Chapter 12
THE NATURAL RESULT OF Peter’s fretting was that he got to Sasquamahoc much too early. Guthrie was tied up at the college until noontime. Rather than sit in on the class and make Guthrie nervous or sit on Catriona’s doorstep twiddling his thumbs, Peter found her mattock and began rooting up burdocks. His benevolent, though most likely vain, hope was that getting rid of the pesky plants might assist the two resident Maine coon cats to keep their bushy tails and trousers free of burs when autumn rolled around.
Once the first frost hit, those pink-and-green globules that could look so pretty in late summer would dry out to an ugly brown. Their myriad tiny rays would stiffen into vicious little fishhooks, ready to tangle themselves in long, silky cat fur and have to be cut out with a pair of embroidery scissors to the accompaniment of loud curses, both feline and human.
Whether or not Carlyle and Emerson linked cause to effect in the same way as their erudite namesakes had done, they did pay Peter the courtesy of sauntering along every so often to see how he was getting on with the work. Perhaps they were just being sociable; more likely they were hoping he’d dig up some small creature they could chase. If so, they were wasting their time; all he heaved out were roots that had apparently been intending to keep on growing straight down to a far hotter place than Sasquamahoc.
This was sweaty, dirty work on a summer day. Peter was in a sad state of dishevelment by the time Catriona’s energy-efficient puddle jumper chugged into the yard, but Helen kissed him anyway.
“What’s the matter, dear, couldn’t you find anything else to play with? Go put away that mattock like a good boy, and wash your face and hands. Where are you and Guthrie taking us for lunch, or don’t we have time? When is Miss Rondel expecting us?”
“Not till half past three. That gives us approximately one hour, thirty-seven minutes and fourteen seconds to loiter, unless that sundial over there has its gnomon on backward.”
“Are you quite sure about the fourteen seconds? We don’t want to keep her waiting.”
“Trust me, mavourneen. We’re supposed to alert Guthrie that the expedition is about to get under way. Do you want to give him a ring while I wash up, Catriona?”
Catriona’s long, auburn hair had come down, as it generally did. She was trying to twist it back up and spoke through a walrus mustache of hairpins. “How about if we just go over to the college and beat on cooking pots? Or is that only done during solar eclipses, to keep the Giant Pipsissewa from swallowing the sun?” She spat out the last hairpin and rammed it firmly into her bun. “All right, I’ll call him. Did you feed the cats, Peter?”
“Of course not. They were already licking their whiskers and belching discreetly behind their paws when I got here. I assumed that either Guthrie or that hired man of yours must have fed them. Or possibly both.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised, they’re awful scroungers. Rotten critters, I’ll bet you haven’t missed me a bit.”
Scooping up an armload of cat, the alleged mistress of the house headed for the telephone. Peter retired to the downstairs bathroom, which had a wonderful old porcelain washbowl spacious enough to give a coon cat a flea bath in, if anybody should ever be fool enough to try. He emerged damp but recognizable, just in time to catch Guthrie Fingal hugging his wife.
“Aha! They do say the husband’s always the last to know. Were you planning to unhand my woman any time soon?”
“Oh, you here, Pete? Okay, if you insist. Come on, let’s get this show on the road. I phoned for reservations, Millie’s saving us a rock.”
“Good thinking,” said Catriona. “Did you feed the cats this morning?”
“Ayup. Gave ‘em their breakfast at half past six and their elevenses at a quarter to ten. What’s the matter, are they yammering for their supper already?”
“Yes, but they’re not getting it. Shut up, you monsters. Be good little kitties and Mommy will bring you each a clam. Ready, Helen?”
“As ready as I intend to be. Whose car are we going in?”
“Ours,” said Peter in a tone that brooked no denial.
Neither Guthrie’s banged-up old four-wheeler nor Catriona’s little dingbat held any appeal for a son of the soil who’d been waging war on burdocks for the past aeon or two. Peter suspected that both his wife and her friend were feeling much the same as he was after their long morning’s ride in a popcorn wagon, although he knew Helen would be too polite and Catriona too stubborn to admit the battering they must have got.
