Looking for Me (6 page)

“You know what, Albert? My daddy’s good at fixing things. Not furniture, but anything that has an engine. He’s real quiet, just like you. But when he says something, it matters. Now, I don’t know if what
you
say matters or not, ’cause you haven’t said anything. My grammy says the wisest people say the least, so the way I figure it, you must be some kinda genius.”

When Albert didn’t respond, I continued to talk. “Anyway, Daddy and I used to ride in his truck and go to town. Sometimes we talked and sometimes we didn’t, but we always chewed Black Jack gum and enjoyed each other’s company. There’s nothing like that gum. Have you ever chewed it, Albert? It’s got a real bite to it, and I love how it smells. It’s amazing how much I miss it. I haven’t had a single stick since I left home . . .”

Albert never once made a comment, ignoring me to the point that I was certain he’d completely tuned me out. But sometimes I just felt the need to talk, so I did. Those were the times when I was homesick, and I’d sit on my stool and recount my life in Kentucky so I’d remember that I had roots.

As the summer wore on, there were days when Albert would show up late for work, and sometimes he didn’t show up at all. Mr. Palmer warned him, and then one afternoon he told Albert in no uncertain terms that the next time he didn’t show up, he’d lose his job. That warning seemed to hit home, and for a while all was well. But then Albert went out for lunch one Wednesday and didn’t come back. He had been working on the damaged leg of a Dutch walnut table, and the owner was expecting it to be ready the following day.

At three-thirty Mr. Palmer walked into the workroom. He looked at the unfinished repair and shook his head. “Miz Crenshaw’s gonna tear into my hide. When Albert comes in tomorrow—well,
if
he comes in, I’ll have to let him go.” Mr. Palmer scowled at the table and then looked at me. “I’m going to the dentist and won’t be back for the rest of the day, so keep your ears open and listen for the front door in case somebody comes in. Make sure you lock up when you leave.”

“I will.”

The remainder of the afternoon slid by, and when I finished screwing knobs onto a chest of drawers I’d painted, it was already past closing time. I was about to lock up for the night when I stopped at Albert’s workbench and examined the unfinished repair. The table had intricate inlay down the front of its legs. I couldn’t imagine what it was worth, but I figured it was plenty. Though I’d worked in the same room with Albert for more than three months and he’d never acknowledged my existence, I still felt real bad that he was going to lose his job.

Early the next morning, I was the first to arrive at the shop. While I was sitting at my workbench polishing a silver tea service, the side door swung open. I could tell by the sound of the footsteps that Albert had arrived.

Not twenty seconds later, Mr. Palmer walked in and said, “Albert, I don’t know where you were yesterday, and it’s none of my business. What I
do
know is that you haven’t been yourself since Reba left you. I can take your moodiness, and I don’t care that you’ve darn near stopped talking, but Miz Crenshaw is expectin’ her table this morning. When I tell her it’s not ready, I can guaran-damn-tee ya she’ll chew my ass from here to Sunday. Now, I’m sorry, but I’m gonna have to let you go.”

Albert barely made a sound when he stepped into the workroom, his shoulders slumped and his denim overalls wrinkled as if he’d slept in them. He looked at the table he’d left half repaired, then pulled the chain to the light over his workbench. The bulb swung back and forth while Alert stared at Miz Crenshaw’s table. I sat on my stool and wondered what was going through his mind. He reached out to touch the table but stopped and withdrew his hand.

As Albert’s eyes shifted toward me, Mr. Palmer walked in with his checkbook. “It pains me to have to do this, but—”

When Mr. Palmer saw Miz Crenshaw’s table, he leaned close and squinted his eyes. Then he turned to Albert and barked, “Well, why in Sam Hill didn’t you speak up and tell me you came back yesterday and fixed it? It’s not the best repair work you’ve ever done, but I think it’ll pass.”

Albert didn’t answer, and I went back to polishing the silver.

