The Shadow Portrait (44 page)

At that moment the gun sounded, and Jolie yelled, “There they go!”

Oliver was startled at the roar of the engines, and suddenly all was blur and smoke and action. He could not tell what was happening, and as the car sped around the track, he tried vainly to put some meaning into it. One thing he saw immediately—this was a very dangerous occupation!

Jolie caught the look of confusion on Oliver’s face. “Look, Mr. Lanier, you see that yellow car? That’s the favorite. That’s the one to beat. It’s a Marmot and the fastest car in the race, at least in the trials. That’s the one Peter and Clinton have to beat.”

“And which one is Clinton in?”

“The bright red one. See?”

Oliver was somehow disappointed. “Why, they’re halfway back. He can never catch up and win.”

“Oh yes, they can!” Jolie exclaimed. “Some of those cars won’t be in the race before long. They’ll blow tires and engines will give out. All sorts of things will happen. It’s a long race, and Peter’s laying back. Peter and Clinton have decided just
to wait and let the others wear themselves out. Then they’ll catch up with that yellow bird. You’ll see.”

As the race continued, and Jolie pointed out what was happening, Oliver found himself fascinated. The speed of the machines amazed him, and the skill with which the drivers maneuvered around the curves and around one another was astounding. He found himself beginning to pull for the red car, and as time passed by and several cars dropped out, he exclaimed, “Look, they’re not all that far behind now! Only four cars ahead of them!”

“That’s right,” Jolie cried, “and the
Jolie Blonde II
can beat any of them!”

“Is the car named after you, Miss Devorak?”

“Well, yes it is.”

“She’s engaged to the driver, Mr. Lanier,” Avis said, who had overheard the conversation. “It’s a brand-new engagement, too. Only part of one day old.”

Oliver turned to face the young girl. He could see the slight scar on her face, but she was beautiful indeed. “My congratulations, Miss Devorak.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lanier. And my congratulations to you. You’re getting a fine son-in-law. I don’t know a better preacher in the country than George Camrose.”

Her praise of Camrose warmed Oliver and he nodded, but then somebody said, “Look, he’s spinning out!” He found his heart in his throat as he expected to see the red car crashing into one of the fences, but it was another car, a blue Oldsmobile, and looking quickly, he said, “Look, Peter and Clinton are only one car back now!”

As the race drew near the finish line, Jolie found herself amused, for Oliver began to wave his cane in the air. His eyes were fixed on the cars, and suddenly he cried in a booming voice, “Come on, Clinton! Come on, Clinton! You can win, boy! You can do it!”

Jolie winked at Avis, and they both laughed. But then the end was near.

A hundred yards from the finish line the
Jolie Blonde II
was axle to axle with the yellow Marmot. Both cars hurtled ahead, and both engines were open full.

The finish came when, from somewhere, an extra surge of power came to the
Jolie Blonde II.
Peter and Clinton bent forward as it shot ahead half a length, and the checkered flag went down, and the loudspeaker boomed, “And the winner is the
Jolie Blonde II,
driven by Peter Winslow and Clinton Lanier!”

“By George, that’s smashing!” Oliver shouted. He was so excited he had forgotten his bad leg.

“We’re going over to watch them get the award,” Jolie said.

“Well, I’m coming, too!”

“Push me along, Jolie!” Avis cried, and the three of them made their way across the track.

Jolie pushed the way clear, saying, “Open up for us!” and somehow they managed to make their way through the crowd to where Peter and Clinton were getting out of the car. Jolie ran forward and threw herself into Peter’s arms.

He caught her and said, “Well, how does it feel to be engaged to a successful driver?”

“I’ll tell you about that after we’re married,” she said. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Clinton had come around the car, his eyes on Jolie. He grinned as she threw herself into Peter’s arms, and then his eyes shifted and fell upon his father. He blinked and swallowed hard, and then his father marched right up to him and put his arm around him. “My boy, that was very exciting! I admire courage, son, and you have a lot!” He suddenly realized that he was holding his son for the first time since childhood. He started to step back with amazement but Clinton, his face black with grease and his eyes red with smoke fumes, held on to him.

