Conversations Among Paintings

Conversations among Paintings

Jonathan May looked around his new living room. It was Spartan. He had bought the place because he knew he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t, but not much money remained for furnishings. There was an old comfortable couch that the former owners had thrown into the deal and the big old chair and the stack of family portraits he had brought from his old place, but that was about it. Over the weekend, he’d bring a few loads from the old family homestead collection that had been stored in a rental storage place back in town ever since they had sold the place a decade ago, but tonight he’d sleep on the couch. Oh, my, he was tired.
It had been a long day, but he was satisfied. After his wife died, he had moved into an apartment, but he had felt trapped, subject to the noisy, and nosey, neighbors and someone else’s furniture. He wanted, needed, a place of his own. His daughter protested, at first, with oblique references to his age and the relative isolation of his new home, but she relented, being the understanding sort, and knowing that protesting was useless. So at the tender age of 72, he had dipped rather deeply into his pension and bought this place, away out in the hills.
It was a small log home, not much more than a large room that served as a living and dining room, a small kitchen, two bedrooms, one of which he planned to use as a study, and a bath room. The wrap-around porch that overlooked most of his ten acres to the mountains beyond had sold him. Built on the foundation of an old farmhouse by a well-to-do New York couple as a weekend getaway, the materials and workmanship were first rate, and the landscaping made a nice foreground to the fields and far hills. It had a garage and storage building that would serve him well as a workshop.
Jonathan thought of all these things as he nursed the bowl of canned soup he made for his dinner. Nothing wrong with soup. He looked around at the bare walls, noticing the picture hooks vacated by the hunting prints of the former owners. Then he looked at the stack of paintings propped against the wall.
Carefully extracting the painting of his mother as a little girl, he placed it on the substantial hook centered over the mantle, nodded approvingly, and proceeded to prepare for an early bed.
He slept soundly and did not hear the brief conversation, but then he wouldn’t have heard it had he been awake.
“You look fine up there.”
“Oh, Uncle Nat, the way you made me look I’d look fine anywhere.”
“Like the view?”
“Yes. It’s a nice place and I can see out the window a bit. Feels like home already.”
“I guess I’ll get a better look when he finds a spot for me. Can’t see much from down here on the floor.”
“No, I suppose not. I hope we’ll be able to see each other.”
“Me too, little flower. Me too.”
“Now stop that. You’ll make me blush.”
“I already did that, little girl. Remember, you’ll always be eight years old to me.”
“I hated sitting for this portrait, but you’ll always be my favorite uncle.”
“Your only uncle, you mean.”
“That too.”
“You little minx.”
And at that, the portrait of Jenny Jameson May, at the age of eight years, seemed to take on a glow from the moonlight coming through the window to her blushing cheeks and carefully crafted smile, and the hat on the man in the self-portrait of her uncle, artist Nathaniel Jameson, seemed to settle a bit lower and more comfortably on his brow.
Jonathan was awakened at a shamefully late hour by the ringing of the telephone, which he had not even realized had been connected. In fact, he did not know where it was. He followed the sound, counting the rings (allowing for two before becoming fully conscious, or relatively so). He spotted the phone in the kitchen on the eighth ring and picked it up. "May here."
"Hi Dad! It’s August here. Beastly hot. I wish it were May. How're the new digs?"
In spite of himself, he had to laugh.
"Hello, Peach! The new digs are great, I think. Haven't spent much time looking around yet."
"Oh jeez. I woke you up, didn't I? Dad, it's almost noon!"
"One of the joys of living alone."
"Sorry, Pop. Just wanted to make sure you were safely installed."
"No need to be sorry. I should be up and about. Got to get going and make this place feel like home. Can't wait for you to see it. I'll send you some pix when I get the computer going."
"You do that. Call me if you need any help with that. I'll let you go, but stay in touch. Why don't I hear any music?"
"Because I just woke up!"
"Oh, right. Well, get it going. Then it will seem like home.