“All right, you’ve still got your job. But, Albert, listen up. You’re on probation.” Mr. Palmer turned and left the workroom, grumbling to himself.

The morning passed, and Albert never so much as glanced my way. When lunchtime came, Mr. Palmer went to the deli while I unwrapped a peanut-butter sandwich. I thought for sure Albert would say something when we were alone in the shop, something like a simple
thank-you
or maybe even a halfhearted compliment on the repair I’d done. A repair that took me till ten-thirty at night to finish and had saved his sorry hide.

But he didn’t.

When he turned off the light above his workbench and left for lunch, I was hurt and angry in equal measure. After finishing my sandwich, I went back to polishing the tea service. I kicked into high gear, wanting to get it done so I could begin painting a Prince of Wales chair. Mr. Palmer had given me free rein to do whatever I wanted, and I couldn’t wait to get started.

While I was hunched over my workbench, the back door opened. I didn’t bother to turn around, and I sure didn’t say anything. For all I cared, Albert could take all his jars of glue, secret mixtures of oil resins, and countless special tools and drive his truck off the nearest bridge.

I dipped a toothbrush into a bowl of tarnish remover and worked it over the intricate handle of a sugar shell. My fingers had turned black, and my nose itched from the fumes.

A
click
sounded, and a breeze from Albert’s fan began to whirl around the room. I heard the shuffling of his feet and the clang of tools. Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow moving toward me.

I sat stone still. The hairs on my arms prickled as Albert’s hand came into view.

He moved closer.

I held my breath, my fingers poised motionless.

Slowly, Albert reached over my shoulder and placed a pack of Black Jack gum on my workbench.

A
lbert and I inched our way toward an amicable relationship. When he and his wife, Reba, patched things up and she moved back home, he was so happy that he started singing along with the radio. At least once a day, he’d initiate a conversation with me, and whenever I asked him a question, he always answered. Now and then when I babbled too much and got on his nerves, he’d tease me and say, “You flap them jaws much longer and I’m gonna get my special glue.”

From his office I’d hear Mr. Palmer chuckle.

It wasn’t long before Mr. Palmer and Albert became like two favorite uncles. In December of that year, I started going to auctions and estate sales with Mr. Palmer. He said I was born with
the nose
—a knack for sniffing out objects of value.

I had worked in Mr. Palmer’s shop for nearly four years when Albert turned to me and said, “You ready to get serious about repairs?”

I stopped sanding a mirror frame and looked at him. “What do you mean? I
am
serious.”

He pointed to a damaged mother-of-pearl inlay design on the leg of a Chinese table. “Pull up your stool and watch.”

From that day forward, I sat at Albert’s workbench one afternoon each week as he gave me lessons on everything from mixing the right consistency of filler paste to repairing marquetry. One day, while he showed me how to fix blistered veneer, I looked up at him in awe. “Where did you learn all this, Albert?”

“Watchin’ my pap,” he said, slicing into the veneer with a razor-sharp blade. “Never was a damaged piece of furniture he couldn’t mend—had a steady hand like I never seen before or since.”

“How old were you when you fixed your first piece?”

“Eleven.”

“And you’ve been doing it ever since?”

Albert nodded, leaned closer to his work, and squinted his eyes while gently lifting the veneer with the point of his knife. “Now, hush and pay attention . . .”

It wasn’t quite a year after Albert began teaching me the finer points of repairs that Josh went missing. Though I saw concern in Albert’s eyes, he always managed to say something positive—like how some people needed time to sort things out, how he believed that Josh would eventually come home. But when the weeks rolled in to months and Josh didn’t come back, Albert said less and less.

One morning I got choked up when Albert rested his hand on my shoulder and told me that he and Reba had spoken to the members of their church. He said they were all praying for my brother’s safe return. Though Mr. Palmer didn’t say much about Josh, he always let me take extra time off whenever I wanted to go home to Kentucky, and he always paid me for the days I was gone.

