Waterbury Winter: A Novel

CHAPTER 1

Barnaby Brown winces as his shovel hits concrete. He scrapes jagged ice from the driveway, then hurls it into a pile of snow. The shards scatter, pock-marking the white surface. A slate-gray morning sky bristles with the sensation that more storms are on the way. Barnaby pulls his shabby coat tighter around his lanky frame and looks up. Snowflakes pinprick his face, chilly reminders of his so far failed plan to change everything. He tugs his wool cap over his ears as he lifts the garage door. It’s Christmas Eve, and he vows again that this will be his last Christmas in the house, in this God-forsaken climate, in a dead-end job.

Merry Christmas to you, Barnaby, a neighbor shouts as he passes by on the sidewalk.

Barnaby raises his hand in reply. He never looks forward to the holiday. He’ll spend it alone, as usual. Well, not quite alone. Popsicle, his green Amazon parrot, is excellent company. He waves at the bird as he catches a glimpse of her iridescent feathers through the front window and almost laughs in spite of himself. Be a good parrot, she tells him when he leaves the house. God knows, he tries.

The old station wagon needs to warm up before he can take it to work. He turns the key in the ignition and waits. After several minutes, he backs out of the garage, stops long enough to pull down the door, and steers the car into the street. The exhaust spits grime onto the freshly fallen snow.

Carano Hardware, where he has worked for seventeen years, is situated two miles away on Main Street in Waterbury, Connecticut. Like other former industrial cities in New England, Waterbury’s commercial center has seen better days and its disintegrating roads beg for attention. Barnaby rattles along the first mile before he notices the car faltering. When he approaches the traffic light at the top of the hill, the accelerator fails, and the vehicle grinds slowly to a halt. The light turns green, cars behind honk, and he mutters obscenities under his breath. He allows the vehicle to roll downhill, aiming for a side street where he can investigate the problem. The car slides and swerves on the icy road, and he clutches the steering wheel in his attempt to control the vehicle as it fishtails its way down. The motion throws him from side to side with giddying force. His stomach somersaults. The tires squeal as they scratch the frozen surface. The thought flashes through his mind that his life is over. He lets go of the wheel, shuts his eyes, and braces himself for the impact. Seconds later, the car crashes into a snowbank. His heart thumps wildly as he wipes his forehead. Well, if I’ve survived this crisis, perhaps the old car will, too. He checks the dashboard. The odometer shows over 150,000 miles, and the gas tank is almost full. He turns the ignition off and on, but the engine just grates without engaging.

A passer-by taps on the glass.

Are you okay? he mouths.

Barnaby winds down the window. Seems I am. Car’s not, though.

Looks all right to me. You were lucky. I saw it all. Spinning out of control. Are you sure you don’t need help? Shall I call a tow truck?

Thanks all the same, but there’s no time. I need to get to work. She’s okay where she is for now.

Good luck, then, the man says and takes off down the road.

Barnaby is not a mechanic, but he figures the transmission has died. He got the vehicle from his parents when they died fifteen years ago, and it wasn’t new then. It must be eighteen years old, at least. He drops his head onto the steering wheel and waits until his heartbeat returns to normal.

The snow falls in heavier flakes, covering the windows, and he supposes once more that he’d best leave the car where it is and walk to work. He can’t miss again. He’s already come in late twice that week, losing pay, and his boss Salvatore—Sal for short—is counting on him to be there today, the last day for Christmas sales. Besides, now he’ll have the expense of the repair, and he’s stretched to the limit already. It’ll put a dent in his already forestalled plan to drive out West and start a new life. As he examines the car for further damage, he sees that the fender has crumpled in the spinout. More dents, damage, and debt. His mood darkens as he locks the door, feels for gloves in his pockets, and trudges to work. He draws the collar of his coat up and huddles his shoulders against the raw wind. Half an hour later, his feet numb and one sock wet from what must be a hole in the sole of his boot, he arrives at the store.

And about time, too, Sal greets him. Observing Barnaby’s snow-encrusted hat and beard, his face softens. Whatever happened to ya?

Car broke down. Sorry I’m late.

Well, take off those wet things and get yerself a cup o’ coffee. What are ya gonna to do about the car?

