The Shadow Portrait (2 page)

“I wud if I wanted to get well!” McKenzie replied sharply. Then a wave of sympathy came over him for this woman. From the first time he had seen her, he was baffled by her case. She had been a vibrant, beautiful young woman. Then, when she was twenty, she had suffered a serious illness. He had been called onto the case by an older physician who was a close friend of the family. Both of them had feared Cara would die. To their amazement she had survived, but then it also became apparent to everyone that she had lost the bloom of youth and her strength. For the past ten years she had been confined, for the most part, to this room, venturing out only on rare occasions. It angered McKenzie that with all his fine training he could not help her more. From time
to time, he suspected that her illness lay in her heart or in her mind, not in her body. He examined her carefully with his clear gray eyes. He wanted to say something comforting but didn’t know what he could say. He knew how much she hated being penned up in this house, as fine as it was, with every modern convenience. He had heard her talk often of how she used to go for walks in the parks and the fields in the spring. Even in the fall and winter, she loved the out-of-doors. As he looked at her, he could sense her desperate longing to be well and escape the drudgery of her lengthy confinement.

“I wish you’d at least try it. Your father’s set on it.”

“I know he is, and I hate to disappoint him, but I will not take it anymore!”

McKenzie was too wise to argue with her at the moment. He was convinced she would eventually take the ale. He himself was not certain of its medicinal value, but Oliver Lanier was a man accustomed to having his own way. Somehow her father had heard that the ale was good for patients recovering from long illnesses and had it imported in kegs all the way from Germany. No one could drink it except Cara, but Henry, the gardener, sampled it from time to time. McKenzie refused to press the point and patted her shoulder. “Weel now, we’ll talk about it later.” He looked at the painting again and said with encouragement in his voice, “You do so well with your painting. Have you sold any more?”

“Oh yes,” Cara nodded, but the success of selling some of her work seemed not to interest her. “My agent sold four of my paintings at a show in Philadelphia last week.”

“Well, I know you must be very proud, Cara. Not many people can call themselves professional painters.”

“I wish I could go out into the garden with the real flowers instead of only my paintings of them,” Cara said.

McKenzie heard the almost desperate note in the woman’s voice, and a sadness rose in him. “I wish I could take you out,” he said. “Maybe next week. The weather’s turning so nice lately. We’ll see.”

“Thank you, Doctor Mac. That would be lovely.” Cara’s voice was flat and without much hope, but she forced a slight smile. “Maybe I’ll paint a picture of you.” She reached down suddenly and picked up Charley and thrust him at the physician. “Here, let’s see how you two look together.”

McKenzie did not like dogs, and Charley could easily sense the doctor’s displeasure. The two of them looked very uncomfortable. Charley was squirming and growling in his chest, and McKenzie was attempting to keep as far as possible from the animal.

“No, I don’t think that would be exactly right,” Cara laughed, and her eyes brightened. Reaching out, she took the dog and said, “I’m afraid you and Charley will never be the best of friends.”

“I prefer felines myself. I have a cat named Socrates.”

“Well, bring him over and let him play with Charley.”

“Play with that animal? I should think not! Socrates has too much dignity! He doesn’t play!”

The words caught at Cara, and she grew very still. A thought crossed her mind, and then she spoke it aloud. “I don’t play either, Doctor. I . . . I wish I could.” Then she shook off the thought and smiled faintly. “Come to see me again. Maybe I
will
paint your portrait.”

As soon as the doctor had left, Cara sat down on the edge of the bed. Charley hopped up and plumped himself down in her lap. He lay still, content simply to be there, and Cara stroked his silken coat for a long time. Her face grew somber, and from time to time she glanced at the painting, but she had no inclination to return to her work. Finally she lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling for half an hour. A loud knock on the door startled Cara, and she sat up at once, saying, “Come in,” as Charley cleared the bed and ran to the door barking ecstatically.

The door opened and immediately Cara’s younger brothers and sisters piled into the room. Six-year-old Bobby ran to Cara and hugged her affectionately, crying out, “Cara, I’m
going to the circus!” The boy had fine blond hair and large blue eyes that reflected an underlying rebelliousness. Now he began talking about elephants and lions and tigers, but he was quickly shoved aside by Elizabeth, his twelve-year-old sister, whom everyone called Bess.

