Earth Colors

by Sarah Andrews

  The man pushed himself upright with one big shove, turned, took me in with a quick glance, smiled, and said, “Hi yourself. I’m Fritz Calder.”

  Oooo, macho … Much taller and more manly than Mr. Gray Eyes. And he lives right here! My mind took off like a dart, computing a much better future for Faye and Sloane that would joyously include me, now featured in the role of the savior who had found the right man for them.

  Fritz asked, “Which house do you live in?”

  I pointed. “The house actually belongs to my housemate, Faye,” I replied, grinning at the match this was going to make. He’s athletic, good-looking … “She’s not here just now. Just ran up to Wyoming with the baby for a few days.”

  The flicker of a thought crossed Fritz Calder’s eyes. He shifted his pose slightly. As his spine relaxed, I realized that until then he had been standing extraordinarily straight, almost as if at attention. He leaned over against one of the posts that held up his porch roof and began stretching the muscles down the side of his torso. “Baby girl or baby boy?”

  “Girl. Sloane Renee.”

  “Sweet name. I like kids.”

  “Oh. Do you and your wife have children?” I inquired, belatedly wondering if there might be impediments to my plan. I glanced toward the front windows of his house, hoping I would not glimpse any other inmates. I calculated that he was about the same age as Faye and I were, or perhaps a bit older; if he was Mormon (about a fifty-percent likelihood in this town), that meant a wife and a passel of kids ranging from teenagers down through grade-schoolers. I glanced at the house. Not big enough for a tribe like that.

  He stared at the ground for a moment, hands on his hips. “I have one kid, Brendan. He’s nine years old and likes Legos and soccer. And I have one ex-wife, Marsha, and she’s … not my wife anymore.” Having gotten this off his chest, he went back to his stretches, which now evolved into broad, smooth swings of his arms.

  I was indeed enjoying the show, especially now that he had relaxed around me, but I shifted into a posture that said I did not notice such things. I had committed myself to Jack Sampler, and it was best, therefore, to send the proper signals. “So, as long as I’m the welcoming committee, let me grill you good and proper. What brings you to the neighborhood?”

  “Business opportunities. I have a fledgling aircraft-design and-manufacturing business, and being here in Utah puts me in the middle, between the coasts, and in dry air, where my equipment won’t corrode.”

  Aircraft? Oh, this is wonderful! He’s tall, he’s good-looking, and he flies! Mr. Gray Eyes is going down in flames, his parachute is not opening, he’s hitting the ground with a resounding smack … . It’s sad, folks, but he’s been outshined by a man of action, of sagacity, of … “Is your aircraft for general aviation, commercial, or the military?”

  Again the flickering of thought crossed his eyes. I had used the correct jargon, and he had noticed. He said, “You fly?”

  I grinned. “Yes. And so does Faye.”

  He matched my grin. “Great. Yes, well, I am bringing on a new general-aviation in-line twin-engine craft—that’s my true love—but I also make widgets for the government. That pays the rent while I search for capital and contracts so I can bring the twin into production.”

  I was ready to sing odes of joy. “I have just a basic license, but Faye’s a multi-engine, instrument-rated, commercial pilot. She flies a Piper Cheyenne Two.”

  Fritz raised his eyebrows in appraisal. “That’s a nice plane. Yeager set a time to climb record in a stock Cheyenne Two.”

  Oh, this is perfect! He even approves of her choice in aircraft! “You two should really meet,” I said. “Why don’t you come over for dinner once she gets back? You can bring your son, too. Or, that is, as long as he’s not dripping with a cold or something. Faye gets kind of jumpy about that sort of stuff around the baby.”

  Fritz gave me a little Why not? shrug of his shoulders. “That would be very nice of you. My son’s in Germany just now with his mom, visiting her dad, so you won’t need the surgical masks. I’d offer to bring something, but I’m a lousy cook. Of course, I know how to pick out wines … .”

  I laughed. “Wine is wasted on me; I don’t know it from sour grape juice. And Faye is still nursing the baby. But a good microbrew beer would be welcome.”

  “Deal.”

