Stony River

by Ciarra Montanna

  By lunchtime it was gone. Sevana was a little sad, but Willy took it in stride. “River’s still there. I’ll have to paint me another sometime.” But at present he had something else in mind. He was going out into the country Sunday to paint an old shack he knew about, and asked her along. “You can watch me paint, maybe pick up a few pointers—see a few of the sights while you’re at it,” he posed the scenario.

  Sevana agreed at once, even though it meant missing church. She didn’t want to turn down an offer of private instruction from such a fine artist—and besides, it sounded like fun.

  Willy came for her late Sunday morning and drove into the prairie on a wide dirt road. He was in a high mood, pointing out scenes that caught his eye. And the unfiltered light of that October day did show off the plain to advantage—the dry grasses rippling in windy waves across the sun-cured fields, and an occasional leaf tree ablaze in yellow perfection against the endless blue of the sky.

  “It’s fall all over again,” Sevana exulted. “I’ve seen the glory twice this year—once in the mountains and once here.”

  “If you were in the mountains now, it would already be winter,” Willy was quick to point out. “The prairie has many advantages—short winters, clear skies, open views. Look at those far-reaching lines. Isn’t it peaceful?”

  “It is nice.” Sevana could find a legitimate appeal in the spacious, windswept land.

  Another five miles down the road Willy pulled over. Set beyond a post-and-wire fence, the hollow shell of a shed was visible among a group of aspen trees, their lemon-colored leaves fluttering like so many swallowtail butterflies. A rusty wagon tongue stood to one side. When Sevana looked closely, she could see traces of a long-lost road leading through the fieldgrass. “I can see why you wanted to paint it.” The wood of the dilapidated building had weathered into dramatic, contrasting streaks of charcoal, walnut, honey, and mahogany.

  “It caught my eye while I was out here painting those wagonwheels.” Willy looked wide-awake. “And now’s the time to do it, while the trees are at their prime.”

  He fetched the things from the back—Sevana taking his art case so he could manage the easel and canvas. Then, loaded down with the bulky equipment, they approached the fence.

  “We have to go through it,” said Willy. “Technically we’re trespassing, but there’s so much land out here, nobody cares.”

  Gingerly they wriggled under the barbed wire, gathered up all the supplies they’d sent through first, and trudged on through the field. “If anybody saw us, they’d say we were crazy,” Sevana said, laughing, a little worried they might get caught.

  “I already have the reputation,” Willy said glibly. “You’re the only one who has to worry.”

  When he’d set up his easel, he began to paint without any preliminary sketching. From her perch on the splintery wagon tongue, Sevana marveled at the magic of his strokes, the sweeping manner in which things appeared under his brush. After a while she opened her sketchbook and drew the outline of the shack. She’d never painted a building before, but watching Willy made her want to try.

  The warmth of the sunshine was welcome, for there was a coolness in the breeze to remind them it was late in the year. At times it kicked up bits of grass and weed seeds into the paint, so that Willy had to flick them out. When the shack stood completed on the canvas, he stopped to rub his cold hands together. “I’d say the season for outdoor painting is almost over,” he muttered.

  They improvised a picnic on the wagonwheels, eating the baguettes, smoked cheese, and dry salami Willy had conjured, shamanlike, from an inside pocket of his painting case. Then he pried the tops from two miniature bottles of wine, handed her one, and went back to work detailing the background.

  By the time the sun was rolling down in the sky, he had finished most of the picture. He put in a few strokes to remind him where the foreground trees were to go, and dashed in a section of the grass so he could use the right color later. The rest, he said, he could finish at home.

  “You paint so well,” Sevana murmured. “I’ve never known anyone who can paint such pictures, and in so short a time.”

  “You are a picture yourself, Sevana.” Willy was concentrating on her face instead of the bottle of turpentine he was capping. “Your features are delicate, yet strong, and your hair is the same color as the wild wheat. I wish I could paint you as easily as I do this scene.”

  Sevana smiled, but she was suddenly far away, thinking of another time when her hair had been compared to the golden grass.

