Waterbury Winter, page 9
He takes the bus to the bank and asks to see Mr. Olivetti.
“I’ll check if he’s free,” the teller says. “Have a seat.”
Barnaby scans the room. He has always hated banks, the sterility of them, and the way the employees look at him suspiciously when he comes in clothed in overalls. Today he’s wearing street clothes, but it’s possible the old coat sends the same poor impression as the overalls. He’ll enjoy wearing a new one. Finally, the teller informs him that Mr. Olivetti will see him.
The manager sits behind a shiny desk perusing a file. A plush green carpet compliments several similarly colored paintings on the walls. Barnaby wants to examine them but thinks this might not be the time to do so. He sits down in an upholstered chair facing Mr. Olivetti and stares at the perfect part in the man’s hair.
“Ahem,” the manager says. “I understand you’re having some trouble meeting the terms of your home equity loan. What seems to be the problem?”
“I’ve had the loan for ten years. It’s almost all paid off. I fell behind in my payments because I got sick.”
“Sick? In the hospital, you mean? Incapacitated?”
“Yes, incapacitated. But not in a hospital.”
“Can you provide proof, a doctor’s note, for example?”
“Uh, no. But now I’m recovering and I’m back at work fulltime. I’d like you to stop the foreclosure process on my house.”
“I can only do that if you make up the two payments you’ve missed. And you have another one due this month.”
“I can do that. I have a check here,” Barnaby says.
“Let’s see.” The manager examines the documents on his desk. “You work at Carano Hardware, right?” He nods slowly. “I know it. Sal’s a relative of mine. He’s a good man.”
“Did you know he had a heart attack?” Barnaby asks.
“I didn’t. Poor guy. I’ll have to give him a call . . . look here, I’d like to help you out. I’ll have Lloyd Purser make the payment adjustments to your loan and give you a revised statement.”
“Much obliged to you,” Barnaby says, as he stands up to leave. For perhaps the first time, he understands the value of his long employment in a business where the forgiving owner is a respected member of the community. Unlike other alcoholics of his acquaintance, even during his darkest days, he had never quit his job.
Half an hour later he has deposited Sly’s check and made the three payments on his loan. His next stop is the car repair shop.
“Morning, Mr. Brown,” the man at the front desk says. “The parts arrived on Saturday. Do you want us to start the work?”
“Not yet. Could I have a word with the mechanic?” Barnaby asks.
“All right. Wait here.”
The man goes into the garage. Barnaby examines the pictures of classic cars taped on the walls and deliberates whether his would be old or special enough to be included in the collection. Probably not. After a while the mechanic comes in and calls to him.
“You’re the owner of the Ford Pinto wagon, right?”
“That’s right. I’d like to know if you think the car is worth repairing.”
“Well, with new transmission it’s probably as good as it gets for a car that age.”
“I know it’s old. Thought I might turn it in and buy another. How much do you think this one’s worth?”
“I’d give you three hundred bucks for it.”
“That’s all?”
“Well that’s how it goes. You got 150,000 miles on her. Could last you a few more years but then maybe not.”
Barnaby groans. “Do you have any others that are newer, with lower mileage, for sale?”
“Matter of fact, we do. There’s a 2000 Honda Accord over there in the back lot. Those cars last forever. Eighty thousand miles. Got hit from behind, a fender bender, and has some dents, but she’s okay.”
“So how much would you sell it for?”
“Have to check with the boss. Repair’ll cost you five hundred.”
“Okay, let me think about it.”
He strides to the back lot and checks the car. Inside, the upholstery appears as good as new. If it’s in good running condition, this car could probably take him to California. After quick mental calculations he figures he still has some paintings he can sell, so that’s extra cash, and he’ll still have a thousand dollars left if he buys the newer car. It might be a good idea, especially if he can make a deal with the owner. He returns to the office.
“I’d like to talk to the manager,” he says to the attendant.
“He’s at lunch. Back around one.”
“I’ll stop by later, then. Thanks.”
It would be a good time for a drink. A big decision like this calls for a little help. Barnaby is not used to having extra cash on hand, and the possibilities make his head swim. A drink would settle his mind. He turns in the direction of the bar at the end of the street. He opens the door, and the familiar aroma of stale beer emanates from the dank interior. Then he remembers. He wants to stop drinking. If he buys a newer car, he can realize his dream of getting to California, and even take Julia out in style before he goes. The thought gives him a jolt of pride. He closes the saloon door and crosses the street to a small café.
There are no free tables so he takes a seat at the counter next to a man wearing a tie.
The man nods to Barnaby. “Nice day for this time of year.”
“Yes. A reprieve from winter.”
The server behind the counter hands Barnaby a menu. “Soup of the day is French onion. Really good.”
“It’s delicious,” the man beside him agrees. “All their soups here are good, but this one’s special.”
Barnaby has never eaten French onion soup, but it smells good. “I’ll try it,” he says.
“Comes with sourdough bread,” the server tells him.
“I come here most days for lunch,” the man beside him says. “Never seen you here before. Are you new to town?”
“No. Lived here almost all my life. I’m here to pick up my car.”