“Get away, Bobby!” she said. “I want to tell Cara about my new dress!” With flaming red hair and dark blue eyes, Bess was blossoming into a young woman with promise of great beauty. But she hated her red hair and everything about her appearance, and her emotions were always just beneath the surface, ready to bubble over and explode either in ecstasy or despair. When Bobby tried to shove her away, she immediately began to wrestle with him, the two siblings yelling at each other loudly.

Benjamin Lanier, age eighteen, stepped forward and picked up both children, one in each arm. He laughed over their heads as they protested, saying, “Cara, do you want me to throw these two out the window?”

“No, Benji, let them stand here by me.” She smiled up at Benjamin, admiring his auburn hair, blue eyes, and trim figure. He was not all that handsome but had pleasant features and cordial manners. “How can you ever hope to become a minister if you throw children out the window?” she scolded him.

Benjamin gave her an odd look. His mouth drew into a tight line and his good humor fled instantly. “I’m not going to be a minister! I’m going to be a stockbroker!”

Cara smiled wistfully at her brother, who had grown so quickly into the tall young man standing before her. She knew he was only parroting their father’s wishes that he become a businessman. Benjamin had been converted at the early age of six and had never wanted to do anything but become a preacher. He especially admired missionaries, and nothing would have pleased him more than the thought of sailing off to China or Africa to preach the gospel. His dream had been a source of continual stress between him and his father,
for Oliver Lanier had already ordained that Benjamin would follow in his footsteps and go into business. Now that he was in his first year of study at the New York City College of Business, Benjamin’s features, pleasant as they were, revealed a restlessness.

Cara shifted her gaze to her sister Mary Ann, who had come to stand beside her. Mary Ann was a beautiful young woman of twenty-five, with the same blond hair and blue eyes as their youngest brother, Robert, and there was a playfulness in her that came out as she sat down on the bed and hugged Cara tightly. “I’m going to a party! Millie Langley is getting engaged, and it’s going to be a bash!”

“What’s a bash?” Cara asked, smiling at her sister’s excitement. She loved Mary Ann, who had all of the health and strength and energy she once had. Now, as she held her sister’s hand, she said, “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Why, I’m surprised you don’t know that! It means a real big party,” said Clinton Lanier. At five ten, Clinton was slightly shorter than Benjamin, but he, too, was trim and well built, with rich auburn hair and very light blue eyes. He had an aristocratic face, including a straight English nose and neat features. His sideburns were a little long, but he was clean-shaven. The oldest of the Lanier sons, Clinton had worked with his father since graduating from college and rarely complained, though he did not like the work. Now he grinned down and stroked Cara’s shoulder affectionately. “You and I are going to have to go to a bash ourselves one of these days.”

“Yes, I’d like that very much,” Cara said eagerly. “You find one and get Father’s permission, and we’ll go.” At the mention of their father, Cara saw Clinton tense as if he had been shocked by a jolt of electricity. She had noticed this reaction before. In fact, every one of Oliver Lanier’s children feared him except her. Now she said quickly, “Tell me what’s going on. I want to hear it all.”

Cara enjoyed the next forty-five minutes tremendously. Her
cheeks grew flushed and her eyes sparkled as her brothers and sisters drew up chairs, or walked around, or stood over her and talked. Her room had become a sanctuary for them, and despite her father’s warnings that they excited her too much, she experienced a joy and a freedom that dispelled the gloom and darkness which had settled on her since she had awakened early at dawn.

Bess nudged Bobby out of the way, saying, “I know what I’m going to be when I grow up, Cara.”

“What are you going to be, now? Tell me about it.”

Bess’s eyes were bright, and she gestured excitedly with her hands. “I’m going to be a typewriter.”

“A typewriter?” Cara gasped.

“You don’t know that?” Bess cried. “Why, it’s a woman who works a typing machine.”

“And what kind of a machine is that?”

Clinton stepped in to explain. “You haven’t heard of Remington’s typewriter, Cara? It’s been around for about thirty years, but they’ve improved on them recently and have made them portable so that more and more businesses are starting to put them to use. It has metal keys on it, and as the keys are struck, it prints a letter in type on the paper held by a roller in front of it. I think it’s a great invention.”

“Do you have one at the office?” Mary Ann asked.

