Page 71 of The Singing Trees
As she reached the counter with the cash register, where she’d had countless conversations with him, she saw that the handkerchief he was coughing into was covered in blood.
“What in the world is COPD?” Annalisa asked Walt, taking a seat on a neighboring chair. It had been twenty minutes, and he’d finally stopped coughing and gone to the restroom to clean himself up.
Back at his work desk, he said, “A symptom of getting old is what it is. Chronic something or other ...”
“No, seriously, Walt.” She had come to care so much about him and couldn’t fathom losing him.
“Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease,” he said. “I should have quit smoking long before Gertrude made me.”
“When was that?”
He sat back and crossed his legs, then cleared his throat. “Which time?”
She gave a chuckle. He was such a sweet man.
“Gertrude died in sixty-one, so the last time I quit must have been nineteen fifty-seven or so. She’d been after me about it since the day we met.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about being sick, Walt? Why aren’t you taking better care of yourself? What’s the doctor say? I keep telling you that it’s too dusty in here, and now you tell me you have some sort of lung disease. I’m not going to let you work in here one more day without cleaning it up.”
“My goodness, young lady, don’t get all worked up. I’ve been on medicine for a while now, and this is just the way it is, part of getting old.”
She felt so frustrated with him and grilled him about the details. She finally said, “I’m going to spend the rest of the day cleaning this place up, and if it takes me all week, then fine.” This man needed help right now, and Annalisa wondered if sometimes things did happen for a reason. Maybe she’d lost her job just in time. The poor guy had no one—except her, of course. Walt had come to feel like the father her real father never could be.
“Don’t you have work today?” he asked.
“Yeah, about that. I was fired for dumping coffee on the shoes of an ass ... er, I mean, chauvinist pig. So I happen to have a lot of time on my hands.” Annalisa caught him up.
“My goodness,” he said. “You’re right. It’s the world we live in. You know what, though? To me it means you’re meant for bigger and better things.”
She tossed up her hands like she was throwing confetti. “Like what? I’m doing my best to paint, but it’s not coming out easily, which means I’m in trouble. It’s either I wait tables or crawl back to Payton Mills with my tail between my legs.”
“I’d hire you,” he said. “I mean full-time.”
“That would be a wise move,” she joked. “I’ll take over all the clocks. I’ll take your little tool set and twist the thingies until they start working again. Your shop will sing around the clock.”
“I’d be happy to teach you horology, but I could also use more help around the shop.” He cleared his throat. “As you can see, I’m slowing down. If you’re willing to help me get this place cleaned up—as you yourself suggested—then I don’t see why you couldn’t do a few other things too. You could help me advertise, run the books, keep things clean, and keep selling your paintings—maybe raise the prices. I’m sure you can sell them better than I.”
She stood on the other side of the counter and was blown away by the kindness of his offer. “Don’t think I’m not appreciative, but I don’t want to be your charity case.”
“As much as I’d like to disagree, I can’t do this by myself anymore, and I’d be lucky to have you. That’s the bottom line. Your paintings are already bringing me new business. Let’s get you in here to breathe new life into the place, just like you do with your illustrations. You can take over every wall if you like. This is not about charity. I would have offered earlier, had you not had a job.”
“If you’re not careful,” she said, losing herself to the idea as the clocks ticked around her, “I’ll take you up on it.”
“I hope you do. Believe it or not, I think adding more of your art to my shop might bring new visitors in and make me more money. It’s starting to feel like a museum in here. Just the other day, someone mistook me for taxidermy.”
Feeling a hint of excitement, she popped out of her chair. “I’d put everything I have into it, Walt.” It wasn’t an art gig, but she’d be helping him, and he’d mentioned giving her more wall space. If she could tap back into her muse, she could keep selling pieces until a better option came around.
He uncrossed his legs and sat up. “Thatis one thing I’ve no doubt. Your commitment to everything you do is a wonderful virtue.”
She opened her arms. “I want a hug.”
He waved her off. “C’mon, now. Don’t embarrass me.”
She didn’t back down and lifted him up into a big hug, feeling in his weary and weak body a surrender of sorts, like he didn’t have much fight left. How had she not even noticed?
She felt like such a terrible neighbor and person for not seeing that he was in trouble. Yes, she saw that he was hurting over the loss of his wife, and she’d been listening to him cough, but how had she not offered more assistance? Why hadn’t she offered to cook him dinner or to help him clean his shop?
She’d been so darn involved with her own grief at losing her parents and Thomas, and she’d been so focused on a career, that she hadn’t doneanything for this kind and lonely man. It felt very much like her life back in the Mills. She’d let her grief prevent her from loving Nonna the way her grandmother deserved to be loved. Well, that wasn’t going to happen again. As Annalisa let go of Walt, she decided that not only was she going to breathe life back into his shop, but she was going to attempt to breathe life back into him.
