The Shadow Portrait (39 page)

“I can’t do that!”

“Well, I’ll just believe without you, then. But it would help if you would join me.”

“I don’t know about all this faith business.” Avis shook her head with discouragement. She had never been a woman of any spiritual depth, and now the idea of God healing her was far beyond her imagination or hopes.

Jolie began to speak rapidly. “Sometimes we have to act on what little faith we have. Jesus said if it’s only as big as a grain of mustard seed, why, that’s all we need.”

“I don’t even have that much.”

“Yes, you do. God has dealt to every man a measure of faith. You know how much a measure is? Why, it’s over a quart, and all you need is as much as a mustard seed.” Jolie’s eyes were shining as she continued to speak. “Let me tell you what happened at church a month ago. There’s a lady there whose name is Mrs. Roberts. She has a wild, wayward boy named Jim. She had been praying for Jim for years. He’s forty years old now, and God gave her a promise that he was going to be saved at a meeting. Well, she told people about it, and people told Jim about it. He went to his mother and told her, ‘Why are you telling this crazy story? I’m not going to get saved at that meeting!’ And his mother just said, ‘Yes you are. God’s promised me.’ ”

“Kind of put the bug on Jim, didn’t it?”

“I don’t know what it did to Jim, but when the meeting
came and started, Jim wasn’t there. Everybody was waiting for him, but he didn’t show up. When the service was halfway over, he came stalking in. He looked angry. Later on he said he didn’t know why he came. Well, he sat there, and Brother Camrose preached a great sermon, and you could almost see Jim falling under conviction. God began dealing with him, and he got saved. He came forward at the altar call and gave his heart to Jesus Christ, and it was wonderful.”

Jolie leaned forward now and said, “And here’s the part I want you to hear. There was going to be a baptismal service after the regular service, and Brother Camrose said, ‘Well, Jim, if you had known this was going to happen, you could have brought some clothes to be baptized in. You could have been baptized with these other converts.’

“And Mrs. Roberts suddenly seemed to dive down under the seat. She came up with a brown paper sack and said, ‘I’ve got his clothes right here.’ Everybody was so excited. You see, Avis, she believed God so strongly that even though Jim was saying no, and people were telling her not to talk as she did, she believed God. She believed it enough to bring his clothes to be baptized in.”

Avis sat listening to the story, then after a moment she said in a subdued voice, “That’s a wonderful story. I wish I had that kind of faith, but I just don’t.”

Jolie Devorak leaned over and embraced Avis. “Then you’ll just have to go on my faith until you get some of your own.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

An Unguarded Moment

Mrs. Mason came to the backyard and stared with distaste at the scene she saw. A racing car painted a brilliant crimson, so red that it almost hurt her eyes, was propped up on wooden blocks. From underneath it two pair of legs jutted out, one set short, the other long. Sniffing with distaste, Mrs. Mason walked over and stared down at them and addressed them caustically. “How much longer are you going to take up all this room in the backyard with that awful machine?”

All four legs twitched and then two men wormed themselves out from under the car. Both of them were covered with grease, and their clothes were filthy. Easy Devlin winked merrily at his landlady and said, “Now, Mrs. Mason, you shouldn’t be talkin’ about this car like that. It’s going to win every race it runs in.”

Mrs. Mason shook her head. “I couldn’t be saying about that, but it takes up all the room out here. How much longer will it be?”

Uncoiling his lean six foot two inches and rising up slowly, Peter Winslow pulled a rag out of his hip pocket. He started to wipe his hands but then noted that the rag was perhaps even more covered with grease than his hands. Tossing it on the ground, he shrugged his shoulders, saying, “Well, let’s see. This is July fifteenth. The big race is on the twenty-fourth. How long is that?”

“Too long!” Mrs. Mason snapped. “You don’t leave much space for the children of my other tenants to play!”

