She wiped away the sweat that trickled from under the bandanna wrapped Indian fashion around her head. The river, oh for the cold water of the river.
She hesitated. It wasn’t as if going to the river was play; heaven forbid one should play on one’s vacation. She needed more scrub water.
She carried the dirty water back outside and almost doused the base of the rosebush once again but instead watered a seedling tree that was struggling under the rose canes. As soon as she got a pair of clippers, she’d liberate that little tree. Whatever kind it was, it didn’t deserve to be strangled by the rosebush.
She stopped at the car for a bottle of water and grabbed her journal at the same time. Then, bucket handle over her arm, she took the now-worn path to the river. She and the log at her destination might become friends if she ever took time away to come visit. Like now. She sat on the spot where the bark had been worn away and leaned over to unlace her new boots. While sandals would be much cooler, since Paul had warned them about rattlers, she’d decided to wear her boots all the time and only dream of sandals. She squinted at the river. Somewhere she’d read that the best way to break in boots was to wear them in water and then wear them until they dried.
Now was as good a time as any to try out that bit of advice. After all, they were work boots, not fine leather fashion boots. She retied the leather laces and strode into the water. When it flowed over her boots, she sucked in a breath. Warm it was not. Chilly it was not. The Little Missouri might look friendly, but it was still downright cold. Wading in to just below her knees, she leaned over and wove her fingers back and forth like fins in the water. The sun beat down on her bent back, the breeze dried the sweat on her face and neck, and the cold water convinced her body thermostat that she no longer needed to keep dripping. Interesting—if she’d been this warm in Chicago, she’d have cranked up the air conditioner, but here she ignored the heat and perspiration and kept on with the physical labor. Was there a difference between working at her job and working here, in her attitude perhaps? If someone had warned her that she would be taking great delight in slaving to restore an antique stove, she’d have thought they’d suffered from heatstroke.
She stretched her arms above her head, then bent her right hand behind her head and grabbed her right elbow to pull the stretch further. Reversing and doing the other arm, she watched a pair of big birds wheeling in the thermals above the butte across the river. Could they be eagles? A wild screee called her to watch more closely and listen with more than her ears. Hawk or eagle, it didn’t matter, the cry pulled at her, demanding she pay attention. She watched until they disappeared into the blue that grew deeper the farther out it went.
What would it be like to rise on the thermals with a lift of the wingtip feathers, to know no bounds, to sing to the sky? You’ve been there before. The voice whispered, nearly lost in the chuckles of the river. What do you mean, I’ve been there before? I’ve never been a bird like that. She shook her head and laughed at herself. Sometimes she wondered if she had other personalities living within her, like the character in that old movie The Three Faces of Eve. She knew that wasn’t her problem, but sometimes the thoughts that dressed as voices seemed more auditory than imaginary.
“I’ve been there before?” She stared upward, hoping to see the birds again. “Crazy.” Her mind played with the words: to know no bounds, to sing to the sky. She turned and walked back to the log, sat down, and opened her journal. She pulled the pen from the coiled wire binding and wrote the words down, then described everything she could remember of the moment. Wading into the river with her boots on, seeing the birds, hearing their cries, dreaming of freedom.
But what do I need to be free from? When was I free before? She wrote the words and stared at them. Am I free now? A resounding No leaped off the page. What is the opposite of free? Bondage? What am I in bondage to? A job, my promise to Mom, taking care of Erika, fixing up this place. She studied what she’d written and crossed out fixing up this place. She could leave here at any time. She could have come out here, assessed the damage, and made arrangements to repair the more critical problems, like the roof and the window. Oh, and get rid of the resident critters. Everything she said she would do. All that was required.
If the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed. Her fingers penned the words without any volition on her part. She’d memorized the verse in Bible school, most likely in the sixth grade. That was the year of the memory verse contest, one she was determined to win—and had. Or was it truth will make you free? She shook her head. Either way. The Son was the truth, too. She thought a moment. An easy verse to memorize—if only the believing and doing were as easy.