"Right you are, Peach. Talk to you soon. Love you!"
"Backatcha. Lateron."
Jonathan hung up the phone and somewhat groggily reasoned that since he was in the kitchen, he'd make coffee. He wished he had something sweet to go with it. Sighing, he went into the bathroom, splashed his face with cold water and shaved. Then he went back into the big room, peeled the packing tape off one of the boxes stacked against the wall, and rooted around until he found the coffee mugs and shoebox full of flatware and utensils. Back in the kitchen, he spooned two scoops into the mug and began to mentally plan his day.
When the first wisps of steam appeared, he filled the cup, gave it a stir, and headed out to the porch. Sitting on the steps, he decided he could make two runs to the storage place and still have time to return the borrowed pick-up to Charles, back in town where he had left his car. Then a stop at the Wal-Mart for some essentials, home before dark.
This would be okay, he thought, looking out over his little domain from the porch steps. Enough work to keep him active, not so much that he'd need help. Should be fairly efficient during the winter hibernation, reasonably mild in these Virginia hills, delightfully airy in the summer, and rife with the natural miracles of spring and autumn. Yes, this would be okay.
He stood up, took a gulp of coffee, and stepped off the porch. Strolling around the corner of the house, he admired the stonework that formed the walls below floor level, gradually increasing in height as he descended the slope into which the house was set. "A strong foundation," he thought - the story of the Three Little Pigs coming to mind. Further down the slope, the less formal and more virulent vegetation that defined the stream marked the edge of his world, beyond which was an old hemlock forest that invited future exploration. He continued down the slope, rounded the corner of the house, and noted that there was at least a cord of firewood under the protection of the overhanging porch deck, but room for plenty more. He'd like to have at least three cords stored before winter. "He who chops his own firewood warms himself twice."
Around the next corner appeared the garage, or barn. He couldn’t quite decide what to call it. It clearly predated the log home, probably built at the same time as the old farmhouse. He realized he had not seen this approach to the rear of the structure when he noticed a beam protruding about four feet into the air above a second story door. Curious, he walked to the opposite side -- that of the large double doors - pulled them open and went inside. He had only glanced in before, noting that it had plenty of space for his Subaru, lawn tractor, and some workbenches. It would need more light. He had not even realized there was a second floor.
Looking around, he spied a ladder built against the back wall near the corner. It stopped at a trap door in the ceiling. Setting down his mug of coffee, he climbed the ladder with some difficulty, since it was perfectly vertical. Reaching the top, he pushed at the worn wood and it gave upward, heavily and groaning in protest, until he was able to put his head through the opening. Looking around in the dim light, he couldn't make out much, so he pushed the door until it clunked against the wall and he retreated down the ladder to find a flashlight.
Chuck’s pickup was well equipped, and he found a Maglite in the glove box. Returning to the ladder, he climbed through the hole and shined the light around. The roof was pitched from the ridge and there were no openings save the door on the back side that had piqued his curiosity. Walking carefully over the rough floor boards, he found a hasp and pulled back on the heavy door, unleashing a flurry of dust motes in the sunlight against the dim interior that reminded him fleetingly of a photograph from the Hubble Telescope.
Turning, he saw a goodly number of large objects, clearly furniture, covered by old sheets and plastic drop cloths. The effect was eerie, and he had the fleeting thought of being the first man in centuries to enter an Egyptian tomb. He made a cursory search for evidence of roof leaks and seeing none, he began pulling off the coverings, flinging them into a heap at one side.
He had unearthed a treasure trove of wicker furniture, perhaps twelve or fifteen pieces all painted a very long time ago a deep shade of forest green. Chairs with ottomans, two rocking chairs, a chaise, small love seat, three tables and a hanging porch swing. Marvelous! But how to get it all down?
Walking over to the open door, he looked out at the beam that had led him to explore the loft in the first place and noticed a stout hook near its end. Then, sure enough, hanging on the wall behind the open door was a block and tackle, complete with an assortment of hooks and canvass straps.
