A Knight to Remember

by Yvonne Lehman

  “No, it’s okay now. Come on in.”

  He’d set up three easels, one near the lighted Christmas tree and two on the other side of the fireplace. The other paintings hung on brackets around the walls, replacing those from which reproductions had been made. A table near the fireplace held the notebook of captions Gloria had edited and typed.

  She began by looking at the two by the fireplace and slowly made the rounds. She faced the paintings most of the time so he couldn’t see her expression. Finally, when she’d gone almost all around the room, she looked over her shoulder long enough to say, “Oh, that’s Jim.” She moved to the next one. “You painted Caleb. They weren’t in your notes.”

  “They’re recent additions. I have notes about Jim but not Caleb. I won’t ask if I can include his story unless Frank approves this project.”

  He saw her nod, but she didn’t turn. Maybe she remembered having praised Caleb when talking to Raymond. Thomas wanted to include a veteran, bring a renewed awareness to the public about the sacrifices they made.

  She stood there a long time, silent. But one could hardly turn and smile and say paintings of homeless people were wonderful.

  Then Frank appeared. He and Gloria introduced them-selves before Thomas walked up to them.

  Gloria offered to leave them alone and go into the living room, but Frank said that was up to Thomas. “I’d like her to stay. She edited and typed my handwritten notes for me. And she’s one of the few people who knows what I’ve been doing for the past three years.”

  “Then by all means, stay,” Frank said and smiled.

  Gloria sat at the table, her face as bleak as Thomas felt, but he gestured around the room. “There they are.”

  “What’s your theme, Thomas?”

  “The givers and the receivers.”

  “You want to explain that?”

  “If the paintings don’t do that, the words won’t.”

  Frank nodded. Of course, he already knew no words would alter his opinion. His assessment had indicated that when he’d told Thomas his work was similar to thousands of other painters. Good, but not distinctive.

  Thomas stood in front of the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back, while Frank made his rounds, reminding Thomas of a physician who might tell a patient he would be well in no time, or that he was sorry but he wasn’t going to make it.

  Gloria sat with her hands tightly clasped on the table, wide-eyed and watching Frank. There wasn’t much to see but a middle-aged executive-type man in a business suit. After looking at a few, Frank said, “No frames. I’ve heard of this technique but haven’t seen it before.”

  Thomas walked over to him. “It’s a contemporary process called deckle edge,” he explained. “I’d heard of it, but it didn’t seem to suit my paintings. Then when I started this project, expense and convenience were factors. I couldn’t afford frames and mats and glass. I could sketch anywhere, and when I could afford art supplies, I’d paint while in a shelter then mail my work for James to store for me.”

  “Looks like adversity can sometimes be a blessing.” Frank glanced at him and moved on to another painting.

  “I think so in this case. I’d planned to finish the project by the end of the year. Then when you said you’d be visit-ing I thought it might be better for you to see these here instead of my packing them up to be seen in your DC office. So again expense and convenience became factors. I didn’t have the luxury to frame these in a traditional way. I tried the deckle process and realized that raw edge complements these paintings.”

  Frank nodded. “I totally agree. Galleries would appreciate not having to worry about scratched or broken glass and heavy pictures to hang.”

  “And no reflection from lights,” Thomas added. “The work is simpler, and I did the edging in a couple days. Framing would have taken weeks.”

  Frank’s glance over at him and his nod indicated that, at least, Frank was pleased with what he hadn’t included. No frames, no mats, no glass. While Frank continued around the room, Thomas took a seat adjacent to Gloria. She glanced over, and he thought her tentative smile was meant to be encouraging. She then turned her attention to the notebook, opened it, and seemed to be reading what she had typed.

  Finally, Frank joined them and sat opposite Gloria. She closed the notebook and slid it over to Frank who opened it. That man could be expressionless. He read each caption and a couple times he studied one more than another.

  Finally he looked up, took off his glasses, and massaged the corners of his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. Thomas was afraid to look at Gloria who seemed to have leaned over to her purse, and he feared it was to grab a tissue. He was trying to keep his own emotions out of this.

  Frank gazed at him. “Which are you, Thomas. The giver or the receiver?”

  “Both. All. What I’m trying to say is that we’re all. . .everyman. Personally, I’ve been on the giving and receiving end.”

  Frank’s delaying didn’t make it a bit easier. Worse, if anything. Thomas remembered Gloria asking what he’d do if they were not good enough. Oh, if they weren’t he could say flippant things or even rant for a while about his career being over before it got a good start. It reminded him of what Gloria said about having thought she lost her future, her security. He’d learned from her, too.

  Frank tapped the notebook. “I suppose you’re thinking a book with photographs of the paintings, the captions, maybe DVDs and individual flyers with photos for display, promotion, or souvenirs for the public.”

  “You know, Frank. That’s the way I used to think—I would hit the big time. Be a recognized artist. But when I started this, I mainly wanted confirmation that I’m more than just good. I’ve wanted that from you. I still do,” he said quickly.

  “I’m not the last word, you know,” Frank said.