  “Deal.”

  “Well, I gotta get to work.”

  “Right.”

  He nodded pleasantly and headed up the steps to his house. I headed back down the sidewalk to mine, all but chortling with glee. So he’s a divorcé. So what? Faye wouldn’t even date one before she married and had that baby, but I’ll bet she’s got a different attitude now. Now, what excuse can I use to slip out and leave them romantically alone as they get to talking? I could say I have a midterm, or a paper due … and of course I’ll be such a pal and offer to put the baby to bed … .

  Life was once again filled with possibilities.

  8

  Ochre is a natural earth color which consists of silica and clay, and which owes its color to iron oxide in either the hydrous form (limonite or goethite, the latter mineral named for the poet) or anhydrous form (hematite, from the Latin for blood). It has been universally used as a pigment since earliest history, beginning with the painting of human bodies for ceremony and battle.

  —from the files of Fred Petridge

  JENNIFER NEUMANN CLOSED THE PROJECT FILE WITH THE TAB marked FRAVEL FARM and thumped it with her fist, right in the center of the color-coded manila folder where she had mounted the glossy printed sticker that read, PENNSYLVANIA OPEN SPACE HERITAGE FOUNDATION, FARMLANDS PRESERVATION DIVISION. This one wasn’t going her way; any fool could see that. If she and her crew didn’t get things turned around fast, Fravel would enter into negotiations with a developer, and yet another Lancaster County farm would be cut up into half-acre home sites. McMansions, she and her colleagues called them. Except that all six billion people on the planet couldn’t and wouldn’t be served. And yet these ‘starter castles’ were popping up like bad mushrooms all over the county, using up the best nonirrigated farmland in the United States to grow lawns upon which the idiot rich could cruise their ride-along mowers.

  She had just returned from the Fravel farm, where she had seen the bad news with her own eyes. Farmer Fravel had lost patience with her efforts to get one of the farm-preservation bureaus to purchase his development rights, and had begun planting his last crop: sod. She always knew what was coming when she saw a farmer planting sod. It meant he no longer cared about his topsoil, and was ready to have it peeled off along with the grass, rolled up and carted off to apply to the half-acre home sites that had been robbed of their topsoil by a previous subdividing farmer when he had planted his final crop.

  Jennifer turned her hands inward so that she could examine her fingernails. They were painted a variety of lively colors, her one bow to cosmetics. She applied not a lick of color to the Germanic bones of her face, but coloring her fingernails amused her, and added the right touch of frivolity to her day.

  She was able to tolerate such frustrations as the Fravel farm project without sinking into despair or burnout because she knew how to pace herself. It was tough being a one-woman foundation, spreading her expertise and support across the heritage concerns of an entire state on an almost nonexistent budget, but she had learned that when one project went into a bad dive, it was time to take a short visit to one on the upswing.

  So she put away the Fravel file (color-coded green for “farmlands”) and shuffled through the other colors, searching for a project that would lift her spirits. There’s the Rails-to-Trails group, she mused, perusing an item she had assigned to a brown folder, indicating that the project was of historical importance. She had cross-referenced it with a yellow sticker, her color for “recreation,” indicating sunshine. Rails to Trails is much more satisfying. I should call Fred Petridge at the Pennsylvania State Geologic Survey and ask where he’s gotten with the latest fund-
raiser. She opened the file, slid her finger down the front page until she found Fred’s number, and dialed.

  A recorded message answered, informing all callers that Fred Petridge was temporarily away from his desk.

  “Fred, it’s Jenny,” she said into the phone when the God Almighty recording beep cued her response. “Give me a call. It’s about the Big Savage Mountain railroad tunnel project. Just checking up, seeing how it’s going, giving you an attaboy and any help you might need. ’Bye.”

