Waterbury Winter, page 8
“Sorry I’m late,” he tells Sal.
“Looks like ya fell off the wagon, Barnaby my boy,” Sal says. “Thought ya were giving up.”
“I am, I am. Got some bad news last night, is all.”
“Shouldn’t let that stop ya. Perhaps ya need some help. Ever gone to an AA meeting?”
“Not for a while. I need a cup of coffee.”
Barnaby pours a cup and sits in a chair by the cash register. He’s already miserable, but the thought of losing his house makes things worse. What on earth can he do? If he misses work again he’ll lose pay, but he must talk to the bank. The thought crosses his mind that he can hardly afford his life anymore.
“Sal, I’ve got some important business to attend to. Do you mind if I take a longer lunch hour today?”
“How long? I’m leaving at noon. Doctor’s orders.”
“I’ll leave at eleven. Should be back by twelve thirty. Can we leave the store for thirty minutes?”
“Barnaby, I’ve been depending on ya. Can’t keep closing the place. How about ya leave at ten forty-five? Be back by noon.” “All right. Thanks,” Barnaby says.
He leaves promptly at ten forty-five and runs to the bank ten blocks away. Breathless, and sweating despite the bitter January wind, he opens the glass door to the building and makes for the teller line. “I need to talk to someone about my loan,” Barnaby says, pulling the envelope out of his pocket.
“You’ll need to see a banker. Take a seat.”
He waits awkwardly in an armchair in the lobby, drumming his fingers. Finally, a man with graying hair wearing a gray suit approaches him.
“Mr. Brown? I’m Lloyd Purser.” The hand he extends, soft and slippery like a fish, does nothing to ease Barnaby’s discomfort.
They enter the banker’s cubicle. Barnaby places the envelope on the desk and sits across from the man, painfully aware of his own day’s growth of stubble and overalls. At least they’re clean. Lloyd opens the envelope and reads the terse letter.
“This looks pretty clear to me,” he says. “Pay the past amounts due plus the late fees or the bank will start foreclosure proceedings on your house.”
“I understand, but I’d like to ask for a reprieve.”
The banker meets Barnaby’s anxious gaze and averts his eyes.
“Not for me to say. You’ll have to talk to the manager, Mr. Olivetti. I’m afraid he’s out today, but he’ll be back on Monday.”
Barnaby clenches his hands and grasps the arms of the chair. His heart is beating so fast he wonders if he might develop a heart attack like Sal. “Are you sure no one else can help me? I’d like to resolve this as soon as possible.”
“I understand, but you must wait for the manager. Cursing, Barnaby hastens back to the store. He’s annoyed with himself. His life is a jumble, and each time he takes steps to make things better, he fails. He shouldn’t have gone out drinking last night. He’ll renew his resolution.
He’s on the bus after work before he remembers Lisa is coming over that evening. Damn, he really doesn’t want to see her. He has too many other problems to deal with at the moment, and she has the effect of making him feel worse about his life. She knows too much. She’s sympathetic, but he wants women to respect, even to admire him. Accustomed to hiding behind his drinking for so long, he values his recent attempts to come across as a different person, and Lisa is someone who won’t let him forget his troubled past. Outside, everything has turned colorless. Showers of sleet bash against the window panes. He shivers and tugs his hat over his ears before getting off the bus.
At seven o’clock he hears a firm knock at the door. Lisa is right on time. She stands smiling on the doorstep.
“Come on in,” he says.
She takes off her hat and coat and places them on the staircase rail. She’s wearing a low-cut frilly blouse and black pants. Her perfume clashes with the Pine-Sol smell of the freshly scrubbed kitchen. He wrinkles his nose in disgust.
“Smells like you’ve been doing some cleaning,” she says.
“Trying. Guess I’ve let things go a little. I’ll have things clean by spring, anyway. Spring cleaning, you know?”
“Sure, though spring’s far away when the weather’s this ugly.”
He clears his throat. “Uh, would you like something to drink?”
“Tea or coffee would be great. You don’t still have liquor in the house, do you?”