“That means a lot coming from you, Father,” he said with a huge smile on his face.

Oliver blinked and could not believe the feeling this simple
sentence gave. He looked almost shyly at his son and said, “Maybe you and I could do some more things together.”

“Anytime.”

Avis watched the pair and thought,
A storybook ending. I didn’t think those existed.
She lifted her right leg and took tremendous joy in seeing it move. The other leg she raised only slightly, but her thigh tingled, and she prayed,
Lord, thank you for the miracle.

Clinton then turned to Avis. He couldn’t help but notice how beautiful she looked. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Warwick.”

She smiled demurely and replied, “I loved it! You’ve done a wonderful job with the
Jolie Blonde II.
”

“I didn’t do much really. Peter and Easy did all the real work.”

“I know how much you’ve helped by what Jolie has told me,” Avis insisted. “This victory is yours, too.”

Clinton found her compliments very pleasing and suddenly seemed at a loss for words. He could only mutter, “Thank you.”

Avis then said, “Do you think you could show me some of the additions you made to the
Jolie Blonde II?
”

“Why . . . why sure,” Clinton said, then pushed Avis toward the automobile. As he talked excitedly about the car and all they had done to it, Avis listened attentively.

As Peter and Jolie watched the two move away, Peter whispered, “Looks like there might be another wedding in the future.”

Jolie could only smile as she watched her two friends simply enjoying being together.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“I’ll Go Anywhere With You . . . !”

For nearly an hour Phil Winslow had sat on the side of his bed staring at the wall. It was not that the wallpaper was so enticing, for it merely consisted of a series of rather faded roses. He was as unaware of the faint sounds that came from Mrs. Brown’s housecleaning activities as he was of the traffic outside on the streets. He had pulled on a pair of clean brown trousers and slipped on his socks and was tying one shoe when suddenly a sense of futility swept over him. He sat holding the other shoe for a long time, staring at it blankly, as the events of his life seemed to swarm before his eyes. Finally he dropped the shoe and simply sat there staring, his eyes blank and unaware of anything in the room.

A loud screeching noise outside brought him out of his reverie with a start. Loud voices, one of them cursing, floated through the open window in the small adjoining sitting room. Then engines roared and moved on down the street. Phil picked up the shoe he had dropped, slipped his foot into it, and carefully tied the laces. Straightening up, he sat for a moment, almost paralyzed by indecision. Then he shook his head and muttered, “I’ve got to stop kidding myself. This is no good!”

Standing quickly, he walked over to the chest, opened a drawer, and pulled out a clean white shirt. He slipped into it, buttoned it, and stuffed it into his trousers, then pulled his suspenders up with a decisive tug. “Time to move on,” he murmured. His lips drew thin, for it was a decision that had
been pressing at him for days now. He had not sold a single painting yet and was as depressed as he had ever been in his life. He made a convulsive movement with his shoulders, as if shrugging off a burden, stepped over to the bed, and bent down. Pulling out his suitcase, he put it on the bed, opened it, and then began to move back and forth between the bed and the chest of drawers, packing his clothing and finally his shaving kit. By the time he finished, he had emptied the chest of drawers and the suitcase was stuffed. For a moment he stood there; then he fastened the suitcase. Picking it up, he took a last look around the room and a wave of regret swept over him.
I hate to leave here,
he thought,
but there’s nothing else to do.

Resolutely, he stepped outside and moved down the hall. He found Mrs. Brown sweeping the hallway and came over to her. “Mrs. Brown, I’ll be leaving and I wanted to say good-bye.”

A startled look leaped into her eyes, and she exclaimed, “Why, Phil, what brought this on?”

“Business failure.” Phil made himself grin. “I’ve given it the best shot I had. Now it’s time to go back and punch cows in Montana. I guess that’s what I was supposed to do all the time.” He put his arm around her and gave her a squeeze. “You’ve been more than a landlady. You’ve been like a second mother to me. I’ll miss you.”

