by Barry Rachin
When Grace returned, Carl was beginning to pack up some of the smaller items. She grabbed one of the prettier boxes off the tiered display. In response to Carl’s quizzical look she barked, “Don’t ask!”
******
“Marquetry. It’s an ancient skill dating back to the 14th century Italian Renaissance.” Grace was standing next to Pam Sullivan. The secretary was writing out a check while the candle maker wrapped her merchandise. Grace thrust the slender bracelet box under the secretary’s nose. “Each piece is hand-fitted to create an intricate pattern, a mosaic in rare woods.”
“Well, I don’t see where -”
“And these aren’t just hinges.’ Grace flipped the box over. “No, no, no! They’re precision, fine-tuned Brusso hinges that hold the lid open at exactly 95 degrees. You’d have to visit the posh galleries and boutiques on Newbury Street to find such lavish, high-end quality.” Grace slid the box out from under Pam’s nose. “Or a shrewd shopper could buy direct from Carl Solomon.”
When Grace returned to the booth, Carl and her daughter were breaking down the table. “How’d we do?”
“Four hundred and eight-five dollars.” Her daughter pulled out a wad of bills. “Carl let me keep what I sold.”
“What was that all about?” Carl asked.
Grace told Carl about Pam Sullivan. Then she put her arms around him and kissed him on the mouth.
“Mom!” Angie shook her head in disbelief.
Grace kissed him a second and then a third time. “One last question. If all the products at a craft fair are suppose to be handmade by the local artisans, how can they peddle alpaca socks imported from Mexico or Mary Kay cosmetics?”
“The Mansfield fair wasn’t juried,” he replied. “Pretty much anyone who filled out the registration form was accepted. No questions asked.” Carl explained that Blondie with the fake silver jewelry probably wouldn’t know a soldering iron from a blow torch. All her inferior goods were purchased on the cheap from overseas markets. There was nothing original about her product line just as Uncle Sid from New Jersey was nothing more than a figment of her cunning imagination.
The same for the Gringo sock merchants. While their products were made in Mexico, Guatemala, Chile or God-knows-where and colored with beetle juice, the vendors had no part whatsoever in the design or manufacture. Even the Salsa lady was suspect. “So she cooks up a five-gallon vat of salsa on her kitchen range,” Carl argued, “She’s a glorified cook not an artisan. Why should she be hawking dip at a craft fair and taking business away from serious crafters?”
Grace thought of the droopy water color artist, sitting with her hands folded in abject resignation. Would this first craft fair ultimately be her last? Perhaps she would try one more only to be sandwiched between the phony baloney blonde sales dynamo and the Caucasian couple pushing south-of-the-border footwear. The water color artist’s worse nightmare!
“The next fair will be different.” Carl said. “It’s juried, which means they only accept serious crafters. No buy/sell. No imports. No Avon or Mary Kay cosmetics. If somebody sneaks in under false pretenses, the management will refund their money and throw them out.”
“What about the Salsa lady?”
“She can come to buy my original artwork,” Carl was laughing now, “but she can’t sell her funky salsa.”
******
In the morning when Angie went out to retrieve the newspaper, the mail box was smashed. Obliterated. The metal pole was bent double, the box flattened like a pancake and unceremoniously hurled into the bushes. When Angie tried to straighten the pole, it snapped off in her hand.
“The Village Idiot.” Grace put a pot of coffee on and called the police. The same officer who took the report when the house was egged pulled up in a blue cruiser.
“Did you see who did it.” “No. I didn’t see a thing.”
The officer pawed at the dirt with the toe of his shoe. “Too bad you didn’t have a surveillance camera. Could of nailed the little bastard.”
“Tall, ungainly bastard,” Grace corrected, “with a bad complexion.” The officer threw his hands up in a gesture of exasperation and left.
Hubert Fenster. Fernwall, Feinstein. Fenton, that was it! The name of the electronic whiz who set up the surveillance equipment at the high school. Grace found him in the yellow pages under the security heading. She called and left a message on his answering machine.
