Looking for Me

by Beth Hoffman

  Mr. Palmer’s shop was the messiest, dustiest, craziest place I’d ever seen.

  I purely loved it.

  The floorboards creaked, and I turned to see Mr. Palmer amble toward me. He pushed his way past a china cabinet, squinted, and pulled up right quick when he saw me. “Well, I’ll be a three-legged jackrabbit! Am I seein’ what I think I’m seein’? Could you be that farm girl from Kentucky?”

  I smiled nervously and ran my fingertips over a stained-glass lamp shade. “Yessir. I like your shop. You sure have lots of stuff.”

  Mr. Palmer looked around, his eyebrows raised as if seeing his own shop for the first time. “Reckon I do. Want a nickel tour of the place?”

  With an eager nod, I followed, listening to stories about where certain pieces came from and who had once owned them. He used words like “Rococo,” “Biedermeier,” “cyma reversa,” and so many more that my brain hurt. The more he talked, the more I figured that Mr. Palmer was a human encyclopedia when it came to antiques.

  When we reached the back of the shop, he led me down a hall and stepped through an open doorway. “This here’s the workroom.”

  Shelves crammed with jars of stains and lacquers lined one wall. A pegboard held all kinds of clamps and tools, and the smell of turpentine hung in the humid air. Standing at a workbench was a man built like a cinder block. Beneath the bright lights, his bald head shone like polished mahogany. He was repairing a deep split in a chair leg, his face intense as he adjusted a clamp.

  Mr. Palmer said, “Albert, remember that painted chest I brought back from Kentucky, the one I sold to Miz Fitch?”

  Albert looked up, expressionless.

  “Well, this here’s the young lady who painted it.”

  I could tell that Mr. Palmer didn’t remember my name, so I smiled and said, “My name’s Teddi Overman.”

  Albert’s eyes telegraphed his thoughts as clearly as if he’d spoken them: So what? Then he went back to working on the chair.

  And that was that. I’d been dismissed.

  I spent more than an hour with Mr. Palmer, listening to his furniture stories and asking questions. When I told him I’d driven to Charleston all by myself, he offered to buy me lunch. We went out his front door, walked a few steps, and entered the deli. Mr. Palmer waved to the cook, and then we sat on chairs with red vinyl seats and ordered from plastic-covered menus.

  Mr. Palmer tucked a paper napkin into his shirt collar and commenced to eat a grilled-cheese sandwich that he dipped into a bowl of stewed tomatoes, while I enjoyed a tuna-salad sandwich.

  I chattered away, describing things I’d recently learned about furniture-painting techniques. Mr. Palmer listened, but he didn’t offer an opinion one way or the other. When he asked where I was staying, I took a sip of lemonade and answered, “I don’t know. Guess I’ll look for a cheap motel.”

  “You still have your mind set on workin’ with furniture?”

  “Yessir.”

  He took a bite of his sandwich and chewed real slow as he studied me, and then he turned his attention back to his meal. We finished our lunch in silence.

  “So,” he said, tugging the napkin from his collar and wiping it across his mouth, “you just visitin’ Charleston or you plan to stay?”

  “I’m not sure. But I like what I’ve seen so far.”

  “Do your folks know you’re here?”

  I said, “Yes.” It wasn’t a lie. Well, not exactly. I had left them a letter, so technically they did know.

  “Let me ask you something, Teddi. You’ve got this dream of havin’ your own shop, but my guess is you don’t have any money. Am I right?”

  I squirmed a little. “I have some.”

  “Well, whatever that ‘some’ is, it most likely won’t do you a lick of good. So if you’re here,” he said, taking a pepper shaker and plunking it directly in front of me, “and you wanna get to here and have your own shop,” he added, pushing the salt shaker to the edge of the table, “then how you gonna do it?”

  I glanced from the pepper to the salt and felt my cheeks color up. “I . . . well, I’ll get a job, buy old furniture, and work nights and weekends painting and refinishing until I save up enough money.”

  “And where do you think you’ll sell your furniture? You’ll starve if you try and sell it at the side of the road.”

  I looked down and traced a crack in the tabletop with my fingernail.

  “Now, here’s another question. If you was to work, let’s say, in my shop, for example, what would you see yourself doing?”

  I met him eye to eye. “First thing I’d do is wash your window. Then I’d repair all the gouges in your front door and paint it. And then I’d take those two matching chairs you have shoved in the corner and paint them, too.”

  His woolly eyebrows shot up. “Paint the Gustavian chairs! Why, that’d be a . . . a sacrilege.”

