“Well, wouldn’t that be wonderful! Instead of having a fine career for himself in one of the best brokerage firms in the country, he could be a mechanic, and I suppose you’d like for him to get one little room in a tenement house and starve to death.”
“It doesn’t have to be like that. If you could just show a little interest in him and go to the races with him. Do something with him, Oliver. As far as I know, you haven’t done anything with Clinton since he was a boy.”
Her words stung, for they were true. Oliver blinked his eyes and his mouth tightened. “And where have I failed Mary Ann and Benji, now that you’ve decided to educate me.”
At that moment Alice knew that any more talk would be hopeless. He had closed his mind and heart, and she saw the blunt stubbornness on his face. Discouragement swept over her, and she said in almost a whisper, “Oliver, if you don’t learn to love your children, to be kinder to them and to enter into their lives—you’re going to lose them.” She turned away, leaving him staring at her as she walked to the window and stared outside.
Oliver had not been confronted like this for years. And to hear it from his own wife came as a terrible shock. He had taken pride in seeing that all of his children had the finest clothes that could be bought. Their rooms were well furnished, even luxurious, and they had the best medical care that could be provided. But now for the first time a small doubt suddenly touched his blunt spirit. And then a dart of fear pierced his stoic armor of control. It was not much, just a disturbing thought, but the idea of losing his family was the most frightening thing he could think of. For years he had felt that he was protecting them from their own foolishness, but now Alice’s words seemed to echo in his mind, and deep inside, something happened. He knew he would not forget this conversation for weeks, or even months, try as he might. Still, he was a man of immense self-confidence. I’ve done the right thing for my children, he thought. Alice is wrong. I’ll have to make her see it.
He went to bed that night and listened until his wife’s breathing revealed that she was asleep. Sleep did not come to him, however, and for what seemed to be hours he lay there holding himself still, thinking of what Alice had said. Finally he got up and went to stand beside the window. The fire had died and it was cold in the room, but he did not notice it. He thought of the time when he had taken Clinton to a circus when the boy was nine years old. He recalled how Clinton’s auburn hair had flashed in the sunlight as they approached the tent, his eyes shining with anticipation, and he remembered how Clinton had held on to his hand as he bought the tickets and they entered. He remembered so much of it that it surprised him—the aerialists flashing through the air in their silver costumes, the nine elephants rearing up in unison, and all the time Clinton talking constantly, his face alight with excitement.
Outside, the night was dark and the sky was dotted by a few feeble stars. Oliver stared at them blindly through the window, thinking of that trip to the circus so long ago. Try as he might, he could not remember another time after that when he was ever really close to his son. A heaviness fell upon him and sleep eluded him. Finally he dressed quietly and left the room. Stepping out of the house into the cold night air, he walked the grounds, trying to put aside what Alice had said. But as he thought of Cara lying in bed helpless, Alice’s words kept coming repeating in his mind. “I’m not keeping her back!” he muttered. “I want her to be well more than anything else.” But then the thought of her leaving came to him almost like the piercing of a sword, and the face of Philip Winslow came before him. Then he remembered how Cara’s eyes and face had lighted up when the young artist had been there.
“He’s no man for her,” Oliver said gruffly, “and that’s the end of it!” He turned and walked heavily back into the house, leaving the cold stars to glitter overhead so far away.
CHAPTER TEN
“Have You Ever Wanted a Man?”
Cara looked up from the paper she was reading, her eyes glowing. Charley had been lying at her feet, eyes closed and apparently asleep, but at her slight movement, he looked up, alertly cocking his ears and then speaking to her with a quick bark.
“Look here, Charley. . . .” Glad to be addressed by his beloved mistress, Charley jumped onto her lap and pushed aside the paper, raising his face close to hers. Cara stroked his silky fur but pushed his head away as he attempted to lick her nose in return. “If you’ll stop that long enough, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. Let me read this to you.” Charley looked intently at her face, as though trying to understand her speech. When it became apparent to him that at least she was not going anywhere, he lay down on her lap and made himself comfortable.