Okay. It would take him most of a day to get all of this down to the porch, but it would be worth it, and some of it would work in the great room as well. He hefted one of the chairs -– not too bad. He took it over to the door and in less than a minute had it wrapped in the straps, the business end of the block and tackle attached, and the other end hooked onto the beam, a bit of a stretch for him. Grabbing the free end of the rope tightly, he effortlessly hoisted the chair a few inches off the floor and pushed it through the door with his knee. It dangled in mid-air and when it stopped swinging, he carefully lowered it to the ground. A bit of a shake and the straps were free and he reeled them in.
With a certain sense of satisfaction, he hung the pulleys and straps back on the wall and turned back to the furniture, figuring to prioritize. The ottoman for the chair he had just downloaded, to be sure. The swing, if he could manage it. Both rocking chairs, one for the porch, one for inside. The two side tables… He poked around a bit. The chaise perhaps.
And what was this? Covered in burlap, tied with an old string, its top leaning against the sloping rafters. He pulled at the string, which broke easily. A frame, a painting! A dour looking portrait, dark. A man with black hair, curling nearly down to his chin. Black muttonchops and beard. Black jacket over dark brown waistcoat. Eyes piercing and as black as the hair, and a scowl that was blacker still. “Hello,” said Jonathan aloud, “Who are you?”
Jonathan was once again exhausted. “A fine damn thing,” he muttered aloud, “Two days in this place and I can barely stay awake!” He took a robust navel orange from the fridge, cut a neat incision with a paring knife from the stem end about sixty degrees down to the navel, and ripped a paper towel from the roll. He warmed it in his hands as he walked to the great room, put the Bach Goldberg Variations in the CD player, and plopped his tired body into the big old chair, simply because it seemed more inviting than the rocker he had brought down from the barn loft. His adventure on the second floor of the garage had convinced him that it was not merely a garage, nor storage building, nor workshop, but all of these, and thus the right label was “barn.”
As Bach’s magical intricacies (delivered mercifully by piano rather than the original harpsichord), unfolded, so did his orange and his day. Two truckloads from storage, a week’s worth of groceries, and three trips to the barn to download some of the furniture. He dug his fingernails into the incision and peeled it back, piece by piece, revealing the sweet expectation that lay within. Instead of indulging at the first opportunity, he separated each section, removed the sinuous detritus that would yield to his fingernail, and laid them one by one on the paper towel in a sort of ascending scale. Then, methodically, he enjoyed one section of the orange with each of the Variations. It took some discipline, but in eating an orange or listening to Bach or making love, anticipation was not a pleasure to be rushed.
Somewhat to his consternation, the orange ran out before the Bach. In reflection, he considered that this was better than the reverse. He laid the peel aside, wrapped up in the towel, used the remote to turn down the music and put it on auto-repeat, kicked off his shoes and kicked back into recline mode, and closed his eyes.
“Good evening, sir. May I have the pleasure of your acquaintance?” The artist seemed to tip his jaunty hat.
“Julian Graves, late of Philadelphia. And you, sir?”
“Nathaniel Jameson, artist and man about town. And I have the honor of presenting my niece, Jennifer Jameson May, the mother of our sleeping proprietor, Jonathan May, my grand nephew.” Jenny May giggled softly, inducing a scowl from Cousin Nat.
“How come you to be here, if I may ask?”
“Mr. May acquired the property as a desirable place to enjoy his remaining years.”
“From the look of him, they will be few,” replied Graves.
Jenny piped up, “He’s tired. We only just moved in yesterday and he’s been setting up house. He’s quite fit, actually.” Uncle Nat detected a note of pride mixed with resentment, but kept quiet.
“I see. What is that music? It’s a bit annoying.”
“Johann Sebastian Bach. But never fear, Mr. May’s choice of music is rather like the weather – if you don’t like it, it will change soon.”
“That’s for sure,” interjected Jenny, “We’re particularly fond of the Grateful Dead.”
