A Key to Paradise

by Barry Rachin

  Grace rushed home and found Angie cuddled on the sofa. The lights were off. A chill slithered through Grace’s belly, the same numbing fear that she felt when confronting Dwight on the backyard swing. “I told Carl,” Angie confessed in a faltering voice.

  “Told him what?”

  “The Village Idiot followed me home from school Tuesday. He said, ‘You and your scumbag mother better grow eyes in the back of your heads. ’”

  “He threatened you?”

  Angie pulled her legs up under her chin and began to whimper softly. “I was scared. I told Carl what Dwight said.” Her chest heaved spasmodically. “We were working on one of those large black walnut chests with the beveled sides and paneled lid. We drilled pilot holes for the hinge pins.” The commotion in the street had died away as the last cruiser pulled onto the main high­way. Everyone, even Dwight Goober’s hysterical mother, had gone home. “The lid was too tight so we brought it over to the belt sander and trimmed a sixteenth of an inch off the right side. Then Carl muttered something so soft I hardly couldn’t make it out.”

  “What did he say?”

  Angie slid down and dropped her cheek into her mother’s lap. “Eyes in the back of his head.”

  Five minutes later her daughter was sleeping peacefully. Grace placed a blanket over Angie’s shoulders and raised the thermostat. Then she went to the phone and dialed a number. “Hello, Mrs. Shapiro, this is Grace. Is Carl there?”

  “He hasn’t come home yet.”

  “Perhaps he’s working late.”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Grace hung up the phone. Dwight Goober had a dislocated shoulder, smashed jaw and a broken leg. The cartilage in his nose had been reconfigured and several teeth chipped. She had learned this from one of the neighbors. The woman was walking her dog and heard someone hollering for help. Dwight told the medics that he was half a block from home, minding his own business and woke up in frigid water three hours later.

  The doorbell rang. Grace peered through the peephole. Carl was standing on the front stoop. “Where’s Angie?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “Give this to her.” He handed her a black walnut jewelry chest with beveled sides. The pearly textured lid medallion was cut from ice curl maple. “Tell her I used the micropolymer wax instead of tung oil so the maple wouldn’t take on an amber tint.”

  “Did you want to come in?”

  “No, not tonight.” He turned and started to walked leisurely toward his truck but turned back. “How was your night?”

  Grace turned the question over in her mind for the better part of half a minute. “Uneventful.”

  ******

  Grace and Angie arrived at the Hynes Auditorium in Boston around eleven o’clock in the morning. They drove in on the Southeast Expressway, took the Mass Ave exit and, with Symphony Hall directly ahead, veered left onto Huntington. The juried craft fair was open to the public from late morning, but Carl opted to set up his booth the night before and stay over at a nearby hotel.

  Grace made a quick tour of the show.” Quite a difference!” The Salsa lady with her twenty varieties of homemade dip was nowhere to be found. No Mary Kay cosmetics; the fair-skinned couple with the cochineal-dyed socks was a no-show.

  Traffic was thin but buyers appeared upscale, cosmopolitan. A portly fellow wearing a badge and a blue uniform with gold trim approached. “Fire Marshall. I’ll need a cloth sample.” Carl rummaged in a cardboard box and produced a piece of material the same color and texture as his booth display. While an assistant stood by with a fire extinguisher, the marshal struck a match and held it under the cloth. The fabric scorched, then turned black but never burst into flames. “All set.” He handed the blackened piece back to Carl and proceeded on to the next booth.

  “Got to wash up.” His hands were covered with soot from the charred cloth. “Be back in a second. Don’t talk to anyone while I’m gone.” He rushed off down the hallway in search of a bathroom.

  Diagonally across from their display was a young oriental couple. Earlier, Carl wandered over to introduce himself and trade business cards. The husband spun bowls and urn-shaped vessels on a wood lathe, while the wife embellished the hardwoods with intricate, oriental motifs. Several of the larger pieces were spun from green, fresh-cut lumber. As the moist wood cured, it bowed, twisted, cupped and curled into fanciful shapes enhancing the overall effect. The larger bowls, some decorated with sumptuous, filigree patterns, were cleverly arranged on separate display pedestals and bathed in a soft sheen from banks of overhead track lighting.

  Grace tapped her daughter on the shoulder. “I know that fellow.” An elegant looking man in a pinstriped suit was standing on the opposite side of the aisle, staring at Carl’s booth. He was medium height with thinning hair. “But where do I know him from?”

  Yes,” Angie agreed, “he does look awfully familiar.”

