Restoration

Restoration

By: Leslie S. Talley

“There goes Alfie, starting out on his rounds,” Alfie heard Madge say.

She didn’t even try to hide the contempt in her voice, he noted. Alfie felt himself blushing but pretended not to hear the antique dealer. He continued to amble along The Place, checking dumpsters and likely-looking garbage cans.

Every day at ten o’clock he would come out on The Place, say, “Stay, Duke,” to his scruffy-looking dog, and put the padlock on the door of his shop. Then he would wander vaguely down the street as though he had no fixed destination. He always wore the shabby tweed jacket with grease stains on the sleeves and trousers that bagged permanently at the seat and knees. His only shirt, of indeterminate hue, had at last disintegrated.

His face would have looked vacant if not for his slightly pained expression. He looked as though his feet hurt him, which, in fact, they did; it was rare he could find shoes big enough to fit him at Goodwill. He always managed to look as though he had shaved the day before, but not that morning. He was forty-one, but gaunt; most people would guess nearer fifty.

The change in the neighborhood bewildered Alfie. He knew The Place had once been fashionable, but that was back at the turn of the twentieth century. During the Depression, the area had dwindled to boarding houses. In Alfie’s time it was called a blighted neighborhood, if not a slum.

Now, The Place had been rediscovered. Alfie saw signs of this now as he passed dwelling after dwelling. The house Madge owned had the first floor restored – the shop and a few rooms in back; the rest was uninhabitable. The house next to Madge’s was completely gutted. Joe, the schoolteacher-turned-antique-dealer, had replaced the roof of his building and done the tuck-pointing, whatever that meant, thought Alfie. He had heard them all – the dealers, young married couples – talking restoration and raving over things like dormer windows, mansard roofs, and marble mantels.

Alfie belonged to that remnant of the old neighborhood which had survived the new influx and increase in real estate value. Alfie was a junk dealer – not “junque” as in “Antiques and Junque” – but JUNK.

As Alfie approached Steve’s place, he ducked his head and would have passed by if Steve had not hailed him. Steve was the only friend Alfie had among the new residents. Steve didn’t act as if he looked down on the junk dealer. Not like that Gertrude Steve was talking to now. She struck terror into Alfie’s soul. She looked like a sweet little old blue-haired lady from the Historical Society. He’d seen them around giving tours of the neighborhood and Doc Willoughby’s old place. But when Gertrude opened her mouth any resemblance to a sweet little old lady or even to a sweet anything disappeared. Alfie had heard the other dealers say that Gertrude would sell her own mother’s coffin plate for a buck.

She demonstrated her superiority to Alfie now by giving a snort, turning on her heel, and heading back to her own shop. Alfie stood diffidently, first on one foot, then the other, waiting for Steve to speak.

Steve glared at Gertrude’s retreating back for a moment before turning his attention to Alfie and saying, “Well, Alf, how’s business?”

Alfie smiled slightly and shook his head slowly from side to side. “It’s all right, Steve. She don’t bother me none. But you been real nice, and I want you to know I ’preciate it.”

Steve averted his eyes and shifted his gaze to the window of his shop. He straightened the sign which hung on his door. He muttered something about being embarrassed for his colleagues. Then he said, with a forced laugh, “Take Madge, now. She looks down her nose at all the rest of us because her specialty is Royal Doulton china. But,” he said quickly, “where are you heading? Your usual rounds?”

“No. I’ve bought an estate,” he said, feeling as though he would burst. “Remember me telling you about my friend, Miss Harriet?”

“The lady who worked at the Farmers’ Market?”

“That’s the one,” Alfie said, nodding. He was pleased that Steve called her a lady. “She died here awhile back.”

“I’m sorry,” said Steve gently.

“Yeah, well. Caught a bad cold, and living in that old carriage house….” Alfie shook his head. “Anyways, I didn’t want no stranger pawing over her things, so I bought ’em. I’m on my way over there now.”

“Let me know if you need any help – the truck or anything.”

“Thanks. I will,” said Alfie.

Alfie continued along The Place until he came to a boulevard. There he turned right and went for several blocks until he came to an alley. Alfie turned down the alley and walked toward  the gate with the honeysuckle growing over it. It was here in this alley that he and Miss Harriet had met, he recalled. Alfie had been gleaning the garbage cans, as was his custom. Miss Harriet, in the act of emptying her trash, had helpfully pointed out promising trash bins. A friendship had grown up between the two, based on their reduced circumstances and a mutual respect for each other’s privacy.

