by C.T. Millis
Chapter 5
James walked Sophie to her house and then walked by himself to the tree house. He tied a rope to the plastic-wrapped poster on cardboard, and carried the end of it up with him into the tree house. He lifted it up through the opening, and set it against a wall so he could look at it whenever he wanted. The faces were meandering and James just could not stop thinking about how none of them were looking at each other in the eyes, they were each looking at someone else. There was one woman, in the corner, who was looking right out of the poster and into James. He shuddered and made his way down the ladder. He let himself into Mr. Heckerman’s house.
“It was the art museum today?” Mr. Heckerman handed James a cup of hot chocolate, sans marsh mellows.
“Yeah, thanks, do you have any marsh mellows?”
“God lord,” Mr. Heckerman stopped walking, “I never would,”
“Why not?”
“They have gelatin in them,”
“Like Jello molds?”
“Like horse hooves, James, I don’t eat horse.”
“Oh,” he looked down at his cup,
“So- what is the most striking thing about that museum, there? I haven’t been to that one. Just been to the one at the capitol and the dinky one off Main Street.”
“There was a big chest. It was for a wedding, a dowry.” He took a sip of the smooth chocolate and smiled, “This is good,”
“Thank you James! Go on.”
“I didn’t hear much of what the tour guide said, but she said there was a scene carved onto it. The thing, the chest, was five hundred years old, from Italy.”
“What was the scene?” they sat down in the living room on opposing couches.
“She said it was Pandora’s box, a scene from Pandora’s box- is that about wedding chests.” Mr. Heckerman laughed.
“That’s clever. They carved it right onto a box. No the story isn’t about wedding chests, do you want to hear it?”
“Well, okay,” He sat back and breathed in the aroma of the chocolate.
“This is Greek Mythology, so don’t blame me if it turns out it isn’t true, okay?”
“Okay,”
“Before now, a long time before now, humans had no idea what they were doing.” He sipped his hot chocolate, “they didn’t even have fire. Only the Gods had fire. One bold creative guy named Prometheus stole fire from Zeus, the king God, and gave it the mortals, the humans.”
“Mortal?”
“It means we die, the Gods didn’t.” He looked out the window for a moment and then back to James, “Zeus was very angry when he found out, so he punished Prometheus by chaining him to the top of a mountain and making an eagle tear out his liver. Every day.”
“Yikes,”
“Yeah, and every night, because Prometheus was immortal, his liver would grow back, and the Eagle would tear it out the next day.” Mr. Heckerman looked down at his hands. “To punish humanity, Zeus had something else planned,” He looked back at James, “Though they didn’t have fire, the humans weren’t doing too badly. There wasn’t much suffering.”
“Really?”
“According to the Greeks,” he smiled, “Now, Zeus made one of his minions create Pandora, and the gods gave her a jar that she released to the world,” do you know what was in the jar?
“Well, I have a jar of change I keep in the tree house,”
“In the jar was all the evil that was released onto mankind, all the suffering: vanity, lying, want, envy,” he got very serious, “There was only one thing left to give to humanity after all of this evil, this pain,”
“What was that?”
“James, the only thing left in the jar after all the suffering was released onto humanity was Hope.”
“The Gods gave us hope?”
“Hope.”
“hope?”
“James, with all of the suffering, they had to.”
“Why would they carve that onto a wedding chest?”
“Well, it was part of their culture, maybe to remember hope. Not a good thing to forget when you are married, but it’s easy when things get very bad. You know, there is always hope, especially at the bottom of things.” Mr. Heckerman finished his hot chocolate, “are you done?”
“Nope, not yet.”
“What else did you see there, is that the art museum with the gift shop,” Mr. Heckerman asked as he walked to the kitchen to put his empty mug up.
“Yeah, it is! I got a poster!”
“Oh yeah, what of?” returning to the living room.
“The Potato Eaters, by Vincent Van Gogh,” James pronounced his name carefully.
“That was an interesting one, that Vincent. His paintings were always so expressive.” He looked at James, “Here, follow me,” Mr. Heckerman led James into the kitchen to the window. “Not many people understood him, what he was trying to say,” He pointed at the vases they set the potatoes in. “Have you ever seen an original?” James shook his head no, “see one if you can, try not to touch it, the textures of the paint call out to people.” James saw that only one potato was growing, “he was traumatized, by how little he could know people before they left, before they died,” The roots were raw and clean in the water. James could see that they looked like cracks in the sidewalk, like tiny limbs entangled, like the legs of an ornate table, and like lightning frozen.
“Is that why he painted so much?”
“Yes. If you have a lot of bad things happen to you, sometimes all you can do to help yourself is to create.” James could see the tops of the potato sprouting inches above the lip of the clear vase. “You either create, or you destroy.”
“Did Vincent destroy, too?”
“He destroyed himself, he cut off part of his ear, and he ended up shooting himself in the chest.”
“In the chest? Was he okay?”
“He didn’t make it. He died, he couldn’t show people the way he saw the world anymore. He didn’t have the heart for it.” Mr. Heckerman trimmed some leaves off of the potato plant. “It’s almost funny, that’s what he was trying to kill- his heart. They always shoot what they want to kill,” James looked perplexed, “I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, it’s very serious,” He paused, “it’s just that when someone kills themselves with a gun, they either shoot their head or their chest, the head is more common, these days.” he sighed, “this is too serious, it would have been his birthday coming up soon, March thirtieth.”
“When,” James said he asked hesitantly,
“March thirtieth, he would have been one hundred or two hundred something years old-” he swept the air with his hand. “Something around there.”
“That’s my birthday.” Mr. Heckerman picked up the leaves,
“Is it really?”
“March 30th.”
“That’s incredible, there’s something in your mood and movements of him,” Mr. Heckerman smiled, “there’s an artist in you, a creator. Just take it easy, and stay away from guns.”He laughed. “Potatoes are interesting things.”
“How so?”
“Well, underground as you know, can be cooked- and make excellent food.” Mr. Heckerman pointed to the bulb of the potato, “but the stalks, the leaves, the berries- when they grow, they’re poison.”
“How bad of a poison?”
“It’s part of the plant’s natural protection. It can be as mild as stomach cramps, as serious as coma and death, depending on how much is taken in, and how.” He looked at James, “so, don’t eat any.”
“No problem,”
“It’s the light that breeds the poison, if you leave a potato in the sun for too long, it’ll turn green, the green parts are poison.” he turned the vase so a different side of the growing plant was facing the window, “it’s funny, with people, it’s the other way around. The parts you see of them are fine, often nurturing, but they grow poison underground, inside of themselves.” he looked at James, “I think you and Vincent are potato people
, you have all the goodness in you- it’s just hard to show because there is so much bad going on with the outside.”
“Really?”
“And you want to show this goodness to the people you care about, but a lot of people would look at your life and only see the poison parts. They don’t see there is something wholesome growing underneath.”
“I think I have to go home.”
“You are having dinner this early?”
“No, I just feel like I have to go home.”
“Well, then! Until next time!” Mr. Heckerman led James to the door.