“ ‘A show of some of the fledgling artists in the New York area will be held tomorrow, the sixth of March, at the Eighteenth Street gallery of George Maxim. Mr. Maxim has long been a supporter of what has been called, with some derision, the Ashcan School of painters, including such painters as Robert Henri, Everett Shinn, and George Luks. Mr. Maxim invites the public tomorrow to come and view this new movement in modern art. He especially emphasized that paintings by a brand-new artist, one just bursting upon the scene in our city, Mr. Phil Winslow, will be shown, and the artist himself will be present to speak to those interested in his work.’ ”
“Do you hear that, Charley? Phil’s going to have a show!” Sharing her pleasure, she hugged Charley until he struggled free, then again tried to lick her face.
“My face doesn’t need washing, Charley, but I believe yours does.”
Cara read the article several more times. Then, her excitement stirring, she suddenly stood, spilling Charley onto the floor. Scrambling to his feet, the spaniel gave her a startled glance, then wandered off to find a more secure place in which to continue his rest.
Cara paced around the room, exercising as best she could in the limited space of her bedroom. Her restlessness felt similar to that when the idea for a painting was beginning to take shape, but this was more urgent. An idea was forming, but doubts troubled her. As she paced, she dealt with them one by one, eyes narrowed, until she finally took a deep breath and headed out of her room.
At the end of the hall she knocked on Mary Ann’s door.
Mary Ann opened the door, still holding the thick book she had been reading, and exclaimed, “Why, Cara! Is something wrong? Don’t you feel well?”
“I feel well,” Cara said, stepping into the room, “but I’m having a strange thought. I may be losing my mind.”
“Oh, don’t be foolish. You’re the most sensible one in the whole house!” Mary Ann laughed. Then she saw the seriousness in her sister’s expression. “Come and sit down and tell me about it.”
“You won’t believe me,” Cara said slowly. “But I’m thinking of defying Father.” She looked up to catch the response from her younger sister and saw, with surprise, a pleased light had come into Mary Ann’s bright blue eyes. “You look happy about it. It’s not a nice thing to do, to deceive your parents.”
“It’s about time you broke out of the prison you’ve built for yourself,” Mary Ann said sharply. She was excited and leaned forward to squeeze Cara’s arm. “What are you going to do, free yourself by burning down the house? I’ll get the matches.”
It was Cara’s turn to laugh. “Don’t be silly. It’s just . . . well . . . look at this.” She handed Mary Ann the paper, folded open to the article she had just been reading. She watched intently while Mary Ann read it, then continued. “I’m going to that show, Mary Ann, but you’ll have to help me.”
Mary Ann was willing to help her sister, even in something this hard. She loved her father, but it was a confining sort of love. She felt even more like a prisoner, if possible, than Cara, and now she whispered, as if Oliver Lanier were crouched outside the door with his ear to the keyhole. “What do you plan to do? How are you going to get there?”
“I want you to get Father’s permission to take me down to be photographed. He asked me to have a photographic portrait done some time ago, but I just have
n’t felt like going. I don’t like having my picture taken.”
“That’ll be easy enough. I’ve heard him say several times he wants to have a large photograph of you. What do we do then?”
“Well, we’ll go and do exactly what I said, but after the sitting we’ll go see the new paintings.”
The two sat there making hurried plans. Both of them grew excited, and Mary Ann was thinking, This is just the sort of thing Cara needs. She’s actually got some color in her cheeks and her eyes are sparkling. Aloud she said, “What if we get caught?”
“There’s really no reason why we should. But if we do, we do.” Rising to her feet, she said, “You’ll help me, won’t you, Mary Ann?”
“Of course I will.”