  “I know. But you know art, you know the art world, and you know the public. Your opinion is valued. But now that I’ve finished, I know this is the best I can do. I hope I will become an even better painter. But for now, this is everything. I know those paintings are good. I know the difference in what I did three years ago and now. Then it was my talent. Now it’s my heart and soul.”

  Gloria seemed to be wiping her eyes and nose a lot. Frank just kept looking at him and said, “Go on.”

  Thomas wasn’t sure what Frank wanted from him, but he suspected it wasn’t just about his paintings. Frank was a no-nonsense businessman, but he was also James’s father-in-law, a member of the family. He repeated to Frank some of what he’d shared with Jim and with Gloria. And as he talked, he felt like a psychologist, analyzing himself.

  “I committed this project to the Lord, and to paint the homeless I’d have to be involved with them, get to know them. Then I realized that wasn’t enough. I needed to be one of them. Feel like them. Not rely on the reproduction royalties you were holding for me. Not live in an empty hotel. Not live with James. Not get a side job. You really know another person only by walking in their shoes.”

  Frank and Gloria stared at him as if he were in the middle of a story and should continue. He was still learning about himself as he sat there. “I didn’t intend to paint volunteers. As time went on, I saw their purpose and caring and knew they are the ones who sacrifice, bring home, show love. I needed to be a volunteer, too, and that’s what I became at the center here.”

  He glanced at Gloria then, and she smiled. He continued, “Volunteers are the happiest people I’ve ever known. Well, besides my grandmother when she was making soup.”

  Gloria spoke up. “The ones I saw eating it were pretty happy.”

  He nodded. “Short-time basis though. A person can get tired of soup but never tired of one person helping another.” He looked at Frank again, just a family member now, not an agent. “Those three years have led up to this day, Frank, as if it’s Armageddon. But with you making me talk, I’m realizing it’s not. I’ve learned that the recipient is a part of the giving process, too. How sad if a person cou
ld never give. If he never had an opportunity to give or use what means he has—a smile, some food, an act of kindness, an arm around the shoulder, a touch, a joke. These givers are the volunteers.” Thomas shook his head. “I’ve learned more about God’s love in shelters than I ever did when we had enough money and a thriving business.”

  “Sounds like your venture has been worthwhile, Thomas,” Frank said.

  Thomas nodded. “Maybe the purpose of these three years was not so I could be a famous artist, but maybe the Master Artist wanted to paint in my life and my heart a dependence on Him—knowledge of Him personally. There’s a verse my grandmother underlined in her Bible that I remembered many times when I didn’t know where I’d sleep or eat next. Something about how good it is to be near God and that I’ve made the Lord my shelter.”

  As Thomas said the words to Frank, he realized the truth of them. He’d committed three years to God, to discover what kind of artist he could be, and while he wanted the paintings to be good enough for Frank, he realized the depth of him wanted them to be good enough for God. And they were. Because he’d given his all, his best.

  “If this is just my gift to God, that’s fine. Because it is. It is.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that, Thomas.” Frank took a deep breath as if his next words would be painful.

  twenty-eight

  “I want to tell you a story,” Frank said. He looked at Gloria. “And if that little iPhone is recording this, that’s fine. You might be able to use it some way.”

  “Thank you,” Gloria said, looking sheepish, but she lifted her phone from the chair next to her and placed it on the table. Thomas was surprised that she might have recorded their conversations.

  Frank cleared his throat, looked rather miserable in fact, and began. “Many years ago in another city, we had this deacon in church. I won’t go into details, but after his divorce, he was asked to step down. He’d lost wife, children, home, and eventually his job; and church people felt sorry for him and prayed for him, but we didn’t really befriend him. We lost track of him, and one day the newspaper reported that he must have fallen down the slanting concrete beneath an overpass and rolled into the street just as a car was coming. From evidence, he’d been sleeping under the bridge. A homeless man. Shelters weren’t plentiful there like they are in and around DC.”

  Frank leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling. Finally his troubled eyes met Thomas’s again. “Why didn’t we help him, Thomas? We in the church were good, decent Christian people.”

  He tapped the notebook with his finger. “These Christians and other caring people are doing what we should have done. We knew him. He was one of us. Fell on hard times. Many said he brought it on himself. Maybe. But we had no right to judge and accuse. We should have helped.”

  “It’s not too late for that church to do something.”

  Frank huffed. “Just what I was thinking. And each of us is the church.”

  Thomas felt a bit of accomplishment. Maybe that was the purpose of over three year’s work. To revive that feeling in Frank. To change one person. One person could influence others, change a church or a community. Frank was an influential man.

  “Thomas, I know a little about the creative spirit. You need confirmation that your work is worthwhile. Mine is only one opinion. But I say this with all confidence: You’re not an aspiring artist anymore. You are an artist.” He glanced around the wall. “These paintings are real, alive, and touch the heart, and the collection should be called ‘Everyman.’ But. . .”

  Thomas felt he could say it for Frank. “But who would visit a gallery to see paintings of homeless men?”