She started a new paragraph. So Ragni, do you really believe those verses? Of course, I believe the verses… So how can they change your life? She stared at the written words as she squeezed her toes in her wet boots, enjoying the sun on her neck and shoulders.
How to be free and from what—those are the questions.
Hearing voices, she glanced back at the cabin, but it was hidden behind the berm. A clattering of rocks brought her attention to two horses with riders coming toward her along the riverbank. She shaded her eyes to see better. Sure enough, Erika, who must be over the tree-tops with joy, was riding beside Paul. He’d loaned her a Western straw hat, and she looked as if she rode every day.
She waved as soon as she saw Ragni, then turned to laugh at something Paul said. This would most likely be the highlight of her vacation. At lease one of them was having fun.
Don’t be such a grouch, she ordered herself. Had you gone along, you most likely could have gone riding too.
Paul touched the brim of his hat with one finger when he saw she was watching them. “Good day for riding.”
“Good day for cleaning, too.” Get the grump out of your voice— now! Ragni made sure her smile was wide enough to be seen. “So how was Sparky?”
“He let me pet him, he really did.” Gone was the bored look. Joy flew around Erika like sparks from a fall bonfire.
“He didn’t just let her; this girl has the patience of a real horse trainer. She waited until that curious little guy came to her.” Paul smiled and nodded toward his riding partner.
Erika bloomed with the praise. The grin took up her whole face. She leaned forward to pat her horse’s neck. With a sigh, she shook her head slowly, a study in amazement. “I never felt anything so soft as his little nose.” Her eyes darkened as pleading took the place of awe. “I can go again tomorrow, can’t I?”
“I don’t know why not. If Paul doesn’t mind.” Ragni glanced up to see the man staring at her. She glanced down. He probably thinks I’m nuts to wear boots into the water. Ah, well.
“I don’t mind at all. Little guy needs to be handled as much as possible, and after we start haying, there’s no time for coddling colts. I’d appreciate Erika’s help.” He’d crossed his arms on the saddle horn, his lazy smile sending a shiver from the top of Ragni’s head to the chill of her toes. With a smile like that, I can’t figure why he doesn’t have a wife and six kids by now. Ragni kept her smile in place and her thoughts tight inside. No wearing her thoughts on her face or her sleeve this time, no matter how often she’d been accused of that in the past.
“Well, I need to get back and finish fixing that swather.”
A swather? Whatever that is. She almost asked.
“Oh, sure.” Erika dismounted and handed him her horse’s reins. “Thanks for the ride and letting me play with Sparky.”
Ragni recognized the adoration in Erika’s face when she grinned at the man on the horse. I sure hope that is only hero worship and not infatuation. That’s all I need—teenage angst over an older man.
“See you tomorrow, then.” He smiled at both of them, touched the brim of his hat, and reined his horse around.
Erika, hands in the back pockets of her jeans, watched him go, and when she finally turned back toward her aunt, Ragni was sure. Yep, stars in the eyes and that sappy grin. D
ead giveaway every time.
“He is one cool dude.” More sappy smile.
“I’d say were the dudes, and he’s a real cowboy.”
“You know what I mean.” But the tone was definitely dreamy, not sarcastic.
Ragni handed her the newly filled bucket and picked up her things. With every step, her feet squished in her boots. This promises to make for a real comfortable afternoon. Perhaps she could at least drain the water out; the leather would still be plenty wet.
“So what do you want me to do next?” Erika asked after pouring river water into the big pot on the camp stove. “You want me to light this?”
“Sure. How about if you finish washing down that cabinet while I work on the oven? The two other things I’d like to accomplish today are to take the stovepipes outside to clean out and fix that window-pane. That cardboard is keeping the birds out, but I like seeing out windows.”
“Okay.”
Hey if hero worship or crush, take your pick, is what brought on peaceful agreement, I’m all for it. At least for now. Lord, I don’t want her to get hurt. Of course we’ll be leaving again in ten days, so she can’t get hurt too bad. I just hope and pray Paul has good sense in this.
