The Shadow Portrait (5 page)

“That would be bad,” Zach glowered. “A lawyer
and
a politician in the family at the same time. Don’t know how it could be much worse.”

“You stop that foolishness right now, Pa!” Lanie frowned at him. “Your youngest just might be President someday. I’m right proud of my little brother.”

“Uncle Phil,” Logan piped up, his bright eyes sparkling, “tell us all about what it’s like over where you went to.”

They all wanted to hear about his travels, but Phil was reluctant to say too much. He ate slowly, savoring his mother’s home-cooked food, and waved his fork around as he described some of his adventures. “I came back on a ship called the
Lancaster,
” he murmured. “We sailed from Cobh, Ireland, to New York in five days and forty-five minutes.”

“My, that’s something!” his mother said. “When I came over in steerage, it took a month and a half. I thought we’d never get here.”

“Neither did I! I was waitin’ for ya.” Zach winked at her.

Bronwen sniffed at this. “Waiting! I had to run you down and
make
you propose! I felt sorry for you!”

Everyone laughed, then suddenly Logan jumped from his chair and ran across the room, despite the warnings from his mother. Coming back, he held the paper up and said, “Look at this, Uncle Phil! I bet they ain’t got nothin’ like
this
in Paris or London.”

Taking the paper, Phil saw that it was a copy of the
San Francisco Chronicle.
“What’s in here you like so much?”

“Look here,” Logan said eagerly as he helped Phil turn the pages. “Look at this. It’s pictures and a story.”

“Why, sure it is! I never saw anything like this in a paper.”

“They call it a
comic strip,
I think,” Logan said. “This
one’s called
Mr. A. Mutt.
My cousin Cass sends it to me every week. After you finish eatin’ I’ll show ’em all to ya.”

“Now, don’t bother your uncle,” Bronwen scolded. “He’s had a long trip and is all tired out. He doesn’t want to read any silly things like that!”

“I guess I do, Ma,” Phil grinned. “It makes more sense than most of the things in the paper.” He studied the comic strip and shook his head. “What will they think of next?”

Suddenly Lanie spoke up. “I saw Lois Gardner last Thursday.” She tried to appear nonchalant, making the idle remark.

Instantly alarms went off in Phil’s head, for he and Lois Gardner had been seeing each other before he had left for Europe. He had fancied himself in love with her for a time, but she had not felt the same way toward him. “Is she married?” he asked.

“No,” Lanie said quickly. “She always asks about you every time I see her, though.”

“She had her chance at Phil,” Bronwen said firmly. She had never liked Lois Gardner, seeing nothing in her to admire, and now she said, “You stay away from that woman. She’s just out to snare a man, Phil.”

“I doubt if her father would want her to marry an impoverished artist with no future,” Phil laughed.

“Don’t say that,” Lobo spoke up. He was buttering a biscuit and bit off half of it before he nodded. “Some of them artist fellows make lots of money, I understand. Might as well be you.”

“That’s kind of you to say, Lobo,” Phil shrugged, “but there are about a hundred thousand starving artists all over Europe who can’t sell a thing they paint. I don’t think it will be much better in the States.”

After breakfast Phil spent the morning with his two young nephews. He took them out on horseback on some of the trails he had ridden as a youth. As he watched them carefully, he thought once,
It’s good to be home again. Why can’t I have sense enough just to stay here and marry Lois Gardner?
We could have ten kids, and with her old man’s money, he would set me up even if Pa wouldn’t—which, of course, he would.
The thought played around in his mind. He was an imaginative man who spent a great deal of time daydreaming, but there was a hard core of realism in him and he finally said to himself, “Lois wouldn’t care for starving in an attic in some big city, which is what I’ll be doing soon enough.”

The days passed pleasantly as Phil Winslow reacquainted himself with his homeland. Every day he rode the hills and the plains, helped Lobo with the cattle, and made short trips into town with his mother to do some shopping. It was a relaxing and easy time, but as the days went by, he grew more and more restless.