  “Exactly,” Frank said, nodding. “And that will be part of our promotional campaign. We’ll have every art critic, every art lover, every person who’s heard, and not heard, of your art ask that question. Why would any artist paint homeless people, and why would anyone want to see them?” Frank grinned. “The galleries will be bidding against each other for the first exhibit, and then the others will wait impatiently. We’ll start in DC.”

  Thomas wasn’t sure he was hearing right. But Frank kept right on. “And when they see the paintings and the books and each separate leaflet, they’ll know the answer to why. They’ll see themselves anew, as I did, walking around this room. They will feel again any time they’ve ever suffered or grieved or lost hope. And they’ll also see themselves in someone simply putting food on a plate and saying an encouraging word. You do need to get into this notebook what you told me about your purpose, what you learned, what you intended.”

  Thomas shook his head. “I’m not even sure what all I said.”

  Frank looked at Gloria who picked up the cell phone and gave a little uncertain grimace. “It’s on my voice recorder app.”

  “You have a good editor there, Thomas.”

  “I’m not a real editor,” Gloria said. “I just edited and typed what he had in handwritten notes.”

  “That’s what an editor does. So we’ll need to see that you get paid for your editing.”

  “I’m a volunteer,” Gloria said, going along with the theme of the hour.

  “Sorry. This is business. At least, you’re a freelance editor. And smart enough to know when to record what a client is saying. I often have need of a first reader or someone who can do a little editing. If you’re interested, we can talk sometime.”

  He stood. “But right now, I have some calls to make and a few paintings to take with me. I suppose you have copies of everything in this notebook,” he said to Gloria.

  “On the computer.”

  “Then I’ll take this with me, Thomas. Oh, and be sure to get either paintings or photos of you before and after.”

  “Before and after?” Thomas questioned.

  Frank toyed with his chin. “The bush on your face. The public will want to see how you look during your project and afterwards.”

  Thomas lifted his hands. “I don’t have photos—”

  “He’s in a lot of the pictures we’ve taken for promotion,” Gloria said, “and some just for fun to put on the center’s bulletin board.”

  Frank stood. “That will certainly speed up this process. Gloria, could you take some photos of a few of these paintings for me? I’ll see about getting this right off to a few publishing companies, along with a copy of the notebook,” he explained to Thomas as if he didn’t know. “There will be a bidding on this project when they know you’ll be having an exhibit.”

  Gloria had already pulled out her camera and begun snapping. Thomas watched in wonder as those two took over his project. When he’d asked Gloria to type a few notes for him, he had no idea how invaluable she would be to this.

  Now Frank was saying he’d follow Gloria to the center to get the project off and look at the photos of Thomas. One would think she’d become Frank’s secretary. He wondered if Gloria realized Frank didn’t make useless comments, such as about being able to use her in freelance editing projects. She might end up with two job offers to decide between, Raymond’s and Frank’s.

  After several paintings were packed, Frank said he’d take them on out to the car and wait for Gloria. Thomas walked her to the back door and held her coat for her to slip into. “Thank you, Gloria. Your being here means the world to me.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said faintly. “And congratulations.”

  “Frank has said yes to representation. The galleries and publishers could still say no.”

  “That’s not likely, is it?”

  “No. But I feel good that I’d be okay if they say no. When everything looked like it was headed for no, I felt peace. I felt God was saying, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant,’ because that’s what I’ve tried to be for three years. Let nothing stand in the way of using, discovering, what I am as an artist. You made the last part of this journey much more pleasant than it would have been without you. And today, you are invaluable.”

  She fastened the belt on her coat. “I’m glad I could be of as
sistance.”

  “That sounds so formal.”

  She looked up then and into his eyes. “I do mean it. I wanted to be here today because I thought you might need me. I wondered, too, who would want to see paintings of homeless people. But. . .” She shrugged as if she didn’t know what to do with someone who appeared to be on his way to success.

  He wasn’t sure he did either. He’d noticed a lot of people seemed humble when in need but not so much when they seemed to have all and more than they needed.

  Her eyes seemed moist as she said, “I was really touched by what you said today. I not only think you’re a great artist, I very much respect and admire the kind of man you are.”

  The kind of man he’d become grew out of need, need for God to confirm his worth as an artist, as a human being. He hoped he’d learned lessons he’d never forget.

  Over time, Gloria had accepted and liked him as a homeless volunteer. If this worked out the way Frank seemed to think, would she like him. . .that way? Her tone seemed to say the project was over. Her help had ended.

  The project wasn’t settled yet. “I still have a few loose ends.” Besides signing contracts and getting monetary advances, he was thinking about the work ahead. “I’ll want to talk with Caleb, get those notes typed up. Get Jim’s permission to write his story about helping others follow their dreams.”

  She nodded. “I’ll work with this as long as needed.”

  She’d been more excited about his hopes and dreams and being helpful than in his probable success. Now why was that? There was much he wanted to say, but Frank was out there freezing or running out of gas. Thomas longed to brush back that errant curl along the side of her face as she often did, but he willed his hand to turn the knob and open the door. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said and stepped outside.

  “Gloria,” he said, and she stopped. “Sounds like you and Frank will be working out of your office. Whatever you want to tell Jim and Clara is fine. But I need to be the one to let the others know.”