Concrete Angel
Page 23
She nodded. Ryan would destroy the place without Adele or Christine to watch him. She looked nervously at the shelves of ceramic angels. No thanks. She had her eye on them. What did a man want with such things? They were three-deep in spots. If she remembered correctly, she had a box of them over in the Flourtown unit. They didn’t have the charm for her they once had, but she wouldn’t turn one away should he offer.
“Do you think you should show me how to keep your books?” Eve asked him after a few weeks. “I could probably take care of your bills if I knew the system. I helped my ex with his. Bet it’s a strain on your eyes.”
“Mickey?” he asked. “You kept Mickey’s books. I didn’t realize he was self-employed.”
“No, not Mick. Hank. Hank’s books. He has his own printing business in Bucks County. I practically ran the office. Back in the early days before Christine came along. Once she was in school. I ran a little shop in Hatboro.”
“I didn’t know that, Eve. You’re quite accomplished. I hope I’m not taking advantage of your time.”
“I love coming here, Charlie. You know that. And with your eyesight and all, learning your books could come in handy,” she said again, in case he hadn’t heard her the first time. “I help Bud. He says I have a knack for it.”
Charlie nodded. “I can show you how to do it. Nothing to it. In January, an accountant comes in and looks things over,” he added.
January was a long way off.
“What’s this all about?” she asked him one day, poking a piece of paper with her rubber finger.
She was sitting at his desk, wearing the reading glasses she suddenly needed. She’d found a section in one of his loose-leaf books listing automobiles. Maybe a dream list for the old coot? She paged through it. There were a lot of notations about servicing, car parts, fees, licenses renewals, inspections twice a year. Some guy—she couldn’t make out the name—signed off on the purchases for him. Maybe a nephew? So Kowalski owned these vehicles? It wasn’t a fantasy? Or were they some sort of model cars—like hobby shop things? But at these prices, it couldn’t be.
Charlie walked across the room and peered over her shoulder. He blushed. “Guess I haven’t told you about my bad habit,” he said. “I’m a bit of a hoarder.”
“What do you hoard?” Eve asked with interest, forgetting the vintage cars she saw listed and picturing storage units filled with junk. Clearly the bill in her hand now was for storage of some kind. Higher than any bill she’d paid though—and she had a bunch of units. Certainly too high for model cars—even a platoon of them.
“I buy automobiles. Or I used to. Haven’t bought one in years though. Since the wife—well—you know.”
“Cars? Carol and you bought cars?”
“Yeah, instead of taking vacations. Carol never wanted to take vacations because she loved this house too much to leave it—always worried about her plants, and she had a little cat. Teeny was a—”
“The cars, Charlie,” Eve interrupted.
“Oh, right. So instead of buying gold or stocks with the extra cash, we bought cars. Every two or three years—the fancy kind.” He walked across the room and returned with a steel box. “I got pictures of most of ‘em in here. We had a professional photographer take them. Oh, those cars were our babies, all right.” He was red-faced. “Seems kind of silly now—buying all those cars. Some barely driven.” He handed her the box. “But we took them out to a car show now and then. There’s a great one in Bucks County, matter of fact. Probably near your old stomping grounds.”
She opened the lid and found a stack of photos. “And you still have all of them? All of these cars?” There must have been a dozen or more. “That’s what’s in the storage units?”
He nodded, still pink with embarrassment. “Sixteen. The sweet sixteen.” He smiled. “Sixteen felt like the right number to end on. And they’re in garages. Not storage units.”
“What’s that one?” she asked, pointing to a bright red one. She’d never seen cars like these. Maybe they were foreign.
“A 1969 Alfa Romeo Spider. You’ve got good taste, Eve. One of my favorites.” He picked up the box and thumbed through it. “And this one is a 1958 Ace Bristol. And the yellow baby is a ‘55 Triumph.” In each picture, a small woman, who gradually or not so gradually aged, stood next to the passenger’s door with a chirpy smile on her face. Carol?