  She returned to her stack of files and again sifted through them, looking for something else to sink her teeth into. A red file caught her attention. Ah. Pursuant to Fred and the Geologic Survey, the limonite project could use a little more energy, she decided, as she came to a file marked LIMONITE PSEUDOMORPHS. She especially liked this project because it involved a mineral that was classically used in making paints, and Jenny was an artist of some accomplishment. Even though the experts had assured her that the limonite local farmers historically had plowed up in their fields was used for iron ore rather than in making red pigment, she still held out a hope that some farmer somewhere had harvested a little of the mineral to make barn-red paint. It was disappointing that most Lancaster County farmers painted their barns white, or built them out of stone and never had need of paint except for the doors, but she had never allowed contrary dogmas to stop her before, so why start now?

  She opened the file and paged through it, admiring again the photographs she had taken of the little brown cubes, which she had assiduously labeled LIMONITE (AMORPHOUS HYDROUS IRON OXIDE), PSEUDOMORPHS AFTER PYRITE. There were three of the mysterious little cubes, and they ranged in size from a quarter- to a half-inch. It was through these little stones that she had met Fred Petridge. She had asked to speak with a mineral specialist, and he had held the little cubes in his hand and told her, “Pyrite is iron sulfide, a shiny, metallic-looking mineral. Its molecules organize into cubes as it crystallizes. Limonite pseudomorphs form when iron sulfide is altered into iron oxide, changing the internal structure of the crystal but preserving the external form. Where precisely did you get these?”

  “On a farm in Manheim Township. They come up in the fields when the farmer plows in the spring.”

  “Ah, yes. Weathering out of the soils. You’ll see them in the old bricks in the historic part of downtown Lancaster. They’re neat.”

  “Are they rare?” she had asked. “Endangered?”

  The geologist had given her a conspiratorial smile. “Are you trying to find an excuse to prevent development, perchance?”

  Jennifer had lowered her eyelids slyly and smiled.

  Petridge had shaken his head. “They’re uncommon these days, but not what you could call rare or endangered, like some kind of bird or trout. Sadly, minerals don’t enjoy protected status in the same sense that plants and animals do. I say sadly because when it comes to trying to save the farmlands, you’re preaching to the choir. I’ll take a view across open fields any day over a whole row of two-story houses with expensive cars sitting out front. I don’t know how you can tolerate working on that problem day after day.”

  Jennifer had said, “I feel better sticking with it than walking away. People always ask me, ‘What can one woman do?’ but I tell them: ‘Plenty.’”

  “One woman? I thought you were with a foundation.”

  “I am. Pennsylvania Open Space Heritage Foundation is really just me, but calling myself a foundation gets me more respect. I team up with other groups as needed. Why don’t you come to a meeting sometime? We can have some laughs and lick envelopes. It’s a good crew. We could use your help.” She had tipped her head in a welcoming angle and given him a wink, and that had been all it took. His specialty in mineralogy was a great help, and it turned out that with a little coaxing, she had been able to get him interested in the Big Savage Railroad Tunnel, too, because it seemed he had a thing about railroads.

  Jennifer now heaved a quick sigh, a habit she allowed herself more to fill her tissues with oxygen than to express any concern that she might not prevail in her tasks. She liked the limonite project because she liked Fred. This little respite of looking at the lovely pictures had helped to restore her vital juices, but it was time to get back to work on the farmlands issue.

  She closed the red limonite file and opened another green one she had marked KREHBEIL FARM. On the inside left face of the folder she had clipped a phone-contact log listing every contact she had made to the Krehbeil family in her attempts to help them preserve their farm. She noted again that there had been an ominous slacking-off of contacts coming her way from them. Mr. Krehbeil had died, and his wife was ailing, but the daughter who lived with them seemed to share their interest in preservation.

  She rechecked her phone log. The daughter’s name was Deirdre. Had Deirdre given up? Did she need money for doctors’ bills so badly that she was going for the final crop? Or was it that Mrs. Krehbeil had gotten so sick that Deirdre had no time even to think about the encroachment of developments around their farm?

  Jennifer turned now to a photocopy of an aerial photo of the farm and its immediate environs. Only last week she had had to draw red diagonal lines across a farm less than a quarter-mile away, her symbol for another battle lost.