“There’s more artwork up here on the top shelf.” Erika beckoned Ragni to come look.
“Which kind?”
“The rosemaling. I like the flowers and trees even better, I think.”
Ragni climbed up on the ladder. “I just can’t figure why she would hide such beautiful work.”
“I think she was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?” Ragni looked into her niece’s eyes. “Have you ever been afraid of someone seeing your drawings and paintings?” Shutters closed the trail to Erika’s soul as she looked down at the wet cloth in her rubber-gloved hands. Ragni cupped her niece’s cheek with a gentle hand. “Who hurt you?” The words whispered across the narrow space.
Erika shrugged, looked away, and rolled her lips together. “I promised myself I’d never tell anyone.”
“I’m not ‘anyone.’ I’m the aunt who has always loved you and who helped you with your first finger painting. Remember?”
“Sort of.” Erika’s eyes moved off to the right as if searching. She sighed.
Ragni waited, scarcely daring to breathe for fear she’d break the spell.
“My teacher when I was in the third grade. She wouldn’t put my pictures on the wall because I colored the people wrong. She thought I colored everything wrong and deliberately didn’t do anything according to her instructions.” Ragni caught the small movement as Erika’s jaw tightened. “And my drawings were better than anyone else’s.”
Lord, please give me wisdom. “You’ve always drawn way beyond the average. Even when you were three, I could recognize who and what you were drawing.” Ragni climbed down the stepladder and leaned against the counter. “One time I remember you telling me a whole story about the picture you had drawn, all about the mommy and the daddy and twin girls you called Patty and Patsy.”
“I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. And they had a wiener dog named…” Ragni scrunched her eyes to remember better. “Hot Dog, I think.”
“You’re making this up.” Erika sat cross-legged on the counter, her knees touching Ragni’s elbows.
“No, I’m not. We used to have such fun with our arts and crafts. I sometimes think your mother was a bit jealous. She says she doesn’t have an artistic bone in her body.”
“But she sure can sing.”
“I know.” She rooted her elbows in Erika’s knees. “Anyone else tell you that you can’t draw?”
“You mean besides Mrs. Deringer?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oh, lots of times teachers told me to put away my drawings and concentrate on the lesson.” Erika wrinkled her nose. “Boring. Like if they made it interesting, then I could keep my fingers and pencil still.”
“You and I are so much alike.” There has to be more. Why the black clothes and rebellion? Or did the hurt just build over the years?
“Did they yell at you, too?” Erika asked.
“Yeah, sometimes. But I didn’t let it stop me. I just hurried to get my homework done so I could do what I wanted. Mom gave me a watercolor box for my birthday, you know one of those little cheapo kinds, eight colors and one skinny brush, and I used it all up.” Ragni’s smile came and went with the memory. “Ah, the colors that happened when I put a drop of water on the inside of the lid and added dips of color. Purple. Blue and red made purple. I was hooked.” She thought back to hours spent just making shades and hues of bright colors.
“And now you’re a real artist.”
Ragni shook her head. “Not anymore. Now I only work on the computer, and I hate it.” The h word. A four-letter word like fail. She sucked in air and heaved it out on a sigh. “Ah, well.” Chewing on her upper lip, she stared at Erika who by now had dangled her legs over the edge of the counter. “You know, letting her win like that, what a shame.”
“Win?”
“That teacher. She probably lives in a plain little box and is afraid to open the door and see all the colors and shapes in our world. You’ve been given the gift of artist’s eyes and added to that, hands that recreate what your eyes see, both your inner and outer eyes. You can’t let anyone kill that.”
Erika straightened her arms and locked her elbows. She stared into Ragni’s eyes. “What about you?”
Talk about a time for a heart-to-heart. Not what she’d planned, that’s for sure. “What about me?” How easy it would be to blow this off right now, get back to cleaning. Give the excuses she’d used on herself so often. No time. Too tired. Someday when I retire… And the capper of all, It’s just not good enough. Like everything else in my life, it’s just not good enough. Ragni swallowed—hard. This was not a time for tears. All those years she’d not cried—was she making up for lost time?