“Jenny, please! Enough. May I ask, Mr. Graves, how you come to be here?”
“Damned if I know, actually. Your pardon, ma’am. I was painted around the turn of the century. President of a Philadelphia shipping company. Family fell on hard times in the early thirties and sold me to an antique store. Spent time in a variety of places in Old Town, ended up in a place called Sotheby’s in New York City, then out here in the middle of nowhere about ten years ago. Spent the last few years in that dreadful hayloft. Gentleman asleep on the chair retrieved me this morning, thanks be.”
“Well then, it is not my place to welcome you, but I do so nonetheless. May you have a place of honor among us.”
“I fear that is unlikely sir, as I am not of the family. But a dark hallway would be preferable to my recent posting. For that, I am grateful.”
Jenny May gave her uncle a look that seemed to suggest that she considered Julian Graves, late of Philadelphia and the old hayloft, a tiresome old bore, which was returned by a scowl from her Uncle Nat, followed by an almost certain smile and a wink.
Jonathan woke up as the old school clock on the kitchen wall chimed 4 a.m. He stood up slowly, stretched, walked out on the porch, and relieved himself over the rail, looking up at the stars. There was no moon, but there were so many stars he had no difficulty making out the horizon and the tree line at the edge of the meadow. Having thoroughly watered six square inches of an azalea below the rail, he zipped up and stood looking out into the night. Without any self-consciousness, he lifted his hands and clapped them once, sending what sounded like a gunshot reverberating through the hills. A deer snorted and bounded off unseen into the woods.
Wandering slowly around the porch, he reflected with a certain satisfaction that it must be five or more decades since he had peed under the stars. Life is good. He shuffled indoors and absent-mindedly began picking through the boxes stacked against the wall.

Books. Dozens of books. Where to put them? He looked around the great room and had a momentary vision of a single bookshelf around the entire perimeter of the room at ceiling height. Simple to build. And one of those marvelous Jeffersonian library ladders to reach them. He stacked a few armfuls against the wall, on the floor, in anticipation of their ascendance. Back to the boxes. File folders, old LPs, his complete set of Fine Woodworking magazine, photographs of his daughter, Annie, and his wife, Mary. With these he spent some time in the dim light.
Soon he sighed and stood, looking back at the wedding portrait of Mary smiling back at him. He wasn’t quite sure she’d approve of his being here. He gently placed the picture on the low window sill opposite the couch and fell into a deep sleep.
“Hello, Mary. It’s good to see you,” the portrait of Jenny said softly.
“Hello, Mother May. It’s good to see you too. Jon seems well. What is this place, my dear? Surely not the apartment.”
“No indeed. He has bought this place in the country and it appears that he’s settling in, intending to live out his life here.”
“Has he? Well, I am pleased to hear that. He was not happy in The Meadows, was he?”
“No. We both saw that, didn’t we?”
“Yes, Jon always felt better in a place of his own making. Is this a good place? It’s hard to tell in the dark.”
“It has a good feel about it, Mary, and I believe he is happy here. It’s a bit remote, which is worrisome, but then . . .”
“Yes. It would be. Everything in its time, Mother May. And hello to you, Uncle Nat. Surely you will not remain long there, leaning against the wall?”
“Hello, Mary. I trust I will find myself happily positioned when your husband settles in.”
“And who is that gentleman beside you, Uncle Nat?”
“I have the honor to present Mr. Julian Graves, late of Philadelphia. Mr. Graves was retrieved from the attic of the barn and aspires to be among us, should Mr. May oblige.”
“I am honored, Mrs. May.”
“As am I, Mr. Graves. I hope we shall have the pleasure of your company among us.”
“You are most gracious, Mrs. May. Nothing would give me more pleasure.”
Uncle Nat scowled at Jenny, who was suppressing a giggle.
“Please call me Mary, and, if I may, is it Julian?”
“At your service, Mary.” And Nathaniel Jameson thought he detected a softening of the man’s austere features.
