Tumbling Blocks

by Earlene Fowler

  “A forgery? That’s terrible.”

  She nodded. “Yes, but with many of his paintings going for almost thirty thousand dollars now, it was to be expected. People have the idea that it would be easy to forge a primitive painter like Uncle Abe. The one who was caught trying to sell one to a gallery in Santa Fe did a fairly good job mimicking my uncle’s style, but he didn’t do his homework. This particular gallery had a buyer who was very familiar with my uncle’s painting and saw a subtle variance in the signature that tipped him off.”

  “Wow, lucky break for your uncle.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “Yes, it was. Besides that, we have to worry about the art critics who can make or break even outsider artists these days. In that way the outsider art world has become just as political as the mainstream art world. Certain critics are biased. Collectors, unfortunately, listen.”

  I contemplated her statement before answering. She had a point. Art critics could be brutal, especially once you’d become one of their darlings. Some critics seemed to take an inordinate amount of pleasure and energy tearing down the artists they themselves had taken years to champion and build up. “If it helps, there is the L.A. Times reporter coming to the exhibit opening this Wednesday.”

  I wouldn’t tell her what she should or shouldn’t do, but if she wanted the world to know about Abe Adam Finch’s physical problem, which might affect his work, an article in the L.A. Times was a pretty big platform.

  She nodded, patting at her light red hair, though it didn’t have a strand out of place. “That’s something to consider.”

  When we reached the main gallery, I showed her where we’d be displaying her uncle’s painting.

  “Our security system is top-notch,” I said. “And I can guarantee that any alarm that is set off here gets top priority with the police department.”

  “I imagine it would,” she said, smiling. “It looks like a wonderful space. My uncle would be pleased and honored, I’m sure.”

  After assuring her it was we who were honored, I walked her out to the front of the museum to show her where his cards and prints were displayed for sale in our gift shop.

  “They are also featured in the window of our new museum gift shop downtown.”

  “Yes, I saw it. Your window designer did a beautiful job.”

  “One of our new quilt artists works for Gottschalk’s as a display designer. My friend Elvia owns Blind Harry’s Bookstore down the street and always wins the holiday window display contests, but I think we might start giving her a run for the money.”

  Nola gave a cheerful laugh. “A little competition is good for the soul. Well, maybe not for the soul, but good for commerce.”

  “Which is good for all of us.”

  She nodded in agreement.

  After she left, I continued work on my talk, finally finishing a first draft. I quickly typed it up on my laptop computer and printed it out to take home. I’d edit it one more time tonight after the tree-trimming party was over and everyone had gone to bed. I added some references to other famous outsider artists who critics had compared to Abe Adam Finch, such as memory painter Clementine Hunter, who depicted daily life such as picking cotton and river baptisms in the area of Melrose Plantation in Natchitoches, Louisiana, and Nellie Mae Rowe, whose colorful visionary drawings and paintings often had a surreal quality to them because she painted the faces of humans and animals unusual colors, red or blue or “whatever looked right” to her. She also made a few quilts in the style of her paintings and created some sculptures using the unusual medium of chewing gum that she painted. She created for “God’s pleasure,” she was often quoted. “Call Him up,” she was quoted. “He’ll hear you.”

  In personality, Abe Adam Finch was a lot like Joseph Elmer Yoakum, whose pastel drawings portrayed landscapes of places he’d visited or claimed to have visited. Mystery permeated Mr. Yoakum’s work, something that he felt made his work more valuable. Though Abe Adam Finch was open with his past history but shy about meeting the public now, Mr. Yoakum was just the opposite. Before he died in 1972, he knew and influenced many now well-known artists who met him in the 1960s and 1970s while they were studying at the Art Institute of Chicago. But Mr. Yoakum liked to keep his past a mystery, claiming once that he was a black man, then another time, a full-blooded Navajo born on the reservation at Window Rock.