Dwight Goober was a one man wrecking crew, a destructive, insolent, psychopath, and nobody could touch him. He spent his days locked away in a ‘special-ed’ classroom at the regional collaborative and, like a prisoner on work release, scurried back to the community in the late afternoons. He needed to be taught a lesson, Grace thought. No, the wording was too antiseptic. He needs to be hurt really bad—pulverized like the mailbox, fractured and splintered like the ruined metal pole. Everybody knew about the goons on Federal Hill. The lugs who would rearrange somebody's anatomy or tap dance on a spinal column for a few thousand dollars, no questions asked. A simple business agreement without a binding contract.
It was curbstone justice at its best. The way things got done before the era of criminal rights, ACLU and all that libertarian hogwash. What frightened Grace more than the smashed mailbox was the revelation that she had entertained the notion of stopping by the sporting goods store at the Brookville Mall to checking out the offerings. What gauge weapon would you recommend for hunting wild game. Something, say, in the two hundred pound range. A dull witted, feral beast with chronic acne and a compulsive inability to leave decent, law biding citizens alone?
Hubert Fenton, a middle-aged man with bushy eyebrows, stopped by the next night after supper. Grace told him about the mailbox and the eggs. “Latchkey brats,” Hubert said gruffly, “they’re taking over the universe.”
“I thought maybe a camera in the front of the house might work.”
Mr. Fenton shook his head. “Soon as he sees the solitary camera up on the front, he’ll just target the sides or rear. These kids aren’t stupid.”
“Actually he is quite stupid.”
Hubert Fenton ignored the remark. “I wouldn’t go with anything less than four cameras. One on each corner of the house.” He pulled out a blank form and began scratching some figures. “You’d need a router to send the video signals from the various perimeter locations directly to your computer hard drive. You’ll also require a set up with night vision capabilities.”
Grace bit her lip. “Sounds expensive.”
Hubert looked up. “We’re looking at four thousand depending on how much trouble we have running cables. Some of these older houses can be tricky.”
Grace’s brain shorted out. She didn’t have that kind of money to throw away on Dwight Goober. Four thousand dollars would replace the mailbox a hundred times over. How many Dirty Harry-type, long-barrel magnums could you buy for that kind of money? Hubert Fenton left a detailed proposal on the kitchen table. The paperwork described all the scintillating bells and whistles, the electronic gadgetry with the stipulation that additional installation fees would ultimately effect the final cost.
When Hubert Fenton was gone, Grace called Carl and launched into a maniacal rant cursing Dwight Goober and threatening the thug with all sorts of outlandish abuse. Grace was just venting, blowing off steam. She could no more stop Dwight Goober from vandalizing her property than the police or ineffectual courts could. At the end of her tantrum Carl only mentioned that Mrs. Shapiro was feeling much better since the bronchial infection and, in his low-keyed unhurried manner, added, “Replacing the post and mailbox is no big deal. I’ll come by over the weekend.”
Neighbors on Bovey Street cursed Dwight Goober through the previous summer. Every time he trashed their lives and property, they shook an impotent fist in the air, hollered and cursed until they were blue in the face, nearly apoplectic. But they never did squat. No one ever sued the family or confronted the insolent fishwife of a mother. They never even called the police or confronted the youth fac
e to face. No, it was all empty posturing and hot air. They were afraid of retribution pure and simple. They waxed philosophical. Oh, he’ll just grow up and move away from Bovey Street or get sent to the ACI for some major offense. Better to be longsuffering and wait it out.
What the neighbors never counted on was the possibility that their diabolic nemesis might hunker down on Bovey Street for the next twenty years, finding new and ingenious ways to torment them well into their doddering old age.
Carl was a loner. Unlike the frightened neighbors, he studied a problem, whether a delicate bridle joint or a pimply-faced punk, and didn’t worry about extraneous details. That worried Grace.
******
Mentally Unbalanced English Teacher
Romantically Involved with School Janitor!!
