The Brushstroke Legacy

by Lauraine Snelling

  “Good dirt too, but shouldn’t you leave it in the garden?”

  “Oh.” She turned around and ran back to wash her hands in the bucket. Her smile on her return made Nilda’s heart turn over. Never had she known it was possible to love this much—especially after the betrayal that marked Eloise’s conception. Seeing her daughter blossom was worth anything she had to do here. “See the bread crumbs?” She pointed to the scattered bits.

  “Ja.” Eloise looked up at her mother. “Why you put bread crumbs there?”

  “For the crow that comes to visit, that big black bird with the harsh voice. That crow will get hungry and come eat our bread crumbs.”

  “Oh.” She plunked herself on the step. “Come on, bird.”

  “He won’t come if he sees you there. Watch from inside.” She took Eloise’s hand and together they went inside where Nilda lifted her daughter up to sit on the shelf under the window. “You have to wait and be very still.”

  “Ja.”

  “And don’t fall off.”

  Nilda kept one eye on her daughter as she washed the leaves that Hank had brought in. If they were like spinach, they would cook down to nearly nothing, so it was a good thing he’d brought plenty. She cut pieces off what was left of the ham and tossed them in the water with the leaves. Tomorrow she would cook the remainder of the ham with beans. Beans, beans, and more beans. What joy fresh vegetables would be.

  “Ma! The crow came!” Eloise whispered.

  Nilda dried her hands on her apron and came to stand beside her daughter. The crow hopped closer to the pieces of bread, swiveling his head to see all around him. When nothing moved, he gobbled up a piece and fluttered up before settling down and stabbing some more.

  Two small sparrows flew down, far enough away to be out of his reach.

  Eloise smiled up at her mother, her eyes sparkling.

  Nilda nodded and laid her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. The crow finished and flew off, and the little birds cleaned up the last crumbs.

  “Oh.” Eloise clasped her hands to her chest. “Birds came.” Her smile brought a sunny glow to Nilda’s heart. “More bread?”

  “No, that’s enough for today. Maybe tomorrow.”

  Hank was out picking juneberries; Mr. Peterson was fishing. The sun edging toward the buttes told her that chore time was near.

  “Come, Eloise, let’s go feed the chickens.”

  “Eggs?”

  “Ja, you can pick the eggs.” Nilda grabbed the bucket holding the scraps she’d gathered for the chickens.

  Together they strode into the barn, scooped some oats from the bin, and opened the door in the side wall that led into the henhouse. As soon as Eloise scattered one handful of grain, the first hen to see it squawked, and all the rest came pushing through the small square opening at ground level. They shoved and pecked at each other, and two of them stuck in the door for a moment.

  Eloise laughed and threw some more grain, her tiny handfuls being gobbled up almost before hitting the ground. Scratching and pecking, the hens searched out each morsel. One red one drove a speckled one from the grain while another quickly pecked up the oats behind their backs. Nilda scattered the kitchen scraps, which caused even more fluttering and squabbling. Then the rooster strode in and clucked what sounded like orders. The hens backed up, but only for a slight pause. But when Eloise didn’t throw the grain fast enough, the rooster stared at her with bright eyes and strutted forward—straight toward her.

  “Ma!” She threw the can at the bird and ran to hide in her mother’s skirts.

  “Git, go away.” Nilda shooed the rooster off and picked up the can, handing it back to Eloise. “You can put the eggs in this now that its empty.”

  “Bad rooster. Mean rooster.” Eloise stamped her foot when he pecked at one of the hens. She fetched the can and lifted an egg out of the nest, keeping a wary eye on the rooster.

  “Be careful now so you don’t break any.” Nilda smiled down at her daughter. She took a stick after a steer and hid from a rooster. But then, the rooster was coming at her, eye level. Nilda glared at him herself. “You better watch it, or you’ll end up in the stew pot.”

  “Ma, look.” Eloise stood in front of a nest where one of the hens was setting. Two tiny yellow chicks peeked from under her wings.