  So, I thought, it is true sometimes that in outsider art, the biography of the artist is often so tied up in his work that it would be hard to distinguish the artist from his backstory. Then again, wasn’t it like that in almost everything? Don’t our backstories form who we are, actually inform who we are? It was true no matter who we were or what we did for a living. It was something I was seeing lived out right in front of me with Gabe and his mother. Their whole backstory was affecting what was happening between them this moment in their lives.

  I sat back in my chair, contemplating how all of this was connected, the past and the present, and wondered if it was something I should even touch on in my talk. I decided to stick to the facts and not meander off into philosophy about the past.

  I noted in the biography of Clementine Hunter that the quality of her paintings was uneven, that she had a tendency later in her life to repeat her earlier subject matter and that a collector could often tell a later work by the change in her signature. Her earlier, more original works were, naturally, more valuable.

  Was that what Nola was worried about, that if her uncle’s later work changed, it would not be as collectible?

  I printed up what I’d written and stuck it in my leather backpack. I had a half hour to get to the bookstore, just enough time to call All Paws and see how my little Cajun sausage dog was doing.

  “He’s doing great,” Suann said. “He peed on the grass for the first time!” The day care facility had little movable wooden boxes with squares of real grass for the dogs. I was amazed, wondering who in the world held the patent on that invention.

  “Hud will be proud,” I said. “Get a picture if you can.”

  Suann laughed. “He’s called three times already, you know.”

  “Better you than me. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  As if by some kind of psychic radar, my cell phone rang before I could start my truck. The phone number that came up on the screen was Hud’s.

  “Speak of the devil,” I said as I answered.

  “Good afternoon to you too,” Hud answered. “Talking about me?”

  “I just called All Paws to check on Boo. You might have a difficult time wooing him away from Suann.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “He’s fine. I’m fine too, though exhausted. Those middle of the night bathroom runs are getting old. How’s Texas?”

  “Big. Grandmama Lilly’s thrilled we’re all here. Maisie’s decided that she wants to be a cowgirl when she grows up.”

  “A fine ambition. You should start buying her a herd now. I have some nice-looking heifers I’m looking to sell.”

  “We’ll see. Last week she wanted to be a fireman.”

  “Firefighter,” I corrected.

  “No, fireman,” he said, laughing. “She said she was tired of being a girl and wanted to be a boy now.”

  “Yeah, I went through that. She’ll eventually find out that girls have the most fun.”

  “I believe you’re right, ranch girl.” In the background, someone called his name. “Whoops, gotta go. We’re going for a ride down by the river. Just wanted to see how Boo was doing and whether you got the Santa Claus picture.”

  Darn, I thought. I knew there was something I’d forgotten. “It’s next on my list,” I lied.

  “Just don’t forget. Maisie’s counting on it.”

  “I won’t,” I promised. “Have a good ride.” Then I turned off the cell phone and started my truck. Fifteen minutes later I walked into Elvia’s French country-style office at the bookstore.

  “Where have you been?” she asked, turning off her computer.


  “The traffic here is getting as bad as L.A. Besides, Hud called and wanted to know all the details about Boo to report back to Maisie. I got off as quick as I could.”

  “Did you finish your speech?” she asked as we walked out the bookstore’s back door. We climbed into her black Lincoln Navigator.

  I sank back into the buttery leather seat. “I finished the first draft. And I had an interesting talk with Nola Maxwell Finch.”

  “Why was she there?” Before she started the car, she opened a Tupperware container and took a handful of cereal, popping it into her mouth.

  “Is that Cap’n Crunch?” I couldn’t believe it. Elvia hadn’t eaten any type of children’s sugary cereal since we were ten years old.

  Her expression was chagrined. “I know, it’s disgusting. And, actually, it tastes better if I’m eating it with a dill pickle.”

  “That is disgusting.”

  “Forget that, tell me why Nola Finch visited you.”

  I watched, fascinated, as she crammed another handful of Cap’n Crunch into her mouth. “To check out where we were hanging her uncle’s painting. I told her it was still in Gabe’s office. After we are done shopping, I’m going to drop by the station and pick it up. I want D-Daddy to hang it today.”

