by Beth Hoffman
“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.”
I laughed. “Thanks. And thanks for buying me that old vanity bench. I can’t wait to paint it.”
“Ah, what the hell, it was only two bucks.”
We rode in silence for several miles, and then I turned to Mr. Palmer. “The other day I was thinking about how long I’ve worked for you. It’ll be ten years in June. Do you think maybe when you retire, you’d let me take over your shop?”
That question sent him careening toward the ditch. “Jumpin’ Jesus! I give you two hundred bucks and now you want my whole damn shop? Well, don’t go gettin’ any big ideas. I’m not set to retire for a long while. Not even gonna think about it till I’m seventy-five.”
I flashed him a look. “You said you were seventy-five three years ago.”
His cheeks colored up. “Well damn it, I was wrong. But when I do retire, I suppose you could step in and run the place. Guess you wouldn’t mess things up too bad.”
I smiled and looked out the windshield. From Mr. Palmer those words were a big compliment.
Several months after we had that conversation, Mr. Palmer was in his office calculating prices for sterling flatware he’d bought at an auction. Albert was repairing the legs of an antique high chair that had seen one too many chubby babies, while I was creating a decoupage design on the top of a pine chest. It was my first commissioned piece for Miz Tedra Calhoun, a society lady who was a good customer. After cutting pictures of flowers from old issues of British gardening magazines, I glued them into position across the top of the chest, creating a collage of a lush summer garden. I knew that the decoupage had to be perfect or it would end up being my last.
A few minutes before noon, I heard Mr. Palmer’s adding machine go into a rapid-fire frenzy. The clickety-clickety kept going, and I looked at Albert and said, “Those silver pieces sure must be expensive.”
Albert chuckled and shook his head. “That old man comes up with some kinda crazy prices.”
I was curious about what Mr. Palmer was calculating, so I put down my brush and headed for his office. I stepped into his doorway and found him hunched over his desk. His right hand was splayed out across the keys of his adding machine, sending a long ribbon of white paper curling down the side of his desk and across the floor.
Mr. Palmer was dead.
At the memorial service, I sat with Albert and Reba, all of us stunned by grief. The preacher, a paunchy older gentleman, spoke endearingly of Mr. Palmer’s curmudgeonly ways and long-standing reputation for driving a hard bargain and being a man of his word. When the preacher mentioned that Mr. Palmer was eighty-six years old, Albert and I looked at each other with surprise. And though I’d known he was a bachelor, I had no idea that Mr. Palmer had had a girlfriend for nearly fifty years. Her name was Bessie Wise. She wasn’t at the memorial service because she was in a nursing home.
“Poor little thing,” a woman behind me said. “Jackson went to see her every Sunday evening, bless his heart. But she didn’t have any idea who he was.”
Mr. Palmer had a nephew named Elgin who lived in Texas. Following the service he spoke to Albert, Reba, and me for a little while, ending the conversation by saying he’d be coming to the shop the next day to tell us his plans. Though I didn’t much care for the emphasis he put on the word plans, I did my best not to overreact and jump into a pool of worry.
Elgin arrived at the shop early the next morning. He was nice enough, but when he told us that he was the beneficiary of Mr. Palmer’s estate, which included the shop and everything in it, my stomach churned.
Is he going to run the shop, or will he hire someone? Should I step forward and tell him that I’m sure I can manage everything if he’d give me the chance?
I didn’t know the etiquette of such things, and while I was trying to gather the courage to broach the subject as respectfully as I could, Elgin dropped the bomb: He was hiring an auction company to sell the contents of Mr. Palmer’s shop and would then put the building up for sale.
I rose from my work stool and said, “Excuse me, I don’t mean to be forward, but what would it take to buy this business? Albert and I work well together, and I know we could—”
“I’m sorry,” Elgin said, raising his hand. “I’ll give you both a full month’s wages and any vacation pay you have coming. If you need references, I’ll give you those, too. After the repairs are done, you can go ahead and clear out your personal things.”
And that was that. Not only had I lost a man I considered to be a wonderful, if cantankerous, friend and teacher, but his passing had obliterated my dream of taking over his shop.
When Albert and I left that night, I walked with him to his truck and posed a question. “I have an idea. What if you and I pooled our money? We could find a new location and open our own shop. We’d be fifty-fifty partners. Mr. Palmer’s customers would come to us, I know they would.”
Albert slowly shook his head. “You’re young, Teddi. You got a whole lot of years ahead of you. I started workin’ when I was fourteen. Come November, I’ll be fifty-one. All I want is a decent job that pays my bills so I can go fishin’ on weekends. Me and Reba got ourselves a nice life. I don’t want to mess it up by takin’ on a loan. The money I got saved is stayin’ right where it is—in the bank. And I sure don’t want any tension.”
“What if I promised to take all the tension for both of us? You do your work like always and I deal with everything else.”
Albert opened the truck door, climbed in, and rolled down the window. “That wouldn’t be right. I know you got a big dream in your head, and stubborn as you are, you’ll probably make it happen, one way or another. But, Teddi, you and I got different dreams.”
I glanced down at my shoes. “I understand.”
Albert closed the door and looked at me. For a moment I thought he’d changed his mind and was considering my idea, but he started the engine and said, “Now, don’t go gettin’ all hangdog. My grandpap used to say, ‘You can’t see the whole sky from one window.’ You remember those words, all right? See you tomorrow, Teddi.”
Within ten days of that conversation, the last repai
r had been delivered. As Albert swept the workroom floor and I wiped down benches, Elgin walked in and handed us each an envelope. Then he asked us to return our keys before we left. Albert never said a word as he packed up his tools and hauled them out to his truck, but I let loose and cried while wrapping my sable paintbrushes in a towel.
At four o’clock that afternoon, we walked out of Mr. Palmer’s shop. I blotted my tears on my shirtsleeve and sniffed, “I’m going to miss you so much, Albert.”
His voice thickened when he said, “Won’t be the same without you flappin’ your jaws all day.”
Three weeks later the entire contents of Mr. Palmer’s shop were sold at auction. I couldn’t bring myself to go and watch. Neither could Albert. Not long after, the building was sold to an investor from Raleigh.
It didn’t get any more final than that.
EIGHT
Albert took a position at a furniture-repair shop on the outskirts of town. He said the owner ran it like a drive-through and didn’t give a spit about craftsmanship, but the wage was good. Though I tried to find a job working with furniture, nobody had an opening. Well, nobody except Miz Hightree, who owned an antique shop on King Street. She wanted someone to clean her store and rewire lamps for minimum wage. I’d have gnawed on a rock before accepting that job.
While I kept an eye on the help-wanted ads for something good to come along, I began waitressing tables at the same diner where Mr. Palmer and I had struck a deal ten years before. More than once, while filling napkin dispensers and writing the daily specials on the blackboard behind the counter, I thought about the typewriter that Mama had given me for graduation and how much she’d wanted me to go to secretarial school. If she found out about my current predicament, I knew she’d lambaste me with a big “I told you so” lecture, so I didn’t tell her—or anybody else, for that matter.
A month after I began waitressing tables, I was walking to work and saw a man put a For Rent sign in the window of Mr. Palmer’s old shop. That sign gnawed at me something awful, and I turned around and knocked on the door.