The Longest Ride (40 page)

The numbness continued to spread until it felt as though I couldn’t move at all.

“I’m sorry,” I offered. The words sounded inadequate even to my own ears.

“Thank you.” She nodded. “And again, I’m sorry for your loss as well.”

For a moment, silence weighed on us both. Finally, I spread my hands out before her. “What can I do for you, Mrs.…”

“Lockerby,” she reminded me, reaching for the package. She slid it toward me. “I wanted to give you this. It’s been in my parents’ attic for years, and when they finally sold the house a couple of months ago, I found it in one of the boxes they sent me. Daniel was very proud of it, and it just didn’t feel right to throw his painting away.”

“A painting?” I asked.

“He told me once that painting it had been one of the most important things he ever did.”

It was hard for me to grasp her meaning. “You’re saying that Daniel painted something?”

She nodded. “In Tennessee. He told me that he painted it while living at the group home. An artist who volunteered there helped him with it.”

“Please,” I said, suddenly raising my hand. “I don’t understand any of this. Can you just start at the beginning and tell me about Daniel? My wife always wondered what happened to him.”

She hesitated. “I’m not sure how much I can really tell you. I didn’t meet him until we were in college, and he never talked much about his past. It’s been a long time.”

I stayed quiet, willing her to continue. She seemed to be searching for the right words, picking at a loose thread in the hem of her blouse. “All I know is the little he did tell me,” she began. “He said his parents had died and that he lived with his stepbrother and his wife somewhere around here, but they lost the farm and ended up moving to Knoxville, Tennessee. The three of them lived in their pickup truck for a while, but then the stepbrother got arrested for something and Daniel ended up in a group home. He lived there and did well enough in school to earn an academic scholarship to the University of Tennessee… we started dating when we were seniors, both majoring in international relations. Anyway, a few months after graduation, before we headed off to the Peace Corps, we got married. That’s really all I know. Like I said, he didn’t talk much about his past – it sounded like a difficult childhood and I think it was painful for him to relive it.”

I tried to digest all this, trying to picture the trajectory of Daniel’s life. “What was he like?” I pressed.

“Daniel? He was… incredibly smart and kind, but there was a definite intensity to him. It wasn’t anger, exactly. It was more like he’d seen the worst that life could offer, and was determined to make things better. He had a kind of charisma, a conviction that just made you want to follow him. We spent two years in Cambodia with the Peace Corps, and after that he took a job with the United Way while I worked at a free clinic. We bought a little house and talked about having kids, but after a year or so we sort of realized that we weren’t ready for suburbia. So we sold our things, boxed up some personal items and stored them at my parents’, and ended up taking jobs with a human rights organization based in Nairobi. We were there for seven years, and I don’t think he’d ever been happier. He traveled to a dozen different countries getting various projects under way, and he felt like his life had true purpose, that he was making a difference.”

She stared out the window, falling silent for a moment. When she spoke again, her expression was a mixture of regret and wonder. “He was just… so smart and curious about everything. He read all the time. Even though he was young, he was already in line to become the executive director of the organization, and he probably would have made it. But he died when he was only thirty-three.” She shook her head. “After that, Africa just wasn’t the same for me. So I came home.”

As she talked, I tried and failed to reconcile all she had told me with the dusty country boy who’d studied at our dining room table. Yet I knew in my heart that Ruth would have been proud of the way he turned out.

“And you’re remarried?”

“Twelve years now.” She smiled. “Two kids. Or rather, stepchildren. My husband’s an orthopedic surgeon. I live in Nashville.”

“And you drove all the way here to bring me a painting?”

“My parents moved to Myrtle Beach – we were on our way to visit them. Actually, my husband’s waiting for me at a coffee shop downtown, so I should probably get going soon. And I’m sorry to just drop in like this. I know it’s a terrible time. But it didn’t feel right to just throw the painting away, so on a whim, I looked up your wife’s name on the Internet and saw the obituary. I realized that your house would be right on the way when we went to see my parents.”

I had no idea what to expect, but after removing the brown paper, my throat seemed to close in on itself. It was a painting of Ruth – a child’s painting, crudely conceived. The lines weren’t exactly right and her features were rather out of proportion, but he’d been able to capture her smile and her eyes with surprising skill. In this portrait, I could detect the passion and lively amusement that had always defined her; there was also a trace of the enigma that had always transfixed me, no matter how long we were together. I traced my finger over the brushstrokes that formed her lips and cheek.