As soon as Cara was out the door, Mary Ann began to walk rapidly back and forth. Her mind hummed with ideas, but she began to devise a plan of her own. Quickly she went over to her writing desk and scratched out a quick note. It simply said, “George, this is a secret, but tell Phil that Cara will be at his show tomorrow. Tell him to look for her and to be very nice. She needs some encouragement.” She hesitated for a moment, then wrote with a slight blush, “Love, Mary Ann.”
Putting the letter in an envelope, she took it downstairs and found James, the coachman. “James,” she said, “I have a very special errand for you, and I want you to take this note to Reverend George Camrose over at his church. Be sure you don’t give it to anyone else. Find him and put it right in his hand.” She had slipped two dollars around the envelope and smiled winsomely. “This is for you if you do it—and be sure you don’t tell anybody.”
James had an adventurous spirit, despite his forty years and thickening body. Eyes twinkling, he winked and grinned. “You can count on me, Miss Mary Ann. Nothing I like better than taking love letters between sweethearts.”
Mary Ann smiled back, and as James quickly left, she spoke to the empty room, jaw firm. “Now, Father dear, let’s see you stop this meeting from taking place.”
Phil looked across the table at Jolie and nodded approvingly. His artist’s eye took in the gently tailored soft brown woolen jacket and matching skirt that set off her lovely form. The snowy white lace-trimmed blouse gave her a bright, fresh look. The late-winter sun streaming through the cafe window brought out the highlights of her dark hair and finished the picture perfectly.
“I like that outfit,” Phil said. “You make a lovely picture in it.”
Jolie flushed. “Thank you, Phil,” she said.
As he often did now, Phil had come by to see what progress was being made on the car. Jolie had quickly accepted his invitation to lunch. Now she was eating her chocolate ice cream with great relish and did, indeed, look very well, except for a worried expression about her eyes.
“Something troubling you, Jolie? You seem a little bit . . . well . . . not depressed, but worried. Are you worried a little?”
“I am a little . . . about—” She broke off abruptly and put her spoon down. She shifted in her chair a moment, then said, “Well, it’s really about Peter. I’m concerned about him. He spends almost every night with Avis Warwick.”
“That’s what Easy told me. He doesn’t care for her, and I see you don’t either.”
“Nothing personal, but she could cause Peter a great deal of trouble.”
Phil leaned back and studied the young woman carefully. He knew he had to be very cautious with what he said, for Jolie obviously was in love with Peter Winslow, even though she had never said so. Finally he said, “Peter’s a levelheaded fellow. He’ll be all right.”
“No man’s levelheaded where women are concerned. He’s just as capable of making a fool out of himself as any man.”
Phil laughed. “You don’t think much of us, do you?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Phil. I didn’t mean to be so snappy.” Slowly Jolie picked up her spoon and took another bite of the ice cream, rolling it over her tongue as she thought about happier days in the past. Things had changed, and not for the better. Before, she had done her work and then rushed home to work on the car with Peter and Easy. They would go out to eat, or eat at the rooming house, after which they would take walks or just relax and talk together. Mostly the talk had been of cars and racing, but Jolie had not cared; it was the feeling of camaraderie she treasured. Now it seemed to be slipping away from her.
“I don’t suppose it would do any good for me to talk to him. As a matter of fact, I tried a little bit. But he seemed to have wax in his ears or something.” Phil made a grimace and shook his head. “I believe you’re right. When a good-looking woman throws herself our way, most of us men are apt to be a little bit dazzled.”
He looked at his watch and then exclaimed, “I’ve got to go! This is the day for my great show—you know, the one when I’m going to sell all those paintings and get rich and famous.” He grinned wryly as he stood up. “You care to come along?”
“I’ll come by later, Phil. Easy wanted to come, too, so we’ll see you at the gallery.”
“All right. Wish me luck.”
“I’ll always do that, Phil.”
Phil smiled, reached out, and squeezed the girl’s shoulder. He had a fondness for her, and her unhappiness troubled him. Now he hurried out the door and made his way quickly to the gallery. As he rushed in, he found Maxim pacing back and forth with excitement.