  When everything was repacked in the car, with the wet picture nestled carefully on top—for Willy was a purist, and insisted on oils even if it meant extra inconvenience—they drove back to town. Nearing the crossroad, where the church stood in the satin-yellow afterglow of a cloudless sunset, Willy looked her way. “What say we head out to the Roadhouse for dinner?”

  “I—I was planning to go to church this evening,” Sevana said, caught off guard. She turned her head to see who was already parked there as they passed. “But why don’t you come with me? It’s kind of a social tonight—Mr. Stackpole’s 90th birthday, I think. David ordered a big cake.”

  “Sounds like a good time,” Willy said, speeding on toward her house. “Thanks—but I think Len and Ralf are expecting me out at the Roadhouse.”

  Sevana went to church and enjoyed the social, but ducked out early before David could find her a ride. He had dropped several hints that he was not entirely easy about her walking home from evening services—although that modest city with its small-town air felt quite tame to her in comparison to the hikes she had taken in the mountains with cougars and bears behind every tree. But it was not just to avoid a ride she left so soon. The idea of painting the shed was still with her, and she wanted to try it while it was fresh in her mind. It was merely an experiment, and she painted quickly, almost carelessly, to see how it would turn out. The resulting structure was so true-to-life it amazed her.

  She was about to surround her weathered shack with grass and aspens when an idea swept her away. Soon the shack was perched on a boulder field, and behind it rose the silhouettes of barren crags and a haunted, wind-torn snag. Then she splashed the apricot of sunrise across the horizon, and on the rocks and roof of the hut. It was after midnight when she finished, but she was too happy to be tired. It had been pure recreation. And she had made a breakthrough in her painting: she had painted something as unfamiliar as a building, and succeeded.

  She took it to work in the morning, for she knew Willy deserved much of the credit—not only in his example of how to do it, but also in the dispelling of her doubts. “I see you lost no time moving that shack to the mountains,” he wisecracked, but he was obviously pleased. When Mr. Larkin dropped by, Willy showed it to him like the proud teacher he was. Sevana was surprised at how sincerely the retired officer complimented her. This, coming from someone beside Willy, encouraged her the more.

  With this success behind her, things began to improve at art class. Fortified by Willy’s confidence in her ability and the confidence she was gaining in herself, she was no longer so afraid to try and fail, and try again. She grew used to painting things she had never attempted before. She practiced dewdrops and crystals and fog and smoke until they looked almost as good as Willy’s, sometimes surprising herself. And Willy was always there, cheering her along. He was taking her progress to heart as if it was his own.

  She still had moments of discouragement. But once she had gotten past that initial block, when she had frozen up because so much was riding on that critical juncture in her life, something began to take over—an inner sense guiding her she almost didn’t understand. And she knew why talent was called a gift, for it wasn’t something she was entirely responsible for. It was a gratifying time, in which she was finding her ability equal to the things she aspired to do.

  With art class and assignments, her own painting projects, the job at the shop, and church on Sundays and sometimes Wednesday nights, the days settle
d into a predictable pattern. Sevana felt well occupied and even content, after a fashion—even though sometimes when she thought about it, she felt far away from herself. But she would almost rather go on than think about it. She was tired of missing what she could not have, and put it from her as best she could. She watched the fall grow old with a peculiar detachedness. There was nothing on that bare brown plain to catch or stir her heart, so it lay quiet. But underneath it all was the knowledge that Joel was coming in the near future, and it was this that held her steady and enabled her to bide the time. She hadn’t heard from him, but every day she watched the mail for a letter.

  Upon Sevana bringing down a practice assignment for evaluation one morning, Willy took one long look at it with his lips compressed in a thoughtful line, selected a frame that brought out its best accents, and hung it on the wall with a $200 price tag. “Willy, do you mean—?” she stammered, wondering if he was toying with her.

  “Yes,” he said firmly. “It’s good enough.”