Peter gave her a winning smile. “Now, Hattie,” he said, “you’ve got to be a little bit patient. One of these days you’re going to be saying, ‘Why, I knew Peter Winslow and Easy Devlin when they were just poor fellows starting out in the racing game. Now look at them. They’re millionaires and everyone applauds when they enter a room.’ ” He moved over and picked up a clean cloth and wiped his hands, then taking Mrs. Mason’s hand, he lifted it, kissed it, and said, “Now, Hattie, you wouldn’t want to offend a couple of future millionaires, would you?”

Hattie Mason’s face flushed. She was a heavyset woman of fifty, a widow, and was actually very fond of both Easy and Peter. She knew perfectly well that Peter was getting around her, but she could not resist him. “Well, all right. You don’t need to act like a movie star.”

“We’ll take you out to see our first race,” Peter said. “You’ll enjoy it.”

“I hate those nasty cars. Now, you give me a nice trotting horse race—not one of those where the jockey sits down right on the horse! I don’t think that’s decent—but a nice trotting horse, there’s nothing like it.” Being from Indiana, Hattie Mason still enjoyed keeping up with the Midwest’s best racer, Dan Patch.

“You’ll have to come and see us win, Mrs. Mason,” Easy said.

“Well, we’ll see. Now, it’s time to come in for lunch.”

“We’ll be in as soon as we get cleaned up.”

The two men went over and washed off the grease with gasoline and Easy remarked, with his nose wrinkled, “Gasoline sure does stink!”

“Would you want it to smell like perfume?”

“I’d smell a whole lot better than this. Cuts the grease, though. I’m going in and change clothes before we sit down to eat.”

Peter remained outside, washing the worst of the grease off his hands and thinking about the race that was to come.
He and Easy and Clinton had worked for hours on the car, and it had been good for all of them. Clinton Lanier had proved to be an able partner in all respects, and there was a freedom about him now that had been lacking when he had been living under his father’s roof. Right now he was out looking for parts for their new car, the
Jolie Blonde II,
and Peter was expecting him back soon. The voice he heard and made him look up, however, was that of Jolie, who had come through the house and stepped outside.

“Mrs. Mason says for you to hurry up. You’re going to miss lunch.”

“All right.” Peter began drying his hands off. He smiled when he turned and saw Jolie. She looked very fresh and pretty, wearing a new lavender dress trimmed with white lace and little daisy-shaped buttons. His eyes lingered for a moment on the bandage on her left cheek. It was a much smaller bandage now, for she had been back twice to see Dr. Leibnez, and when Peter had asked once how it was going, she had merely said, “It’s all right. Dr. Leibnez is satisfied.” Peter had been disappointed, for he had wanted instant results.

“How’s Avis?”

“Well, it’s strange. She’s not any better physically, but she’s
different
somehow.”

Peter frowned, and Jolie could see the guilt that had plagued him since the accident reflected in his eyes. He said nothing, though, and finally Jolie expanded on her thought. “It’s strange, Peter. She was always so lively and outgoing, and now she has long periods when she doesn’t say anything.”

“I know. I try my best to keep her encouraged, but I just don’t seem to get through to her. I worry about her all the time, Jolie.”

“I know you do, but it doesn’t do any good. I’ve changed my mind about her since I’ve gone there. God’s given me a great love for her that I didn’t have at first.”

Peter had finished cleaning his hands now and looked down at his old coveralls. “I’ve got to go change before lunch. Mrs.
Mason would never let me sit down with a mess like this on.” Still, he did not go but stood for a moment staring thoughtfully off into the blue sky. Something was on his mind, and he could not quite put it into words. “I can’t imagine how it’s going to turn out. I can’t just walk away and leave her. It’s my fault she’s ended up in that wheelchair.”

For a moment Jolie did not answer. She could sense the struggle going on in Peter’s heart. He was not a hard young man to read, for his feelings were quickly reflected on his expressive face. Finally she said, “Well, God’s going to do something. I’m believing that He’ll heal Avis so that she can walk again.”

Hope leaped into Peter’s eyes and his face lightened. “I’ve been praying for that, too. Have you told her?”