“Your wife?” Eve asked. There were no pictures of his wife around the house. No photographs at all.
He nodded. “This is my Carol.” He sighed. “It’s hard looking at her. I put all of our photographs away so I wouldn’t have to—”
“Very pretty.” Actually, Carol was an attractive woman. Or had been at the beginning of their automobile purchases. You could pinpoint the exact year her illness began.
“It got to be a routine,” he said. “Carol always standing in the same spot. I picked out the automobile, after months of research and hunting for a good price, but Carol usually picked the color—if we were buying it new.” He shook his head. “Lots of times, it was an older model, one exceptionally valuable.” He sighed. “Now it’s just depressing. How Carol grew more and more sick, marching toward her death, while I bought those cars, trying to hold onto our hobby. That’s why I housecleaned all the photos away around here.” He waved his arm. “Lucky I didn’t buy any cars after ’76.” He blinked like an owl. “She got terribly sick that year. The three worst years…”
Eve nodded. She’d heard the story several times. “You mean those cars are sitting in a garage somewhere—to this day? All sixteen?”
What kind of shape would they be in by now? She pictured them as dusty relics.
“And in excellent condition,” he said, answering her unvoiced question. “Have a fellow who tends to them. Gus Atkins. He drives them enough to keep them sprightly, rotates tires, washes and waxes them, takes them in for special maintenance, orders parts from European suppliers, that sort of thing. Been doing it for years.” He grabbed an invoice from the pile. “Here’s his monthly charges.”
“Wow!” Could the numbers be right? “You don’t drive them anymore? Never take them out on the road?”
The numbers on the invoice were ridiculous. None of her junk needed to be cared for to the tune of… She nearly gasped when she added it up.
Mr. Kowalski looked shocked at the idea of driving them. “Oh, no. Not with my eyes. Haven’t been able to drive a car in six years. It became a real problem back when Carol…”
Eve butted in again. “Have you thought about selling them? You could probably put the money to use in some other way. Especially if you don’t drive. What’s the point, Charlie? Do you go look at them at least?”
He shook his head. “Hard to get there without a car. Ironic, huh? Oh, I don’t know, Eve. Those cars were like our children. Each one has its own story. Like the Triumph there,” he began to flip through the photos. “Carol saw one at the airport—”
“But children grow up and go away,” she interrupted. “You could take a vacation with the profits. Go around the world—twice at least.”
He laughed. “I’ve never wanted to travel—even when I physically could. And Carol—well, you know.” He paused. “It was enough for me to travel through the car magazines—to purchase automobiles from Italy, Germany, France. When we could take them out ourselves, it was as good as being there. Each year, we took one or two to a car show or to road rallies. Not too far away, but enough to make it a trip. It was exciting. Something we enjoyed doing together. I have a scrapbook somewhere…”
“Still, the profits from your investment will go to the State of Pennsylvania if you let them sit in those garages.”
It was making her angry thinking of it. No children to leave the money to—nobody to profit from this collection—when she’d so many needs herself. Who took care of him after all? She was the only person who came through the door most weeks. One or two old goats stopped by, mostly to watch a 76ers or Flyers’ game.
“I never reall
y saw the cars as an investment. I mean, sure, I know they’re worth money, but it was something to do together. Carol and me,” he repeated. He began to warm to the story. “It was fun deciding which one we’d buy next…”
“When was the last time you went out to see those cars?”
He screwed up his eyes, thinking, “Couple of years probably.”
“How can you be sure they’re still there? Maybe the guy who tends to them—this Ace fellow—sold them all years ago.”
A look of alarm widened Mr. Kowalski’s eyes, but then faded. “No, Gus wouldn’t do anything like that. It’s not in him. And anyway, I’d have to sign the title papers over to the new owner. Gus couldn’t sell them without my signature.”
“I bet he could forge your signature after all these years.”
Eve thought she could pull it off. She’d seen his signature enough, and it still looked like the handwriting of a schoolboy from two generations ago. Grade school teachers in his time didn’t brook any deviation. She could still picture those flowing cursive letters on a chart above the blackboard.