In the waning weeks of August, Jonathan labored joyously to make the place more livable. He borrowed Charles’ truck to haul lumber from the sawmill and built his bookshelves and library steps. He arranged the books and music, wired a set of speakers to the porch, where he spent most of his evenings reading and smoking his pipe. He bought a bedroom set at an estate sale and arranged to have it brought around for a reasonable fee. He built a modest but elegant dining table and four chairs from walnut, as well as a side table for under the front window sill, where he placed the photographs of Mary and Annie. Jenny held the traditional place of honor over the mantle, with Uncle Nat on the opposite wall, and Julian Graves, late of Philadelphia, took up a spot in the dining area.
If Jonathan had any remaining doubts about buying the place, they were erased the warm night he sat on the porch counting the Perseid meteors as they lit up the sky, with Verdi in his ears, a pipe in his mouth, and a Wild Turkey on the rocks in his hand.
“How wonderful it is,” he thought, “to be serenaded by Callas and Bergonzi while watching the sky fall.”
On Labor Day weekend, Annie came to visit bringing her young man, Sean, and a cat with her. On Sunday, his sister Diana joined them. He understood that this was a sanity check, of sorts, and he took pains to make the place neat and tidy. Annie had traveled two hours from Washington, and Diana from North Carolina. With everyone pitching in, they grilled steaks, baked potatoes and tossed a huge salad, and they were enjoying the sunset from the porch with Irish coffee all around. They talked about politics, baseball, movies and books and the weather, and they had not talked about the things they came to talk about.
For a while they just sat watching the cat stalking moths that dared to settle too close. Jon lit up a pipe and the cat ambled over to his feet, watching him intently. He was particularly curious when Jon blew a perfect smoke ring in his direction.
“He’s a dignified cat, Peach. What’s his name?”
“Pita,” she replied. “Pita cat.”
“Pita cat? What the hell kind of a name is that for a cat?”
“Pita,” she repeated. “P.I.T.A. Pain-in-the-ass Cat.” He’s a real fur factory, and Sean’s a bit allergic to him.”
“Oh dear. That’s a problem. But he’s much too dignified for a name like that.” At this, the cat reached up with one paw and gently tapped Jonathan just below the knee. He leaned down and stroked the cat’s neck and was rewarded by a mechanical sounding purr. He leaned back in his chair to take a sip of coffee, with Pita watching indignantly. As he set the mug down, the cat leapt up onto his lap, nosed briefly at his pipe, then settled comfortably on Jon’s knees. Jon resumed his neck scratching; the cat resumed his purring with a look of satisfied triumph, and for a moment, the contented silence returned.
“Dad,” Annie began, but Jonathan interrupted her.
“George. George is a good name for a cat so magnificent.”
“Actually, Dad, that’s what I, or rather we, wanted to talk with you about. Everyone looked at Annie, including George. Sean reached over and took her hand, and it was he who spoke next.
“Sir. Mr. May, Annie and I would like to be married. With your blessing, of course.”
Diana stood up and kissed Annie on the cheek. “Well, it’s about time!” She sat down and all eyes turned to Jonathan, still stroking George, who was blithely uninterested.
Jonathan stared out into the darkness and spoke softly, as though to himself. “Aha! Yes, I see. It all fits. You have brought this magnificent creature out here because you want to get married, and he’s a bit of a problem. So you expect me to keep him. You’re throwing him over for Sean, allowed me to suggest a more fitting name, thus becoming attached to him. Well, George, you’re not the first heart she has broken, but you may be the last.” He looked down at the cat, who was staring back, wide-eyed, as if to say, “Who, me?”
“What do you think, George? Shall we let them get away with this chicanery?” George licked Jon’s hand, stood up, and jumped to the floor. Thus freed, Jon stood, stepped over to Sean, and held out his hand. “I’m proud and happy.” Sean stood and shook his hand and replied, “No more than I, sir.”