  I shrugged. “They’d sell if they were painted.”

  He rubbed his hand across his stubbly chin and looked out the window. After a moment of silence, he mumbled, “What color?”

  “Antique silver for the chairs and green for your front door.”

  “Green. Why green?”

  “Well, it’s a soothing color, and it’s the color of money. Might put people in the mood to spend.”

  Mr. Palmer gave me the strangest look and then let out a hoot and slapped his hand on the table, sending the salt shaker flying into the air and crashing on the floor.

  “So if you worked for me, what wage do you think you’d earn?”

  While leaning over to retrieve the salt shaker, I thought of what Mr. Palmer had said the previous year, how I should start my price high and be willing to haggle. I placed the shaker on the table and lined it up with the pepper. “I’d say five dollars an hour.”

  “What! Nobody will pay that. I’ll go two bucks, not a penny more.”

  I shook my head. “What I do is art—you said so yourself. Remember? But I suppose I’d take four.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You’re dreamin’. I’ll give you two-fifty.”

  I held his gaze. “Three seventy-five.”

  Mr. Palmer tugged on his earlobe and looked at me for a long time. Right when I thought he was going to tell me to forget it, his lips twitched. “All right, goddamn it. You’ve got yourself a job.”

  When we returned to the shop, Mr. Palmer led me into his office. While I sat in a lumpy chair with springs poking through its cushion, he made several phone calls. By four o’clock that afternoon, he’d found me a tiny furnished apartment to rent above a bakery. Though it sure wasn’t much to look at, it was clean and smelled of warm bread.

  That night while unpacking my belongings, I found an envelope at the bottom of my suitcase. Inside was a note that read:

  Three chirps into the sun brings good luck.

  And out fell a bluebird’s feather.

  The next morning I began my job. I spent the first three weeks scrubbing the front window, painting the door a soft viridian green, and working myself into a sweat as I cleaned and rearranged Mr. Palmer’s entire shop. After rubbing every stick of furniture with a special beeswax paste I’d found in the storeroom, I took the silverware from the shoe boxes and polished each piece. Once I was done, the shop looked like something special.

  Mr. Palmer grumbled when I begged him to buy a radio, but one day he walked in and shoved a box into my hands. I set the radio on top of a bookcase and tuned it to the best classical station I could find. I knew this would be the final touch.

  And I was right.

  People walked into the shop with its glowing woods, sparkling sterling, and classical music skimming through the air and they couldn’t help but relax and open their wallets.

  With nothing left in the shop for me to polish or rearrange, Mr. Palmer set me up with a small workbench and a stool in the far cor
ner of the workroom. When I began to paint the Gustavian chairs, I had the sinking feeling I was headed for trouble.

  Albert didn’t like me.

  He wouldn’t say good morning or good night, and he wouldn’t look at me when I asked a question, much less answer me. Sometimes I’d watch him from the corner of my eye, the way he’d smooth his dark hands over a break in a chair leg or a gouge in a table, assessing the problem with his touch, and how, when the damage was severe, he’d pull a penlight from his toolbox and shine it real slow over the areas that needed special attention. He’d select the tools, glue, and clamps required, lining them up neatly on a white towel like a surgeon in an operating room. The day he finished repairing a nineteenth-century armoire that movers had dropped off the back of their truck was the day I knew that Albert James Pickens was a wizard with wood.

  The more I watched him, the more I came to understand that Albert had a rare kinship with furniture. I swear, the more damaged it was, the more he seemed to love it. Whenever he went out for lunch, I’d sneak to his side of the workroom and examine his craftsmanship. His finished work was so meticulous that it was impossible to find even the slightest indication that any damage had ever occurred.

  I still don’t know why I began talking to Albert—loneliness, I guess—but I’d babble on and on while I painted furniture or polished silver. I’d tell him things like how my mother baked the best pies in all of Powell County and how Grammy could close her eyes, run her hand over the bark of any tree, and know what species it was.

  Albert said nothing.

  “My brother has an amazing connection to wildlife. It’s hard to explain, but things happen to him. Remarkable things. Once when we were running in the field and Josh was ahead of me, a woodchuck started running alongside of him. He was playing with my brother. I swear it’s true. Our farm is surrounded by nature. Have you ever been to Kentucky?”

  Silence.

  “Well, it’s really beautiful, and wait till I tell you about Red River Gorge . . .”

  Albert never showed the least bit of interest, so I eventually shut up. Then one day when clouds blackened the sky and rain beat against the window, I felt lonely and started blabbing again.

  “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.

  SEVEN

  Albert 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.”