“You have a real knack for figuring this sort of thing out, Eve. None of this ever occurred to me. But if you knew Gus, you’d see why. He’s crazy about those cars. Probably thinks of my babies as his by now—you’re right there. But there’s not a streak of larceny in him. I could go out there today and all sixteen would be sitting in their spots in perfect condition. I trust him the same as I trust you.”
“I’m sure he does think of them as his, which is exactly why we should go over and see them someday,” she said. “Make sure they’re in tiptop shape. Could be they’re rusting away. Bud can come along. He’ll get a kick out of it. Loves cars.”
Or she assumed he did. Didn’t all men? Anyway, it wasn’t about the cars.
“Let’s do it,” he said. “The garage is in Southampton.”
“I’ll get Bud to drive us out. It’ll be a nice outing. We need to get out more.”
It took the two of them several months to separate Charlie Kowalski from his cars. The first two months were spent talking Mr. Kowalski into selling the first one. After that the dominoes fell more easily.
“I don’t see what harm comes from leaving things as they are,” he’d say each time Eve brought the subject up. “I got enough money for my few needs without selling my cars. Carol wouldn’t like it.” A worried look furrowed his brow.
“You have no heirs,” she reminded him. “You might as well get some pleasure out of the money while you still can.”
“I do have heirs,” he said stubbornly. “I’ve left the cars to a few local charities.”
“Those charity people—well, they won’t take the time to get a good price for them. What does the Red Cross or Salvation Army know about cars anyway? I imagine they’ll hand them over to some service who will sell them in bulk.” Bud had thought of this argument only the night before. “You can leave those charities more money if Bud helps you. He can make sure you get the best prices. We can also make sure the cars go to people who will love them, too.” Sometimes it felt like they were talking about dogs or horses. But this sort of argument eventually won him over, although Gus, his mechanic, was none too happy about it.
“You know,” Gus, a stocky fellow with muscular arms and short, thin legs, told her bluntly one day, “you’re taking away the one thing he has left. He don’t care about money. He’s got no place to go—nothing he wants to buy.”
But Gus was eventually worn down by the deal’s inevitability, and the promise of a fair share. He wasn’t getting any younger himself and hadn’t had the nerve to tell Mr. Kowalski his salary had needed to be raised for years. No harm in putting a little something in the bank. Not if the cars were going to be sold out from under him.
After both men saw the light, things went quickly. With Bud charging a fee for his role in locating buyers, and a cooked sales slip, they made a tidy sum. Mr. Kowalski didn’t realize their share in the profits was nearly equal to his. He was sad—it was bringing back memories of a happier time, and Eve had to buck him up. Gus settled for a flat sum equaling his salary for the next year or so.
“Kowalski could be dead tomorrow and then where would you be,” Bud reminded him.
“Carol would’ve wanted you to have this little nest egg,” Eve told Mr. Kowalski. “Those cars make you sad anyway. Right? I can see it when you talk about them. You never once pulled out the scrapbook until I asked about it. Didn’t go out to see them either.” She was trying to buck herself up as much as him. She’d grown fond of the old coot.
And soon Charlie Kowalski trusted Eve and Bud to invest his profits wisely, which they did. A month or two later, Eve quit her job as his housekeeper, citing her desire to spend more time with her toddler. She had her nest-egg now and would never hold a regular job again.
I began to see my mother more clearly after Ryan’s birth—and what I saw wasn’t reassuring. Now it wasn’t just me getting pushed, pulled, and manipulated by whatever mood struck her, whatever scam she was putting into place. It was my helpless baby brother on the rack.
Her relationship with Bud Pelgrave really worried me. As bad as Mickey had been, and he’d been a first-class jerk, Bud had the smell of a possible felon about him. He was also a quack. I worried he was pulling Mother into schemes that might land her in jail. Bigger schemes than she’d come up with on her own. Her money-making methods of the past were small-time, and perhaps Bud had more grandiose ideas. If only I had someone to talk with about it. But, like always, I was pretty much on my own in dealing with my mother. I careened back and forth between hoping she’d get caught before things went too far and dreading it.