  It sold before lunch. Sevana was in shock. But Willy was gleeful because he had judged correctly. “I told you, Sevana. Anything you want to sell, just hang it up. Price is up to you.”

  Two hundred dollars for a practice picture! At that rate it wouldn’t take long to save up a down-payment for a car—and she did want her own transportation. So on top of her art lessons, she resumed work on the painting of Snowshoe Meadow.

  Willy came up to see it one afternoon. “I can’t get over you,” he said, straddling a chair to study the oil into which she had been unguardedly pouring her heart. “I’ve never seen such talent, not in all the time I’ve been teaching.”

  “I don’t know—” Sevana didn’t feel she could take full credit. “When the scene is so outstanding, any reasonable attempt to copy it is bound to be satisfactory. Oh Willy, I wish you could have seen it—the flowers knee-deep at Snowshoe Summit! You’d have gone crazy for wanting to paint it.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I was miles away on the plain,” Willy joked, not taking her seriously. He stood up. “Well, I should be so dedicated, but I’m off to the Roadhouse. Come with me?”

  She looked back at her picture. “Thanks—but I’d like to get this finished. I need to get going on my car fund.”

  Willy was not fooled by her excuses. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about what happened last time you were out at the Roadhouse, Sevana,” he said. “I don’t want one small incident to keep you from going back with me, because I enjoyed your company immensely.”

  “I know you like it out there, Willy,” she said diplomatically. “But I just don’t feel at home around such a wild crowd.”

  “All right.” He didn’t press it. “Lucky for me, I don’t have to rely on nights at the Roadhouse for your company.” Then, as an idea struck him—“Say, how about coming over to my house tomorrow night to see my new painting?”

  Sevana caught her breath. For several weeks Willy had been producing an undisclosed work at home, to which he had mysteriously alluded on several occasions only as his ‘masterpiece’. “Is it finished?”

  “It most certainly is. That’s why I’m off to the Roadhouse to celebrate.”

  “You’d be off to celebrate anyway,” she said accurately, though without censure. She had long since learned that his self-stated dedication to art was in fact rivaled by his devotion to social drinking. “But I would love to see your painting.”

  “Then it’s a date!” he cried gaily. “I’ll take you home with me tomorrow after work.”

  Sevana saw him out, then returned to her work as one withdrawing into a cloister—slipping back into a world where she and Joel still wandered a meadow of extravagant purple-blue. And so completely did that idyllic place surround her, so real its appeal to her senses, she was convinced that moment still existed, had to exist—somewhere in or out of time. When it was done she didn’t sell it as she’d planned, for it seemed too sacred a thing to trade for money.

  CHAPTER 37

  When Willy took Sevana home, it was to a townhouse in the newest part of the city. He parked in the driveway of the double garage and led her through a private atrium of neatly trimmed shrubs. “Welcome to my humble home, doll face,” he said, opening the front door with an exaggerated bow and flourish.

  He ushered her through the entryway into a dining nook with a polished round oak table standing next to the glass wall of the atrium. They passed through the kitchen—gleaming as if scarcely ever used—and into a living room, where black leather furniture sat upon a brushed carpet of silver. Over the couch hung a large picture of a shadowy lake with the path of the moon shining across it. Drawn in by its mysterious mood, Sevana stopped to enjoy it.

  “Haven’t seen that one before, have you?” Willy waved it off. “I hardly notice it anymore. Come on—” He led the way down the hall to a spare bedroom. This room was in direct contrast to the other orderly rooms, being a pleasurable confusion of easels, drop clothes, canvases and palettes. On one easel was stretched a large watercolor, and it was this he wanted to show her.

  Sevana gaped at the scene before her eyes. Snowcrusted mountains were rising out of a fog with no visible connection to the earth, and against that fog, flying above a flat foreground of dry grass and snow, was a prominent formation of seven Canadian geese, their wings eternally captured in motion. Oh, the geese!—they would fly across the mountains in perfect formation forever. She was so arrested by the sober power of the picture that she could hardly find words to tell him so.

  Willy was pleased. “I like it myself. I don’t have much experience in watercolor, and I didn’t expect it to come out as well as it did.”

