The Widow's Choice

by Gilbert, Morris

  “My mother won’t have a print in the house. She likes the real thing. She painted that one herself.”

  Tim stared at her incredulously. “She did? That’s wonderful!”

  “You can tell her that.” Helen smiled. “She goes to art shows all the time. Come on.”

  The large kitchen that Tim stepped into behind Helen was flooded with pale sunlight. The woman who stood at the counter removing warm cookies from a cookie sheet was very attractive. He had seen her before at school events.

  “Mother, this is Tim Jennings.”

  “How are you, Tim?” Mrs. Arnette said. She had hair as blond as her daughter’s and the same bright blue eyes. “I’ll bet you don’t like cookies.”

  “Oh yes, ma’am, I do!”

  “Why don’t you sit down and have a few. Are you in the same grade as Helen?”

  “No, ma’am. Helen’s a year ahead of me.”

  “I hear Tim makes straight A’s in history. I’m going to get him to do my homework for me in exchange for all the cookies you’re going to give him.”

  “But I didn’t say that!” he protested.

  “You be careful, Tim,” Mrs. Arnette said. “She’ll wrap you around her little finger just like she does her dad. Here, try a couple of these.” Tim took the plate of chocolate chip cookies and bit off half of one. “Hey, this is really good, Mrs. Arnette.”

  “Thanks, but anybody can make chocolate chip cookies.” She checked on the cookies still in the oven. “I met your mother at a PTA meeting. I see where you get your good looks from.”

  Tim flushed and could not think of an answer.

  “Look, Mom, he’s blushing!” Helen laughed.

  “I think that’s a good sign. It shows modesty—of which you could use some, young lady.”

  Tim shoved the rest of the cookie into his mouth to keep from having to speak. He was almost tongue-tied in the presence of this beautiful and intimidating girl. Tim’s poverty-stricken background still made him very uneasy in an affluent home like this, and he felt self-conscious around wealthy people. He knew that Mr. Arnette was president of the First National Bank, so money was obviously no problem for this family.

  Tim ate so many cookies he was ashamed of himself, but Mrs. Arnette only laughed at him. “You’ll have to take some of them home with you if you like them that much, Tim. I made way too many.”

  “Tim liked your painting,” Helen told her mother, sipping her milk and leaving a thin white mustache on her upper lip.

  “Wipe your lip, Helen,” Mrs. Arnette said, then turned to Tim. “I thought I’d be a professional painter at one time, but it didn’t work out that way.”

  “Gosh, that painting I saw in the hall is just beautiful!” He took a sip of milk. “I wish I could learn to paint like that.”

  “Do you do some painting?” Mrs. Arnette asked.

  “I try. I’ve never had a class, but Jason, my stepfather’s brother, has helped me a lot.”

  “I never knew Jason was a painter.”

  “He told me he gave it up. He said he didn’t have the talent, but I saw some of his things, and I thought they were good.”

  “Would you like to see some of the other paintings in my collection?”

  “I sure would.” To his delight, Tim discovered that Mrs. Arnette had a great many paintings she had bought that were not on display. She talked about them, explaining the schools and the techniques, and Tim was enthralled. He fired question after question about them.

  “Would you like to see my studio?”

  “Aw, Mom, he doesn’t want to see your old paintings.”

  “Yes I do!” Tim said quickly.

  “Maybe you’d better go do your homework while Tim and I talk about painting,” Mrs. Arnette said, winking at Tim.

  Helen rolled her eyes and followed the two as they went upstairs to a room with skylights that let sunlight flood the room. It was a messy room, and the walls were covered with paintings. There were canvases stacked against the wall, and she showed him the painting she was presently working on. It was a watercolor painting of the city hall, and Tim was awed. “It looks exactly like city hall!”

  “Well, not exactly like it. Paintings shouldn’t be identical to the object.”

  “Really?”

  “No, of course not. If you want it to be exactly the same, you take a picture of it. You’ll notice that this one is painted a little after sundown. I wanted to paint it at dusk, because the lighting is so interesting then. You’ll notice I’ve got several bats up here flitting around. I think they roost in the top of the old courthouse.”