If Mother went to jail, Ryan might go into foster care since my grandmother would probably be considered too old to raise a small child. I was eighteen but still in high school with no way to support us. I crossed my fingers and began to look at college brochures. Mother would have to do for now. Despite my concern for Ryan, other things began to draw my interest.
Daddy began paying attention to me. I’d reached an age when we could have discussions about adult topics. And since I was no longer my mother’s biggest ally, he could criticize her openly. I might confide my concern about Bud if he approached me the right way—if he gave me an opening.
“I’ll pay for any school you can get into, Christine,” Daddy said. “What about a school in New England? I bet you could get into Harvard or Yale. They take girls now, right? What were those SAT scores again?”
We were out at his house in Bucks County, a place I’d visited no more than a couple times a year since their divorce. But now I was getting to be a regular. Making friends with the people my mother so feared. I was able to handle them too. I found things to laugh about with my grandmother Moran, and especially enjoyed reviving my relationship with Aunt Linda. We had a history, one mostly based on Mother’s absences, but still a history. I went to a dance at the country club, lunched in some of the ritzy New Hope restaurants. The food was spectacular, and Daddy had bought me several of the nicest dresses I’d ever owned. It’s not that this new life, with its intimations of luxury, its hanging with the swells, was all that important to me—it wasn’t. But I loved being close to someone finally and the Morans filled the bill. Having a grown daughter was easier for Daddy than having one dependent on him. Our new relationship assuaged his guilt for the past.
I looked around his place constantly for a sign of a female presence but found none. No extras toothbrushes, no female products. If Mother was the soul of indiscretion, Daddy was not. He must’ve had serious relationships—I knew he almost married once or twice—but he was mum with me. His house, decorated without Mother’s help, was sleek and masculine. He had a single, huge canvass on the living room wall and not a knick-knack of any kind on a table top. The window faced a horse farm next door. Maybe I could get into country life. But there was Ryan to consider. Mother wouldn’t let him come along when I visited Daddy, claiming it was too long a trip.
I didn’t have to explain why. Turning Ryan’s complete care over to my mother was impossible. Only last week, she ran out to pick up a package at the post office while he was taking a nap.
“I wasn’t gone ten minutes,” she said, waving a book of stamps in my face when I came home unexpectedly. Did other mothers do this? Had she done this with me? Of course, she had.
“You should go away—you’ve earned it. Ryan’s not your responsibility, Christine” my father said. “Adele will look out for him—she’ll spell your mother when necessary.” He paused and said quietly, half-believingly. “For all her faults, Eve’s not exactly a negligent mother. Or is she?”
But it was too late for these sorts of accusations, so I shook my head.
“No, she’s mostly okay.”
“She’s probably crazy about him. Just like you when you were a tyke.”
I said nothing. Somehow I still had a need to protect her. Or was I protecting myself? Was I unwilling to fess up to the role of her accomplice—the one I’d played for so long? Admit to the times I looked the other way, kept mum.
Eve had little interest in Ryan—didn’t Daddy know that? It was me who lavished love on him. It was me he came to when he fell or was sick. But he’d never experienced the manic-mother side of her—the Eve of the Supermom years. She hadn’t tried to seduce him as she had me. I came along when she needed such a helpmate. Ryan came after she had one—me. And perhaps Bud too. She could probably be honest with Bud in a way she hadn’t been with either Daddy or Mickey. Was that good or bad?
It was possible when Ryan got older and could be of some help to Mother, her feelings for him would change—intensify. If I left home at some point, his value to her would increase. But I didn’t intend for such a thing to happen—I was glad there was some distance between them—that he was not completely in her thrall. My brother wasn’t going to end up in some courtroom telling a judge some one-night stand had tried to strangle his mother so he had to shoot him. He wouldn’t lie so often he forgot what the truth was. He would have friends, be normal.