  “Nice craftsmanship.” The man, who had closed the distance, was standing in front of them. “I’ve never seen free-form marquetry patterns on jewelry boxes. Meticulous workmanship!” The man extended a well-manicured hand toward a box but didn’t touch the surface. “The finish,... is that catalyzed lacquer?”

  Don’t talk to anyone while I’m gone.

  “Well, yes. Lacquer over tung oil. When the finish cures, a protective coat of beeswax is applied with a buffing wheel.” That was safe. Grace hadn’t done anything wrong. Carl always preferred a natural finish. He boasted how oil resins always showed wood tones to best advantage.

  Rubbing his chin, the man looked slightly confused. “My mistake,” he apologized, “Lacquer finishes are generally sprayed over bare wood. I should have known better.”

  Grace felt her legs go wobbly.

  “Can I help you?” Drying his hands with a paper towel, Carl came up the aisle.

  “I had a question about your merchandise, but your assistant was quite helpful.” The man smiled genteelly and meandered over to the next booth.

  “I think,” Grace grabbed her daughter by the arm, “we’ll do some window shopping at the Prudential Center and stop back later in the afternoon.”

  ******

  The lobby of the Hynes Auditorium had been turned over exclusively to painters and a handful of sculptures with oversized piece that wouldn’t show well in the main ballroom. Where the Mansfield show felt like a raucous, three-ring circus, the juried fair was low-keyed and dignified. Well-dressed people strolled about, lingering to talk in courteous monotones with artisans before moving on.

  Earlier in the week, Grace asked Carl how the organizers of the Boston event weeded out cheap imports. “At high-end shows, the judges frequently requested digital photos of projects in various stages of completion. Let’s say Blondie tries to pass off a pair of bogus, imported earrings as handmade.” “New earrings are always hung on smooth, straight wire before it’s bent to the pendant’s final shape. An earring that’s been tampered with - taken apart to create the illusion of a work-in-progress - would be easy to spot, even for a novice jewelry maker. It’s a no brainer!”

  Grace stopped in front of a portrait done in metallic tones. The artist, a black woman dressed in a fashionable dashiki smiled pleasantly. All of the woman’s paintings had the same limited tonal range but the effect was mesmerizing. Angie tugged on her mother’s sleeve. “Cape Cod,... Hyannis.” The girl had a crazed, slightly hysterical look plastered across her face. Grace peered at her daughter trying to decipher what she was saying. “Wire sculptures, Kennedy Compound, catalyzed lacquer.”

  “Oh God!” Grace moaned and bent double placing a hand over her eyes. The man in the pin striped suit was the owner of the Cape Cod Collectibles Art Gallery. She hadn’t recognized him earlier because he had dressed casually in the store. She spun around, heading back to the main ballroom.

  “You’ll only make things worse!” Angie yelled, but Grace had already barreled through the double doors and was gone from sight. She scanned the entire room only to discover that Donald Carrington
had returned to Carl’s booth.

  “I’ve a confession,” Grace stumbled over her words, her voice breaking.

  “Catalyzed lacquer,” Mr. Carrington interrupted, anticipating her thoughts, “is the Rolls Royce of finishes, but it’s harmful to the environment and terribly wasteful. Natural oils and resins are a far more practical choice, don’t you agree?”

  “Well, I don’t really know,” Grace blustered. “Truth is, I don’t understand the first thing about woodworking.”

  “No harm done.” Mr. Carrington shook hands with both of them and nodded amicably. “I’ll be in touch, Carl.” Folding a slip of paper in thirds, he slipped it into a pocket and wandered off.

  “Do you know who that was?”

  “Donald Carrington,” Carl replied. “An art dealer with galleries in Hyannis, Martha’s Vineyard and Newport, Rhode Island.” He scratched an ear leisurely and grinned. “Mr. Carrington just placed an order for five thousand dollars.”

  ******

  Carl stopped by later that night. He sold a little over two thousand dollars to retail customers. They weren’t looking for gifts. They bought larger pieces as collectibles - personal investments, not unlike stocks or mutual funds that would appreciate in value over time. Carl also took a second, substantial gallery order. “There’s enough work to keep me busy non­stop for the next six months.”

  “How can you meet deadlines while working at the school?”

  “I’ll cut back my hours or quit altogether and find part-time custodial work.”

  “Between the woodworking and a new job, I’ll hardly see you anymore.”

  “Not necessarily..” Carl reached into his pocket and removed a diminutive box. Not the sort of box he was in the habit of making. No, this was clothbound with polished chrome edging. Very small. Not terribly practical. Just the right size.