  Tim listened entranced. “I’ve never met a real artist before, Mrs. Arnette. Jason was going to take me to meet a friend of his who’s an artist, but it turned out the man was in Canada all summer.”

  “That’s too bad. I know you would have enjoyed that. Anyway, I like to dabble with paints, but I don’t consider myself a real artist. I chose to get married instead, and now I’ve got three children. But I still paint quite a bit when I can get to it.” She gave Tim an odd look and said, “Do your parents encourage you in your painting?”

  He could not think clearly for a moment and tried to frame an answer. “My mom does, but my stepfather doesn’t think painting is something worth spending my time on. He wants me to study science and math and stuff like that.”

  “Well, stuff like that is useful. But so is painting. I’ll tell you what,” she said. “Why don’t you come by some afternoon after school and bring some of the things you’ve done? Maybe I can give you a few pointers, although I’m not a teacher.”

  “Gosh, that would be wonderful, Mrs. Arnette!” Tim exclaimed. “But it would be too much trouble.”

  “No it wouldn’t be. I think it would be fun.”

  Tim smiled broadly. “I’d really like that.”

  Helen had been trailing behind the two, not saying anything. Now she spoke up. “Come on, Tim. I’ve got some homework you can help me with. You and Mom can talk about painting anytime.”

  He followed Helen down to the dining room table, where her books were spread out, and for the next half hour he helped her with her history lesson. His thoughts were not on history, though, but on the paintings and drawings he would bring over to let Helen’s mother see.

  ****

  After the ball game Zac and Carl headed toward the foundry, where Oscar was waiting to show the boys around. “Come on, Carl,” he said when he saw his brother hanging back.

  Carl kicked the dirt and stood his ground. “I don’t wanna see the stupid ol’ foundry again. I’m goin’ home.”

  Zac shrugged. “Suit yourself. Mr. Oscar promised to show us around the whole place this time.”

  “Sounds boring to me. I got better things to do.”

  “Go on home, then. Mind your own taters.”

  Carl went on his way and Zac went into the foundry and to Oscar’s office.

  Oscar smiled broadly at his stepson. “Well, Zac, did you win the ball game?”

  “Nah, we lost. But I don’t care.”

  “Where’s your brother? I thought he was coming too.”

  “He said he had other stuff to do.”

  Oscar chuckled. “I can understand that, but I’m sure glad you made it. I’ll show you the whole business.”

  It turned out to be a long tour because Zac fired question after question at his stepfather. Oscar was immensely pleased at this and explained everything slowly and carefully, introducing Zac to some of the workers and showing him exactly how the work was done.

  When the two got back to the office, Zac said, “Gee, Mr. Oscar, that was great! You sure have to be smart to run a foundry.”

  “Well, it takes years to get a feel for the whole process. I think you may have a knack for it, Zac.”

  “I like to do stuff with my hands. Maybe next summer I’ll be old enough for you to let me have a job.”

  “You certainly will. And in the meantime, anytime you want, you come by. You can learn an awful lot
just by watching.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll do that.”

  “You don’t mind the noise and the dirt?”

  “No, I don’t mind it a bit. It looks like fun to run some of those machines.”

  Oscar laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’ll teach you the whole business, son. It’ll be fun for both of us.”

  ****

  Later that night Oscar returned home from the deacons’ meeting and found Alona in the living room.

  “That was a long meeting,” she remarked. “It’s nearly ten o’clock.”

  He threw himself into a chair and shook his head. “We’re facing a serious problem.”

  “Some kind of trouble at the church?”

  Oscar sighed. “Well, I suppose you’ll hear about it sooner or later. It’s Leland Short.”

  “What’s the problem with him?”

  “He’s been having an affair with a woman in town—a low-class woman, I might add.”

  “Why, that’s terrible! Are you sure?”

  “Oh yes, it’s all out in the open. The woman’s husband caught them together and is making quite a stink. Of course we’re going to have to do something with Leland.”