“I do. I should give it to you to avoid temptation. Come on back to the kitchen.”
She follows him, stepping gingerly on the clean floor. “You have been busy,” she says. Approvingly, he thinks.
At that moment Popsicle flaps her wings. “Heavens to Murgatroyd! Helluva job! Helluva woman!” she says.
Lisa jumps.
“Don’t mind her. She gets rowdy sometimes, especially when new people come around.”
“But she insulted me. Hell of a woman. What does that mean?”
“Nothing. Don’t take offense. She sees that you’re a woman, that’s all. Probably feminine rivalry. I’m her man, you know.”
“Okay, but who’d want to compete with a parrot?”
Barnaby takes the whistling kettle off the stove. “Tea or coffee?” he asks again.
“Do you have drip coffee?”
“Somewhere I do. Usually I make instant.”
“Well, tea then.”
He places a tea bag in a cup and pours water over it. “Sugar or milk?”
“Black is fine.” She takes the cup and sits at the table. “So how are things going?”
“Could be better, could be worse,” he says. “Why don’t we talk about you? How’s work?”
“Work is work. It’s not much fun. Sometimes it gets you down, seeing people in difficult circumstances. The worst part is that you do all you can to help, and still people struggle. Worse still for people in my profession, we don’t always know the results. We can only follow cases so far, and it gets discouraging when you spend a lot of effort only to find out that the person has moved or is no longer in contact.”
“But there must be cases where you feel you’ve been helpful, with a good outcome.”
“Sure. Problem is, many people who find themselves in a deep hole can’t dig themselves out. That’s especially true of people with substance abuse problems.” She stops, and casts a quizzical glance at Barnaby.
He flinches, but ignores her comment, turns his back to her, and takes her empty cup to the sink. “You came to view the paintings,” he says stiffly. “Let’s go upstairs to the studio.”
They climb the stairs, and Barnaby turns on lights. Lisa walks over to paintings lined up against the wall and examines each one.
“They’re very good. Full of life. Even those that are subdued show mystery and intrigue. How much are you selling them for?”
“Don’t know yet. Are you interested in buying one?”
“I might be. Depends on how much they cost.”
“I haven’t priced them yet. I’d like to wait until a friend in the art business comes by to appraise them, and I can let you know then. Are there any that appeal to you?”
“There are several. Hard to choose. I like them, Barnaby. I see you’ve got a new one, too, on the easel.”
“Yes. I plan to start a new series. Getting back into painting again.”
“You should. These show a whole new side of you.”
“One that most people don’t know any more,” he replies drily. “Of course, Julia does. I’m glad she came to the party.”
“Yes. Julia. I want to warn you. She’s had her share of problems, too.”
“So have we all, except for yourself, of course. You spend your life helping other people solve theirs. Must be nice.”
“I don’t think of it that way,” Lisa says, then meets his eyes as she continues. “Let’s talk more about this. Have you had dinner yet?”
He shakes his head.
“Well then, why don’t you come over to my place? If you don’t mind leftovers, I have a tuna casserole.”
“Thanks, but not tonight,” Barnaby says. “May I have a rain check?”
“Sure. Thanks for the tea, and for showing me your work. I’d like to help you, you know that. Call me.”
“I will. See you later,” Barnaby says.
After she leaves, he speculates about her abrupt departure. Perhaps he has offended her. She means well—doesn’t she?—but she makes him uncomfortable.
Besides, Popsicle doesn’t like her, and that’s a bad sign.
CHAPTER 12
On Sunday morning the sleet turns to rain. The streets glisten shiny and wet, like water on a whale’s back. Why does he think of whales?
It takes a minute, but then it comes back to Barnaby. Of course! He and Anna had gone whale watching. Anna leaned on the boat’s rail, never taking her eyes off the horizon. When they at last spotted a whale, she grabbed his arm.
“Look! It’s spouting, like a fountain. Pure joy, don’t you think?”
That’s one of the things he had loved about Anna. Her unbridled enthusiasm.