“At Tom’s Auto Body shop? What are we working on for you?”
“My 1980 Ford Pinto. Not sure it’s worth repairing.”
“I know the one. You’re probably right, but if you like it and want to keep it running, what else can you do?” the man says, staring at Barnaby’s torn overcoat.
“Actually, I’m thinking of trading it in, getting something newer.” The server puts a bowl of steaming soup in front of Barnaby along with bread and a glass of water. He takes a spoonful. “Cheese on top is great,” he says, blowing on the spoon to cool it.
“We have a few cars for sale on the lot. Got a nice Honda in last week. Owner didn’t want it so we bought it.”
“The silver one, year 2000? I saw it. Are you the owner? If so, they told me to talk to you about buying it.”
“Yes, I’m Tom. So you’d want to trade your Pinto for that one?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“I don’t know. As you said, yours is hardly worth repairing. It’s not the best model Ford ever made. We’ll have to charge you the return fee for the parts if you don’t want us to do the work. Guess I could give you three hundred bucks for it. Sell it for scrap. I could sell you the Honda for five thousand.”
“That’s a lot of money, but I want to drive out West this year and I’m not certain the other car would make it. Could we make a deal? Do you like art?”
“What? I don’t, but my wife does. Why do you ask?”
“I’m an artist, and I’ve recently sold some paintings to a gallery in New York. I know the owner will mark them up, and he gave me a thousand bucks wholesale for each of the larger ones. If I gave you one, would you take it and give me a break on the Honda?”
Tom shifts his head from side to side, pursing his lips. “Interesting idea. We have an anniversary coming up. What’s in the painting? It’s not one of those abstract things is it, that looks like a child did it?”
“Not at all. It’s a seascape with a lighthouse.”
“She might like that. I’d need to see it first, of course.”
“Sure. I can bring it by.”
“All right. Do that. Would you like to check out the Honda again?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
They finish their meals and return to the auto body shop. Tom takes the Honda keys from a hook and hands them to Barnaby. “If you can show us some ID, you can take it for a drive,” he says.
Barnaby hands Tom his driver’s license, who copies it, then passes it back. Barnaby strides to the car. He likes the silver color and, compared to his station wagon, the car is sleek and stylish. He opens the hood and inspects the engine. It looks clean. Adjusting the driver’s seat, he turns the key in the ignition, pleased with the way the dashboard lights up. The radio works, too. He backs into the street and drives around the block. The car doesn’t backfire and responds well as he presses the accelerator and gathers speed. He smiles at the notion that he can actually afford such a luxurious vehicle. Now if he can get Tom to accept a painting to reduce the cost, he’ll have made a good deal. After he parks the car in the lot again, he returns to the office.
“What do you think?” Tom asks.
“The car runs well, and I’d like to buy it,” Barnaby says. “If you’re still interested in the painting, I can bring it by. Will you be able to repair the back fender right away?”
“We can get to it within the next week. To be safe, let’s say Tuesday.”
“Sounds good.”
“I’ll need a deposit of a thousand bucks first,” Tom says.
“Of course.” Barnaby writes a check. “Thanks. See you Tuesday.”
He waits for the bus, straightening his back and holding his head high. On his way home he makes two more stops. He buys a new coat at the men’s store on High Street and flowers at the supermarket.
CHAPTER 14
Julia drives to work feeling out of sorts. Her washing machine failed overnight, flooding the kitchen, and she’d spent the early morning mopping up. The cat, then, was not happy. Getting his paws wet, he padded through the living room, leaving prints everywhere. After placing Molière’s bowl of Happy Cat Tasty Tuna on the floor in the hall, Julia stepped in it on her way out the door. Now she smells of fish. Damn it all. She’ll have to call a repairman about the washer and arrange to be home for the service.
She runs into Lisa in the lobby of the New Haven County Social Services, Waterbury Division building.
“Good morning. How was your weekend?” Lisa asks.
“Okay. Washing machine’s broken. I’ll have to get it fixed, and I’m worried about the wooden floor because soapy water leaked all over it.”
“Bummer. Look, I’d like your help with one of my cases. Could you stop by my office when you get settled?”
“Sure.”
Julia feeds the coffee machine in the lobby with a dollar bill and watches while the black liquid drips into a paper cup. That’s never her favorite way to begin the day, but she’d been too rushed to stop at a coffee shop for a latte on the way in. She opens the door to her small office, sits down at her desk, and turns on the computer. While the blue screen flickers and springs into life she props her chin on her hands as she considers what to do about the washing machine and her ruined floor. She chastises herself for allowing the problem to distract her from her work until she remembers the last time this had happened. Washing machines and ruin. During her mother’s illness, their washer had sprung a leak just as they headed out the door for an urgent doctor’s appointment. Her father, dressed for work, watched them go without as much as setting down his coffee cup.
“Could you call someone about the repair before you leave?” Julia asked him.
“Call yourself. It’s women’s work.”
Suppressing her anger, Julia hurried her mother out of the house.