Nothing for now. I know you need me today.

I appreciate that. Yer a good man, Barnaby, Sal says.

Barnaby hangs up his coat and changes his shoes. He keeps an extra pair at the store and gratefully rids himself of heavy boots and the one wet sock. He examines the display of new socks hanging on the wall.

Mind if I take a pair of these? he asks. You can take the cost from my pay.

Sure, but let’s call ’em a Christmas gift, Sal says.

Barnaby nods his thanks.

The store has large windows, old wooden plank floors, and tall shelves neatly piled with cleaning materials, cans of paint, brushes, tools, nails, and buckets. The windows reflect lights from a small Christmas tree mounted on a wooden crate near the cash register bringing a magical glow to the workaday space. Customers are already browsing in the aisles as Barnaby puts on the new socks and his blue apron with BARNABY embroidered in yellow letters on the front. He takes a sip of hot black coffee. At least he’s getting warm. He forces thoughts of the stalled car out of his mind. One day at a time, he tells himself. That had been good advice from Alcoholics Anonymous. It got him off the booze years ago. How many years? At least fifteen, before his parents passed away. But since then, he’s fallen off the wagon. Perhaps the old wagon is sending him a warning: both it and his sobriety are up for renewal. He dismisses the uncomfortable thought.

Behind him, a young woman’s sharp question startles him. So you only have coffee filters in these sizes?

Yes, ma’am. They seem to fit most coffee makers. What kind do you have?

A drip coffee kind with a cone filter. I’m staying at my mom’s. Not sure what size.

Well, how about if you get a plastic holder that fits these filters? Then the size won’t matter, he says, handing one to her.

Thanks, she says, grinning.

Another customer approaches him.

Where do I go to file a complaint? he asks, holding a pot of paint.

Well, you can start with me, I guess. What’s the problem?

This paint’s the problem. Don’t cover the wall. Put three coats on and still no good.

Barnaby takes the can and reads the label. This is white paint, top of the line. What’s the color of the wall you’re trying to cover?

Red. Blood red. Makes me puke. Now it’s pink with red streaks. Looks like a side o’ meat.

Okay. You’ll need to prime the wall first. Here’s the stuff you need. But I’m telling you, red’s not an easy color to hide. You may need two coats of primer before you try the white again.

Don’t I get my money back? No one here told me about primer. What’s the matter with you folks? Ever heard of customer service?

Well, of course. Service is our business, Barnaby retorts. Then, attempting to tone down his voice, he adds, If you want your money back, you’ll have to talk to the owner, Mr. Carano. He’s over there.

The man jerks around and storms to the front of the store. Barnaby shakes his head. Difficult customers—that’s what he hates most about the job. He likes helping people, but when they complain and act rude, he feels like quitting. And, he reminds himself, he would have done so years ago, except for the drinking that robs him of all ambition. He hears the door bang and guesses that Sal’s goodwill didn’t extend to solving this man’s problem. Pink walls, indeed. He sniffs. Serves him right.

The day wears on. Outside, the snow continues to fall, smothering everything.

We’re getting a white Christmas, Sal says, moving away from the window. We’ll close early. Folks won’t get out much in this kinda weather. Come to think of it, how’re ya getting home without a car? Guess I’ll give ya a ride.

I appreciate that, Barnaby says. It’s the first good news he’s had all day except for the new socks, and despite himself, his face breaks into a grin. He knows his smile is infectious, and Sal returns his smile and slaps him on the back.

And a merry Christmas to ya, too, he says. "Buon natale."

The store door opens, allowing a blast of arctic air inside. A large man of about Barnaby’s age, dressed for the weather in a thick overcoat and ski cap, approaches the front desk.

Got any Christmas lights left? he asks.

Sure. Over there, aisle two, Barnaby replies.

The man, clean-shaven and smelling of expensive aftershave, wanders to the aisle. My wife wants them. She likes the white ones, he says over his shoulder. He takes several boxes down from the shelf and deposits them next to the cash register.

Barnaby rings up the sale. That’ll be twenty dollars and fifty cents.

The man reaches into his pocket for his wallet and hands over the cash. He stares at Barnaby’s apron, then blinks and peers at his face.

