Chapter 2
Nina had helped Daniel wrap the painting in his drape and pin it securely to the stretchers. He’d considered taking his wife, Sofia, with him, but thought it might make him appear to need her protection—and he couldn’t stand the thought of her hearing some of the things Barnes was saying about him. So, at Ella Lou’s insistence, Clyde walked over with him. “For your protection,” Ella Lou said, and Daniel knew it was true. If she was sending Clyde along to make sure he really went, she’d have said so. Though Daniel wondered if she might still have her doubts.
They walked in silence for a few minutes before Clyde said, “You sure you don’t want me to call up a lawyer to go with you?”
“No,” Daniel said. “I can speak for myself. I will explain, and they will understand.”
Clyde replied with a doubtful, “Hmph.”
“You don’t think . . . is it possible I could be charged with a crime?”
“Aw, I don’t know.” Clyde kicked a small rock off the sidewalk, scowling at it.
“Your mother, she is very angry with me?”
Clyde nodded.
“Even my wife . . . she has always supported me, but the painting is not to her liking either.”
“Well, it’s not what folks are used to.”
“What’s the use of a painting that looks like every other painting?”
Clyde shrugged and shook his head, and both men were silent for a long time. It was an uncomfortable silence that had Daniel looking around anxiously, wishing he were anywhere else. But there was really nothing more to talk about, and this was not the time or the place for casual conversation. So he kept silent until they reached the station.
Once they arrived, Clyde settled onto one of the chairs in the waiting room while Daniel announced himself to the watch sergeant.
Before Clyde was finished telling Daniel again to come get him if he thought he needed a lawyer, Sergeant Tipton entered the waiting room.
Tipton’s gaze turned immediately to the painting Daniel carried. “That it?”
“Yes. I will show it to you, and then I would like to explain.”
A few minutes later, Daniel stood in the back of an interview room with a handful of people clustered around the painting: Tipton, one of the down-time sergeants, another officer that Daniel didn’t recognize, and Vera Mae Markins, the department’s clerk. Their comments ranged from “What the hell?” to “That’s just disgusting,” to Vera Mae’s surprised, “I kinda like it.”
The others turned and stared at her. Vera Mae greeted them with a genial smile. “Well,” she said, “the colors are pretty. And the way the girl looks vulnerable but also . . . sort of powerful. You know?”
Daniel beamed at her. She was the first person to see even a hint of what he’d tried to portray.
The officer, whose nametag read “Schultz,” hissed and said, “It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. It doesn’t even look like a real woman.” Schultz sneered at Daniel. “You have seen a woman before, haven’t you? A real one?”
“Thank you for the art critique, Schultz,” Tipton said, and herded them all out of the room. He sighed and turned back to the painting.
“What was the purpose of that?” Daniel said.
“I’m trying to understand what I’m looking at.”
Daniel started to explain his vision and his technique, but Tipton held his hand up. “Look, no offense, Block, but I want an assessment from . . . well, I guess from someone who isn’t you, but who knows something about art.”
“Oh, yes,” Daniel said. “Of course. You should speak with Elaine O’Meara. She has taught me much about the history of art from your time.”
“She’s seen this painting?”
“No. You see, it wasn’t finished.”
“Perfect,” Tipton said. “Have a seat, this won’t take long.”
Daniel waited while Tipton spoke to Elaine on the phone, and then with the watch sergeant, who’d stopped to inform him that Barnes was there. He told the sergeant to have Barnes bring his daughter in. “I think we ought to hear from everyone on this, don’t you?” he said to Daniel, clearly not expecting an answer. He offered Daniel some coffee and then said he’d be back shortly, leaving Daniel to wait in silence, staring at his torn, ruined painting.
He found himself questioning many of his choices—tints, brush strokes, the placement of the girl’s arm, the precise lines of the monster reaching up toward her. But still, he found that he believed in the painting. Believed that it was good—perhaps even great. It pained him more than he would have imagined that no one else could see what he saw in it.
Soon, Tipton was ushering Elaine into the room. Elaine seemed as genial as Vera Mae, but with a more studious expression on her face. She seemed to understand the magnitude of the situation. Her long, graying hair was pulled back in a ponytail, with the reading glasses on the bridge of her nose straight and ready for action. She came in bearing two heavy books that he recognized immediately. They were “coffee table books,” she called them, containing a huge number of colorful images of up-time art. He found himself staring at them as she set them on the table. Even after handling them for months, the books still enchanted him with the secrets and the beauty they held.