Miss Harriet, as Alfie always politely called her, would bring home the “tired” limp vegetables and aging fruit from the market and share these with Alfie. He repaid her by running errands for her. When she died, Alfie felt as if he should Do Something; so he mortgaged his shop and bought her estate.

He hadn’t any competition. None of the antique dealers would have touched it. They would consider it beneath them, just as they did Alfie. The bank was only too glad to mortgage a piece of property that was increasing in value. They probably hoped he would be unable to pay, and they’d be able to force him out. So nothing had stood between Alfie and Miss Harriet’s   treasures.

As he followed the brick walk to the entrance of the carriage house, Alfie reflected that this would be the first time he had entered Miss Harriet’s house. Theirs had been an outdoor relationship. Stepping over the threshold, he was conscious of a feeling he’d never before put into words, but one he’d known instinctively all along: Miss Harriet had been a lady.

The carriage house swallowed up her meager possessions, but what few pieces she had reflected better days. Alfie noted the quilt on the neatly made bed. He had seen it once hanging on the line to air. He fingered it gently. It was made of odd-shaped pieces of velvet, stitched together with no apparent pattern. A “crazy quilt,” Miss Harriet had called it. He walked to the center of the room and inspected the round oak table; it shone under its new layer of dust. As his eyes roamed the room, they fell on the old wardrobe in the corner.

A huge thing, it reached almost to the ceiling. The daylight that filtered through the curtains enabled him to see that it was elaborately carved. The wood was a hue unfamiliar to him – reddish with a faint purple cast to it. Its glow seemed to come from within.

Now Alfie knew nothing about antiques, but he knew his junk. He had picked over other people’s leavings for so many years that when confronted with quality, he recognized it at a glance.

Alfie stood transfixed He stroked his chin. He would have to think about this awhile.

***

Alfie did something he hadn’t done in years: he took a bus downtown. He sat toward the rear of the bus; he gazed out the window but didn’t really take in what he saw. He gave himself over to the swaying of the bus. The bus lurched as it pulled away from a stop; it jerked Alfie back to his surroundings. He noticed the bus was now full. He half rose in his seat to offer his place to an older woman who was burdened with packages. She averted her eyes, and, gathering her skirts closer around her, moved away slightly toward the front of the bus.

Alfie felt himself blushing for the second time that day. He looked quickly around to see if anyone had seen. Bland faces met his gaze.

He pulled the cord and left the bus two blocks before his stop. He walked briskly back to the main library; it had grown colder, and he had only his tweed jacket which wasn’t lined.

He entered the library with the intention of seeing what he could find about the wardrobe. He had no idea where to begin, but he knew he was in the right place.

He knew he would have to ask someone. He picked out an older lady seated behind a desk in the Reference Room. Alfie liked the way her hair waved back into a bun with wisps escaping here and there around her face. She reminded him of a Sunday School teacher he had once had in his dimly remembered past. Alfie breathed with a deep sigh as she smiled at him and got up briskly to find what he wanted.

“Let’s look in the Card Catalogue, shall we? Under ‘Antiques’ or ‘Furniture,’” she said.

He had come to the right person. He pulled his tweed jacket closer around him. The librarian pointed him to the Reading Room with his books.

So absorbed was he in turning the pages he didn’t see the security guard enter. Did people really live like this? So surrounded by beautiful things. Alfie had never encountered anything in real life to match the beauty of the pictures.

A hand fell on his shoulder. “All right, buddy, move along. Not allowed in here with no shirt. This isn’t a charity ward for you to sleep in. Go to the mission if you need to get out of the cold.”

Alfie saw an enormous guard towering over him. “But….” Alfie said.

“Come quietly, now,” the guard said, taking Alfie by the elbow.

Alfie found himself once more outside the library in the cold.

***

Alfie sat in his dark shop, absently rocking from side to side in his swivel chair. A bare light bulb hung from the ceiling and seemed to be in motion; it cast weird shadows on the walls and inventory. The swaying movement highlighted the strange assortment of odds and ends that lay strewn on surfaces and on the floor. Unidentifiable pieces of metal jostled with doorknobs, rusty hinges, sinks, wooden posts, and old keys. A thick layer of dust covered this conglomeration.

Duke lay on the floor; he gnawed at a raw spot on his left hind leg. Alfie came out of his reverie, reached down, and patted the dog. “You still worrying that spot, Duke?” He gently stroked the dog’s muzzle. “We’re both licking our wounds, aren’t we, old fellow?”