Wait a minute, I know you . . . aren’t you Barnaby Brown?

Barnaby meets his gaze. Oh my God! he says, Sylvester Goldstone . . . Sly! What on earth brings you to these parts?

Well, I’ll be damned. Sylvester bangs a fist on the counter and grins broadly. My wife’s parents live here. We came for the holiday. We’re putting up the tree tonight, you see. That’s why we need the lights.

I never knew that Melanie—that’s her name, isn’t it?—came from Waterbury.

She didn’t. This is wife number two. Her folks live in the Hillside district. I forgot that you’re from here, Sylvester says. Almost didn’t recognize you. You’re different. Changed.

Guess I am. But you’re exactly the same. Are you still working at St. Mary’s in Providence?

Nope. Got into the business of selling art. I have a gallery. So how about you? Are you still painting? You were doing well, and selling, when we were teaching art at St. Mary’s.

Barnaby tilts his head. Not painting much these days, but you can see a mural I did a few years ago out there, he says, pointing.

Sylvester squints through the window at the wall of the neighboring building covered with giant figures dancing in a circle on the beach, palm trees towering above them. Wow, not bad! Are you a muralist now, then?

Not really. The building owner paid me to paint it. He was from Hawaii. I used a discontinued brand of paint from the store here to complete it. Took a lot of paint, too.

Did you get much recognition for it?

Not really, Barnaby says again.

Well, you know those Philistines, people with no appreciation of art. Your mural is sort of Matisse-like. Reminds me of us in the old days, down at the beach in Rhode Island. Yep, those were the days, Sylvester says, with a crooked smile that widens his square jaw. Do you have anything else I can see, something smaller?

I do, but not here. I have some things at home.

Well, look here. How about if I give you a call? We’re staying until the twenty-seventh. I’d love to see what you’ve been doing.

Barnaby scribbles his phone number on a slip of paper and passes it to Sly.

I’ll be damned, he says again. Never thought I’d see you working in a place like this. You sure have changed. Got to run. I’ll be in touch.

Barnaby collapses onto a stool by the counter. He feels hollow inside. It’s surprising Sylvester recognized him at all. They had last seen each other in 1990, eighteen years ago, after Barnaby lost his teaching job at the school in Providence. It was also the year his beautiful wife died. The date stayed emblazoned in his memory. He’d been fit and healthy then at twenty-seven, not stooped and frail, as he now appears at forty-five. And it’s true that he painted regularly then and earned part of his living as an artist.

His passions, painting and Anna, both died that year.

He stares outside. The late afternoon gray sky has taken on a sickening yellow glow at the horizon.

Time to get outta here, Sal says. We got company tonight—if they can get there, that is. Gina’s making lasagna.

The two men douse the lights, close up the store, and hang a MERRY CHRISTMAS! SEE YOU DECEMBER 27TH sign on the door. Barnaby pulls on the still damp boots and coat and climbs into the passenger side of Sal’s truck.

By five o’clock he’s standing on his front doorstep. Too early for dinner. He has only one bottle of scotch, and he’s saving that for Christmas. He steps down onto the driveway. Heavy flakes have already covered the tracks of the truck’s wheels. He turns toward O’Malley’s, his local hangout. The encounter with his old friend and colleague Sylvester Goldstone had embarrassed him. Was Sly serious about wanting to see some paintings? Probably not. How Barnaby wishes he were still young with a bright future as an artist ahead of him.

One drink for Christmas wouldn’t hurt. It might dull the ache in his gut.

CHAPTER 2

Barnaby wakes up slowly. His head pounds woozily as he opens his eyes and focuses on the wallpaper opposite the bed. The rose pattern seems out of order, fading in and out. He turns over and glances at the clock. Past ten. He sits up in a panic. He must have forgotten to set the alarm, and he’s late for work! With a shock, he remembers it’s Christmas, and a holiday. What a relief. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, stands up unsteadily and heads for the bathroom. It’s cold in the house—it’s always cold—he doesn’t want the expense of heating all the rooms. Hands shaking, he runs the tap until the water warms, then splashes it on his face. So much for his idea that he should stay off the booze. But what was he supposed to do with all those old memories stirred up? Damn Sylvester and his obvious shock at finding his former teaching colleague selling lights at a hardware store. Barnaby feels like Scrooge being visited by the ghost of Christmas past.