“Now, Block,” Tipton said, breaking Daniel free of his trance, “not a word.”
Daniel nodded and turned to watch Elaine as she examined the painting. She was silent for several minutes, and Daniel became ever more nervous. At least she wasn’t expressing horror or disgust, but if she didn’t like it . . .
Finally, she turned to Tipton. “Sergeant, what is it that you want from me?”
“Some kind of, ah, assessment of its artistic merits?”
She frowned. “I thought Warner was claiming some kind of inappropriate behavior. Which is absurd, I might add. Even if Daniel would try such a thing, which I can’t even imagine, Mikayla Barnes is a spitfire. She’d rip a man’s arm off if he tried anything she didn’t want.”
“Well, yes,” Tipton said, with a crooked smile. “But . . . to be frank, I think he’s just mad about the painting being so . . . unusual. And, well, there’s the nudity.”
Elaine rolled her eyes. “The nudity? I admit she’s on the young side by our standards, but nudes are extremely common in art—of our time as well as theirs. And this isn’t exactly Playboy.”
“Playboy?” Daniel said.
Tipton and Elaine exchanged smiles.
“Never mind,” Elaine said. “Here, let me . . .” She began flipping through the books, stopping now and then to show Tipton a picture of a painting. Picasso for the girl, Monet and Van Gogh for the brush strokes, Cézanne and Gaugin for some of the colors, and a few others she thought seemed similar. “You see what he’s done? All these different styles that won’t be developed for maybe two or three hundred years, some of them—he’s blended them together in this seamless way. And the result? Well,” she paused and looked apologetically at Daniel, “to be honest, I can’t stand Picasso, but setting that aside, it’s impossible to deny that the painting is quite magnificent. It represents an enormous and important development in art for this new timeline.” She reached out and very gently touched the frayed edges of the torn canvas. “Such a tragedy!”
Daniel felt an enormous wave of relief wash over him, and a joyful ache in his chest. His painting was truly good. Elaine would not lie about something like this; she genuinely believed it was good—no, better! ”Magnificent.” Worthy, perhaps, of note by history. If only it hadn’t been destroyed. But, perhaps now, there might be more. Much more.
Tipton started to speak again, but was interrupted by a knock on the door. Mikayla Barnes was there, and her father was demanding to be heard. Tipton winced, but told the officer to send them in.
Mikayla stalked through the door, looking sulky and bored. Her light brown hair bounced on her shoulders, with long strands swaying across her dark eyes. Her father followed, his mouth opening for another round of shouting.
“You!” Tipton said, pointing at Barnes. “Quiet!”
“I—”
“Quiet, or I’ll have you removed.”
Barnes closed his mouth, pressing his lips together furiously and folding his arms.
“Now, Mikayla, I’d like you to take a look at this painting,” Tipton said, pointing toward Daniel’s work.
“Eeeuwww!”
Daniel grimaced, Elaine smirked, and Barnes started to speak.
“Quiet!” Tipton said, pointing once again at Barnes.
Mikayla moved closer to the painting and smiled. “Is this why daddy’s freaking out? I mean, I think it’s ugly, but . . . I guess it’s kind of cool.”
“Cool?” Tipton said.
“Yeah, I mean, it’s not what I was expecting.”
“You didn’t see it while he was painting it? Or give him any suggestions?”
She shook her head. “Daddy said he was a master artist, so, you know. I thought it would look like one of those paintings in the books they have at the library.”
“What were you expecting the painting to look like?”
She frowned, turned to Elaine, and started to speak before noticing the books, one of which lay open on the table. “Oh, hang on,” she said, and started flipping through pages. She stopped at last, turned the book toward Tipton, and said, “Sorta like this, I guess.”
Tipton gaped.
Elaine moved over to look at the picture and her eyes widened. “Oh, my!” she said.
Daniel leaned forward. It was a painting by French Romantic artist Eugène Delacroix of a woman lounging on a bed that was hung with luxurious drapes. She wore silk stockings—and nothing more. He shrugged. “It’s beautiful, yes,” he said. “But a bit dull, don’t you think? A bit lifeless?” He looked up at Elaine, who was holding her hand over her mouth.
Tipton looked at Elaine. “Is he serious?”
“What?” Barnes said. “What is it?” He stepped away from the wall and looked at the book, before exploding. “What? What in hell? For Pete’s sake, Mikayla! What on earth has gotten into you?”
“It’s pretty!” she said, slouching into a pout.
“It’s pornography!”
“Actually—” Elaine started.
“You stay the hell out of it!” Barnes shouted.