  In working to preserve farm heritage, it was important to understand the dynamics of the families involved. Some followed religious principles, some played politics, and others just went after the money, letting the fur fly where it may. In the case of Mr. Krehbeil, he had gone to meet his Maker, so his patriarchal stance was no longer in play. Mrs. Krehbeil was ill, which could mean anything from abdication of power with the onset of dependency to a total logjam, if the offspring were still clinging to her emotionally. There were four grown children; an abdication would leave them to duke out who got control of the situation. Deirdre was not returning Jenny’s phone calls. The older son had left to make his fortune decades ago; Deirdre had once told her that. The younger daughter had not shown her face around the county in years, a total flake according to Deirdre.

  That left the second brother. His name was Hector. She’d heard stories about him that suggested that he would be of no help. What the hell, I’ll give him a try, Jennifer decided, as she once again picked up her telephone and dialed.

  9

  I SPENT THE NEXT TWO HOURS UP AT THE U, DIGGING THROUGH the library for reference texts on paint pigments, so that when I telephoned Noreen Babcock I wouldn’t sound like a total rube.

  My search was not in vain. I found a three-volume set of books published jointly by the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C., and the Oxford University Press: Artists’ Pigments: A Handbook of Their History and Characteristics. These books were filled with highly detailed information. Each chapter presented a different pigment, documenting its characteristics with laboratory analyses such as mass spectrography, chromatography, spectral absorption curves, X-ray diffraction patterns, photomicrographs, scanning electron micrographs, and a host of other analytical methods. I felt simultaneously cowed by the depth of information and heartened that there might be some meat on the bone of the idea of making a thesis project out of examining Gray Eyes’s painting. Foolish me, I thought all I would need to do was fill in the gap between what the authors of the articles knew about the general topic and what I needed to know in particular about Gray Eyes’s painting, write it up, and run it by Molly Chang for approval.

  At lunchtime, I checked the volumes out of the library and took them home to Faye’s house, where I set myself up with a comfy overstuffed chair and ottoman, a PB&J, a cup of tea, and a plate of chocolate-chip cookies. In fact I wolfed down the sandwich on the way between the kitchen and the chair, but I do mean to suggest that I was trying to feed myself a balanced diet. Stuffing the first cookie into my mouth, I picked up Volume 2 and opened it at random. I had gone through volume 1 at the library. I found myself in chapter two of Ultramarine Blue, Natural and Artificial, by Joyce Plesters.

  I am not a strong read
er. Reading is a linear sequential activity, and I have a time-space random kind of mind, built for visualizing problems in 3- and 4-D. So naturally I turned first to the illustrations. Figure I was captioned, “Lapis lazuli from Afghanistan. Cut and polished specimen. White veins of crystalline impurities and gold-colored flecks of pyrites are visible.”

  Cool, I thought. Ultramarine-blue pigment was once ground from lapis lazuli. It’s a semiprecious stone, so that must have been expensive!

  I went to my room and pulled my copy of Dana’s Manual of Mineralogy off of the bookshelf in search of details on lapis lazuli. Dana’s advised me that the part of the stone that was used as pigment was in fact a mineral called lazurite, which is the blue part of lapis lazuli, and that the white streaks were calcite, which, together with the pyrite and pyroxene and other silicate minerals, made up the marbled appearance. The painter would try to remove the calcite and pyrite from the lazurite, I supposed. But trace impurities would persist in the pigment, and the stone would vary with its source, perhaps making it possible to identify its source. This is going to be great!

  Figure two, on the next page, was a detail from Titian’s Madonna and Child with Saints John the Baptist and Catherine of Alexandria. “The Madonna’s robe is painted in natural ultramarine,” the caption informed me. That’s why the Madonna always wore blue, I decided, in an art history “aha.” The paint was so expensive that it became an indicator of value and status.

  I was on a roll. But then I got to looking at the figures in the painting. The seated Madonna was serene, soft, and loving, and appeared tall and strong, like Faye. She even looked somewhat like Faye, her dark hair parted down the middle, accentuating a patrician brow and straight nose. The infant Christ lay supine on her lap. A woman in yellow knelt at the Madonna’s knee, her face bent close to the child’s, her arms around him, as if in desperate need to be near the child’s tiny body.