The Shadow Portrait (30 page)

“I don’t have any things. Let’s go,” she replied briefly.

“All right then.” He took the wheelchair and lifted it up with a grunt to a rack on top of the car, lashing it down with some cord he had brought. He quickly moved to the front of the car, cranked the starter, and when the engine caught, leaped in and stepped on the gas. The large car moved jerkily out into the middle of the street.

“I met your nurse, Mrs. Taylor, this morning.”

“She’s not a nurse. She’s just my housekeeper, but she can help me do the things I can’t do for myself.” Avis was looking out, avoiding Peter’s gaze, as the car threaded its way down the street. The April sun was rising high overhead, and the blue sky was dotted with fluffy pink clouds. The air was warm, and it ruffled Avis’s hair so that she shook it and ran her hand through it.

Peter had to make all the conversation, for Avis was silent, just staring out the window. Finally he pulled up in front of a gray brick building. “It’s a good thing you live on the first floor. Without an elevator we couldn’t get the chair upstairs very easily.”

“Yes, aren’t I lucky!”

Ignoring the bitterness in her voice, Peter stepped out, untied the wheelchair, and put it down. Opening the door, he reached in and said, “Here we go.” He plucked Avis out, then sat her down in the chair and carefully covered her with the blanket. As he wheeled her across the sidewalk, a man walked by and looked at Avis curiously.

“What are you staring at?” she demanded.

The man flushed, dropped his eyes, and murmured, “Sorry,” and walked on away.

“Have to go up backward here,” Peter said. The landing was three steps high, and carefully he lifted her up as smoothly
as he could. He could not help jolting her a little bit, for he was somewhat awkward. Opening the door, he held it with his foot and backed in, and said as a woman approached, “Hello, Mrs. Taylor.”

“Hello, Mr. Winslow, Mrs. Warwick. Glad to see you home.” Mrs. Taylor was a tall, gaunt woman with rather forbidding features. She had served as Avis’s housekeeper for some time. She was a humorless woman, Peter had quickly learned, and now she said, “I’ll put you to bed if you’re ready.”

“No, I’ve had enough of bed.”

“Well then, I’ll go fix lunch.”

When Mrs. Taylor turned and left, Peter said, “Where would you like to go, Avis?”

“In there. In the library.”

“All right.” Peter wheeled the chair through the foyer over polished oak floors and turned left into a large library. He had been here earlier to make sure that things were ready for Avis, but he had not been in this room. Lifting his eyes, he was almost staggered by the books that lined every wall, most of them in leather covers. “Quite a library,” he said. “I didn’t know you were such a reader.”

“My husband was. At least he collected books. He didn’t read them all, though.”

She reached forward, seized the wheels, and propelled herself over to the window, then awkwardly wheeled the chair about. “Thanks for the ride. You don’t have to stay around.”

“Why, I thought you might invite me for lunch.”

“All right, then. You’re invited.”

Peter, as usual, felt awkward around Avis. She had a peculiar expression in her eyes, as if she expected him to say or do something, but he could not for the life of him decide what it was. Nervously he turned and went over to one of the bookcases. He studied the titles and said, “Mostly philosophy books. Over my head.”

“They were over Charles’ head, too, but he hated to admit it.”

Peter moved to another shelf and said, “Well, here’s a pretty new book—and one I’ve actually read.” He picked out the book and brought it back. Turning to her, he said, “
The Call of the Wild
by Jack London. Have you read it?”

“No.”

“London likes to write about dogs. This one is about a big dog. He was stolen from the south land and taken to the Yukon during the Alaska gold rush. They made a sled dog out of him.”

“I don’t think I’d like a dog story.”

“Well, actually,” Peter said, “it’s more than that.” He came over and sat down across from Avis. The furniture, he noted, was expensive. His eyes took in the large mahogany desk, its pond lily desk lamp with a green slag and white leaded glass shade, the dark oak end table holding a Tiffany spider web lamp, and the overstuffed easy chairs with high backs and scrolled legs. He thumbed through the book he held and said, “It’s really a sad book in a way. The only way Buck learns to survive in the north is to steal. There were only so many fish for the sled dogs, and he learned to steal in order to stay alive. Some other dog had to starve for that, of course. Evidently that’s the way London feels about things: dog eat dog—survival of the fittest. That’s what that fellow Darwin said. That we’re all just some superior kind of monkey.”

“Maybe he’s right,” Avis said tonelessly.

“No, he’s not right,” Peter shook his head firmly. “A man’s more than a monkey. You know,” he said, “when I was a boy I had a dog named Dandy, and that dog and I did everything together.” A smile touched his broad lips, and he thought back to his childhood. He made a lanky shape as he sat there holding the book in his strong hands. His hazel eyes were dreamy as he spoke of that time long gone. “Dandy and I played every game you could imagine. He slept in my bed when my mother didn’t catch him. We probably even ate out of the same dish. But you know something, Avis?” He looked at her and grew tremendously sober. “When I knelt
down at night to say my prayers,” he hesitated, then shook his head, “Dandy didn’t know anything about that. There’s a difference.”