“Now, that’s enough,” Tipton said, putting up his hands to silence them. “Look, Mikayla, I apologize for being indelicate, but I need to know right now. Did you pose in the nude for Mr. Block?”
Mikayla’s face twisted in disgust. “No, sir.”
“What were you wearing?”
She looked at her father, who stood there with his arms crossed and his face beet red.
Daniel looked at the man’s burning cheeks, wondering what pigment would do them justice on canvas. It reminded him of one of those up-time cartoon videos Benjamin and Stefan liked watching, where steam rolled out of a man’s ears.
“Answer him!” Barnes said.
“A bikini,” she whispered.
“For God’s sake, why?” her father asked.
Mikayla shrugged. “I don’t know. I found it in the dresser where mom keeps her old clothes. I guess it was hers when she was younger. I tried it on and . . . I mean, it was a little big on me, but it looked nice. And then I got to thinking about home, you know, about West Virginia, how I missed the pool at Grandma and Grandpa Furbee’s, where Carla and Brad and me and the rest of the kids used to swim. I got a little homesick, I guess, and then I decided that was what I wanted to wear for the sitting. To, like, remind me of home.”
Yes, exactly! Daniel wanted to say, but he kept silent. Couldn’t they understand what Mikayla was really saying? Couldn’t they see? These up-timers were smart in many, many ways, but so many of them lacked any sense of symbolism. When she had removed her robe and stood there in her bikini, he understood immediately what Mikayla was trying to say. He could see it in her eyes. She wasn’t trying to be lascivious or lewd or a “slut,” as the up-timers might say. No. The bikini represented that last bit of connection to the world that she had left behind, a life that had been ripped away from her. She would never say it out loud, probably didn’t know how to say it, but she felt vulnerable and . . . naked in this new world that she had been forced to live in. And Daniel had painted her that way. Couldn’t they see?
Tipton nodded. “And at any time, did you ever take the bikini off while you were there?”
“No, sir!”
“I don’t care whether my daughter was naked or not,” Barnes said. “I want this son of a bitch placed under—”
“Now, you stop right there!” Tipton said, stepping toward Barnes. “I’ve heard enough out of you. If you don’t like this painting, fine. You’ve destroyed it, so that’s done. As far as I can see, there’s been no crime committed here. Next time you want to commission a portrait, be a little more specific about what you’re looking for—from the artist and from your girl. Now, you go on home, and let this be an end to it.”
Barnes stood there, seemingly shocked that Tipton had the nerve to go against his wishes. Then he said, “But I paid him for a painting! I want my money back!”
Tipton shook his head. “It looks to me like Block did the work you paid him for, even if it wasn’t what you were expecting. Of course, you can always take him to court if you don’t mind seeing this painting displayed in public.”
Barnes shook his head vigorously. “Like hell!”
“Well, all right then.” Tipton opened the door and called for Schultz, asking him to escort the Barneses out.
Once Warner had stormed out, Mikayla flashed the others a sad, regretful smile and trailed after him. The door closed, and they were all quiet for a moment.
“Mrs. O’Meara,” Tipton said, “I thank you for your time, and I apologize for Barnes shouting at you like that.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ve been shouted at a time or two before.” She shook Tipton’s hand, patting it before releasing it. “Daniel? I’d like to talk to you about this some more, when you have time? We might want to have a chat about up-timers’ attitudes about nudity, for starters.”
“Of course,” Daniel said, noticing the smile she and Tipton exchanged as she left.
“Mr. Block,” Tipton said, when they were alone again, “let me ask you. Why not just do, you know, the usual kind of portrait?”
“Because in your timeline, there is no record that I ever existed. For a painter, there is nothing worse. It’s as if every brush stroke I ever made was condemned as mediocre. Uninteresting. Every portrait, lacking in power and life. I left no mark on your world. I cannot bear that thought.” He smiled toward the painting. “Now? Well, perhaps now, I won’t have to.”
“Can you fix it?”
“No. But I can paint others. Many others.”
Tipton smiled. “Have that conversation with Mrs. O’Meara first.”
“Yes, of course,” Daniel said.
Tipton helped Daniel cover the painting again and walked him to the reception area.
Clyde stood as they entered. “Is everything all right?”
Tipton said, “I consider this matter closed. Give your mother my regards. She’s one tough lady.”
Clyde smiled. “That she is.”
The pair walked back to the house through the darkness in silence, Clyde allowing Daniel his thoughts. So deep was his concentration that he was amazed when they reached the door to the house. “How on earth did we get here so quickly?”