  “So, was she happy with what you set up?” She closed up the plastic container and stuck it under the driver’s seat.

  “She seemed to be. We talked a little about her uncle. She actually confided in me a little tidbit about him.” Telling my best friend didn’t count in my promise that the information about Abe Adam Finch was not for public consumption.

  “Really?” Elvia’s dark eyes opened wider.

  “It’s nothing really juicy. Just that her uncle is getting older, and she’s afraid his arthritis will start affecting his painting. Actually, I think she’s considering telling the L.A. Times reporter this Wednesday so that if there is any subtle change in his work, then the critics might feel a little more sympathetic.”

  “Sympathetic art critics?” Elvia exhaled a noise as close to a snort as she’d ever get. A little snirt, maybe.

  “All I know is I’m glad I’m not the one having to oversee a famous artist’s work. It sounds exhausting.” I looked out my side window. “Where are we headed? I only have a few hours. Oh, and before I forget, you and Emory are invited to a tree trimming dinner party tonight. Kathryn is cooking chicken verde. Six o’clock sharp.”

  “I’ll let Emory know. When did you get your tree?”

  “I haven’t yet. That’s why I only have a few hours to help you shop. I still have to buy a tree.”

  “Why don’t you call Sam and have him do it for you? He’s working at the bookstore until two today.”

  “Great idea, amiga! He and Teresa are on my list to invite anyway.” I dialed the store and in five minutes took care of two things on my list. Sam agreed to buy the tree and bring it with him tonight. “Now I’m at your disposal until five o’clock when I pick up Boo. Where’s our first stop?”

  In three hours we managed to hit the two maternity shops in San Celina and the maternity section of Gottschalk’s. For a fairly small town whose clothing tastes tended toward the two extremes of college students with smooth, young bellies and retired women who preferred easy-care sports clothes, we managed—well, Elvia managed—to put together a stylish maternity wardrobe. I did my part holding her purse, and telling her everything looked wonderful.

  As we sipped our on-the-run cappuccinos, double-caf for me, no-caf for her (it’s killing me, she moaned), she pulled out on Highway 1. “These clothes will hold me for a week or two until I can get over to the Bay Area or down south and do some real shopping.” She looked at a book that she’d taken from the store listing all the maternity stores from San Diego to Eureka. “We have one more place to check out up in Cambria.”

  “Cambria? I can’t imagine a more unlikely place for a maternity shop.” Cambria, north of Morro Bay, was one of the most expensive places to live in San Celina County. It was mostly settled by a few longtime locals and many affluent transplants from both the Bay Area and Southern California. Cambria-in-the-Pines was its official name, though lately the city’s inhabitants had been quite worried about the pines part of the equation. An infestation of pitch canker and bark beetles had many Cambrians worried about the trees surrounding their million-dollar-plus homes. It was where Constance lived, where Nola lived and also where Pinky Edmondson had lived.

  We went by the small maternity boutique called Baby by the Sea, where Elvia purchased a beautiful red silk dress that she planned on wearing tonight. While she was trying it on, I called home.

  “Ortiz residence,” Kathryn’s low, throaty voice answered.

  “Hi, Kathryn. It’s Benni. How are things at the old home place?”

  “Everything’s fine. Ray bought everything I need for dinner. I’m cooking the chicken right now. I thought we’d have a green salad and jalapeño cornbread to go with it.”

  “Sounds delicious. Has Scout behaved himself?” It was a rhetorical question.

  “Oh, you know he has. That dog is a sweetie.”

  “Yes, I know. And I can’t take a single bit of credit. He was trained when I inherited him. Say, I have an idea if you haven’t made anything for dessert yet.”

  “No, I haven’t. I was thinking about baking a pie, but I . . .” Her voice grew rueful, a little embarrassed-sounding. “I’m afraid I accidentally fell asleep. I think it’s too late to make a pie now.”