Pam Sullivan might as well have broadcasted the late breaking news over Brandenburg Middle School’s public address system. Ed Gray stopped by her classroom at the end of fifth period. “I heard a rumor,… totally absurd, but I thought I owed you at least the courtesy of -”
“Courtesy,” Grace cut him short, “Interesting choice of words. And, yes, the rumor is true.”
“You’re dating the school janitor?”
“This has nothing to do with Carl’s position here. You’re in a snit because he caught you with your academic pants down.”
“You,” Ed Gray shook a finger menacingly in her general direction, “are totally out of line.” His eyes glazed over with rage. “Insubordinate!”
“What I do with my personal life is none of your business.”
He made a motion to leave but turned back almost immediately. “You’re not the least bit embarrassed? It doesn’t bother you that the other staff at Brandenburg understand what’s going on?”
Grace was sorting a pile of test that she would grade at home over the weekend. “Those teachers who care about me will wish me well and perhaps take a genuine interest in Carl. The rest can go to hell.”
******
Sunday Carl replaced the mailbox. He dug out the old pole down below the frost line and wedged a four-inch, pressure-treated post in the hole. Emptying a bag of Quickrete into the pit, he flooded the gray powder with water. Satisfied with the way the cement was curing, he spread a thick layer of straw over the ground covering the hole.
“What’s that for?”
“Keeps the cold out so the cement can cure properly.” He leveled the post making minor adjustments. “It’s just a precaution. Don’t want the mix to freeze overnight.”
Short of attacking it with a chain saw, no one, not even the demented Dwight Goober, was going to destroy the four-inch post. “Put your tools away and come in for a while.” Grace put a pot of coffee on while Carl washed up. “Our little secret isn’t so private anymore.”
“Figured as much.” Carl picked a strand of loose straw off his flannel shirt. “Teachers who never knew I existed, are all goggle-eyed.” He chuckled in a deep bass. “You’re blue-collar boyfriend’s assumed celebrity status.”
Grace straddled him on the chair. “Dr. Rosen stopped by my classroom Friday.” The psychologist looked in shortly after Ed Gray stormed off. “He talked in circles, smiled a lot and went away.” Grace could feel Carl’s arms come up under her sides. “Moral support, I figure.”
“Where’s your daughter?” Carl was kissing her neck.
“Spending the weekend with her father.” Pushing him away momentarily, Grace reached into her pocket and laid a small gift-wrapped package no bigger than a pencil on the table.
Carl picked it up and turned it over in his hand. “For me?” She nodded and settled back comfortably in his arms. He pulled the paper off carefully. The toothbrush featured soft nylon bristles and a rubber flossing pick.
******
With the cement curing under a six-inch bed of straw, they went upstairs and took their clothes off. They made love quickly and quietly then, for good measure, did it again. In the morning the couple rose early and ate a leisurely breakfast. “When is your next craft fair?” Grace pushed a plate of buttered raisin toast across the table.
“Two weeks on a Saturday. That’s the juried show.”
Carl was sitting at the kitchen table in his underwear, his strong lean body hunched over the food. Nothing could have seemed more natural. Grace stared at him intently. “Are you nervous?”
“There will be artists who display regularly in expensive galleries.” He fidgeted in the chair. “Maybe I’m just kidding myself.”
She came up behind him and draped her arms over his chest. “Or maybe like the unassuming Chickasaw basket weaver, you’ll knock them all dead.”
******
A week past and life at Brandenburg Middle School drifted back to normal. Teachers who had treated Grace like her bra was on backwards, greeted her pleasantly enough now and even made small talk between classes. Ed Gray was in a habitually foul mood and held impromptu daily meetings with Principal Skinner in the hallways or the administrative office. Pam Sullivan seemed contrite, almost apologetic - not that such a woman would ever give Carl Solomon the right time of day much less credit for having a reasonably endowed brain lodged between his ears.
When Grace arrived at school on Thursday morning, Pam muttered, “Principal Skinner wants to speak with you ASAP. I sent an aide over to cover you class through first period.” She glared at Grace haughtily before turning her back.
