuse him, and he feels accepted. He doesn’t really want to give up drinking. What else would he do with his time, and where else would he find such good free entertainment?
“Hit me,” Barnaby says, pushing his glass toward Sean. “Double.”
CHAPTER 11
Barnaby wakes up on Saturday with the familiar headache and foggy mind. He overdid it last night. Sean understood, as always. His drinking buddies expected no less from him than the usual too many glasses of scotch. Charley, a regular customer on Fridays, had treated everyone to a round, he remembers, or maybe two. He grunts. He has to go to work. It’s late, but better late than not at all, he tells himself. He skips the shave and shower, dresses in overalls, his usual work clothes, and catches the bus downtown.