  “Chicks, that’s what baby chickens are called. Leave them alone; there might be more hatching.”

  Eloise stood in one spot, her gaze never leaving the hen and chicks. When another popped out from under the wing, she pointed and giggled. When the hen clucked and fluffed her wings, the bits of yellow disappeared.

  “You want to gather the rest of the eggs?”

  Eloise shook her head, then gave a purr of delight when a tiny head popped out again.

  “Come along now.” Nilda finished the job and reached out for Eloise to take her hand. “You can see them again tomorrow.”

  “Bye, chicks.” Eloise paused at the doorway and looked back at the nest box. “Ma, more chicks tomorrow?”

  “I hope so.” Perhaps if Mr. Peterson didn’t mind, they could sell the extra eggs in town when they had more chickens.

  But when they returned to the house, Mr. Peterson met them with a frown. He held her latest drawing out and shook it.

  “There will be no time wasted here on such nonsense. If you don’t have enough to do, I can find plenty more.” He pointed to the string of fish. “Start with that.”

  Nilda grabbed her whimpering daughter and stepped back, too shocked to even be angry—yet. Had she accidentally left the paper out? She must have. Was this the same man who had rescued Eloise?

  How could mindless scrubbing transform into paint on a canvas?

  Ragni dumped the second bucket of dirty water as soon as the light was sufficient to paint again. So far this morning, she was killing two birds with one stone. She could now bear to walk on the formerly filthy floor of the front bedroom and the labor freed her mind to play with paint strokes and colors. Back in front of the easel, she took the palette knife and began building paint layers on her canvas, then switched back to the brush. Perhaps all those years ago if the paint had flowed like this when she was learning to use the computer for her graphic art, she’d not have quit working with brush and canvas and might not have been drawn into the world of advertising.

  “You should have pushed on through,” she whispered to herself, not wanting to wake Erika. She needed the alone time, one of the reasons she’d planned her vacation in the first place—to figure out where she wanted to go with her life. You’d think that by thirty-two years of age, I’d have decided that by now. This painting seemed alive, as if it had a mind of its own, one spot calling for purple, another for red and then blending to show a shadow she didn’t know needed to be there. Mindlessly she followed the inner instructions.

  “I’ve never seen you paint like that before,” Erika spoke softly, from over Ragni’s shoulder.

  “Neither have I.” Ragni stopped and took a step back to see the entire painting. She shook her head and realized how tired her right arm was already. What with scrubbing and painting, it was no surprise. Setting the brush handle in the mug, she rubbed her upper right arm and shoulder.

  “How long you been at this?” Erika asked.

  “No idea. What time is it?”

  “Around nine.”

  “Really? And I’ve not even had my first cup of coffee.”

  “I’ll make it.”

  “Thanks.” Ragni went to stand in the kitchen doorway, to look out between the two giant trees. “When did you get up?”

  “A little while ago, I didn’t want to disturb you. Talk about concentration, lady, you got it.” She spooned ground coffee into the basket.

  “I’ve heard artists and writers talk about being in the flow, and I thought I understood what they meant, but now I know it. I’ve never painted so hard and fast in my life.” She listened to Erika move about, start the stove—the pump and hiss, the burst into flame. Delicious sounds, li
ke the song of the meadowlark singing in a new day.

  In Chicago, her attitude had been Oh, God, it’s morning, but here, she’d found herself thinking more than once, Thank God, it’s morning. Was He trying to tell her something, and if so, what?

  “I went swimming in the river this morning.”

  “Was it freezing?”

  “Nope. Not warm, but once I was in, it wasn’t bad. Beats washing in a teacup.” Ragni went outside and sat on the step. Sunlight filtered through the cottonwood leaves, and a dewdrop sparkled on a blade of grass. She could hear a diesel engine in the distance. Was Paul already cutting hay—or whatever one called it these days? She thought back to a time her father had taken the family out to an old-time farming event where horses instead of tractors did all the work. It would have been that way when Grandma Nilda—as she was beginning to think of her—was cooking breakfast in this very cabin. How had the place looked then? Were there trees shading the house like now, or had she planted the trees? What was her great-grandmother really like?

