The Shadow Portrait

by Gilbert, Morris

  “No need to,” Jolie said without turning from the sink.

  Jolie’s voice was cool, and Peter, for some reason, felt she was upset.

  “I know she’s hard to get along with, but I’d be worse if I were in her shape.”

  Jolie turned to say, “I know, Peter. She’s a little bit of a trial, but I knew she would be when I came here. This is where God has me, and I’m going to do the best I can while I’m here.”

  Peter smiled warmly. “You’re some girl, Jolie Devorak. I miss those times together when we worked on the car.”

  Jolie almost said, That was before Avis came into the picture. Instead she merely agreed. “I do too. Do you think we’ll ever do it again?”

  “I doubt it. We don’t have a car, and without a car I won’t be able to keep on racing.”

  His answer surprised Jolie. She stared at Peter for a moment, then asked, “What would you do if you didn’t race cars?”

  “Get a job. Go to work. Do something.”

  He sounded so forlorn that Jolie felt a great pity for him. She knew that he had brought some of it on himself by association with Avis, and the car tragedy had complicated things even more, but it was no time to remind him of it. “Maybe we could go back to California. I liked it out there.”

  “Make movies again? I don’t think so.”

  “It was fun though, wasn’t it?” Jolie said. The two of them had been involved with the fledgling movie industry, Jolie as a script girl, and Peter as a stunt driver.

  They stood there in the kitchen talking about those days for so long that they forgot Avis until her voice reached them.

  “Peter, come here at once!” she cried out.

  “My master’s voice,” he said. He reached out and touched Jolie’s black hair. “The blackest hair I’ve ever seen,” he said. “Pretty.” Then he turned and left the room.

  Jolie stared after him. A thought came into her mind and she allowed it to linger there for a moment, but then she turned away with a sigh and began planning the rest of her day.

  By the time Peter left it was growing late. He had stayed most of the day and had indeed found it difficult to keep Avis entertained. Now as he walked along the streets, he felt disturbed by a sense of futility that lay just below the surface of his mind. Ever since the accident he had been so concerned with helping Avis that he had little time to think of his own personal needs. However, he was running short of money. He had thought once or twice of trying to put another car together, but he had no place to turn except to his family, and he had determined not to ask them for help. Finally he reached his boardinghouse and was surprised to see Clinton sitting on the front steps. “Hello, Clinton,” he said. “You waiting for me?”

  “Yes.” Clinton rose at once and said, “I need to talk to you.”

  “All right. Come on up.” The two entered the building and went to Peter’s room. “Have a seat.” Peter nodded toward one of the two chairs before the small table. “How’s Cara?”

  “Not as well as I’d like. She seems troubled these days, and she’s not painting like she used to.”

  “What does Phil say about that?”

  “Haven’t talked to him the last day or two. He’s worried about her, too, but I didn’t come to talk about Cara. I came to talk about—well, I don’t know whether it’s about me or about you.”

  Peter turned his head to one side slightly. A quizzical look came into his eyes. He could not imagine what Clinton was thinking and finally said, “Just let it all sit on the front porch, Clinton. What’s on your mind?”

  Clinton fumbled restlessly with his hat, then tossed it on the floor and said in a straightforward fashion, “Are you going to race anymore, Peter?”

  “Race what? The Jolie Blonde is torn all to pieces. I sold it for junk.”

  “Are you going to get another one?”

  Peter stared at Clinton Lanier. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, the truth is,” Clinton said rather lamely, “I’ve got some money put aside that I’ve been saving for a long time. Thought I’d take a trip someday, but what I’d really like to do is get another car for you and me and Easy and Jolie.”

  “Your father wouldn’t care for that, would he?”

  “No. As a matter of fact he wouldn’t. I’d have to make sure he never found out.”

  Peter stared at his friend. He knew Clinton was very clever in matters of finance, but Peter was also well aware of Clinton’s burning desire to do something with his hands, something with automobiles—and of his father’s strong opposition to such desires. Now Peter said, “Someday, Clinton, you’re going to have to decide who’s going to run your life.”