During a visit back home, I took one of Josh’s flannel shirts and stuffed it into my suitcase. When the pain of his disappearance left me cold and numb, I’d put on his shirt and roll up the sleeves. Those were the days when I’d sit at my workbench and clean old hardware with a wire brush while tears stung my eyes. I’d dip the brush into a jar of solvent and rub one area at a time, and with each circle I’d silently pray,
Please bring my brother home, please . . .

I was scared and heartbroken and mad at the world. I had even stopped doing the one thing I loved most—taking repair lessons from Albert.

The months dragged on, the cuffs of my brother’s shirt began to fray, and my body grew weak from lack of sleep. Everything felt delayed. My hands didn’t work like they used to, and my mind drifted. I often didn’t know what day it was, nor did I care. The sound of my own voice hurt my ears, so I’d even stopped talking.

One afternoon in the summer of 1978, while I sat quietly in my corner and filled a crack in a dictionary stand, Albert broke the silence of the workroom.

“When I was a boy, my grandpap took me fishin’ every Saturday. He’d pack us a nice lunch—sometimes fried-catfish sandwiches, sometimes barbecued chicken and biscuits. One day we was sittin’ on the riverbank havin’ our lunch when Grandpap reached into his pocket. He pulled out two Chinese fortune cookies and gave me one. I tore off the wrapper, took a bite, and spit it out—tasted like old cardboard dipped in a little sugar. My grandpap didn’t like his cookie neither, so we laughed and tossed ’em in the river.

“The next Saturday we went fishin’ like always. Oh, that was some day. The redfish was tailin’ in shallow water. Now, what that means,” Albert said, raising his hand and weaving it through air, “is they come in so close to shore that you can see their tails flappin’ above the waterline. That was the day I caught my first redfish. It was a nice one, too, about twenty-six inches.

“When we got back to my grandpap’s house, he said he’d cook it up Cajun style. We sat on the porch talkin’ while he spread newspapers and cleaned the fish, and when he opened it up, neither one of us could believe it. Right there in the belly of my redfish was one of them folded paper fortunes. Grandpap’s eyes got real big, and he pulled it out and handed it to me. He said, ‘Albert, this here’s a message from the good Lord himself. Read me what those words say.’ So I did. And you know what that fortune said? ‘
The waters of faith hold food for the soul
.’”

Albert chuckled and shook his head. “So I asked my grandpap if that meant we should go to church more often. Well, he thought for a good while, and then he said, ‘No, what that means is we’re supposta go fishin’ on Sundays, too.’”

I felt a smile coming to my lips as I looked at Albert suspiciously. “Did you make that up?”

“You know I don’t lie.” But the way the corners of his eyes crinkled into tiny pleats led me to believe otherwise. He pointed his screwdriver toward the damaged antique jewelry box he was working on. “You about ready for more repair lessons?”

I nodded and pulled up my stool.

On a chilly February morning in 1982, Mr. Palmer walked into the workroom. “Teddi, there’s an estate sale over in Orangeburg on Sunday. Guess I’ll go see what they have. You wanna tag along?”

“Sure.”

“Be here at seven-thirty sharp or I’ll leave without you.”

When we arrived at the sale and climbed out of the truck, Mr. Palmer gave me a stern look. “Now, don’t go gettin’ excited if you see something you think is special, and for God’s sake don’t do that annoying little squeal, ’cause sure as blazes they’ll jack up the price.”

“I know.”

“And don’t smile and get all chatty.”

“I
know
! You’ve told me all this a million times.”

“Well, damn it. You sure as hell didn’t listen a million times.”

I gave Mr. Palmer a flat look and followed him to the front door. The house had the distinct smell of old age and dust, and though each room was packed with furniture and knickknacks, none of it was worth much. We climbed the stairs to the second floor, where the hallway walls were stained with oily fingerprints from the hands of children who were now probably older than I was. All the rugs were worn and dull.