“No. Father says they’ll never last, but I think they will. There are a lot of young women now who operate them in offices all over the country. I told Father we ought to get a typewriter of our own, but you know him. He would really like to go back to the goose quill pen.” A sour expression touched Clinton’s fine blue eyes, and then he grew quiet.

Cara felt a touch of sympathy for her brother, knowing that he was probably thinking about his frustrations over working with his father at the office.

“Oh, I’ve got a present for you!” Bobby shouted. “Wait right here!” The six-year-old seemed to have only one pitch for speaking, which was yelling at the top of his lungs. His
loud behavior was very irritating to most people, especially his father. Bobby dashed out of the room and soon was back with an object wrapped in brown paper. “Here, Cara. It’s for your birthday!”

“But my birthday was two months ago.”

“I know, but I only got it this week. I saved my money and Clinton bought it for me. I picked it out, though.”

“Oh, it’s so nice getting a late birthday present!” Cara exclaimed. “Come here and sit down by me, Bobby, while I see what it is.” Cara was surprised and pleased at her younger brother’s thoughtfulness. He was a rowdy young boy, but he loved her dearly and was always bringing her some sort of present. Now she opened it and said, “Oh, it’s . . . it’s beautiful!”

“It’s a teddy bear!” Bobby said. “It cost five dollars and twenty-five cents! I saved it up all by myself.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have spent so much of your money on me, Bobby.”

“But I wanted to. Look, see his eyes?”

It was indeed an endearing stuffed bear with beady eyes and fuzzy fur. Cara stroked it, exclaiming, “Why do you call it a teddy bear?”

“You don’t know about that either, Cara?” Clinton asked with surprise. “You’ve certainly been in this room too long. I thought everybody knew about teddy bears.”

“No. Tell me about them.”

“Well, President Roosevelt was down in Mississippi and he went bear hunting. His hosts gave him an easy shot at a cub, but he refused to take down the little beast. A fellow named Morris Michtom down in Brooklyn read the story, and he and his wife cut out a cloth bear and stuffed it, giving it moveable arms and legs, and those button eyes you see. They put it out in the window with a sign saying, ‘Teddy’s Bear.’ It sold and they made another one, and Morris wrote to Roosevelt, asking if he could use his name.” Clinton smiled and shrugged. “You know Teddy. He said it was okay. So
Michtom started making bears, and a couple of years ago they got really popular. Well, there’s your teddy bear.”

“I love it, Bobby,” Cara said. “I’ll keep it right here on my bed with me.”

“Do you really like it?” Bobby asked.

“I’ll always keep it. Thank you very much.”

Bess, who was always jealous of any attention that Bobby got, said, “I’ve got something to show you, Cara.”

“I bet it won’t be as nice as the teddy bear!” Bobby yelled.

“It will too!” She came over beside Cara’s bed and said, “I’m going to show you a turkey trot.”

Cara could not imagine what such a thing might be. “What’s that, Bess?”

“It’s a new dance. Retta showed it to me. She goes out and learns all the newest dances, and then she teaches them to me. Here’s the way it goes. . . .”

Bess began to scuff her toes backward against the floor and said, “This is the chicken scratch—and this is the buzzard loop!” She held her arms extended and ran around the room making a noise as much like a turkey as she could. “And this is the turkey trot!” She bounced up and down on the balls of her feet and began craning her neck as gobblers sometimes do. She was so energetic and comical that they all began to laugh.

Cara had long known that Bess was able to mimic almost anything. At first she smiled, then laughed aloud at the antics of the youngster. The room filled with laughter, everyone teasing Bess, who relished being the center of attention.

“What is going on here?”

Instantly Bess stood still and her face went pale. Her eyes fell to the floor and her voice was barely audible as she answered her father. “I was just showing Cara the new dance step . . . the turkey trot, Papa.”

Oliver Lanier had opened the door and stepped inside. He was six feet tall and of a massive build with heavy arms and legs that bespoke the strength of a stevedore. His iron
gray hair had a slight curl to it, but his beard was almost pure brown. He had stern, cold blue eyes set in a square face, muttonchop whiskers, and now he stared around the room, his eyes settling on each one of his children. They all seemed to wilt before him. “Do you have no consideration at all for your sister’s health? I’m disappointed and shocked by your behavior.”