“Yes. She doesn’t believe, of course, but I’ve told her she’ll just have to go on my faith until she has some of her own.”

The situation with Avis Warwick was unlike anything Peter had ever known. Up until now, he had not really been responsible to anyone. But suddenly this tragedy had been placed upon him. It was a heavy burden for the young man. Finally he shook his head and started up the steps, saying, “I just don’t know how it’s going to come out, Jolie—but I know I can’t leave her.”

Jolie bit her lip as she watched Peter move slowly up the back steps, as though he carried a very heavy burden.
He’ll do what he thinks is right,
she thought.
He’s just that kind of man.

A few people moved about the interior of the gallery, and George Maxim looked up from time to time from the book he was reading to watch them. He had learned to judge customers very well and did not see anyone who looked like a hot prospect. His eyes kept going back to a small man, rather nondescript, and he said aloud, “That fellow likes to look—but he’ll never buy anything.”

Phil Winslow, who sat across from Maxim, cautiously sipping a cup of Maxim’s scalding hot coffee, followed his friend’s look across the cluttered room. “You mean that little fellow over there?” The object of their interest seemed incredibly average: somewhere between forty and sixty years of age; medium light brown hair; a bland, though somewhat sharp-featured, face; rather plain and utterly ordinary clothes, indicating neither riches nor poverty. “Do you know him, George?”

“He’s been in several times. Never buys anything, though. Just looks. Lots of people like him. You can’t stop people from looking.”

Phil’s brow suddenly furrowed. He slowly took a couple more sips of coffee, then shook his head. “I’m cluttering up your gallery with my junk. Nobody’s ever going to buy any.”

“You never know about that. Don’t worry about it.”

“Well, ever since the big show of The Eight, I’ve been expecting a rush of interest, but it hasn’t come.” He spoke of the show that had caught the attention of New York. “The Eight” was the Ashcan School of Artists, including George Luks and others of his persuasion. It had been widely covered by the media, not just in New York but nationwide. Most of the publicity had been unfavorable, and Phil had grown more discouraged.

“If fellows like George Luks can’t sell their paintings, how can I ever hope to?”

Maxim leaned back and put his book down. He removed his steel-rimmed glasses, rubbed his eyes, and then stretched hugely. “You can’t ever tell, Phil. Art is a funny business. A lot of artists don’t get any recognition at all while they’re alive. They have to die first.”

“That’s a cheerful thought!”

“But not everybody’s like that. Remember that when new artists went in for realism about fifty or sixty years ago, lots of people had a fit about it, but they wound up changing the art world. Why, even when the first big impressionists started
a few years later, the art establishment was pretty rejecting. But in time . . . why, if I could just get ahold of a few of old Monet’s canvases, I could get rich selling them.”

“Maybe I’d better start trying to paint like that.”

“No, that’s not your style,” Maxim said quickly. He pulled at his beard and his blue eyes were thoughtful as he studied his friend. He had been concerned about Phil Winslow, for, indeed, his young friend had almost given up hope of ever making it as an artist. No painter Maxim had ever known worked harder than this young man, and he had real talent.
He’s a fine painter.
Aloud he said, “Art is like a tide. Sometimes it goes out on certain kinds of painting, and then when the tide comes in, the public can’t seem to get enough of it.”

“Well, I’m about ready for the tide to come in.” Phil suddenly sat up straighter and moved his hand across his face in a gesture of futility. “I’m about ready to give it up. I feel like a bum, George. If I don’t sell something pretty quick, I’m going to go home and at least help on the ranch. I’ve let my family do all the work and support me, and here I am twenty-eight years old and still not making a living.”

Maxim immediately said, “Don’t do that! Once you quit you’ll never start again. I’ve seen it happen before.”

Phil listened appreciatively to the man’s words of advice and encouragement. He was as discouraged as he had ever been in his life, but still he did not want to give up. Somewhere deep down he was sure that he could succeed as an artist, but artists had to eat, and it greatly bothered him that he was still living off his father.