So the four of them climbed into the Shandys’ comfortably upholstered car and went and got their clam tacos and took them out on the rocks by the water and ate them and were happy withal. Then Peter happened to glance at his watch and said a rude word, whereupon they all rushed back to the car and returned Catriona and Guthrie to the waiting paws of Carlyle and Emerson so that Peter and Helen could make a beeline for Rondel’s Head.
They got there almost to the dot. Frances Rondel must have been listening for the sound of their car. She came halfway down the slope to meet them, regretting that Mrs. Shandy hadn’t been able to come earlier, before the rainstorm that had beaten down the last of the lupines. Helen made the proper sort of conversation for the proper length of time, then they got down to business.
“You won’t mind if we go in through the kitchen?”
The question was purely rhetorical. Miss Rondel didn’t wait for an answer but led them through the dark, narrow entryway into the bright kitchen. Peter experienced a moment’s panic when he caught sight of the empty kitchen chair on which his painting had sat earlier, but it was all right. They went on into the dining room and there, strung all round the walls, were the wondrous paintings. And on the mantelpiece, next to a funerary wreath of human hair under a glass dome, stood his own true love.
“Oh, Peter!”
What else could Helen say? Peter took his wife’s hand. The two of them stood rapt, until Miss Rondel broke the spell.
“As you requested, Professor Shandy, I delivered your message. I must say that I had some difficulty in convincing the artist that you are seriously interested in buying one, or possibly more of the paintings. The sum you offered seemed to be quite acceptable, I trust you haven’t changed your mind?”
“Oh, no. No, not at all. What do you think is right, Helen?”
Helen shook her head. “I don’t know what would be enough. It’s like trying to pin a price tag on a moonbeam. Let me buy this one for you, Peter. I still have that money I got from my book on Praxiteles Lumpkin’s weather vanes, and I can’t think of a better way to invest it.”
Miss Rondel was looking by now somewhat bewildered. “Professor, it was my understanding that you were offering a thousand dollars.”
“Peter, you cheapskate!” cried Helen.
“Well, how was I to know? I’d never bought a painting in my life, I only meant that as an—er—opening bid. It’s what Dan Stott paid for that big oil portrait of Balaclava’s Belinda and her nineteen piglets.”
“Dearest, one does not rate a work of art by the number of piglets it contains. What Dan and Iduna got is a very accurate and attractive depiction by a competent craftsman of a prize sow and her brood. These are genuine works of art. Miss Rondel, Peter claims they’ve never been shown in public. Is that possible?”
“Why, yes. Then you really believe the artist has promise?”
“Promise is hardly the word. Would you mind if we take a little time to get acquainted?”
“No, indeed, take all the time you want. I have bread dough rising, so if you’ll excuse me I’d better go and punch it down. I’ll be right in the kitchen if you have any further questions.”
“My further question is how many of these marvelous things we can afford to buy,” Helen remarked once she and Peter were alone. “I don’t want to be grabby, but you must surely realize that this is the opportunity of a lifetime.”
“M’yes, the thought had crossed my mind,” said Peter. “See anything you particularly like? I was thinki
ng we could put my landscape, if that’s what it is, in the living room, unless you see something you like better. On second thought, let’s buy two. It would be nice to have something cheerful in the bedroom, don’t you think?”
“Definitely. And another in the dining room, and that little one there would be just right to hang over the kitty box.” Helen was laughing now for sheer joy. “I’d gladly take them all, but where could we hang them? Anyway, it wouldn’t be fair to snatch the lot before anyone else even gets a peek at them. They ought to be shown, Peter, it’s just not right for an artist of this caliber not to be recognized. Didn’t Miss Rondel give you any clue at all as to who it is? You don’t suppose she paints them herself?”
“The thought did cross my mind, but I’m inclined to think not. I don’t believe she even cares much for them. The impression I got when we talked was that she’s playing fairy godmother to somebody who’s too emotionally unstable to risk possible rejection or else is in a position of extreme vulnerability.”
“Vulnerable to what?”
“Who knows? My first guess would be that the artist lives among a pack of yahoos who’d find it amusing to deride, deface, or destroy what they’re unable to understand.”