  Alona put down her book and asked quietly, “What will happen, Oscar?”

  “He’s already been taken off the board of deacons. The question is what to do about him as a church member.”

  “I feel so sorry for him. He seems like such a nice man. . . . And his poor wife.”

  “We had a long discussion about it. It’s pretty certain he’ll be asked to leave the church.”

  “Leave the church! Did the pastor make that suggestion?”

  “No, as a matter of fact, he was against it. And the board of deacons was split almost down the middle.”

  “What did you say, Oscar?”

  “Why, I think you know. We can’t have an adulterer in our church, Alona. I’m surprised you would even ask.”

  “But surely there’s got to be a better way. The poor man needs the church right now more than ever.”

  “He should have thought of that before he took up with that woman,” Oscar said shortly. “I don’t like it, but we’ve got to have discipline in the church.”

  Alona felt a twinge of anger. She wanted to speak but knew how sensitive Oscar was about being crossed.

  “But the deacons can’t decide a thing like that, can they? Wouldn’t the whole church have to vote on it?”

  “Yes, you’re right about that, but I feel sure the church will do the right thing.”

  When she didn’t comment, Oscar asked, “What’s the matter?”

  “I think we need to show kindness. Has Leland repented—apologized?”

  “Oh yes . . . he broke it off with the woman, and he told the deacons he was contrite about it, but the fact is there. He’s guilty.”

  “I don’t think we agree about this, Oscar.”

  “What do you mean?” he demanded.

  “I think when someone has a fall like this, that’s the time for the church to show compassion.”

  “But it would be a bad example! Can’t you see that, Alona?”

  “I don’t think so. Most of us have fallen short of what we ought to be.”

  “This is a bit different from gossip or some minor failing.”

  Alona knew it would be impossible to change her husband’s mind, so she slowly got up. “I think I’ll go to bed. Good night, Oscar.”

  “She’s too tenderhearted,” he muttered. “You have to be firm about things like this.”

  ****

  “I love this squirrel.” The next afternoon Mrs. Arnette was looking at the painting Tim had done from his sketch. “You caught the mischievous look all squirrels seem to have. You managed to make his eyes gleam—like he’s up to no good! I really like it.”

  “I had problems getting the proportion of the head to the body right at first, but I think it’s pretty good now.”

  “That’s always so difficult. No matter how good you get, getting the proportions right is one of the hardest things. If you look carefully, every painting has some flaw in it. And sometimes the flaws don’t matter.”

  “Really? I thought they did.”

  “There was an Italian painter called Andrea Del Sarto. He was called the perfect painter, but many critics have said he wasn’t a great painter because his paintings didn’t really have any life in them. Lots of poets have written about this kind of thing . . . that the finest art sometimes has glaring faults.”

  “My mom reads Charles Dickens novels. She says he’s got enough faults to sink ten novelists, but that doesn’t matter because of the good things he does.”

  “That’s exactly the way it is with painting. Now, what are you going to do with this gift you have?”

  Tim stared up at her dumbfounded. “Do with it? What do you mean, Mrs. Arnette?”

  “God gives all of us gifts. We either use them or we don’t. My motto has always been ‘Use it or lose it.’ ”

  “Well, I can’t do much with it because my stepfather doesn’t like it.”

  “How old are you, Tim?”

  “I’m thirteen.”

  “You’ve got plenty of time to develop your gift. You’re not even in high school yet. If you are serious about painting—and I think you are—I’ll help you all I can.”

  His eyes were shining. “Gee, Mrs. Arnette, that would be neat!”

  At that moment Helen stuck her head in the door and said, “Come on! You two have been talking about painting for an hour. I want to show you my new horse, Tim.”

  “You two run along,” Mrs. Arnette said. “Don’t fall off the horse, though, Tim.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Arnette.” He hesitated for a moment but then looked her straight in the eye. “Nobody but Jason has ever encouraged me. Thank you so much.”

  “You’re so welcome. It’s fun to help a young fellow like you. Go on, now. The next time you come by, I’ll show you a few things I had to learn the hard way.”