Jonathan turned to Annie, still seated. He knelt down in front of her and reached out to her and she embraced him. They held each other for a long time, and Jon wondered if he would ever hold his daughter like this again. After a few moments, he whispered into her ear, “I wish to God your mother were here.” They let go of the bear hug, and Jon dried his daughter’s tears. George came over to him and carefully raised one paw, tapping him on the leg. Jonathan reached down and scratched his neck.
Then he stood up. “Another round! And music!” A deer snorted somewhere out in the field. George looked bewildered, and everyone was laughing.
On Monday, Labor Day, they gathered for breakfast before the guests departed.
“This is a good place,” said Diana. “It suits you.”
“That it does,” agreed Jonathan. “I miss Mary intensely, but I am more content than I remember. It is a good place, and I am enjoying making it better.”
“Dad,” Annie began, then looked at Sean, who nodded, smiling. “Dad, it is a good place. Sean and I were talking last night. We’d like to be married here. Next spring. Would that be all right?”
“What, here? Out in the middle of nowhere?”
“Yes. In the field down there, with that view of the mountains.”
“And wild flowers in your hair, no doubt,” smiled Jonathan.
“Definitely,” interposed Sean.
“Well, George and I would be most proud. What do we need to do?”
“Not a thing, Dad, except put up with another disrupted weekend.”
“With bells on, Peach. With bells on.”
Before they left, Annie insisted on taking a picture of her father sitting on the porch steps, with George the cat sitting beside him. Just before she pressed the shutter, George reached up and delicately tapped Jonathan on the knee, and Jonathan absently began scratching him on the neck. Annie wondered which of the two looked more the master of this domain.
But doing nothing was not in Jonathan May’s nature. Over the next few months he built a grand gazebo on the rise overlooking the meadow, and laid a winding fieldstone path to it from the end of the porch, bordered with lilac and mountain laurel, and an arched trellis for climbing roses at the point where the path began a straight run to the gazebo. He had traded his old Subaru for an equally old pick-up truck, and hauled, cut, split and stacked enough good firewood from the surrounding woods to last the winter.
He bought a lathe and planer from an auction, adding to his workshop’s capabilities, and built a good workbench in the barn. He built a double bed of cherry with nicely turned finials for the spare room, still in need of a mattress, more shelves for the great room, and a hole in the front door with a flap for George to come and go as he pleased.
George caught mice, moths and voles, but did not succeed with the birds. He stared at the deer, who stared back. In the evening, he sat by Jonathan’s side, occasionally reaching up as if to shake hands, and received his hypnotic caress. He had trained Jonathan well.
Jonathan went to bed tired and happy every night, and woke up ready for the day. George, on the other hand, slept whenever he felt like it, which was mostly for short periods of time, but around the clock, and usually in the old recliner, which was now upholstered with a fine but irregular layer of cat fur. If Jon were up and about, George was usually nearby, except in the workshop. By Thanksgiving, it was still warm enough to sit on the porch until dark, and they kept each other good company, George seemingly becoming accustomed to Jonathan’s eclectic musical tastes, while he instinctively scratched George behind the ears when politely requested to do so.
If Jonathan slept soundly, George did not, and it was not unusual to find him wandering around the house at all hours, nosing about for whatever it is that cats can sense but humans can’t. George’s perambulations did not go unnoticed, however, nor did the continuing odd conversations that continued on most evenings, for George was distinctly aware of them. He would sit in his old chair and look from one to the other of the paintings as they spoke. Jenny, Mary, Uncle Nat and Julian Graves, late of Philadelphia, were quickly aware of this, and shared a mild amusement in the cat’s presence. It may not be too strong a case to suggest that they welcomed him, for it seemed that he participated, in a feline sort of way, in their chats. They occasionally asked his opinion on a certain point, and always seemed to receive it, though not through any means of communication that even they, whose mode was indeed eerie, quite understood.