“Yes, that would make sense. People who couldn’t see beyond the piglets, poor things. Their loss is our gain. So what else do you see that you can’t live without?”
“I got first pick, it’s your turn now. How do those pink lupines strike you?”
“Lovely, but—I don’t know. A bit on the bland side for my taste. Ah, now here’s something I could live with.”
“What is it, a sunset?”
“Of course not, silly. It’s a hen laying an egg.”
“You could have fooled me. Where’s the egg?”
“Still in the hen, of course. Do you really hate it?”
“No, come to think of it, I don’t hate it at all.”
Peter was getting the gist of the business. Here was not just a barnyard fowl performing her usual office, this was how a hen felt when she laid an egg. Now he was beginning to understand why hens made such a fuss over their achievements. This must surely be painted from one of Miss Rondel’s splendid, golden flock, not one of those wretched creatures crowded into too-small cages at poultry factories with nothing to crow about and nothing to peck at except each other.
It was a joyous picture, a triumphant picture. It reminded Peter of the farmer who’d displayed an ostrich egg in his hen coop, and hung a sign below it that read “Keep your eyes on this and do your best.” This was a shining apotheosis of hendom, a hen who was doing her best.
“You’ve chosen well, Helen,” he said. “By all means let’s have the hen.”
So that made one apiece. Then Helen found the lupine painting she wanted most of all. “How about this, Peter? Doesn’t it remind you of Thorkjeld Svenson?”
“Do we want to be reminded of Thorkjeld Svenson?” Peter took another long look. “As a matter of fact, I’d already decided when I was here before that this would be my second choice. But I’m damned if I’ll have it hanging over our bed.”
“Perish the thought. I was thinking of the dining room.”
“If you say so.” Peter had already gone on to a new love, the biggest painting of the lot. “Here’s Oliver Wendell Holmes’s description of a Turner, Helen. ‘Foreground golden dirt, the sunlight painted with a squirt.’ Makes me want to get in there and mow the hay.”
“I know, darling, it’s beautiful. But do bear in mind that it’s also at least twice too big to hang anywhere in our little house.”
“Who wants to? My thought was that we might donate it to the college.”
“Oh. Then why don’t we? It could hang over the library mantelpiece in place of that ghastly daub some itinerant sign painter did of President Simms back in 1927 or thereabout.”
“Alternatively, it could hang in my classroom and give me something to look at besides students’ tonsils. Early-morning classes can get a trifle unaesthetic when the whole damn pack of them stagger in looking like the morning after the night before and start yawning in perfect unison. Would five thousand be too plebeian an offer for a painting this size?”
“I’d call it rather aristocratic, myself. Let’s see what Miss Rondel thinks, if she’s finished punching down her bread.”
Miss Rondel might have been keeping an ear cocked, she appeared in the doorway as if on cue. “Were you wanting to ask me something?”
“Yes,” said Peter. “We were wondering whether you’d consider five thousand dollars an adequate price for this big oil of the hayfield.”
“Would I—Professor Shandy, are you serious?”
“Yes, of course. We’re thinking we’d like to present it to Balaclava Agricultural College, where we both work. My wife is curator of the Buggins Collection.”
“Yes, I know. I have your history of the Buggins family, Mrs. Shandy, and also your delightful little book on Praxiteles Lumpkin, thanks to my young friend Catriona McBogle. I suppose you know what you’re doing, but I must say five thousand dollars sounds to me like a great deal of money to put out on a piece of canvas that wouldn’t even cover a hayrick.”
“Don’t worry,” said Helen. “I can assure you that it will prove to have been a great bargain. I do wish, though, that your friend could be talked into signing his or her work. People always want to know the artist’s name, and you can imagine how embarrassing it’s going to be for a librarian, having to keep saying ‘I can’t tell you.’”
This was a facer for Miss Rondel. “Oh dear, I hadn’t thought of that. But didn’t that Mr. Whistler from Lowell, Massachusetts, sign his paintings with a butterfly? Perhaps some similar device might be worked out in lieu of a signature?”
