The Carousel Painter (4 page)
Deep inside, a stab of longing pierced my being. How I missed watching Papa stand in front of his shabby wooden easel with a palette in one hand and a paintbrush in the other. I missed his impatience when he awakened to a day without sunshine. I missed his rare words of approval. His praise had been reserved only for my painting. And because he’d never noticed much else about me, I’d cultivated what talent I possessed like a gardener nurturing tender sprouts.
I was certain I’d never be as good as he, but I was compelled to try. I mimicked his technique until the day he said true artists worked to discover their own style. Still, I admired how each stroke of his brush would caress the canvas with bold splashes of color and then fade into haunting shadows, draping his work in mystery. In the last years of his life, he continually labored toward perfection, never pleased with his work, always convinced he could do better. If only he hadn’t died.
I stared into the darkness that lay beyond the bedroom window. A distant star twinkled. Was God out there in that vast emptiness looking down on me? Or maybe my mama could draw back the curtain of heaven and see me in this strange new place. I knew Mama was in heaven because when Papa hadn’t been within earshot, she had talked to me about God. Even though Papa hadn’t approved, Mama and I attended church when we lived in New Hampshire. He never came with us. He said God was for weak people who needed a crutch to get through life. Mama didn’t agree. She said believers were the strong ones because they had faith in something beyond what they could see and feel. I tended to agree with Mama. At least until she died. Since then, I wasn’t so sure. But I did want to believe
someone
loved me.
T
he following morning Augusta announced that the two of us would be taking a tour of Collinsford. She’d be leading the tour, and I would be the only tourist. I explained I’d slept very little the previous night and was weary from my travels, but to no avail.
Augusta took a military stance in front of the mirror and, with the authority of an officer leading troops into battle, jabbed a hatpin into her flower-festooned hat. We locked glances in the mirror. “The only way you’re going to become comfortable living in Collinsford is to learn your way around town. I think you’ll be surprised when you see the size.”
“Just don’t become angry if I fall asleep in the carriage.” I leaned against the front door. “Besides, I observed a great deal of the town on my ride from the railroad station.”
After a final look in the mirror, she turned around. “The wagon would have traveled along the outer edge of town. You didn’t see the things we’re going to see today. Besides, I want to show you something very special.”
I didn’t argue. There was a determined look in her eye, and I knew I wouldn’t win. She pointed to my hat, and after I’d fastened it on top of my head, we went out the door. Once inside the carriage, I listened with half an ear while Augusta spouted the wonders of Collinsford. With breathless excitement, she expounded upon the many fine dress shops and the fact that they were always well stocked with the latest fashions. I didn’t mention such information was useless to me, since I didn’t even have enough money to purchase life’s necessities.
Augusta straightened her shoulders. I could hear the pride in her voice when she told me that Collinsford held the distinction of being the largest city in Ohio, as well as the seventh largest city in the entire country. You would have thought she’d built it with her very own hands. Then she boasted of the city’s proximity to Lake Erie—a wonderful place for a respite from the summer’s heat, especially for those unable to leave home for the entire summer. Though I doubted I’d ever have the time or financial resources to visit Lake Erie, I agreed that it sounded lovely.
A streetcar rumbled down the cobblestone road, and Augusta used the opportunity to further boast of the city’s attributes. “The streetcar tracks crisscross a great deal of the city, making travel quite simple.”
She stared at me, obviously expecting a response, and I did my best to proclaim the innovation absolutely wonderful. I had to admit the city was much larger than I’d anticipated. Yet Collinsford was nothing like Paris. Nor was it anything like the small New Hampshire village where I’d occasionally gone shopping with Mama. And though it was interesting to hear about Lake Erie and see the fine stores along Liberty Avenue, they wouldn’t have any effect upon my life. I wouldn’t be summering at the shore or purchasing fancy dresses to attend teas and spring parties.
“Close your eyes. We’re almost there and I want to surprise you.”
I was pleased to comply with her request. She still didn’t comprehend how much I longed for a restful nap.
“You can open them now,” she said. When I didn’t immediately respond, she nudged her elbow into my side and raised her voice at least an octave. “Look!” She pointed to the carriage window.
I forced my eyes open and peered out the window. A massive white marble structure that vaguely resembled pictures I’d seen of the Greek Parthenon loomed in the distance. The sight was enough to capture my attention and erase any thoughts of sleep. “What is that?”
Augusta grabbed my hands and bounced forward on the carriage seat. “You’re going to love this. It’s the Collinsford Museum of Art. The city voted to build the museum to encourage civic pride and artistic culture. We’re the first city in Ohio to complete our museum. It’s been open for only three months.” She leaned closer. “It cost over a million dollars.”
The moment Thomas opened the carriage door, we stepped down and hastened toward the museum entrance. For the remainder of the morning, we meandered through the gallery exhibits and viewed the rooms filled with paintings. I studied each canvas with a critical eye and decided few of them equaled my father’s work. Though some would say my opinion was tainted because of the familial relationship, I know that isn’t the case.
Years of traipsing through art galleries and museums with my father and his friends taught me to recognize exceptional art—and my father’s art was exceptional. Unfortunately, the world never had the opportunity to discover him.
“I knew it would cheer you to come here,” Augusta said as we prepared to depart.
There was no doubt Augusta’s intent had been virtuous. But instead of heartening me, the visit left me longing for my father and feeling even more alone. I didn’t have time to dwell on such thoughts for long.
My other surprise was lunch at the Camellia Tea Room. I did my best to appear comfortable, but the formal restaurant was patronized by the socially elite, and I was out of my element. I truly appreciated Augusta’s kindness, but I would have much preferred leftover roast beef on slices of thick homemade bread while sitting in the park—preferably without shoes and stockings. I sighed with relief when we finally exited the place, thankful I hadn’t dropped my fork or spilled tea down the front of my dress.