“Why…,” was all I could say, nearly breathless.

“The answer’s on the back,” she said, her voice gentle. When I leaned the painting forward, I saw the photograph I’d taken of Ruth and Daniel so long ago. It had yellowed with age and was curling at the corners. I tugged it free, staring at it for a long time.

“On the back,” she said, touching my hand.

I turned the photograph over, and there, written in neat penmanship, I saw what he had written.

All I remember then is that I was overcome, my mind going blank. I have no recollection of what more we talked about, if anything. I do remember, however, that as she was getting ready to leave, she turned to me as she stood in the open doorway.

“I don’t know where he kept it at the group home, but you should know that in college, the painting hung on the wall right over his desk. It was the only personal thing he had in his room. After college, it came with us to Cambodia, then back to the States. He told me he was afraid that something would happen to it if he brought it to Africa, and ended up leaving it behind. But after we got there, he regretted it. He told me then that the painting meant more to him than anything he owned. It wasn’t until I found the photograph in the back that I really understood what he meant. He wasn’t talking about the painting. He was talking about your wife.”

 

 

In the car, Ruth is quiet. I know she has more questions about Daniel, but at the time, I had not thought to ask them. This, too, is one of my many regrets, for after that, I never saw Andrea again. Just as Daniel had vanished in 1963, she, too, vanished from my life.

“You hung the portrait above the fireplace,” she finally says. “And then you removed the other paintings from storage and hung them all over the house and stacked them in the rooms.”

“I wanted to see them. I wanted to remember again. I wanted to see you.”

Ruth is silent, but I understand. More than anything, Ruth would have wanted to see Daniel, if only through his wife’s eyes.

 

 

Day by day, after I’d read the letter and once the portrait of Ruth was hung, the depression began to lift. I began to eat more regularly. It would take over a year for me to gain back the weight I’d lost, but my life began to settle into a kind of routine. And in that first year after she died, yet another miracle – the third miracle in that otherwise tragic year – occurred that helped me find my way back.

Like Andrea, another unexpected visitor arrived at my doorstep – this time a former student of Ruth’s who came to the house to express her condolences. Her name was Jacqueline, and though I did not remember her, she too wanted to talk. She told me how much Ruth had meant to her as a teacher, and before she left, she showed me a tribute that she’d written in Ruth’s honor that would be published in the local paper. It was both flattering and revealing, and when it was published, it seemed to open the floodgates. Over the next few months, the parade of former students visiting my house swelled. Lindsay and Madeline and Eric and Pete and countless others, most of whom I’d never known existed, showed up at my door at unexpected moments, sharing stories about my wife’s years in the classroom.

Through their words, I came to realize that Ruth had been a key who unlocked the possibilities of so many people’s lives – mine was only the first.

 

 

The years after Ruth’s death, I sometimes think, can be divided into four phases. The depression and recovery after Ruth’s passing was the first of those phases; the period in which I tried to move on as best I could was the second. The third phase covered the years following the reporter’s visit in 2005, when the bars went up on the windows. It wasn’t until three years ago, however, that I finally decided what to do with the collection, which led to the fourth and final phase.

Estate planning is a complicated affair, but essentially, the question boiled down to this: I had to decide what to do with our possessions, or the state would end up deciding for me. Howie Sanders had been pressing Ruth and me for years to make a decision. He asked us whether there were any charities of which I was particularly fond or whether I wanted the paintings to go to a particular museum. Perhaps I wanted to auction them off, with the proceeds earmarked for specific organizations or universities? After the article appeared – and the potential value of the collection became a topic of heated speculation in the art world – he became even more persistent, though by then I was the only one who was there to listen.

It wasn’t until 2008, however, that I finally consented to come to his office.

He had arranged meetings of a confidential nature with curators from various museums: New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Museum of Modern Art, the North Carolina Museum of Art, and the Whitney, as well as representatives from Duke University, Wake Forest, and the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. There were individuals from the Anti-Defamation League and United Jewish Appeal – a couple of my father’s favorite organizations – as well as someone from Sotheby’s. I was ushered into a conference room and introductions were made, and on each of their faces, I could read an avid curiosity as they wondered how Ruth and I – a haberdasher and a schoolteacher – had managed to accumulate such an extensive private modern art collection.

I sat through a series of individual presentations, and in each instance, I was assured that any portion of the collection that I cared to put in their hands would be valued fairly – or, in the case of the auctioneer, maximized. The charities promised to put the money toward any causes that were special to Ruth and me.