  I glanced at my watch. “It’s four o’clock, so I think you’re right. And that works into my idea perfectly.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Elvia and I are out in Cambria finishing up her shopping, and we’re only a few miles from Linn’s Fruit Bin Farmstore. How about some traditional San Celina olallieberry pies for dessert? I’ll pick up some vanilla bean ice cream at the grocery store, and we’ll be all set for dessert.” I waited, hoping it wouldn’t insult her, me taking over the dessert.

  “Benni, you’re a sweetheart,” she said, her voice relieved. “That sounds perfect.” I still had a hard time reconciling this easy-to-please woman with the same stiff-backed one I met in Kansas a few years ago.

  “Good. I talked Sam into getting the tree, so all I have to do is buy the pies and ice cream, pick up Boo, then I’ll be home.”

  “Okay,” she said gaily. “See you soon.”

  “I think an alien has swooped down and replaced my mother-in-law with Mrs. Cunningham from Happy Days,” I said, closing my phone.

  “What now?” Elvia asked.

  “I’ll tell you on the way to Linn’s. I need to buy a couple of pies. And, hopefully, I’ll also see something I can buy Kathryn for Christmas.” Linn’s had a small boutique stocked with local arts and crafts. We turned off Cambria’s Main Street onto Santa Rosa Creek Road, a two-lane country road that led to the original Linn’s. Though Linn’s café and gift shop in downtown Cambria was popular, the more nostalgic people preferred the original Linn’s. On the short drive we passed farmhouses and stands of oak trees that recalled San Celina County thirty years ago, the rural part of the county that was rapidly being lost to wineries, strip mall developments and retirement ranchettes for those who could afford the half-million-plus price tag. After we’d bought the pies and perused the small gift shop where I also picked up some Linn’s preserves for Kathryn and Ray to take back with them to Kansas, we climbed back into her SUV to head back to San Celina.

  “You know,” I said to Elvia. “I think Pinky Edmondson’s house is somewhere on this road.”

  “It is,” she said. “It’s about a half mile past Linn’s.”

  I glanced at her, surprised. “How do you know that?”

  She shrugged and turned on the ignition. “She used to order a lot of books from the store and didn’t always have time to pick them up, so we’d either mail them or deliver them to her, depending on how quickly she wanted them. I recognize the address.”

  That shouldn’t have s
urprised me. Elvia prided herself on being a more-than-full-service bookstore. She kept a file of her customers’ preferences, their birth dates, if they allowed it, their personal anniversaries and whatever else she could find out that would help her to better meet their literary needs.

  “Let’s go by and see her house,” I said, when she pulled into the road.

  “Why?” She glanced at the car’s clock. “Besides, it’s four thirty. Don’t you have to pick up Boo at five?”

  “Yes, but they actually stay open until seven, so I’m covered. It’ll just take five minutes. I’m curious.”

  “Of course you are,” she said, turning right on the road rather than left, which would take us back to Cambria.

  We reached her two-story Victorian house in less than five minutes. I was surprised to see a sixtyish woman was coming out of the house carrying a woven grocery bag and a cat.

  “Pull in,” I urged Elvia.

  “What? Why?”

  “Just do it!”

  Like so many times in our life, starting when we were in second grade and I talked Elvia into boosting me over the schoolyard fence so I could steal apples from the Beechams’ tree next door, she did what I said.

  We pulled up in front of the house. The woman stood still as an oak stump, staring at us with a vaguely troubled expression. Not too much taller than my five foot one, she was broader in the shoulders, had dark, short hair and blunt, rounded features. She was one of those people whose ethnicity could run the gamut of dark Irish, Spanish, Italian or Middle Eastern.

  “Hello,” I called, stepping down from the SUV.

  “Can I help you?” she asked in a nonconfrontational yet not-friendly voice. She had no discernable accent. She set the cat down on the top step. It arched its back and wound around her legs.

  “This is Pinky Edmondson’s house, isn’t it?”