  Helen grabbed Tim’s arm and dragged him outside. “You never come here to see me. You just come to see my mom.”

  “That’s not true . . . but you don’t know how lucky you are to have a mom like that. She really understands how much I like painting and drawing.”

  “Oh, Mom’s great, but I’m no artist. I’m more interested in horses. I plan to ride in a rodeo someday.”

  Tim could hardly believe his eyes when he discovered that besides the small barn on their property, they also had a fenced-in ring. Helen’s passion was horses, and her father had bought her a fine chestnut filly. Tim watched as she saddled the animal and rode her around the ring.

  “Isn’t she beautiful, Tim?” Helen asked as she got off the horse.

  “She sure is. About the prettiest horse I ever saw.” He reached up to stroke her velvet nose. “I bet you’ll be in a rodeo someday, Helen, or maybe riding in one of the horse races you see in the movies.”

  “Oh no, I’m gonna be too big for that! I already am, I think.”

  “Too big? What do you mean?”

  “Those jockeys have to be tiny. I think the rodeo is where I’ll be.”

  Helen told him all about her filly as she unsaddled the horse and turned her loose. “You can carry the saddle to the stable.”

  “Okay.” Tim picked up the saddle and carried it inside the stable. It was dark inside except for the light coming in the open doors at each end. “Where should I put it?”

  “Right there on that rail.”

  Tim put it on the rail and then turned around and bumped into Helen, who had moved closer. “Excuse me,” he said.

  “Tim, you’re a funny boy.” Helen smiled.

  “What do you mean funny?”

  “You never try to kiss me or hold my hand or anything.”

  He suddenly felt tremendously uncomfortable. She was the most popular girl in school, and he had absolutely no experience at romance. “I guess . . . I don’t know how.”

  She laughed
and reached out and ruffled his hair. “You need to read a good romantic novel. I’ll give you one. I’ve got dozens in my room.”

  “I don’t want to read any old romance novels!”

  “Yes you do.” She took his arm and pulled him outside, saying, “I’ll find you a good one.”

  ****

  The First Baptist Church was buzzing over the matter of Leland Short’s infidelity. The gossip mills ran at full speed, and of course, it wasn’t the Baptists alone. Other churches were watching closely to see what they could do. So far there had been no action, but everyone knew that Pastor Sandifer was against making the offender leave the church. Many agreed with him, but there was also a large group, led by Oscar, that strongly felt the opposite way.

  A special meeting was called, open only to members of the First Baptist Church.

  Alona had stopped talking to Oscar about the matter, for they were at opposite ends of the spectrum. She went to the meeting, though, and took a seat midway toward the front. The deacons were all seated together up on the front bench, and the church was packed. Some members who hadn’t been to church in months or even years were there as well.

  Alona’s eyes were fixed on Leland Short and his wife, Mary Beth. They were seated alone in the front pew on the right side of the church. She could see that Mary Beth was holding her husband’s hand and that her face was pale and her lips were unsteady.

  That poor woman—and that poor man! This is wrong. The thought raced through her mind as the pastor rose and went to the pulpit. “I’m calling this meeting to order with great reluctance. I think I have made my point to the deacons that I’m against this proceeding, but I’ll serve as moderator.”

  Alona could see that Brother Byron was having a very hard time. His face was stern as he read the charges that had been made. When he finished, he said, “Leland has asked to say a word to the church. There will be no objections, I’m sure. Leland, you may say what you’d like.”

  Leland Short owned the dry-cleaning establishment in town and had been a faithful church member for many years. His wife stood by him as he stood in front of the congregation. He had to struggle for composure. “I have committed a great wrong. . . . I’ve confessed it to my wife, and now I confess it to the church. I have no excuse. I have failed the Lord. I’ve failed my church and I’ve failed my family, but my wife has forgiven me, and so has the Lord. Now I am asking the church to forgive me. Thank you.” He collapsed into his seat and put his face in his hands. His wife put her arm around his shoulders and held him tightly.