“Why not?” said Peter. “A potato bug, do you think? Or how about a quahog with its neck sticking out?”
Helen gave him a look. “Don’t pay any attention to my husband, Miss Rondel. You’d only encourage him.”
“Actually I’ve always considered potato bugs handsome, as insects go,” Miss Rondel replied quite seriously, “though I can’t say as much for the quahog. I’d be quite willing to suggest the potato bug, if that’s what you want. I shouldn’t think it would be much of a job to have them painted on, if you wouldn’t mind coming by again to pick up the paintings after they’re done. The only problem is, I’m not sure how long potato bugs take to dry.”
“‘I shouldn’t think it would be long, Miss Rondel. We only want very little ones, you know. If the artist prefers some other symbol, or perhaps his or her initials, that’s perfectly all right with us. Why don’t we give you a ring tomorrow morning from the inn and see what time you’d like us to show up?”
“That would be fine. I’ll be here, I’m pretty much a homebody these days. Now, you’re quite sure which of the paintings you’ve decided to buy?”
“Yes, we’ve decided.” Peter took out his checkbook. “Er—how shall I make out the check?”
“Oh, my, another dilemma. May I let you know about that tomorrow?”
“Of course. Here, I’m going to jot down the descriptions of the paintings we’ve picked and the amounts we’re prepared to give, so that there won’t be any confusion.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you, Professor, I don’t seem to be much of a businesswoman. Now can I offer you a glass of water?”
“You certainly can, thank you. We’d like that very much.”
Peter knew Helen must be wondering why he was waxing so eloquent over a drink of water. She wondered even more when, having got her company seated at the kitchen table, Miss Rondel picked up the pitcher that Peter had given her and went out the back door.
“Where’s she going?” Helen murmured. “Doesn’t she have running water in the house?”
“Judging from those shiny brass faucets on the sink, I assume she does; but her drinking water comes from a spring out there someplace that she never lets anybody go near. I’ve had some, it’s remarkably good.”
&n
bsp; “That’s interesting. I suppose she keeps the spring a secret so that she won’t have outsiders tramping around making pests of themselves.”
“M’yes, but I suspect it’s also because she uses the spring as a source of income. The day I came to gather seed, the innkeeper gave me two jugs to be filled and an envelope that clanked, which I was supposed to leave discreetly on the table here. That’s how I happened to spy my painting, perched on that chair you’re sitting in now. When Miss Rondel saw me taking it seriously, she asked if I’d like to see some more. And that, my love, is how history’s made.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised if you’re right, dear,” Helen agreed. “Darn, I wish she’d tell us who the artist is. I’d love to do a monograph on the paintings now that the Lumpkin book is going so well, but how can I when I don’t even know his name? Or hers. I suppose ‘The Potato Bug Painter’ would have a certain cachet, though. What’ll you bet that Catriona gets a mystery plot out of this? We probably shouldn’t say anything, even to her or Guthrie, until we’ve at least got our paintings safely home. You do realize, darling, that you’ve started something that isn’t going to be stopped.”
“Seems to me it was the potato bug who started it. Ah, here comes Miss Rondel. Look thirsty.”
Chapter 13
MISS RONDEL MUST LIKE her new pitcher, she was smiling as she brought it to the table. “You see I’m making good use of your gift, Professor Shandy. I thought I was going to miss the old one, which was my great-grandmother’s, but perhaps it was time for a change.”
If Frances Rondel was the age of Elva Bright’s grandmother, then her family must surely have had their good out of that pitcher by now, Peter thought. He was interested to notice her making a little ceremony out of pouring the water. Having set the pitcher in the exact center of the table, she stepped into her pantry and brought out three heavy old glass goblets, three worn but perfectly ironed tea napkins, and three wedding-band porcelain tea plates with the gold all but worn off from generations of use. She set the three goblets in a precise row in front of the pitcher, gave each of her guests a plate and a napkin and laid a place for herself, then went back to the pantry, brought out another porcelain plate with four oversized cookies on it, passed them first to Helen, and then to Peter. Finally, she poured the water and handed around the goblets.
Something in the Water Page 12