Phil received her hug, then shook off her protests that it was too early to quit and left the rooming house. As he made his way down the street he calculated how much money he had left. It came to enough for a train ticket back to the ranch.
I’ve got to go by and tell Peter and the others good-bye, but I’ll miss them something fierce,
he thought. A heaviness settled on him as he walked slowly toward Maxim’s Gallery. When he entered, he found Maxim with a white apron on rearranging the paintings.

“Hello, Phil. Come to give me a hand? I’m redoing the whole thing.”

“I guess so,” Phil said.

Suddenly Maxim saw the suitcase in Phil’s hand. “What’s this?” He frowned. “You find another room?”

“I’m going back to my old room on the ranch. I’m cashing in my chips, Max.” Maxim was more shocked than Phil had imagined he might be. His eyes filled with concern, and he rushed over and shook Phil’s arm.

“No, you can’t do that! You’ve got to hang on a while longer. It’s just a matter of time.”

“I’ve been through all that, Max. I’ve been a drain on my family long enough. I’ll do what painting I can back home. What I wanted to ask you to do is to maybe keep a few of these, and I’d like to ship the rest of them. I think I’ve got enough money for that.”

Maxim was truly grieved. For some time he stood there arguing, but it was useless, for Phil was adamant. Finally Phil said, “I’m going over and say good-bye to Peter and Easy and Jolie. I’ll be back for my suitcase. The train leaves at six tonight.”

Leaving the gallery, Phil went at once to his friends’ rooming house, where he found Peter, Jolie, and Easy outside in the backyard, as usual, working on the
Jolie Blonde II.
They greeted him warmly, but when he told them he was returning to Montana, all of them began to argue with him. Phil listened to them, then grinned, saying, “Never was a hoss couldn’t be rode. Never was a cowboy couldn’t be throwed. So I guess I’ve been throwed this time, but I want to tell you three how much it has meant having you for friends.”

“Phil, it’s too soon to give up,” Jolie said. “You haven’t given it a fair chance.”

As she looked up at him he noticed how the scar on her face was so faint now that you had to be close to see it. He shook his head, then gave her a hug. “I’ve said all that to myself, Jolie, but I’ve got to go. Good-bye.” He reached over and shook hands with Peter and grinned. “I’d like to be at the wedding, but you’ll have to have it without me. So long, Easy.”

It was hard to say good-bye to these three. He promised to
write, as did they, but as he made his way back to Maxim’s, he knew such things never worked out very well. He was thinking,
Well, at least I’ve had a good run for my money. I’ve met some fine people. Some of my kin. I would never have met them if I had stayed on the ranch.

He went by George Camrose’s church long enough to bid him good-bye and promised to keep in touch when he got to Africa. “You take care of that young woman. She’s a winner.”

“You’re making a mistake, I think, Phil.” Camrose’s eyes were troubled, and he said, “What about Cara?”

“Why, I wish her well. She has a great talent but a difficult way to go.”

“Mary Ann says Cara is in love with you.”

“Oh, there’s nothing to that.”

“How do
you
feel?”

Camrose’s direct question troubled Phil, but he was honest. “She’s like no woman I’ve ever met. If things were different—” He broke off and shrugged his broad shoulders. “I don’t have anything to offer her, George. She’s always had everything.”

“That won’t mean anything to her if she loves you. Go tell her.”

“No, I can’t do that. It would be asking too much. Good-bye, George. God bless you. I’ll think of you in Africa, and you might say a prayer for me now and then.”

“You can believe I’ll do that!”

It was too early for the train, and for most of the day Phil simply wandered around saying good-bye to his old friends. He stopped by to bid farewell to Robert Henri and some of the other painters he had learned to admire. They were sad to see him go, and as Phil left them he felt his heart wrench, thinking,
I’ll never be around fellows like this. Not out on a cattle ranch.

As he walked the streets of the city, he came upon the Brooklyn Bridge and stopped for a moment. He remembered the times he had spent hours painting the image of the magnificent structure. “Won’t be any Brooklyn Bridges out on
the range,” he murmured. Then weary of his own thoughts, he turned and headed back to the art gallery.