“There’s a lot of stuff in the attic,” a man said from behind us. “My aunt was a bit of a pack rat.” He pulled a rope in the ceiling, and rickety stairs unfolded. “Feel free to go on up. If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

As the man turned and left, Mr. Palmer looked at the stairs and shook his head. “No way I’m climbin’ those. This is a waste of time. C’mon, let’s go.”

“I’ll go up and see.”

“Well, don’t take all damn day. I’ll wait here. If you see anything good, bring it down.”

I climbed the stairs and pulled a string that illuminated a bare lightbulb. Cobwebs clung to the ceiling, and there was so much junk that I didn’t know where to begin. I rooted through several boxes, but most were filled with old clothes, yellowing table linens, and Christmas ornaments. The ornaments made me sad. I wondered if they’d ever hang on a tree again. Probably not.

Wasp carcasses crunched beneath my feet as I pushed deeper into the dusty mess. I was about to leave when I noticed a cardboard box shoved behind a broken mirror. Reaching inside, I pulled out something heavy that was wrapped in a brown paper bag.

What I found inside was an intricately patterned sterling-silver box that had blackened with tarnish. On its bottom was a small turnkey. I wound it a few times and was startled when the top flipped open and a tiny mechanical bird popped up. He began fluttering his wings while a tinkly song played. I’d never seen anything like it. When the bird stopped singing, I closed the top and set the box on the floor. After digging through a few more boxes, I found a bronze door knocker and a solid brass match safe.

I went to the top of the stairs and whispered, “I found some things
.
”

Mr. Palmer reached up, and I handed him the match safe and the door knocker, then finally the bird box.

He set the door knocker and the match safe on the floor, but before he could get a good look at the bird box, the man handling the house sale came down the hallway. “You folks find anything?”

“Only these,” Mr. Palmer said. “But I can just as well take ’em as leave ’em.”

The man took a quick look at the items. “How about fifty dollars for all three?”

“That price won’t leave much meat on the bone.”

I climbed down the ladder and wondered why Mr. Palmer was playing hardball. The door knocker alone was worth hundreds.

The man scratched his head and said, “Well, how about forty?”

“I reckon that’s fair.”

“What about this old vanity bench?” I said, walking into one of the bedrooms.

“Two dollars,” the man said.

Mr. Palmer pulled out his wallet, counting his money like it’d be the death of him to part with it. “All right, here’s forty-two bucks.”

The man folded the bills and stuffed them into his pocket. “If you see anything else, let me know.”

Mr. Palmer and I descended the stairs and walked out the front door. When we climbed into the truck, he turned the bird box upside down and squinted. Then he cranked the key, the music began, and the bird popped up. He let out a hoot, handed it to me, and started the engine.

“What’s so funny?”

“Gee-howdy Christmas,” he said, slapping the steering wheel as he roared down the road. “There’s a maker’s mark on the bottom of that box. It’s a Griesbaum, for chrissakes. A
Griesbaum
!”

“What do you think it’s worth?”

“Solid sterling Griesbaums are rare. That one’s from the early 1900s. It’ll sell for a grand. Maybe more.”

I propped my feet on the dashboard to try to stop it from rattling. “Wow. We hit the jackpot.”

“You earned your keep this month. Remind me to give you an extra fifty bucks in your pay.”

“Don’t you think anything less than two hundred is insulting?”

“Insulting!” He rolled down his window and spit a stream of tobacco. “I should
dock
your pay for all the lip you give me.”

“And then there’s that crystal sardine container I found in Georgetown. You made a ton of money on that, too. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even have this bird box. You didn’t go up in that attic—I did.”

He pursed his lips and turned his attention to the road, but he knew I was staring at him. Finally he threw me a glance and said, “Oh, all right. I’ll give you an extra two hundred. But don’t go askin’ for more.”