“Maybe that’s why I see what’s happening with you. Ah…” She blinked, her eyes filling in spite of her orders. She sniffed and stared at the ceiling just above her head. Anything to fight this off. “Sorry, I don’t know what’s the matter with me. Turning into a real crybaby, now isn’t that the pits?” She sniffed and swallowed a bucket of tears. The silence stretched, like a rubber band that twanged in higher notes as the tension pulled.
She sucked in a lungful and sighed it out. “No one but me killed it.” She rubbed the knuckle on her right finger, scrubbing away a bit of soot. “But I’m beginning to think it’s not really dead, just comatose. Since we’ve been here, I’ve felt a couple of flashes, desires to paint something, like that rose on the fence and the turkeys I saw in the grass the day we drove in. Like you with Sparky.”
Erika nodded. She took a breath and stared at Ragni. “Do you want to see some of my other drawings?”
“Does the sun rise in the east?”
“I wouldn’t know. I never get up that early.” Erika dodged the swat Ragni aimed at her shoulder and jumped down from the counter. “Be right back.”
Ragni bent over in a stretch, reaching for the wet tops of her boots. The pull felt good. When she stood upright, she locked her hands over her head and turned from side to side. Maybe she ought to do things like this more often, the manual labor and the stretching.
“Come on out here.”
She joined Erika in the lawn chairs they’d put up in the shade in front of the house. Erika handed her the sketchbook that was opened to the first of her great-great-grandmother’s rosemaling that she’d copied.
“Good detail.” Ragni started to turn the page and looked up for permission.
“Go ahead. Start back at the beginning.” Erika flipped the pages back.
The first page showed the cow and calf stuck in the mud, cartoon style. The second was of the two of them driving down the road, dust billowing behind them. The third was of them talking to Paul, Ragni’s hair flying every which way and Erika stammering in the talk balloon. The fourth was of a car following a truck
with dust billowing. The fifth was of them helping the calf, with the dog facing down the angry cow. In the sixth, the cow trotted off, sending warning looks over her shoulder, her calf trotting beside her, tail in the air. The seventh showed the three of them shaking hands, including the dog who sat with paw raised.
“I didn’t know you’d taken up cartooning. When did you have time to do these? These are fantastic.” Ragni flipped through them again. “How funny. I hope you’ll let Paul see these, I’m sure he’ll crack up.” She glanced over at Erika, who shrugged, obviously trying to hide her delight in Ragni’s praise.
“I need to fix some stuff, but I didn’t get a good eraser.”
Ragni continued flipping pages, past more rosemaling. A drawing of Sparky looking out from behind his mother. “You used to draw horses all the time.”
“Yeah, I know.” Erika reached for her sketchpad and flipped it closed. “I’ll draw if you will.”
“You think we should leave early, stop at the motel for a shower, and go shopping?”
“Like for books and paints, stuff like that?”
“Watercolor or oil?”
“I like acrylics better than oils.” Erika studied the book in her hand, tracing the design on the cover with her fingertip. “We’d better hurry and get that window in. Paul said…” She paused and glanced at Ragni who’d cleared her throat. “He said I should call him Paul. Mr. Heidelborg is his dad, and we haven’t met his parents yet, but we will at the big Fourth of July party.”
“I see. What did Paul say?”
“Its going to rain. And while they need rain here, he was hoping to start haying, and you can’t hay in the rain.”
“I see. What’s that about a party?”
“He has a big one at his house every year, and were invited.” Her eyes sparkled and danced. “We can go, can’t we?”
“Guess we’ll have to see.” Did she really want to meet his family? Good question. Ragni glanced up to see the shutter falling over Erika’s eyes. “Why not?” She heaved herself to her feet. “I need you to help me get the stovepipes out of there, if we even can. I looked them over, and they come in sections.”
The Brushstroke Legacy Page 15