  Ragni had so few memories of her grandmother, Eloise Aarsgard, who had died when she was in kindergarten. “You know how lucky you are?” she asked as Erika handed her a cup of coffee and sat down beside her.

  “For what?”

  “For knowing your grandma and grandpa.”

  “I guess. Why?”

  “I hardly remember mine. She died when I was little. Grandpa died before I was born.”

  “How come? I mean, from what?”

  “He was killed in the war, and she never married again. She died of cancer. Mom always said she thought Grandma died of a broken heart but it just took her a long time to go.” She inhaled the steam from her coffee cup and took a sip. “Ah, perfection. Thanks… I’m going into town later, do you want to go?”

  “Which town?”

  “Or I could wait until tonight when we go to the motel, I guess.”

  “I thought we were staying here? I’ll just take my shower in the river like you did.”

  Ragni turned to stare at Erika. “Did you say what I thought you said?” You’re the main reason we go there.

  “You don’t have to make a big deal of it.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I mean, like we only have another week.”

  Till we have to go home. The end of the sentence echoed in Ragni’s head. I don’t want to go home. The inner voice was so loud, she figured it was audible to Erika too. The thought of city streets, the hassles and tension at work, her empty apartment. She sighed, a sigh that came all the way from the soles of her feet, the soles of her bare feet, feet that had kicked her way back to the log, against the current. I want to make a habit of a dawn swim, of painting until I can’t move anymore, of restoring this place and making it a home again.

  Oh, Lord, what am I thinking? And talking to God as if He was sitting right here on the steps with them, enjoying His first morning coffee and the warmth of the sun!

  “Well, I need to call Grandma and your mom and check my phone messages for one thing, and we need ice and some groceries for another.”

  “We have meat loaf and potatoes for dinner.”

  “I know.” She turned to look at Erika. “I have a question.”

  “So.” Erika leaned forward and wrapped her arms around her bare knees. Her black hair, now showing light at the roots, veiled her face.

  “How come you work so hard to hide what a terrific young woman you are?”

  Erika’s shoulders stiffened, and she picked up a stick and began to draw in the sand. A shrug was her only answer.

  “I mean, according to Paul, you made most of the supper last night. You make a mean pot of coffee, you’re funny and fun when you let go of all the angst. And without all that black, you are truly beautiful.”

  She might have been talking to a post, although this time the post did have ears and, so far, hadn’t yelled back at her or stomped off to hide in the car. Ragni laid her arm over Erika’s shoulders and, shock of shocks, Erika leaned into the comfort of her aunt’s shoulder.

  A surge of emotion threatened to choke her. “I…I can’t begin to tell you how glad I am that you came along.”

  “You didn’t want me to.”

  “I know.” Another sigh. “And you didn’t want to come.”

  “Now I wish we could stay all summer.”

  “Me too.” Oh, indeed, me too.

  “What are we having for breakfast?”

  “I wish we were having caramel rolls.” Ragni sipped her coffee and dreamed. “But since that isn’t a possibility, we could have cereal…”

  Erika groaned. “Well, if I eat now, I can’t swim for half an hour anyway.”

  “You really want to go swimming?”

  “Can’t let an old woman like you get ahead of me.”

  For that she earned a swat on the rear.

  “I took soap and washed my clothes at the same time,” Ragni said.

  “Will you come with me? Mom made me promise I would never swim alone.”

  Ragni rolled her eyes at the great sacrifice she was being asked to perform. “Get your stuff while I pour me another cup of coffee.” She broke off a piece of meat loaf, grabbed coffee and journal, and followed Erika to the riverbank. So much for getting right back to painting. But if sitting and writing in her journal while Erika swam and scrubbed would keep the peace flowing between them, the time would be well spent. And the oil paint would be drying.

  Erika didn’t bother with the toe to test the waters. She threw herself into the same racing dive Ragni had taught her years earlier and came up shrieking. “You said it wasn’t bad!”