So this was it. Out of shear spitefulness, Pam Sullivan had spilled the beans to the principal about her office romance. Or maybe Ed Gray had given him an earful describing behavior unbecoming a professional educator. Insubordination, rash and reckless—
“Grace, would you come in please and close the door.” Principal Skinner was waving at her from behind his desk. The cap on the Maalox bottle was lying on its side, a moist, pink ring circling the inner edge. He rose and, with his back to her, stared morosely out the window. “WJAR Channel Ten weather team is calling for snow tomorrow. Two to four inches on the ground by daybreak.” He pivoted on his heels and picked up a football that was perched on a shelf. “Less than half a foot of snow by dawn. Do we close the school and tack another day on at the end of the year? Decisions. Decisions.” Without warning he lobbed the ball to Grace. “Nice catch!”
“This bad weather, it’s not a storm, per se,” he rambled on. “Nothing like the nor’easter we had last December. What would you do?”
Grace rubbed the raised surface of the ball with her finger tips. Football mementos plus several rows of varsity championship trophies littered the office. “Close the school. It’s not worth the risk. But you didn’t call me here to discuss the weather.”
On the far wall hung a picture of a trim and robust Principal Skinner in full varsity gear with his college squad. A mop of shaggy brown hair fell down over the handsome, young man’s ears. Principal Skinner gestured at the football in her hands. “Did you notice the inscription?”
Grace glanced at the writing on the side of the ball. ”Sorry, but I don’t recognize the name.”
“Roosevelt ‘Rosie’ Greer. Played for the Penn State Nittany Lions. All pro with the New York Giants then went to first string right tackle with the LA Rams.”
“The bruiser weighed over 300 pounds,” the principal took the ball from her hands and returned the pigskin to its place of honor on the far shelf, “but always went out of his way to avoid injuring another player. Rosie had a unique hobby. Needlepoint. Use to stitch on the sidelines toward the end of his career while he was still an NFL, first string player.”
“Well, that’s very nice—”
“I visited the art museum last month when they featured the local artisans. Carl Solomon’s box was on display. Meticulous handiwork.” He cleared his throat. “Ed Gray gave notice yesterday. He’s leaving the Brandenburg school system by the end of the month. Two weeks to be exact. You’re my first choice for Chairman of the English Department.”
Grace’s head was spinning. She couldn’t connect the dots; nothing t
he man was saying made any sense. She stared at the principal like he had been speaking in tongues. “Ed took another job?”
Principal Skinner reached for the pink liquid and filled the plastic cup to the brim. “The turncoat deserted to the enemy camp.” He put the cup to his lips and tilted his head back. Principal Skinner wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. “Took a position in Boston working with MCAS.”
******
“Let’s take a ride,” Carl said.
Angie just arrived and hadn’t even removed her jacket. “Where to?”
“Providence,” he replied without elaborating.
“My mother’s upstairs with Mrs. Shapiro. Can she come?”
Carl grabbed his coat and headed up the basement stairs. “Sure thing.”
They drove down Cottage Street and hooked up with the highway heading south. There was no place to park downtown so he found space on a side street off College Hill and plunked four quarters in the meter. They backtracked to North Main Street. Carl pulled up in front of the Rhode Island School of Design Store. A girl standing in the doorway was wearing a blue military coat with epaulets and brass buttons. Her boyfriend sported a spiked Mohawk and his tongue was pierced. Each time he spoke, a silver ball danced up and down in his mouth. Angie tugged at her mother’s blouse. “Why is everybody dressed weird?”
“It’s RISD. The school attracts a lot of artsy types.” She turned to Carl. “I didn’t know they sold woodworking supplies here.”
“They don’t,” he confirmed. Sauntering into the store, he cornered a salesgirl. “Handmade papers?”
“Over there by the bookbinding supplies.”
On a six-foot high rack, row after row of handmade papers with different themes and textures were neatly hung. “I need a new look for the Boston show. Something totally original that will knock the gallery owners’ socks off.”
“You got the amboyna burl veneer,” Grace countered.
Carl smiled faintly. “And that’s all I’ve got. Except for the bird’s-eye maple, none of the other woods look half as nice.”