Shortly before Christmas, a package from Annie arrived. She had commissioned a painting from her photo of Jonathan and George sitting on the front steps, which Jonathan had quite forgotten until seeing the painting.
In her note, Annie had written that she had wanted to find something truly special as a housewarming gift, and Sean had suggested the idea. It was truly magnificent, Jonathan thought. Signed by the artist, the well known Beth Holland, it was very detailed, but with subdued colors, it reminded him of an Andrew Wyeth. It captured the beauty of the setting, the comfort of the home, and the contented companionship of the man and the beast. Jonathan sat looking directly into the viewer’s eyes, his hand resting on George, who in turn had one paw resting on Jonathan’s knee, his magnificent profile rendered to a good advantage. Jonathan wondered if that was how the photograph was or if Annie had suggested the editing to the artist.
He marveled at his daughter’s eye for color, for Annie must have had the frame custom made. The painting itself was bordered with a cloth liner about an inch wide, the same gray as the fireplace fieldstone. The frame was about three inches wide, in antiqued gold with a wide cove of deep forest green at the center – the very same green of Jonathan’s bookshelves and the trim on the house, reflected in the painting. The whole thing was about three feet wide and two high, and without much hesitation, he decided that it had to go over the mantle, and Jenny would take up a position beside her favorite Uncle Nat, who would be moved a few feet to the left. This was accomplished by late afternoon, and that evening, being a bit chilly, Jonathan enjoyed his pipe and nightcap indoors, with a new read and an occasional satisfied glance at the new addition. George seemed to enjoy the Joni Mitchell mix, and Jon most surely did.
“Well,” said the portrait of Jenny, “This is different.”
“Not sure I like it,” replied Uncle Nat.
“But you’re in the same place!”
“Yes, my dear, but now I can’t see you.”
“Aha, yes, I see. Is it me you miss, Uncle Nat, or the fact that you can’t see any of your fine work?”
“Well, either way, I’m not sure I like it, but I have to admit, that is a damn fine painting.”
“It is indeed, don’t you think, Mother May?”
“It nearly makes me weep. It is exactly as Jon would want to be seen. Julian, can you see it well from where you are?”
“I can, Mary, although from a sharp angle. It seems to go quite well there, I believe.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Jenny. “George, do you have an opinion about it?”
George looked over at the portrait of Jenny, stood up, stretched, wandered casually to the front of the hearth, looked up at the new addition over the mantle, strolled to his recliner, jumped up, turned around twice, and sat down. There was no doubt from any of the other occupants of the room that George was pleased, perhaps a little too pleased, with his place of honor next to Jonathan, over the mantle. The quiet of the night seemed to grow deeper as the room’s occupants entertained their own thoughts in the dim moonlight.
Jonathan woke up refreshed, but feeling a bit achy. He got out of bed, stretched, and did his five minute routine of calisthenics, determined to start the day as usual. “As usual” meant a cup of coffee and a piece of cinnamon toast, while reading the news of the day on his computer. George always joined him and requested his morning dose of affection in his dignified but persistent fashion.
It was a fine day. He dressed, lit up a pipe, and stepped out onto the porch, stopping briefly to admire his new painting. George joined him on the porch and together, they walked to the barn. Jonathan was going to get a Christmas tree today. He had thought of just not going to the trouble, but Diana was going to come for a visit during the holiday, and Jonathan felt he’d get a dose of pity if he had nothing to show for Christmas decorations. So he was going out into the woods to find a good tree and some evergreen boughs, and maybe even some mistletoe, if he was lucky. He’d add a sprig of holly from the bushes around the house to each of the paintings and over the doors. He had no ornaments, but he could find plenty of pine cones, and maybe he’d get ambitious and make a few ornaments in the shop and do a popcorn string. He was feeling cheerful and resourceful as he gassed up the chain saw and gave it a test start. As soon as he pulled the cord, George lit out for the safety of the house. He did not like the chain saw. Jonathan found a canvass sack and coil of rope, and he set off toward the woods with the rope and the chain saw in the sack.