  “It is a masterpiece, there’s no question. Why, Willy, you could sell it for thousands of dollars!” Sevana couldn’t get over it. But Willy was like a little boy, wanting to show her all the other things in his wonderful room. He took her through some of his early attempts, his experiments in chalk and charcoal, a handful of projects he’d never finished—even a few of his father’s. Time slipped away unnoticed while they both were engrossed in their favorite subject. Finally Sevana realized it had grown dark outside. “I should go home.”

  “There’s no hurry, is there?” Willy asked. “Why don’t we throw some dinner together first?” Taking off for the kitchen, he flicked on a light and peered into the recesses of an oak cupboard.

  “It’s meeting night at church,” Sevana objected. “I was thinking of going.”

  “When’s it start?”

  “Seven.”

  Willy glanced at the cuckoo clock on the wall. “We’ve got time, don’t we? I can drive you straight from here. It’s that one out past the junction, right?” He tossed a sack of French bread onto the counter. “We’ll make something easy—how ‘bout steak and toast?” Taking down a bottle of vodka, he filled a crystal shot-glass and offered it to her. “Fact is,” he continued, downing it himself when she shook her head in refusal, “I might go with you. It’d be good for my image, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, Willy—” she couldn’t help laughing at his breezy manner. “All right. It would be fun.”

  He barbecued two fresh steaks on the stove’s built-in grill, and she shook a bag of gourmet greens into a bamboo bowl in his shining kitchen. Willy took to teasing her about putting so much time and effort into the salad and almost burned the steaks because of it, blamed her for distracting him. They ate in the dining nook with the night just on the other side of the glass wall, then piled their dishes in the sink and collected their coats in a hurry. “Nice place you have,” Sevana said, as they swung away in his car.

  “Big improvement over that rat-hole I used to live in—oh, wait, that’s your place,” Willy said, tossing her a wicked grin.

  It was past seven when they got to church, but the service hadn’t started. David was up front waiting for people to take their places. Sevana saw his look of surprise when she came in with Willy. Quickly they found seats near the back.

  For all his lighthear
ted jesting, Willy seemed ill-at-ease once inside the church. He grabbed a hymnbook and thumbed through it rapidly several times until a few more latecomers found a seat and David began the service. Secretly Sevana was looking forward to Willy hearing David, for she was strangely proud of him and his intelligent discussions. It was his wit and wisdom, his unassuming charisma, that made her look forward to each meeting.

  She enjoyed the sermon that night, and hoped Willy did, too. There was a skeptical air about him, and she wasn’t sure he was glad to be there. David came down to introduce himself afterward. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person, Willy,” he said, gripping his hand warmly. “Both my wife and I are longtime admirers of your work.”

  They exchanged a few pleasantries. But as soon as he gracefully could, Willy said “C’mon,” to Sevana under his breath, and headed for the door. “Couldn’t make head or tail of it,” he said once they were outside—but he didn’t seem disturbed. He let her in the car.

  “I don’t understand everything, either.” Sevana was anxious to let him know he wasn’t alone. “But I like listening to David.” She added, “David and Krysta have been so good to me.”

  “Nice people.” Willy gunned the engine. “But I can’t see what you see in church.”

  “I don’t know.” She wondered how to explain. It was David, mostly, because she admired him so much. But it was also for the sake of an encounter she’d had in the high country, which she could never explain to anyone, let alone Willy. And it was the feeling of being among friends—a good feeling for her, on her own and trying to make a life there. “I just like it,” she said ineffectually. “Maybe you would, too, if you went often enough to know the people.”

  “Not me,” Willy said, speeding down the road. “Not that I wouldn’t like to go with you. But I can’t afford to get weighed down with philosophical issues. I’ve got to live free and easy, so nothing hinders my inspiration.” He said it flippantly, but Sevana could tell he wasn’t joking. He glanced over with a familiar look to find understanding from a fellow artist, but received from her only an uncertain nod. They came to a stop at her apartment.