Clyde chuckled. “Had to keep you from wandering in front of wagons twice.”
Daniel was about to explain the plans he’d made for his next painting when Clyde opened the door and they heard wailing.
It was Benjamin, his son.
Both men rushed into the living room, afraid of what they’d find.
Little Benjamin clung to his mother’s dress, sobbing. His little round face was red and lined with tears.
“Sofia?” Daniel said.
She shook her head. “Poor boy. His friend, Bethany Anne, isn’t allowed to play with him anymore.”
“He’s not hurt, though?” Clyde said.
“No, no, nothing like that. But Bethany‘s mother Stacey wouldn’t even let him in her yard. Yelled at him that his father was a—” she looked down at her son and mouthed the word, “pervert.”
Daniel growled. “That awful woman. What right does she have?”
Daniel turned angrily toward the door, but Clyde stopped him. “Noooo. No sir. There is nothing to be gained by that.”
“But—”
“Yes, I know. And you may be completely right, but going over and yelling at her isn’t going to do anything but get the police on my mother’s doorstep for a second time in one day, and I know you don’t want that again.”
Daniel flushed, remembering how much trouble he had already brought—however unintentionally—to Frau Rice’s home. No, he did not want to risk that.
Instead, he sat beside his wife and child, rubbing Benjamin’s back and speaking soothingly to him. “It won’t matter,” he said. “You have many other friends. All your friends from church, and from the daycare.”
Gradually, as he and Sofia sat with him, Benjamin’s tears began to ease. After a time, Stefan came and asked Benjamin if he wanted to play with the wooden cars that they’d both received for Christmas, and the boys went into the next room.
Sofia and Daniel joined Clyde and Ella Lou in the kitchen, taking chairs at the table as Nina served small pieces of cake. Daniel tried to smile as he took a few bites. She was always ready with a treat in times of distress.
After their cookies were gone and each had a fresh cup of coffee, Ella Lou asked, “What happened at the station?”
Daniel explained in detail, and everyone expressed their relief.
“It’s over, then?” Sofia asked.
There was an awkward pause. “Well,” Clyde said, “that’s difficult to say.”
“But if the police say he’s innocent?”
Another awkward pause was interrupted by the boys joining them, looking for entertainment, and the topic was dropped for the time.
As Clyde was preparing to leave, the phone rang. Sofia went to answer it as Daniel and Clyde finished discussing his latest plans for opening a self-storage facility in Bamberg. When Sofia returned, the look on her face silenced both men.
Sofia shook her head. “The daycare said our Benjamin couldn’t come back. Some of the parents objected.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Daniel said. “This is madness!”
Ella Lou heard him, and came into the room trailed by the boys. “What is it now?”
Sofia explained and Ella Lou said, “Oh, I’m so sorry. That poor child.”
Clyde shook his head. “That fool Barnes must be burning up the phone lines, trying to make trouble.”
Daniel threw up his hands. “He’s telling everyone in town that I’m a monster. What am I to do?”
“Honestly?” Clyde said. “Not much.”
“That damn idiot,” Ella Lou said. “Only an act of God can explain why that man ever amounted to anything more than a junior supervisor at a widget factory.”
“Widget?” Daniel said.
Clyde shook his head.
It was something else that Daniel would let pass and never understand. But one thing he did understand was how upset Benjamin would be at this latest setback. “Perhaps,” Daniel said, “it really is time for us to go.”
Everyone fell silent, even Sofia. Daniel stood there listening to the muffled laughter of his son and Stefan as they played in a back room of the house.
“That’s ridiculous, Daniel,” Ella Lou said. “Don’t pay any attention to what Barnes says. This will all blow over.”
“This isn’t just about Barnes, Frau Rice,” Daniel said, shaking his head. “I never intended Grantville to be our permanent home.” He turned and smiled at his host. “I came here to learn up-time painting techniques, and I have. I’ve not learned everything, and I’m sure if I—if we—stayed, I could learn a lot more. But I’m not an up-timer. I was born in Stettin, in Pomerania. My life is not here.” He pointed to the window. “It’s out there somewhere. I’m in my fifties. To you up-timers, that’s nothing, middle-aged. But here . . . I need to get out there and take care of some things, do some things, before it’s too late.”
Clyde was about to speak, but Daniel continued. “Did you know that I have two other sons from a previous marriage? They’re in their twenties now. One lives in Magdeburg. Perhaps the other does as well, I do not know. But I’d like to see them again, to share with them what I have learned. And Benjamin needs to know who his brothers are. I understand that Gustavus Adolphus is in Magdeburg as well. Perhaps he’ll let me paint him again if he is well enough . . . using newer, more daring, techniques.”
