Miss Elva (22 page)

A few more feet of wall went silent.

“You’ll see, Noddie, ol’ girl. You can put in some of those spruce trees, like you like them. You won’t even miss ’em, startin’ all over again. Just paint ’em like I says this time.”

Elva stared expressionlessly at the movement of the roller. The vibrant colours were bleeding quickly
through the first coat of whitewash. It was going to take two, maybe even three coats.

“Hope that paint dries quickly.”

April stretched by the stove, scratched her underarm. “Will she do new ones?”

“She’ll do ’em. That’s all she’s good for.” Although she hadn’t painted a thing since the old man had visited. Winters finished rolling over the last of the walls. “That right, Noddie, ol’ girl?” he said loud, like she was hard of hearing.

“C’mon, Harry, honey.” It didn’t bother April that she was about to screw another woman’s husband right under her nose, not after she’d seen Elva. Poor guy by rights ought to be allowed a pity fuck.

“Just a quick poke, woman, while this dries. Gotta get more paint up before I lose the light.” Winters again snuck a peek at Elva.

“They were kinda pretty, you know, like kids drew ’em. All those fancy home magazines are full of that stuff. Pay big money for that now.”

“I ain’t going to be out o’ pocket, if you catch my drift,” Winters said with a tap to his forehead.

Thanks to the Church, guessed Elva. In all the years they’d been married Elva’s only value to her husband had been her contribution to his household accounts. Then Brother Rafe returned when Domenique Barthélemy died, three months after mediating the land crisis, and Winters was truly awed by Elva. Imagine that young fellow
saying, Name your price, Mr. Winters, to cover up that abomination of hers. Neither Elva nor Winters had any idea what an abomination was, but safe to say, it couldn’t be good. And for the money, Winters didn’t care.

“You know I was right to do it. It’ll bring us something for our keep, woman, maybe extra too.”

Winters handed Elva his can of paint, but her swollen hand couldn’t bear the weight. No matter, said Winters. You know, at times, he could imagine himself being right kind to her. He smiled at that, his breath tobacco-heavy, teeth yellowed from the habit. Then he patted Elva’s head before he followed April up the narrow stairs.

Blacks and reds were first to puncture through the veil. Blues, and Rilla’s favourite, yellow, followed. Another wash with white would take care of that.

With the death of Elva’s widower in 1977, their one-room home, having fallen into disrepair, vanished. Considered lost, its fate would remain unknown for the next quarter of a century while Elva Twohig-Winters’s artistic reputation, as well as the legend of her fabulously painted cedar cottage, steadily grew.

When the house was discovered hidden in a farmer’s shed, it was considered a major find, although it was in pieces and had been subjected to vandalism, rain seepage, exposure to salt air and vermin. Much of it was feared ruined.

Purchased by the Province of Nova Scotia, the pieces were loaded onto a flatbed truck and taken to a shopping mall, where the public watched conservators painstakingly restore the artist’s unique voice to its original condition. Upon completion, the three- by three-and-a-half metre house was reconstructed in a specially designed gallery, the centrepiece of a permanent exhibit simply titled “Miss Elva.”

Ontario-born, Montreal-educated, Stephens Gerard Malone has been a mortgage clerk in Calgary, a silver-service waiter in New Zealand, an envelope-stuffer in Toronto and a sex-advice columnist for
Instinct
magazine. He has written for a variety of media including television and periodicals. His novel
Miss Elva
was a finalist for the 2006 Dartmouth Book Award. Malone continues a love affair with Nova Scotia, where he has lived since 1986.