A string of email messages come into view in the computer, and Julia peruses them quickly. Nothing important. She takes a sip of the tasteless coffee and goes to see Lisa, who is rummaging around for papers.
“Have a seat. Can’t find my notes,” Lisa says.
Julia checks the room. Lisa has several framed posters of Impressionist paintings on the walls. She also has a large wooden sculpture of a pelican on a pedestal in the corner.
“Where did you get the bird?” Julia asks.
“Went to an art show in New York last weekend. I get to galleries once in a while. You should come with me sometime. It’s fun.”
“I don’t really have money to spend on art.”
“You don’t have to buy anything. You can see what’s going on in the art world. Speaking of art, have you seen our local artist Barnaby recently?”
“No. He called to ask me out, but I said I was busy. Guess you scared me off him.”
“Good thinking. Here’s my file on the Hawkins case. I’ve had a few visits with the family, but I’d like a second opinion about what action to recommend. Would you go and see them and give me your thoughts?”
“I can do that. Where do they live?”
“Maple Street. Take the file and read up on the case, and thanks.”
Back at her desk, Julia hopes the new project will distract her from her own petty problems. That’s the good part about her work: there’s always someone whose life is worse than her own, and she is glad to help. In fact, she’ll use the opportunity of getting out to go by the hardware store at lunch to find out what materials she should use to treat her wet wooden floor.
After she reads Lisa’s notes, she places a call to the Hawkins family.
A woman’s voice answers the phone. “Elsa speaking.”
“I’m Julia Morgan at New Haven County Social Services, a colleague of Lisa Nettler, whom you’ve met. She asked me to talk to you. May I stop by sometime today?”
“Sure. I’ll be home. Come anytime.”
“Good. I’ll be there this morning, before noon.”
Julia takes the file and lets the receptionist know she will be out until after lunch. She drives across town and parks in front of the small house on Maple Street where Elsa Hawkins and her mother Alma live. A woman in her sixties with tired eyes opens the door.
“You must be Julia,” she says. “I’m Elsa. Come in.”
Julia steps inside, noticing that the house appears neat and clean. Elsa offers coffee and Julia gladly accepts. They sit down at the kitchen table.
“I understand you may need some help with your mother,” Julia says.
“Yes. She’s at a doctor’s appointment now. My sister Hannah took her. We share the caregiving, but it’s becoming more difficult and we don’t know what to do. Our mother is stubborn. She’s had several falls and can’t take care of herself, but she refuses to live anywhere else. Hannah and I are exhausted, dealing with her constant needs. Mother needs help with her leg brace, bathroom visits, and showers.”
“Have you and she looked into places where she might go and have skilled care?”
Elsa grimaces. “We have, but assisted living facilities are either too expensive or not to her liking. She insists this is her home, and she belongs here with me, her daughter.”
“Where does Hannah live?”
“In town. She’s married and lives with her husband.”
“How does your mother spend her time, and what’s the state of her health?”
“Mostly she watches TV. She has no friends anymore. She’s eighty-two and in good health except for her leg. Before this last fall, when she broke it, she would go out. We have to keep an eye on her because she has a history of shoplifting. She’s sneaky. Takes things when no one’s looking.”
“Oh dear. That must make things difficult. What do you do about this?”
Elsa rolls her eyes. “When we find something she’s stolen we try to return it, but we don’t always know where she goes. Now her leg is healing, she’s started going out again. We think she needs closer supervision. I have a part-time job and can’t be here all the time.”
Julia nods sympathetically. “Has your mother taken anything valuable, something that might get her in trouble with the police?”
“Usually not. She takes trivial things, like toothbrushes or pencils. She’s especially fond of crayons. There is one piece that may be of value, though. We can’t figure out where she got it. It’s a small painting.”
“May I see it?” Julia asks.
“I’ll fetch it. I locked it up, in a closet. She’s furious with me for that. Claims it’s hers, that it was promised to her years ago, and she wants it on the wall where she can see it. She says it brings back happy memories.”
Elsa shuffles down the hall and returns with an oil painting, a seashore scene, depicting people wandering on the beach and children flying a kite under a cloudless blue sky.
“Nice picture, isn’t it?” Elsa says. “We have no idea where she got it. Came back from a party on Christmas Eve with it. We asked the hosts if it belonged to them, but they said no.”
“What party was this, and how did she come to be invited?”
“Former employers of hers, the Burtons, held the party. She used to clean house for them. They’ve always had a soft spot for her. They sent a car to pick her up. You know, they’re rich folks who live in Hillside. She claims it was promised to her years ago by her employer, but that employer wasn’t this family.”
Julia wrinkles her brow. “It’s clearly a difficult situation,” she says. “What can I do to help?”
“Could you talk to Mother and explain that we can no longer take care of her? If you know of any nice place where she can go and we can afford, that would be fantastic. She’s not safe in this house anymore. She wanders off and sometimes can’t find her way back.”
“I’ll see what I can do. I understand my colleague Lisa has already talked to your mother.”
“She has. That didn’t go too well. They didn’t hit it off. Mother has strong views about people. She either takes to them right away or can’t stand them. She might listen to you. You have a kind face.”