Alfie had been accustomed for years to blend into his background; he rarely left his neighborhood. He should have been prepared for today’s experience by the attitude of the people on the street. How had he never noticed that he had drifted downward – just like the neighborhood? Which world did he belong in? Not the new one – with Gertrude, Joe, and Madge…and Steve.

Steve. Alfie stopped swiveling. Then he turned out the light, said, “Stay, Duke,” exited the shop, and put the padlock on the door. He walked purposefully down the street to Steve’s shop, which was located next to the corner pub. Steve’s shop was on the ground floor of a three-story townhouse. He lived on the third floor and used the second for storage.

“That way I only have to lug everything up and down one flight of stairs instead of two,” he had explained to Alfie. “And if the roof leaks, the antiques are protected.”

Steve was engaged in refinishing a table when Alfie entered.

“Hey, Alf,” he said, straightening. “How’d you do today? Find any sleepers?” he added.

Alfie shifted his feet. “Can you come?” he blurted out. “There’s something…I think I might just have something….If you could take a look.”

Steve wiped his hands on an old rag. The teasing look Alfie had noted a moment ago had vanished. He looked business-like and enormously capable to Alfie.

Sure, Alfie,” he answered at once.

***

“Better not leave it here unprotected,” Steve said.

It had taken both of them, plus three winos, to transfer the wardrobe from the carriage house, to Steve’s truck, to Alfie’s shop. Steve had gone back to his own shop, reappearing in a moment with several lamps and three antique books: Guide to Nineteenth Century Furniture, Victorian Furniture, and Cabinet Making. Alfie traced the lettering in Victorian Furniture. The same book he had been turning the pages of when the security guard threw him out of the library.

Steve placed lamps strategically in the background. He began a minute inspection of the piece of furniture. Alfie stood in the background waiting for Steve’s verdict.

Steve was over six feet tall, but he had to stand on a chair to inspect the top He opened the doors, tested the fit. He took out drawers and ran his hands lovingly over the scrollwork. He bewildered Alfie with words like “patina” and  “laminated.” Even the name of the piece was a French word: armoire.

“Arm-war,” Alfie repeated carefully. Steve glanced quickly at Alfie.

“Come here, Alfie. Look at the detailing. See the figures in the carving? The fruit? The lacework? Feel  it, Alfie.”

He took the junk dealer’s hand and placed it against the side. “Feel the finish, Alfie.”

Alfie ran his hand over the surface. “What kind of wood is this?”

“Rosewood. The Victorians practically razed the rosewood forests for furniture.”

“It’s beautiful! Beautiful,” Alfie murmured.

“And look here, Alfie,” said Steve, diverting his attention to the back. “It’s signed! By John Henry Belter himself.”

“Is that good?”

“Good!  Belter was probably the most famous cabinet maker of the last century, and he specialized in chairs. This could be a rare find. I don’t find anything like it in my catalogs.”

Alfie regarded Steve affectionately. His confidence had not been misplaced. If he had shown the piece to any of the other dealers, he would have been cheated. Steve would never get rich at the antique game.

“I’ll have some of the other dealers take a look,” said Steve. “Then maybe we should consult an auctioneer.”

***

Alfie surveyed his shop silently. He had straightened up as best he could; he had swept the floor, even dusted off several chairs for his guests to sit on. There was Coke in the icebox, and he had bought a box of chocolate chip cookies. He wished things looked better but hoped maybe the poor lighting would hide the dinginess. Besides, they’d only be interested in the wardrobe.

As he fidgeted around the shop, he noticed Duke, too, pacing the floor beside him.

“Not used to company, are we, old fellow?” Alfie said, stooping to pet his head. Except for the occasional down-and-outer who slept on the floor when it got cold nights.

The expected knock fell on the door. Smoothing his hair with spit, Alfie opened the door for his guests. On the sidewalk stood Steve and three other antique dealers: Joe, Madge, and Gertrude. Those three wore sour expressions, Alfie noted. They didn’t want to be there; Steve must have twisted their arms.

Alfie bowed to his guests with old world courtesy and ushered them into the room. Joe ignored Alfie’s outstretched hand. Madge and Gertrude huddled together. Alfie heard Gertrude give a short crack of laughter as he bustled around setting out chairs.

“G-O-D,” said Madge, in an ill-concealed undertone.

Steve gripped Alfie’s shoulder in a companionable way. His eyes silently pleaded with Alfie to ignore their rudeness.

Alfie held out a chair for Gertrude. “No, thanks,” she said frigidly.