The room was very quiet, and Sofia moved to her husband and gave him a hug. Daniel liked that. He always liked the smell of her dark hair when she was close, the radiance of her brown eyes, and the tender massage of her fingers on his neck. He appreciated her youthful softness, her casual, effortless displays of affection. Sofia had taught him so much about the value of a strong, loving relationship. He was learning more and more each day.
Tears welling in her eyes, Ella Lou Rice finally said, “So, when will you all be leaving, then?”
Daniel exchanged a look of understanding with his wife, then said, “By the end of the week.”
∞ ∞ ∞
After he closed and locked his trunk, all of his clothing packed, Daniel stepped over to the window and twitched aside the curtain just enough to look out on the town. He would miss it—far more deeply than he’d expected when they first began talking of leaving. Most of all, he would miss Frau Rice. Or . . . perhaps he would most miss watching Stefan and Benjamin play in the yard.
He sighed and started to turn away, when he noticed Stacey Rowland Duvall, Bethany Anne’s mother, standing in her yard in a light-blue robe, staring toward the house. He glared at her, wishing Clyde hadn’t stopped him when he’d wanted to yell at her after she was cruel to his boy. It might well not have accomplished anything, but he would have felt better, at least.
And then he realized what she was staring at: the painting. That painting, sitting propped against the trash by the curb, still torn and warped, damp from the morning dew, awaiting collection. He’d studied it until he felt he could glean no more, before asking Nina to dispose of it. He’d expected it to be burned, forgetting how tenacious these up-timers were about saving everything, recycling everything.
The woman looked both ways, and across to the house. Apparently she saw no one, because she passed through her gate, crossed the street, and stopped before his ragged canvas. As she reached down to pick it up, he felt a brief impulse to run down and snatch it away from her, but he made himself wait and watch, curious to see her reaction.
She turned the painting around, propping it up to let the light fall on its surface, and simply stood there and stared at it. After a moment, she slid her right hand up, pressing it against her chest. It was a move Daniel had made himself, perhaps a half dozen times in his life: when he’d first set eyes on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, on El Greco’s The Burial of the Count of Orgaz, on Titian’s Assunta, and on Bosch’s The Garden of Earthly Delights. It was a gesture that came of pure emotion, of being moved beyond words by an inspired work of art. Daniel found that his hand, too, was pressed to his chest, moved beyond words that his work had touched someone so deeply.
The woman reached down and picked up the painting, took it back across the street to her home, and closed the door. At last, his heart lightened, Daniel smiled. My first fan, he thought.
Many more to go.
He picked up his trunk and went out back to join the others, who were saying their goodbyes.
After hugs all around, Clyde slapped Daniel on the shoulder with his big, generous hand. “It’s not too late to change your mind, my friend. You could stay and we could open up that art gallery right here in Grantville that we talked about. Barnes will tire of his nonsense soon enough.”
Daniel smiled but shook his head. “I appreciate your offer, Clyde, but it’s not just about Barnes as I stated before. This is for the best, I think. I have come to realize just how much the Ring of Fire took away from all of you West Virginians—family, friends, your whole way of living. Sure, you and many like you have flourished, have really made a name and life for yourselves here. But ultimately, I think the Ring of Fire was not for you. It was for us, for down-timers like me, so that we may dream anew, discover new freedoms, and avoid the mistakes we once made. I’ve been given a second chance, Clyde, and I must take it.”
Clyde nodded and they shook hands. “I wish you and your family the best of luck, then. I’m sure I’ll see you in Magdeburg before the year is out.”
Clyde and Daniel stowed the last trunk in the wagon, and Daniel joined Sofia and Benjamin on the wagon’s broad seat. The boy was sad as he waved goodbye to Stefan. “Will there be other children for me to play with where we’re going, Daddy?” Benjamin asked.
Daniel reached over and ruffled the locks of Benjamin’s messy dark hair. “Well, of course!” he said, and guided the horses into the road. “And I hope you will finally have a chance to meet your oldest brother.”
Soon, Benjamin and Sofia were chatting animatedly about all the things they would do in their new home—and Daniel, as the horses pulled them along the road out of town, was already imagining new paintings, new styles, new combinations of color and light, even new tools and media. Perhaps there would be a new role for art now—art for everyone. Art that could change the world. And Daniel himself would be at the center of it all.