Evergreens were plentiful, and he filled the sack in short order. Mistletoe was nowhere to be found, but pine cones were plentiful. They’d do fine with a bit of spray paint and red ribbon. Finding just the right tree was another matter. He’d expected he’d have to look a while, because trees in the woods were never quite as obviously Christmas trees as those in the lots where they were sold, but he was not one for spending ten or twelve dollars a foot for someone else’s tree, no matter how full or symmetrical.
He walked for perhaps an hour, generally in a widening circle, carrying the sack over his shoulder and the chain saw in alternating hands. Finally he came on a nice little grove of new growth fir trees, and eventually selected one that he thought would do nicely. Trimming off the lower branches and twigs with the chain saw, the tree was felled in a matter of moments.
He was tired, but the hard part remained. He figured he was about a half mile from home, and had to drag the tree through the woods. He set the saw among the branches of the tree, tied a good knot with the rope around the base of the trunk, passed a loop through the handle of the chain saw, another loop on the trunks, then a big hitch loop for around his shoulder. Slinging the sack over his other shoulder, he took a deep breath and set out back the way he came, but in a more direct route, towards his home.
At the edge of the woods, his house still perhaps two hundred yards distant, but now blessedly in sight, he was thoroughly winded, and both his arms ached. He thought for a moment about leaving everything here and trying to drive out over the field and loading it on the truck, but rejected the option, figuring that he had made it this far and could make it the rest of the way. My, he would sleep well tonight. He hurt all over and was short of breath, but what could you expect? Perhaps he was overdoing it, but he knew that if he gave in to lethargy, he’d never forgive himself. On he went, one difficult step at a time. Hungry, too. He decided to stop for a rest, sat down in the tall meadow grass, now quite dead and dry, and shucked off the rope and the sack. He looked at his watch and realized that he’d been out for nearly four hours, and it was beginning on dusk. He lay back in the grass, just for a few minutes, closed his eyes and felt the beating of his heart.
As night fell, George stepped gingerly through the flap in the door and stood on the porch looking out over the field. He stood there for a long while, then slowly turned and walked back into the great room, jumped up in his chair, and went to sleep.
Most nights, the chiming of the old school clock on the kitchen wall did not enter George’s consciousness, but on this night, at the tenth stroke of twelve, the cat came awake. At the eleventh stroke, he stood up and stretched, and at the twelfth, he bounded off the chair, fully alert, as only a cat can be so quickly. Looking around at the portraits, they returned his look with questioning eyes. He walked onto the porch once again, and stood looking out into the field for a long time. He went slowly down the steps and walked around the house, then out to the barn, through the open doors, and roamed around its interior, undistracted by the mice he frightened. He returned to the house, up the porch steps and into the great room. He wandered into Jonathan’s bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen, then returned to the great room. He walked to the hearth, looked up at the painting for a few moments, then over at the couch. He gazed at the couch thoughtfully, then back at the mantle. Making up his mind, he jumped up onto the couch, then to its back, turned and looked at the mantle and leapt up to it, letting out an alarming meow as he skidded to a halt and regained his equilibrium. This seemed to bring Jenny, Uncle Nat, Mary, and Mr. Julian Graves, late of Philadelphia, to a state of alert, all watching George, perched on the mantle. For a moment, he looked around at them, returning their stares in turn. Then he walked carefully to the center of the mantle and looked up at himself and Jonathan sitting on the front steps.
He gently reached up with one paw and touched the image of Jonathan.
“Hello, George. Please don’t worry about me.”
George looked at him for a moment and turned his head to look at the portrait of Jennifer Jamison May, mother of Jonathan May.
“Hello, Jon,” she said.
George looked back at Jonathan and raised his paw tentatively. John said, quite gently, “One day, George, I will scratch your neck again.” George turned and vaulted off the mantle onto the couch, then to the floor, then up to his chair, where he turned around twice, settled into his comfortable position, briefly surveyed the room, and settled down to sleep.