  “I know,” Clinton said and dropped his head. “Father means well, but he just can’t keep his hands out of his children’s affairs. He’s driving Mary Ann crazy. She’s in love with George Camrose and wants to go to Africa, and she knows Father would have a fit if she even mentioned it.”

  “She’ll have to sooner or later. She can’t conceal a thing like running off to Africa with a preacher.”

  “No, she can’t. It’s a real tragedy for Mary Ann.”

  Peter shrugged but said no more about the Lanier family. “I’d like to race, you know that, but you’d better think about it, Clinton. It’s a dangerous job, and not just to the drivers. You saw what happened to the car. All that was left was junk. We lost everything we had in it.”

  “I know. That’s part of it, but I’d like to be in on this. I’d hate to see you give up your dreams because of a lack of money, and it’s something I really want to do. Even if I can’t drive the car in the races, at least I can work on it with you and drive it in the trials.”

  Peter began to grow excited. “You know, I think we could do a really great job. We learned a lot from putting that car together, Easy and I, and now we can build on what we know, but it’s expensive. How much have you got?”

  “Over three thousand dollars.”

  “Well, that’s a good start, but you and I both know it will take more than that.”

  The two talked for a long time, but finally the deal was made and Clinton left. Peter was more excited than he had been since the accident, and the next day he told Jolie about what Clinton had done. “He’s going to have to hide his involvement from his father, though. I’m not sure I ought to lead him astray like this.”

  “Let him do it. He needs to break loose from his father. From what I hear, so do his brothers and sisters.”

  “Mr. Lanier really is a good man—he’s just too strict. He had a hard time growing up, Clinton said, and now he’s afraid his family won’t be taken care of if he doesn’t see to it himself. I can understand that.”

  “Well, I can’t understand wanting to own somebody,” Jolie said firmly.

  Suddenly Peter smiled rashly. It made him look much younger, and he said, “You always were a bossy young woman, and you’re not getting any better.”

  Jolie returned his smile. “It would be fun, wouldn’t it, to do it again?” Then a thought came to her, “What about Avis? It might make her more depressed.”

  “You’re right. Maybe we ought not to do it.”

  “No, I think you ought to go on with your life, Peter. God is going to do something in Avis’s life, but you can’t be a nurse for her.”

  “I may have to do more than that.”

  Instantly Jolie felt a touch of apprehension. She did not ask what he meant, for it was clear to her that he would marry Avis if she didn’t get well. Aloud she said, “I believe God’s going to heal her.”

  “I hope so.” Peter’s tone was glum, and his face had lost the light of excitement that had been there when he talked about the cars. “But I’ll have to look after her. She doesn’t have anyone else.”

  Jolie could sense the guilt Peter still felt over Avis’s condition and wanted to say something, but she didn’t know what. She finally said, “I hope you do get another car. I liked the Jolie Blonde.”

  “Maybe we can call it the
Jolie Blonde II.”

  Jolie was pleased at this. “Do it, Peter. You and Easy and me—and Clinton. Who knows? We could come up with the fastest car in America!”

  Peter laughed and squeezed her shoulder. “Maybe we could. It would be fun to try again.” He turned and walked away, his head filled with engines and racing. For the first time he had a sense of release from the guilt that had plagued him since the accident. He still knew that sooner or later he would have to decide what to do about Avis Warwick. In his mind, she had become his responsibility, and that responsibility was not going to fade away.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A Call From God

  “Come into my office, Clinton. I want to speak with you.”

  Looking up from the column of figures spread out on his desk, Clinton saw that his father’s face was even sterner than usual. “Yes, sir,” he said. He rose and followed his father across the large office where three clerks were busy, or at least appeared to be so while their employer made his way to the east end of the office suite.

  All of them were happy with their wages, but they resented the stern policies of the Lanier firm. When the two men disappeared, Denny Kennedy leaned back in his chair. He was a short, spare young man of twenty-five with a shock of sandy hair and the burr of Scotland in his speech. “Well, the old man’s out to gut someone. I’ve seen that look in his eye too many times.”