  “Swim some, and you’ll warm up.” With the sun on her shoulders, Ragni watched Erika duck under and then float on the current, just as she’d done earlier.

  Her niece’s crawl stroke was a thing of beauty and power. Ragni had coached her well until two years ago when Erika had declared she no longer wanted to turn out for the “stupid” swim team and quit. Thinking back, Ragni realized the goth look had emerged not long after that. So what had happened? Far as she knew, Susan had no idea what had caused it other than turning thirteen, as if goth were a natural thing to do when one turned from tween to teen. Erika was floating down the river again.

  Ragni tapped the end of her pen against her teeth. If she went in to Medora, she might as well go on to Dickinson. Get the supplies to make a larger canvas, get another easel and more paints. Along with the other things on their list.

  Why don’t you want to go back to Chicago? The question stared back at her from her journal page, the only thing she’d written so far. Better yet, why would I want to stay? A second question. You’re good at asking questions, what about coming up with some answers?

  “Ragni, would you throw me the soap, please?”

  Ragni found it in the tossed towel and threw it out to her. “Feels good now, right?”

  “Come on in?”

  “Nope, maybe later when it’s hot out.” So why did we wait so long to try out the river? Another one of those questions for which there were no answers.

  Always one to make lists of pros and cons when trying to make a decision, Ragni turned to a blank page and created two columns by writing Go at left and Stay at right. She stared at the words and shook her head. There was no way she could stay, so why even waste time doing such an exercise? She crossed them both out and flipped back to the writing page. Six days left and what do I want to accomplish? She numbered them. Paint. Finish cleaning the bedrooms. Finish Storm (the name she’d given the painting). Clean the chimney. Paint the buttes. Set up the chimney pipe. Cook a meal on the wood stove. Paint the cattle at the watering pond. Trim and weed around the rosebush.

  Erika plopped down beside her, sprinkling the journal with a few drops of water. She wrung her hair out and tossed it over her shoulder. More damp dots.

  “Ah…” Ragni pointed to the spots on her page.

  “Sorry.” Erika grinned and shook her head again.

  “Beast.�
�� Ragni gave her a play push.

  “How long until my clothes dry, do you think?”

  “Depends on whether you lie in the sun or…”

  “I could take my pad and paint outside.”

  “You sure could.”

  “And you’d be glad I was leaving you alone to paint, right?”

  “You don’t bother me,” Ragni insisted. When Erika snorted, Ragni added, “When you’re sleeping, anyway.”

  Erika glanced up. “Someone’s coming.”

  “You’d think we’d have more traffic on this road. There are ranches further out, like the one in that big loop of the river.”

  “I think they come from a different direction.”

  Together they stood and headed for the cabin.

  A woman was getting out of a truck as they rounded the fence. She reached back in and lifted out a cardboard box. “Hi, there, I’m Myra Heidelborg, Paul’s mother. Annie, my daughter, wasn’t able to come, so I came instead.” Tall and lean like her son, she looked as good in khaki shorts and a scoop-necked tee as a far younger woman. “There’s another box in there too.”

  “I’m Ragni, and this is Erika.”

  “Paul has told us so much about you. I brought you some things of your great-grandmother’s that I thought you might like to have. We found some of them in the cabin after Einer died, and the rest is from my mother’s things. She and Nilda were really good friends, mostly in their later years.”

  She set the box down and held out her hand. “Welcome to the ranch.” She shook hands with both of them, her clasp warm and firm. The calluses on her hands said she was no stranger to manual work. Ragni remembered that Paul had boasted of his mother’s love of gardening.

  “You want to get the other box, Erika, dear?” She nodded toward the truck. “It’s on the front seat there.”

  She smiled at Ragni. “You’re even prettier than Paul described you.”

  Ragni swallowed her tongue. Paul said she was pretty? Was there something wrong with his eyesight? He had mentioned his mother was a bit forthright, but Ragni immediately liked the woman. “Thank you for bringing these to us. Paul said he’d look in the attic for me.”