I glanced upward toward the windows in the three-and four-story buildings that surrounded the restaurant. “Does your father work in one of these buildings?”
Augusta nodded. “A few blocks down the street.” She tipped her head to one side and looked out from beneath the brim of her hat. “We should surprise him with a visit. Want to?”
My choices were two: shop in the variety of stores that lined the busy Collinsford business district or visit Mr. Galloway’s office. The choice was simple. Augusta gave the carriage driver directions, and within a few minutes we were in front of a four-story brick building.
“Here we are.” She locked arms with me, and we entered the front door. “His office is upstairs,” she said, leading me toward a flight of marble steps.
When we arrived on the second floor, we walked down the corridor and stopped in front of a door with thick rippled glass that reflected light but didn’t permit a view inside. Hanging on the wall to the right was a small black plaque with the words
Howard Galloway & Company
printed in gold letters. Below the name was a gold fist. The extended index finger pointed toward the door. I wondered who the “and company” was, but there wasn’t time to ask before Augusta opened the door and the two of us entered.
A matronly woman looked up when we entered. Her graying hair was pinched into a tight bun that rested on the center of her head like a sparrow’s nest. Though severe, the hairstyle was no match for the piercing look we received.
“Good afternoon, Miss Galloway.” The thin-lipped greeting was less than welcoming, but Augusta didn’t appear to notice.
“Good afternoon, Miss Markley. We’re here to see my father. Is he in?”
The woman pulled a pencil from the bird’s nest and traced it down an open page on her calendar. “He is, but he has an appointment at the carousel factory.” She looked at the clock hanging near the door. “If he’s going to arrive on time, he’ll need to leave in five minutes.”
Augusta grabbed my hand and pulled me past Miss Markley’s desk. “Oh good. He can take us with him. Won’t that be fun?”
The question was directed at me, but Miss Markley jumped to her feet and stepped in our direction. “I don’t believe it’s a place for young ladies. Let me tell your father you’re here.”
Augusta waved the older woman back to her chair. “No need. Go on with your work, Miss Markley.” Augusta continued to pull me toward a door at the other side of the room.
For some reason I’ll never know, I glanced over my shoulder and was met with Miss Markley’s fiery eyes. I was certain they could have burned holes in my dress. Hoping to diffuse the situation, I offered a weak smile and shrugged. Miss Markley clenched her fingers into rigid fists. My gesture had made matters worse. “Miss Markley’s unhappy,” I hissed at Augusta.
“I think she was born unhappy,” Augusta whispered in reply. “She’ll be fine when she sees that Father is pleased by our visit.”
I hoped Mr. Galloway would be pleased. Otherwise we faced the possibility of our dresses or hair being singed by another one of Miss Markley’s scorching glares. Augusta tapped on the door. She didn’t wait for a reply before entering. Mr. Galloway appeared momentarily perplexed, but a broad smile immediately erased any sign of confusion.
He pushed back from his desk and stood to welcome us. “What brings you lovely young ladies to my office?”
“After visiting the museum, we stopped for lunch and then decided to come by and say hello. Miss Markley tells me you’re going to the carousel factory. We’d enjoy going with you.”
He hesitated. “I think you would much prefer a visit to Faber’s Department Store, wouldn’t you?” Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew his money clip and peeled back several bills.
Augusta shook her head. “We don’t need money for shopping. Both of us would rather go with you and see the factory. We promise to stay out of the way. Besides, you’ve told me over and over that you’d give me a tour. This is the perfect opportunity.”
While Augusta continued her plea, I surveyed Mr. Galloway’s office. A bank of windows lined two full walls of his corner office, and light flooded the room. Papa would have loved this place. He could have painted wonderful pictures here. Dark walnut crown molding emphasized the high plaster ceilings. The room was filled with bookshelves, a long library table, several chairs, and Mr. Galloway’s desk. I wondered what he did in this room all day long. Papers were strewn across his desk, and a book lay open on the library table, but those told little of the work performed here. I was accustomed to seeing tangible evidence: a partially painted canvas or sketches drawn on thick paper and spread out across the floor. Here there was neatness. No feeling of creativity.
“Carrie?” Augusta was standing beside me with a quizzical look in her eyes. “Are you ready to go?”
“Forgive me. I was daydreaming.” I hurried after Mr. Galloway, for I didn’t want to be left behind to face Miss Markley on my own.
I thought Mr. Galloway would take his buggy and meet us there. Instead, he joined us in the carriage. “I’ll come back for the buggy later,” he said.
The thought of visiting the factory excited me. Perhaps because the one time Papa had painted my picture, I had been sitting on a carousel horse. That was back when Mama was alive—when we lived in New Hampshire. I know we didn’t have much money, but we’d left home in Grandpa’s wagon to go on a Sunday afternoon picnic. We traveled for what seemed like forever, but I was only five years old, so it may not have been all that far. When we stopped at the park for our lunch, I remember Papa was surprised to hear music. The three of us went to explore and find the band. After a short hike, we came upon a small group of men playing near a carousel with beautiful horses. Mama said we didn’t have money for such silliness, but Papa shook his head and sat me on a huge white horse with flaring nostrils and a flowing mane. Once I had settled into the saddle and grasped the leather straps, he and Mama sat down on the grass. The music began, and while the carousel circled around and around, Papa pulled out his sketchbook and drew a picture of my horse. Not me, just the horse.
When I asked him why he hadn’t drawn me in the sketch, he assured me I’d be sitting on the horse when he finished the painting. And I was. He even remembered I’d been wearing my soft blue dress with the crocheted lace collar. I had declared the picture a work of perfection. At five years old I thought my life was perfect, too. Fifteen years later, I’d readily admit that my life is far from perfect.