  Sitting across from Kennedy, a bulky young man wearing a gray suit and a necktie of a startling crimson design nodded. William Horton was the youngest of the clerks and fancied himself the most astute student of human nature. Now he leaned forward and put his hands flat on the desk. He had a habit of studying things like that, which really meant nothing. “I think you’re right, Kennedy,” he said ponderously. “I think Clinton’s about to get his regular dressing down. Better him than me.” He grinned at his neighbor, then slowly went back to his work.

  Inside the large office that was the heart of Oliver Lanier’s business transactions, a massive desk occupied the center of the room. Papers were neatly stacked, filed, and tagged. All around the room shelves rose to the ceiling, all filled to capacity with papers, files, books, packages—the monument of a lifetime of hard-fought business dealings carried on by Oliver Lanier. It was an austere office. There were no pictures on the walls, no ornaments, no trophies. Nothing but serious business took place in this room.

  “Sit down, Clinton,” Oliver said brusquely. He was, as usual, wearing a dark blue suit with a high celluloid collar that was too tight. His bulldog expression was augmented by a massive chin, and now as he stood by his desk, leaning on it with one fist, Clinton thought he seemed distracted.

  Clinton’s eyes narrowed, for his father was not usually uncertain about anything. I wonder what he’s going to jump on me about now? he thought wearily but said nothing.

  “I’m unhappy with Mary Ann, Clinton.” Oliver Lanier turned suddenly and shot his thick forefinger at his oldest son, almost as if it were a loaded pistol. “She’s been seeing too much of this minister, and I think it’s a bad thing.”

  Shifting slightly in his chair, Clinton wondered how he could best defend Mary Ann without bringing his father’s displeasure down on his own head. He had formed a habit of taking the easy way out, agreeing with his father outwardly when he really did not in his own mind. Now, however, he said with more assertiveness than normal, “I like George Camrose. He’s a good, sound man, I think. I’m surprised that you don’t like him, Father.”

  “It isn’t a question of whether or not I like him. Mary Ann’s old enough to know better. She’s had all the advantages, and I didn’t bring her up to see her throw her life away on some forsaken mission station in Africa.” Suddenly he turned and paced the floor, his heavy tread leaving imprints on the thick carpet. He was almost like a soldier pacing his post for a time, and then he shook his head, displeasure in his eyes. “I can’t think what’s wrong with her. I always thought she was a sensible enough girl.”

  “She is sensible,” Clinton said. “But she’s twenty-six years old and in love.”

  “In love! She’s been reading too many of those romances—that’s what her problem is!” Lanier growled. “She always was romantic.”

  “Yes, she was, and still is. But I still insist that she and George have a good chance of making a strong marriage of it, Africa or not.”

  The window was open, and from somewhere outside came the sound of a vendor peddling ice. “Ice for sale! Ice for sale!” he bellowed in a bull-like, throaty roar.

  “Why does that fellow have to shout at the top of his lungs?” Lanier snapped, irritation causing him to move over and shut the window. It did little good, for the loud cries still came through the glass itself.

  “Ice for sale! Ice for sale!”

  “I’m not going to put up with it, and I think you’ll agree that it would be an improper match.”

  Knowing that it was useless to argue, Clinton asked, in as mild a tone as he could manage, “What does Mary Ann say when you talk to her about George?”

  “Oh, she talks about loving him, of course, and about God calling her to go out to Africa.”

  “You don’t think that’s possible? I mean that God calls people?”

  “Now, Clinton, let’s not turn this into a theological discussion. It’s a matter of common sense, and I’m trusting you as my oldest son to be of some help to me in this matter.”

  “I don’t see what you could expect me to do, Father. If she won’t listen to you, she certainly won’t listen to me.”