His mother was the first to notice. She had a keen sense of discernment, and finally one day after supper, as they sat together on the front porch looking out toward the golden sun sinking behind the mountains, she said, “Tell me, now, Phil. What is it that’s in your heart?”

Phil was jolted out of his reverie, for in truth, his mind had wandered far away from the beautiful sunset before him. He leaned over and squeezed her arm. “You know me best, Ma. I never could figure out how you knew exactly what I was thinking.”

“Well, devil fly off! It’s not hard. You’re so preoccupied, I’m surprised you don’t run into a tree. What is it? More painting, I think.”

Phil shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve been telling myself what a fool I’d be to leave this place again. Everything I could ever want is right here. Why, I even thought about proposing marriage to Lois Gardner.” He smiled and saw his mother’s face tense. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not going to.”

“I know.” Bronwen turned and her face softened. “You’ll be leaving soon, won’t you, Phil?”

“I’m afraid so, Ma.”

“I knew it. I told your father two days after you got here that you would never stay.”

They sat there talking, and soon Zach came out and joined them. A quietness had settled over the land, and the stars began to twinkle like diamonds in the ebony sky. Finally Phil said softly, “I know you’re disappointed in me, Pa. I’m not the kind of son you’d like to have had.”

“Don’t you believe it,” Zach said quickly. “I don’t know much about painting, but you’ve been given something special that’s not in most men. The only thing I want, son, is for you to do this painting business for the glory of God. That’s what the Scriptures say. Whether you eat or drink or paint, do it all to the glory of God.”

“I never read that last part, Zach!” Bronwen scolded him. “But I know what you mean,” she added. “Do you think you can be an artist for the glory of God, son?”

Many times, all alone in his room in London, Phil had thought of his parents. He remembered the hours upon hours that his father and mother had read the Scriptures to him when he was a child. They were the best Christians he knew, and he had come to accept the Lord himself at an early age. Though Paris and London had their share of grave temptations, he had found a good church in London and had kept his faith intact. Now, however, he was somewhat confused, and he said, “Back in the Middle Ages everyone painted for the glory of God. If you painted at all, you painted the Holy Family, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, or one of the saints. Things have changed a little bit since then. I’ve wondered a lot how I could serve God as a painter.”

“If that’s what you want, why, you’ll find it. God will help you,” Bronwen said.

“I’ll be leaving right away.”

“Your mother told me she thought you would,” Zach said. “Where will you be going?”

“New York, I think.”

“Will you be in an art school?”

“Yes, I think so. I’ve learned a lot of techniques over in Europe, but now I need to get the feel of America again. I guess I can find some interesting things to paint in a city as big as New York.”

“Well, you’ve got kinfolk there. Several of them. Mark Winslow is getting on in years like I am, but he’s still a mighty important man. If you need any help, you could go to him.”

“I don’t think I’ll trouble him. I want to make it on my own. You were good, Pa, to help me through this trip. I know I couldn’t have made it if it hadn’t been for your help, and I appreciate it.”

“There’s plenty more where that came from. Whatever I can do. Just let me know.”

Phil hesitated. “Thanks, Pa. I’ll remember that. Maybe I will let you help me financially. It doesn’t make any sense to go to New York and work all day just to stay alive when I’m going to learn how to paint.”

Zach Winslow was a thoughtful man. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll send you some money every month. If it’s not enough, you write and let me know. You turn your head to this painting business. Learn how to do it and serve God. That’s what I want to see. Never think I’m disappointed in you. Your mother and I are very proud of you. When I look at those paintings on the wall, I’m just glad God gave us a son with such a gift. I know it’s going to work out for you, son.”

Once again Phil Winslow thought how blessed he was to have such caring and supportive parents. He thanked them quietly, then went over and hugged his mother, kissed her, then slapped his father on the shoulder. “I’ll be leaving soon, but I won’t forget it.”