His mind wanders back. He and Sly had spent Christmas Eve together in Vermont one year. They rented a lodge, planning to ski on Christmas Day, when the slopes would be empty, but they lapsed into talking by the fire and drinking eggnog until well after midnight. They woke with headaches, never made it to the lifts, and went snowshoeing instead. It didn’t matter. Barnaby privately preferred the sparse beauty of a silent hike through snowy woods, anyway.

Shaking his head to clear the memory, he throws on his frayed robe and shuffles to the kitchen. Popsicle must be hungry. Strange that she hasn’t yet woken him up with her usual cries of hello, good morning, hello, top o’ the morning. They had a custom of calling to each other. He had heard parrots did that in the wild as well to maintain connections. Popsicle would call and he’d answer, the parrot would call again, and so it went, sometimes for a full five minutes or more.

But this morning, Popsicle is silent.

The large metal cage by the kitchen window is empty, and the door gapes open.

His heart skips a beat.

Popsicle? he calls. Hello! Good morning! Where are you?

An icy breeze draws his attention to the sash window, also gaping wide. Stomach clenching, he rushes to it, and leans outside.

POPSICLE, he yells.

His voice, swept away by the wind, sounds weak and forlorn. He senses at once that it’s useless. She’s probably dead already. How could she, a tropical bird, survive in the frigid temperatures outside? Barnaby shuts the window and sits down at the kitchen table. On second thought, he opens it again, thinking there’s a chance the parrot will fly back in. Resting his head in his hands, he lets tears run through his fingers onto the wooden table top as he gives way to his grief, and sobs. He remembers opening the window the evening before to leave breadcrumbs for the birds outside. He must have forgotten to close it, and Popsicle’s cage as well. He had been drinking. A cold, dead feeling fills his chest, and he sits there with it for a long time, shivering in the drafty room, knowing his luck has finally run out, not that he ever had much of it in the first place. But this time, it’s his fault, and he hates himself. Reaching for the bottle of scotch on the counter, he pours a glass. He has never felt worse in his life. Perhaps life isn’t worth living.

After his fifth glass, his mind swimming in circles, he staggers to the threadbare couch in the living room. He plops down, allows his head to crash against the cushions, and soon falls into an uneasy slumber.

He wakes in darkness. Five o’clock. He has slept the day away.

Remembering his parrot has disappeared, he stumbles into the kitchen to see if by some miracle she’s back. But the cage remains empty, and fresh snow on the windowsill blocks the three-inch gap between the window sill and sash. Popsicle is dead, and I murdered her. Screaming with shame, he slams the window shut.

He wonders if O’Malley’s is open. At least he can have a drink, get something to eat, and talk to the bartender. He stops at the bathroom on his way out, gets dressed, then reaches for his coat, ties a scarf round the collar, crams a hat on his head, and bends to pull on the damp boots. The right one leaks, he recalls, and finds a plastic bag to stuff in it. It’s freezing outside, but the snow has stopped falling. Few cars pass as he sets out to walk the several blocks to the bar, and he meets no one along the way. Bright lights sparkle from trees in neighbors’ windows. He ignores them, not wanting to think too much about the holiday he isn’t celebrating. Head bowed, he plods slowly along the slippery sidewalk.

As he nears O’Malley’s, the flashing red neon signs of Budweiser beer beckon. An orange glow glimmers through the windowpanes. Thank God they’re open, he thinks. He picks up his pace as he senses gnawing hunger pains. As an afterthought, he reaches for his wallet. He hopes he has enough cash for a few drinks and dinner.

O’Malley’s has been his home away from home for years. It’s dark inside, but the bottles filled with multi-colored liquids on the shelf behind the bar shine, lending a warm ambiance to the place. The long counter, made of heavily varnished mahogany, is edged with brass. This metal strip, polished by decades of unwitting patrons, reflects the yellow lights above. An old army jacket hangs in a frame on the wall facing the customers. Two pool tables take up space in the middle of the room, their green linings lit by low-slung lights. Wooden booths and tables occupy the sides under small slitted windows with blinking signs. Barnaby