  “She might. You two have always been very close. I’m going to talk with Cara, also, and I want you two to talk some sense into Mary Ann. I don’t want to be the villain in this case.” A silence fell across the room, and Oliver Lanier paused, as if the echo of his words had stirred something deep within. He was silent for a long time, and then he reached up and touched his chin with a gesture of uncertainty, a rare thing, indeed, for him. “You must understand, Clinton. I want the best for Mary Ann. It’s not that I’m trying to take something away from her because I don’t want her to have something that’s good. I do want her to have the very best, but I think this would be a disaster for her. Those who go to Africa have to be very tough. I could have stood it. You know how I grew up, but I doubt if you could. You’re too soft.”

  He doesn’t even know he’s insulting me, Clinton thought. He listened as his father went on speaking of what high hopes he had for Mary Ann, and how they would all be dashed and her life ruined if she married George.

  Finally Oliver turned and said, “I can count on you, can’t I, Clinton?”

  “I’m afraid not, Father,” Clinton responded, standing. “You and I are not of one mind about this. Mary Ann’s twenty-six years old. She’s in love, and she wants to get married, and I’m not the one to say that God hasn’t called her. If He has called her to the mission field, she’d better go. If she’s not tough enough, God will have to toughen her up, I suppose.”

  A scowl creased the lips of the older man, and he stared at his son. “I’d hoped for better, but I don’t know why. All right, go on back to your work.”

  When Clinton got to the door, his father said, “That preacher, Barney Winslow, is speaking at Calvary Church again. I don’t want Mary Ann to go. Don’t give them any help.”

  Clinton stood there stock still for a moment. He almost agreed, but something rebellious came to him then, and instead of replying he clamped his lips together, turned, and moved outside, closing the door firmly behind him. He walked across the room without a glance and, stepping into his own office, shut the door. He did not return to work, however, but went to the window and stared out for a long time. The hum of the traffic two stories below filled his office, but he ignored it. He was displeased about what had just happened, and finally he jerked himself around, smacked his fist into his open palm and exclaimed, “Why didn’t I tell him he’s wrong! Don’t I have any guts at all?” He put his hands behind him and clasped them togeth
er, hunching his shoulders forward, thinking how he might have stood up to his father, but finally he sighed and said, “I guess it’s too late for anything like that.”

  Going back to work, he toiled steadily until almost four o’clock. Finally he heard the chiming of a church bell in the distance and pulled out his watch. As he looked at the time, his face grew intent. Barney Winslow is speaking at Calvary Baptist Church tonight, and I’m to stop Mary Ann from going. With a sudden angry gesture, he snapped the watch closed and replaced it in his vest pocket, then reached over and got his coat and slipped into it. He pulled the brown derby off of the rack and settled it firmly on his head. Turning to look in the mirror, he pulled the hat to a sharper angle that gave him a more dashing appearance—or so he thought. “So Mary Ann’s not supposed to go hear Reverend Winslow, and I’m supposed to keep her from doing it,” he murmured. He studied his image in the mirror, and as he stared at himself, something seemed to snap within him. “Well, we’ll just see about that!”

  Turning, he stepped outside his office door, walked by the clerks without a word, and left the building. Getting into a cab, he gave his home address and then sat back, his mind busy with the plan that seemed to form itself even as the hansom cab rolled over the cobblestones. “We’ll see about that!” he murmured firmly, and an enigmatic smile pulled the corners of his lips up. “We’ll just see!”

  Mary Ann was standing beside Cara, who was staring at a canvas. For nearly an hour she had just dabbed at it, not daring to make a major stroke. Ordinarily she did not mind people watching her work, but her failure to produce the portrait she had struggled with for some time made her irritable, and she turned, saying, “Mary Ann, why don’t you go somewhere else? You’re making me nervous.”

  “I never made you nervous before. What’s the matter?”

  “Why, I can’t paint this picture. All I can come up with is some kind of a shadow of what I want.” She gestured toward the canvas, which was sufficiently sketched in to reveal its main subject, a woman and her daughter, but where little progress had been made except on the background. “The background was easy enough,” she said, sweeping the brush over the area behind the two figures.