Since Sly is due in a few hours to see his paintings, it’s time to stop dreaming and get to work, Barnaby tells himself. He shaves carefully. He looks healthier without red eyes, and this morning his eyes shine, a clear blue. Smiling at his reflection in the mirror, he hopes this will be his lucky day. It would be wonderful if all his problems would vanish into the sky like kites on a lost string. But he hasn’t held a kite since those long-lost days in Providence. The kites appeared in his paintings, firmly clutched by small children with no problems to lose. Sighing, he tells himself to stop pinning his hopes on a proverbial cloudless sky.
After coffee and whole wheat toast—healthier than a donut, he thinks—he collects cleaning materials and a bucket. This time he mops the stairway leading to his studio. He can shut the doors to the bedrooms and living room. If he has time, he’ll wash the kitchen windows. Thanks to Popsicle, no spiders have taken up residence there.
Since they didn’t arrange a time, he doesn’t know when to expect his friend, and when he discovers he doesn’t have much to offer him to eat, he reckons he doesn’t have time to buy anything. If Sly is driving from New York, he may be on the road already. By noon he judges the house mostly presentable and smelling fresh in all the public places.
Sylvester arrives in the early afternoon.
“How was the drive, Sly?” Barnaby greets him.
“Not bad. No accidents on the freeway. Please remember, I go by Sylvester now.” He hands Barnaby a business card. “Is this a shoeless house?”
“What do you mean?”
Sylvester chortles. “I mean, do you want me to take my shoes off so I don’t make your house dirty?”
Barnaby laughs feebly. “Oh. No, that’s okay. The floors don’t mind a bit of dirt.” He’s tempted to add “a lot of dirt,” but restrains himself. “I can offer you tea or coffee, or would you like something stronger?”
“A beer would go down well.”
“Sorry, no beer. Scotch or bourbon?”
“How about scotch on the rocks? Will you join me?”
Barnaby hesitates. “Trying not to drink before dinner these days.” He pours a drink and hands it to his friend. It smells good, and he wishes he could have a glass.
“Where can I leave my coat? It’s wet,” Sylvester says.
“Let me take it. It’ll dry here in the kitchen. Warmest room in the house.”
“Yeah, kitchens are the heart of a home. I’ve always liked them. Don’t do much cooking these days, though. My wife Carol is an excellent cook. Have to watch my weight,” he says.
“What happened to Melanie, your first wife?”
“Oh, that’s a long story. We had two kids, a boy and a girl, and then things went wrong. Don’t know why, exactly. Her decision. She didn’t like it when I quit my job at St. Mary’s. I wanted to make more money. You know there’s no money in teaching.”
“Yeah, I remember. But there are other rewards.”
“Sure, if you’re happy with the lifestyle. My older brother Gregory—you remember him?—did well and bought a second house in the Hamptons. I’m not there yet, but I’m working on it. As I told you, I got into the business of buying and selling art, which is why I’m here. Besides seeing you, and getting caught up with my old and talented friend,” he says, smiling broadly.
“Don’t know about talented. I’m not selling much these days.”
“Why not? You have your day job at the hardware store. Pays the bills and leaves you time for painting, right?”
“Not really, but this year I’m turning over a new leaf. I’ve a new series of paintings in mind.”
“That’s good. And you live here, by yourself? Never remarried?”
“No.”
“Too bad. I remember Anna. Quite a looker, and nice, too. I see you have a companion, though,” Sylvester says, ogling the parrot.
Barnaby’s insides churn at Sly’s simplistic assessment of his wife, but remembering his friend’s womanizing nature and not wanting to confront him, he lets the comment pass.
“Popsicle’s good company,” he says. “Today she’s on best behavior. She can be pretty noisy at times.”
The parrot eyes Sly sideways as though sizing him up, but says nothing.
“Your new wife Carol, what’s she like? Her parents live here in town, I understand.”
“Right. In the Hillside district. Nice historic house. Her parents are quite active socially, and the night I saw you—Christmas Eve, wasn’t it?—they threw a big party.”
“Where are you living in New York?”
“Upper East Side.”
“Business going well?