“Where have you been?” Maxim demanded. “We’ve had people coming in for an hour.”
“Sell anything yet?”
“Not yet, but lots of lookers.” Maxim tried to hide a grin. “I think some of them have come to see what Ashcan painters look like. Come on. I’ll introduce you to them.”
The time went quickly, and Phil found himself besieged with questions. “How did you learn to paint?” “Why do you paint such dreadful scenes, like the slums?” “Have you ever sold any paintings?” “What’s the least you would take for this painting?”
He fielded all the questions but sold no paintings. Maxim kept coffee and hot tea on, for the weather outside was brisk. After about twenty cups of coffee, Phil began to feel as though he was sloshing when he walked. He had started to remark on this when he turned and saw the trio coming through the door—Cara Lanier with Mary Ann and George Camrose.
George’s eyes lit up as he spotted Phil. “Well, we’re here to salute the conquering hero.” After shaking hands with Phil, he winked at the two women. “Would you like to have his autograph?”
“I’d like to see all of your paintings,” Mary Ann said. “I demand a lot of attention.”
Cara said nothing. She felt intimidated and oddly out of place. She rarely escaped the confines of her room, and now the large number of paintings on the walls and their kaleidoscope of color dazzled her. Maxim had literally covered the walls with pictures, besides stacking others on racks around the shop.
Seeing Phil’s friends gathered around him, Maxim came over and let Phil introduce him.
“Let me show you around, Reverend, Miss Lanier.”
“All right,” George said. “Come on, Mary Ann. Maybe we can buy each other a present.”
As soon as they were gone, Phil turned to Cara and said quietly, “It’s so good to see you here, Cara.”
“I . . . I read about the show in the paper, and I wanted so much to come.”
“Does your father know you’re here?”
“N-no, not exactly. Actually, he’s been insisting that I go have my picture made at the photographic studio. It was just down the street and—” She halted suddenly and said with a disgusted look in her eye, “I don’t know why I’m lying to you, Phil. Mary Ann and I decided to break away. Well, I decided, and she’s helping me. If Father finds out, he’ll probably throw me out of the house.”
Phil laughed with delight. “I don’t think so. He’s very fond of you, Cara.”
“Yes, he is.” Cara felt uncomfortable with this, for she knew Phil had only seen the hard side of her father. But it was not possible to explain the other side to anyone. She said,
“Show me your paintings, Phil.”
“All right.”
The next two hours were, perhaps, the most delightful in Cara’s life, at least in recent memory. Phil was a good host. He took her around, showing her not only his own pictures but those of the other artists. He talked about them with warmth, with intelligence, being highly critical and at the same time pointing out the good things about them.
As for Cara, she was dazed by the vivid colors, the exuberance, the vitality of all the different paintings. They portrayed a side of New York City she had never seen, streets where the poor and downtrodden gathered—and showed them, not always miserable, but sometimes dancing. One painting portrayed the celebration of an election victory, with people dancing in the streets. Another, by Luks, simply showed a young, ragged boy with a broad, hilarious grin and the love of life twinkling in his eyes.
“Now, I like this young man,” she said. “I’m sure Mr. Luks must have seen him somewhere. Nobody could dream up a face like that.”
“He looks happy in spite of those ragged clothes and his dirty face. I guess it’s well to remember that the rich aren’t always happy and the poor aren’t always miserable.” Phil grew serious then and drew close to Cara. She could feel the pressure of his arm against her as he pointed out how excellent the painting was. Finally they got to a picture of a young couple walking down Broadway. They were obviously poor, and also obviously in love with each other. The young woman was wearing a very modest, worn dress, and the young man had a derby tilted over his eye. It was a fine summer afternoon, and they were out enjoying the weather and a leisurely stroll together.
“You can see how much she loves him. How do you ever put that on a piece of canvas?”
“I guess you have to need somebody,” Phil said slowly.
“Need somebody?” Cara was amazed. “What do you mean?”
The Shadow Portrait Page 17