That night he went to bed knowing he’d only have a few days left to enjoy his home, and he offered up a prayer to God. “I don’t know how I can make a painting to glorify you, Lord, but I’m sure going to try. Keep me from wrongdoing in that big city and let me serve you with all my heart. In the name of Jesus I ask it.” He closed his eyes and for a long time lay
there thinking about what the future held for him. He had no plans except to pursue his goal of serving God with all of his heart through his greatest passion—painting.

CHAPTER THREE

Big City Encounters

The city of New York hit Phil Winslow with a tremendous impact. He was not unacquainted with large cities, having wandered the streets of London and Paris, but something about the bustling, raucous streets and the raw culture that had exploded on the island of Manhattan struck him with the force of a sledgehammer.

It all began when he alit from his sleeping car at the Grand Central Terminal and was immediately engulfed in a confused mass of people streaming everywhere. His ear was filled with a polyglot babble, and as he stood there for a moment, he exclaimed to himself in amazement, “Why, I never heard such a thing!” He had known, of course, that New York had been flooded by the Irish and Germans, but he also heard languages he was pretty sure came from other countries—he guessed Italy, Poland, and Russia.

The tracks stretched out endlessly, with trains lined up one after the other. Some of them were sending boiling clouds of steam and smoke high into the air, and others were releasing hissing jets of steam from underneath that threatened to engulf the other trains. Shaking his head, Phil wandered around in the mass of people that were arriving and disembarking. Finally, he made his way to a broad street outside the Grand Central Terminal. He wanted to find a room close to the art institute, so he walked across the street to a cabby who was leaning against his horse-drawn vehicle carefully peeling
an apple and asked, “Say, buddy, can you tell me where the American Institute of Art is?”

“Sure. It’s not far off Fifth Avenue, down near Madison Square. Need a lift?”

“How much would it cost?”

The driver was a lanky man with narrow brown eyes and a mouth full of enormous teeth. He chomped into the apple, chewing on it thoughtfully, and then nodded. “One buck. Welcome to the big city.”

Grinning, Winslow tossed his suitcase into the carriage and said, “You’re on!”

A garrulous individual, the driver informed Winslow that his name was Harry Grebb. After Winslow had introduced himself, Harry asked, “Where you comin’ from, Phil?”

“Montana. But I’ve been across the water for a while studying art.”

“That so? Now you’ve come to the big city.”

“I guess so.”

“Gonna be a painter, are you?”

Phil shrugged, saying noncommittally, “I’m going to study anyway.”

“I knowed a painter once. Nuttiest fellow I ever met! Didn’t stay sober a day in his life that I know of. He was doing some painting down the street from me. Just paintin’ the streets. That street I live on ain’t nothin’ to write home about. He got so drunk I had to hold him up while he painted.”

“Were his paintings any good?”

Grebb made a grimace, then bit into the apple again. Chewing thoughtfully like a cow munching on her cud, he said, “Well, like I said, Phil, the street I live on ain’t never gonna be on no postcard. I told him I’d take him over to Fifth Avenue where he could paint some of those fancy houses, but he never would do it. Said he wanted to paint life like it really was.”

“I bet I know what you told him. You probably said that Fifth Avenue is life like it is for the Vanderbilts and the Astors.”

Grebb laughed aloud. “You’re pretty sharp, Phil! That’s exactly what I told him! Come on now, hoss! We’ll show Phil here some real fancy places.”

As they proceeded down the busy streets, Harry Grebb gave Phil a brief history lesson. Harry knew a surprising amount of history about New York, since he had lived there all of his life, as had his parents. He improved Phil’s knowledge of the place with many interesting details. “Fifth Avenue,” he said, waving with his whip, “was just a dirt avenue once. That was back when my great-grandfather had a farm not far from here. He was Dutch. Fifth Avenue got started when a Dutch family decided to build a mansion on the place. They called it the “Brevoort.” They built it right over there, facing onto Fifth. You see it? And then they built a hotel, and pretty soon churches started buildin’ all over the place. The mayor moved in there, then all the rich folks took a likin’ to it. I guess they all wanted the name Fifth Avenue on their address.”