An awkward pause ensued, broken by Steve saying, “Well, I suppose you can’t wait to see the armoire.”

The group moved over to the back of the shop where the armoire, covered by sheets, stood by itself away from the clutter of the shop. Steve whipped the sheets off with a flourish. Like a magician, thought Alfie. Alfie heard Joe suck in his breath. Gertrude moved forward and, with a trembling hand, stroked the side.

The corners of Madge’s mouth turned down. “Very nice, I’m sure,” she managed to say. She sounded as if the words choked her.

Gertrude and Madge backed away; they gathered their coats around them snugly. They turned to Steve. “We’ve seen enough,” Madge said. Joe said nothing. He still inspected the armoire as if he were trying to memorize the carving. Gertrude tugged at his sleeve. He turned reluctantly to go.

Steve remained behind after the others had left. No one had thumped Alfie on the back and congratulated him on his find.

“They’re pea-green, Alf,” Steve said.

Maybe so, Alfie thought, but jealousy didn’t completely explain their attitudes.

***

News of the find electrified the antique world. Alfie found himself courted by different factions. He was offered money – a lot of money. The rest of the dealers held themselves aloof  from these proceedings. They seemed to have no desire to share vicariously in the find. All except for Steve.

Steve was having a great time fanning the flames, Alfie noticed with amusement one night at the Pub. Alfie was seated unobtrusively in a dark booth next to the dealers’ table. He listened to Steve as he expounded the possibilities of the sale.

“Sotheby’s has offered to auction it for him…” he said.

Gertrude snorted.

“The Smithsonian wants it, too, but the city museum thinks it ought to stay here,” Steve added. “What do you think, Madge?” he said, turning to her.

There was a moment of silence. Then, “You want to know what I think? I’ll tell you! It just galls me that that scroungy little man is the one who found it!” Madge shouted at Steve.

“That scroungy little man, as you call him, recognized instinctively that he had an extraordinary piece. You, ducky, would probably have sold it for five hundred bucks to some housewife from the suburbs,” Steve said.

“Are you saying I don’t know my business?”said Madge, half rising from her chair.

“Oh, can it, Madge,” said Gertrude. “You wouldn’t know Belter if his factory fell on top of you.”

Alfie sat silent, sinking deeper into the gloom afforded by the booth. What was it that made them so damn superior? When he could do so, Alfie slipped quietly away.

He pondered off and on for several days. The net result of his reflections was a round of the antique stores on The Place. Alfie ignored the startled glances of the dealers. He had never before presumed to enter their shops. He made no comments. He merely broused.

“God knows, plenty of other people do the same,” Alfie heard Gertrude say to Madge.

“If we didn’t buy from each other, we’d starve to death,” Madge agreed.

Alfie came back to his shop and surveyed his stock. What he had seen in those other antique shops was unidentifiable pieces of metal, old keys, doorknobs, rusty hinges, and wooden posts.

***

Alfie strode down The Place toward his shop. He slowed momentarily as he spied Madge, Gertrude, and Joe peering in his window. Alfie grinned. Steve had said their curiosity would overcome them, and he was right.

Alfie coughed. All three dealers jumped in unison. They turned to face Alfie and stared. Alfie, feeling a little self-conscious, tugged at the collar of his brand new J.C Penney shirt. He wore a new pair of slacks, too. The old tweed jacket was the same, but it had made a trip to the dry cleaners.

“Excuse me,” said Alfie, and stepped to his padlock. Duke greeted his master affectionately; he looked spruce, too, with his new collar and shining coat. He bristled somewhat when he saw the others behind his master. They quickly scattered.

Alfie watched them go, then turned to the window of his shop. There, gleaming from its new polish, stood the armoire. Alfie read the sign Steve had helped him with:

‘By John Henry Belter, circa 1860. For display only. Not for sale.

His eyes traveled to the brand new lettering on the door. ‘Alfred’s Restoration Supplies,’ it announced.

With a smile, Alfie entered his shop. Soon the bell over the door rang, heralding a customer.

“Yes, sir?” said Alfie. “What can I do for you?”

“I’ve bought an old house about six blocks away, and I’m restoring it,” the man answered. “I need some doorknobs that fit in with the style of the house.”

“Yes, sir, right over here. Brass or china? Now this,” said Alfie, “came from a mansion on Hanley Road that they tore down a few months ago.”

“Really?” the man replied, his eyes lighting up.

“I’ve got lots of other things you might be interested in, too. Pedestal sinks, stained glass, gas lighting fixtures, ceiling moldings….”