sand.
It’s warmer than usual today as we tramp barefoot along the tidal flats with buckets, trowels, and clamming rake. What a relief to pull off those awful shoes and the itchy stockings beneath. Miss Porlock would have a fit if she saw me, but how else are you supposed to kneel in sand or run through waves?
By early afternoon, Cole and I have filled two buckets. Strolling along, he lugs the pails while I carry the trowels, swinging my shoes. I don’t know when I’ve felt such easy contentment—a warming sun on my face, my new friend beside me.
“Thought I’d drop in on Underwood,” he says. “Want to come? He’s been having a hard time lately.”
“Who’s he?”
“You know. He’s that painter.”
My breath suddenly catches.
“What’s the matter?” Cole says.
Click-click. Click-click
.
He gives me a closer look. “What is it, Cis?”
“I’ve seen that man before.”
“Of course you have. He’s out here every morning with his paints.”
“No, I mean somewhere else.”
Cole nods toward the bluff. “Well, he lives in that little place up there.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Underwood? He’s not doing so well these days. Can’t find buyers for his work. Who has money for paintings?”
We continue scuffing along.
“My dad’s trying to find him a job, anything. Maybe at the glass factory. Of course, he needs a job himself.” He gives the buckets a shake, and the shells softly clatter. “I’d like to drop off some of these clams. Some for you, too, of course.”
We climb the bluff to the painter’s cabin. A board’s missing on the weather side, and the shingles look rotted.
Cole knocks.
We wait. He knocks again. “Mr. Underwood?”
He looks at me. “Maybe we should go in. He’s got an ice chest where I can put these.”
“I don’t know. I mean, if he’s not home—”
“It’s okay. I’ve been here lots of times.”
“He won’t get mad?”
Cole is already inside.
It feels silly to stand out here, so I follow, watching as Cole throws open the shutters. Sunlight streams in,revealing, well, I’d call it squalor, but then, I live in a castle, with gleaming corridors and space everywhere. Here, there is space nowhere. Just a paint-spattered counter, a small coal stove, clothes and paint-smeared rags piled on the only chair, a rumpled bed in semi-darkness against the back wall. What strikes me most are the paintings, a dozen canvases, landscapes mostly, covering the narrow walls.
“They’re good,” I murmur, leaning over to look. I hadn’t expected them to be good.
Cole opens the ice chest and empties half a bucket of clams into it, then a little more. “He used to be pretty well-known around here.”
“He was?”
“He did that painting of your mom that’s in her bedroom.”
“He did
that
?”
“I saw the signature.”
I flip through some canvases leaning against the wall. I hold one up to see it better: the portrait of a man, pensive, staring out a window. A self-portrait, I realize, an Underwood by Underwood. Am I sure I’ve seen that face before? I stare at it, trying to think.
After a minute or so, I notice several bright gnats circling the left side of the canvas. It takes a few seconds for me to realize, and then believe, that they’re not gnats at all, but points of light—
elementals!
I thump the canvas down, but too late. There’s a small, perfectly round hole in the painting.
Cole catches the look on my face. “What is it?”
“My thumb!”
“Your what?” He comes over.
“I keep forgetting. I’ve put holes in my towels, in my dresses….”
“I don’t un—”
“The glass on my thumb!” I cry. “It’s the same as the mirror!” Even I can hear the despair in my voice. “Look, I’ve put a hole in his painting!”
“You’re right.”
“He’s going to hate me.”
“I don’t know about that. But we’ve got to be more careful.”
Inwardly I thank him for that
we
, like he’s part of whatever happens.
It’s warmer than usual today as we tramp barefoot along the tidal flats with buckets, trowels, and clamming rake. What a relief to pull off those awful shoes and the itchy stockings beneath. Miss Porlock would have a fit if she saw me, but how else are you supposed to kneel in sand or run through waves?
By early afternoon, Cole and I have filled two buckets. Strolling along, he lugs the pails while I carry the trowels, swinging my shoes. I don’t know when I’ve felt such easy contentment—a warming sun on my face, my new friend beside me.
“Thought I’d drop in on Underwood,” he says. “Want to come? He’s been having a hard time lately.”
“Who’s he?”
“You know. He’s that painter.”
My breath suddenly catches.
“What’s the matter?” Cole says.
Click-click. Click-click
.
He gives me a closer look. “What is it, Cis?”
“I’ve seen that man before.”
“Of course you have. He’s out here every morning with his paints.”
“No, I mean somewhere else.”
Cole nods toward the bluff. “Well, he lives in that little place up there.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Underwood? He’s not doing so well these days. Can’t find buyers for his work. Who has money for paintings?”
We continue scuffing along.
“My dad’s trying to find him a job, anything. Maybe at the glass factory. Of course, he needs a job himself.” He gives the buckets a shake, and the shells softly clatter. “I’d like to drop off some of these clams. Some for you, too, of course.”
We climb the bluff to the painter’s cabin. A board’s missing on the weather side, and the shingles look rotted.
Cole knocks.
We wait. He knocks again. “Mr. Underwood?”
He looks at me. “Maybe we should go in. He’s got an ice chest where I can put these.”
“I don’t know. I mean, if he’s not home—”
“It’s okay. I’ve been here lots of times.”
“He won’t get mad?”
Cole is already inside.
It feels silly to stand out here, so I follow, watching as Cole throws open the shutters. Sunlight streams in,revealing, well, I’d call it squalor, but then, I live in a castle, with gleaming corridors and space everywhere. Here, there is space nowhere. Just a paint-spattered counter, a small coal stove, clothes and paint-smeared rags piled on the only chair, a rumpled bed in semi-darkness against the back wall. What strikes me most are the paintings, a dozen canvases, landscapes mostly, covering the narrow walls.
“They’re good,” I murmur, leaning over to look. I hadn’t expected them to be good.
Cole opens the ice chest and empties half a bucket of clams into it, then a little more. “He used to be pretty well-known around here.”
“He was?”
“He did that painting of your mom that’s in her bedroom.”
“He did
that
?”
“I saw the signature.”
I flip through some canvases leaning against the wall. I hold one up to see it better: the portrait of a man, pensive, staring out a window. A self-portrait, I realize, an Underwood by Underwood. Am I sure I’ve seen that face before? I stare at it, trying to think.
After a minute or so, I notice several bright gnats circling the left side of the canvas. It takes a few seconds for me to realize, and then believe, that they’re not gnats at all, but points of light—
elementals!
I thump the canvas down, but too late. There’s a small, perfectly round hole in the painting.
Cole catches the look on my face. “What is it?”
“My thumb!”
“Your what?” He comes over.
“I keep forgetting. I’ve put holes in my towels, in my dresses….”
“I don’t un—”
“The glass on my thumb!” I cry. “It’s the same as the mirror!” Even I can hear the despair in my voice. “Look, I’ve put a hole in his painting!”
“You’re right.”
“He’s going to hate me.”
“I don’t know about that. But we’ve got to be more careful.”
Inwardly I thank him for that
we
, like he’s part of whatever happens.
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