“I’d say so. Wish I could get away more, especially in summer. You remember how much I like sailing. This year I’m going to rent a place by the water on Fire Island so we can take a boat out. Maybe you’d like to come along sometime.”
“Maybe I would,” Barnaby says. “If you’re finished with your drink, do you want to take a look at the paintings?”
“Sure do. Lead the way.”
They mount the stairs to the studio. Sylvester immediately crosses the room to the canvases stacked against the wall.
“Yup. That’s how I remember them. Spectacular.” He checks them all once, then rechecks some. “I’ll take them. How do you want to do this? Want to sell ’em all to me outright, or give ’em to me for consignment sales?”
“I haven’t thought much about it. How much are we talking about?”
Sly scratches his head. “I’ll give you $15,000 for the lot. That’s $1,000 apiece for the big ones and $500 for the smaller pieces. I’d give you more, but they need framing.”
“How would that compare with the price if you take them on consignment?”
“Hard to say. You’re not a known artist, so it might take a while for them to sell. Commission is fifty percent. If I pay upfront, you’ll have the cash today. I can write you a check.”
Barnaby takes a breath. The idea of suddenly having a check for $15,000 is hard to resist, but something tells him not to sell all those paintings at once.
“Tell you what,” he says. “You can take half of them. I’ll keep the rest for now. If sales go well, I might sell you the others.”
“Okie dokie. Sounds like a deal. They’re nice. Are you painting more like these?”
“Not on this theme. You probably remember from your painting days that artists paint what interests them at the time. Those scenes, mostly seascapes, don’t represent my life anymore.”
“True enough, though I don’t understand why you haven’t painted more during the intervening years. I see some others in the racks. Are you going to show me those?”
“They’re no good. I went through a lean phase. No inspiration. Sort of like writers’ block.”
“Well, find a muse,” Sylvester says. “Talent doesn’t disappear, and you do have that, I must say.”
“I’ll let you know when I’ve done some new ones that I think are any good. Do you want to take the paintings now?”
“May as well.” Sylvester picks out the ones he wants and stacks them near the door, then takes out a checkbook and writes a check for $7,500.
“I can’t give you a proper receipt. Okay if I write you a note?” Barnaby asks.
“That’ll do for now, but follow it up with an email, if you would. I need proper documentation.”
Barnaby scribbles a note and wraps the canvases in newspaper. Soon all are ready to go.
“Car’s outside, in the driveway,” Sylvester says.
They carry the paintings downstairs. Sly retrieves his coat from the kitchen. It’s still pouring rain.
“Let’s make a dash for it. I’ll open the trunk. We can put some in the back seat as well.”
Barnaby helps his friend load the car. Sylvester slams the trunk and goes round to the driver’s side. He holds his hand up in a farewell gesture. “Thanks a lot,” he says as he turns the ignition.
As Sly backs out of the driveway, Barnaby gasps. The car is a dark green Mercedes. Wasn’t that the description Lisa had given of the one driven by the woman who entered his house? Was Sly involved in the theft? He puckers his brow. Strange, but not worth pursuing yet. He’s solved one of his biggest problems.
He has some money.
CHAPTER 13
It’s Monday again. Wanting to be sure the previous day hadn’t been a dream, he rushes to the studio to find the check, picks it up, and examines it. The check is indeed made out to him for $7,500. It’s like a miracle. Now he can go to the bank, settle his debts, and decide what to do about the car. He might consider buying a newer used one instead of paying to fix the old clunker. He whistles as he fixes breakfast. Popsicle dances on the top of her cage, keeping pace with his excitement.
“Good parrot, heavens, good parrot,” she says, finishing with a squawk.
“We’re both good parrots today,” Barnaby says. “Rich ones.”
Sometime he imagines he’s a bird, parroting his way through life, calling like Popsicle in her cage, waiting for a comforting echo. But lately that’s not the case. He’s not simply repeating his routine—he’s on the verge of making some real changes. He hasn’t felt so optimistic in a long time. After he finishes his coffee, he washes the cup and goes to the hall closet for his coat. His threadbare coat. He might treat himself to a new one with his newfound wealth.