“You really believe that, Peter?” Avis asked. She cocked her head to one side and grasped the handles of her wheelchair so that her knuckles turned white. “You really believe that there’s a God who cares what happens to us?”

“Why certainly!”

“Well I don’t!” Avis clasped her hands together suddenly, squeezed her fingers, then shook her head. “I think it’s all chance. Darwin’s right, and London, too.”

“I don’t like to hear you talk like that. Of course, my parents are Christians and they gave me a good start, but I know that Jesus Christ is who He said He was—that He’s the Son of God. I know that much.” He rose quickly and put the book back in its place on the shelf, then turned and came to sit down beside her. “I don’t mean to preach at you, but I don’t see how I could go on without God in my life.”

Avis did not answer. She had recovered some of her color, but still there was a stubbornness that revealed itself in the set of her lips and in the tenseness of her cheeks. She was an attractive woman, even as ill as she had been, and there was a rebelliousness that had been deeply ingrained in her. Now as she listened to Peter speak about God, she said nothing, but there was a set to her back as she held herself upright that told Peter his words were falling on deaf ears. Thinking it better not to press it, he said, “I’ll tell you what. Let’s pick one of these books and read it together, you and I.”

“You don’t have to entertain me.”

“Why, I’m entertaining myself,” he said. He rose and walked around the room, perusing the shelves of books, then finally selected one. “What about this one?
Poems of Robert Browning.
I’ve always liked Browning. I don’t understand some of his poems, but some of them are as good as anything I’ve read.” He walked back toward Avis and said, “Some of his writing is so obscure. One time Elizabeth Browning
asked what a certain line meant that he had written in one of his poems. He took it from her and looked at it, then after a while he scratched his head.” A grin came to Peter’s lips then. “And Browning said, ‘When I wrote that only God and Robert Browning knew what it meant. Now only God knows what it means.’ ” He laughed and was rewarded by seeing her features relax. “Here, let’s start with this one. If you don’t know it, it might be fun. It’s called ‘My Last Duchess.’ He sat back and began to read: “ ‘That’s my last Duchess painted there looking as if she were alive. . . .’ ”

As the days passed Jolie grew more and more preoccupied with Peter’s behavior and his almost frantic efforts to see that Avis was well cared for. She grew weary of hearing his reports, for Peter had quickly discovered that Mrs. Taylor was not a good companion at all for Avis. He had said on various occasions, “She’s a cheerless, griping old woman, and Avis needs someone with her at this time who’s got some joy and some hope. I’d like to throw the woman out the window!”

Jolie had sympathized with his concern. She had visited Avis twice and found Mrs. Taylor to be exactly as Peter described her. Even though Jolie was concerned about Avis’s physical condition, she was even more concerned about Peter’s mental and emotional state. With each passing day, she saw him becoming more and more obsessed with the tragedy that had blown up in his face. She had tried to get him involved in other things, but he seemed to have lost all interest, even in car racing. Since he had no car to work on, Jolie knew he needed to find something else to throw his energies into.

One morning when she woke up, she was vaguely aware that something had come to her during the night. She lay there in the twilight state between sleep and wakefulness, and at first she thought it was merely one of those dreams that come just when one is emerging from deep sleep. But the longer she lay there, the more clearly she remembered how
she had awakened several times in the night, and always the same thought had come to her. It was almost imperceptible at first, but then it came more and more strongly. There was something almost frightening about it, and she threw the covers off, got up, and dressed, determined to put it out of her mind. She went to work, and all that afternoon, and all during the performance, she could not help but think of the dream, or whatever it was, that had come to her. Despite every attempt to put it out of her mind it did not fade, and that night when she went to bed she did not fall asleep right away. The impression came back to her, and she knew she could not ignore it. She slept only fitfully that night, and the next morning she made an early visit to Calvary Baptist Church. Since the evening she had given her heart to God, she had visited the church often and had learned to trust George Camrose’s godly counsel.

George was working in his small study when Jolie arrived. He rose quickly to greet her. “Well, Jolie, it’s good to see you. Come in.”

Jolie smiled nervously and sat down on the chair across from Camrose’s desk. “Are you open for business, Pastor?” she asked.

“Always open for business. What’s on your mind?”

Jolie leaned forward. “Something’s happening to me. I don’t know what it is exactly, but night before last I had something I thought was a dream. It came several times, and when I woke up the next morning, I tried to put it out of my mind, but it happened again last night.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

“Yes, I suppose so. It will sound foolish, though.”

“Can’t be as foolish as some of the dreams I’ve had.” George Camrose smiled as he folded his hands. He saw that she was serious and even a little bit afraid. “What is it, Jolie? It stops here, you know. No one will ever hear it from me.”

“Oh, it’s nothing all that shameful. I have had some rotten
dreams, but this time I don’t think it’s bad like that. It’s just simply a sentence. ‘I want you to help Avis Warwick.’ ”

“That’s all?” Surprise caused Camrose to open his eyes wide. “It’s probably not being overly presumptive to think that it may be the Lord speaking. Avis needs all the help she can get.”

“I think it’s more than that. It’s as if I’m supposed to
really
help her. To devote my life to her for a while.”

“I see!” Camrose stroked his chin thoughtfully, then shrugged. “What makes you feel this is God speaking and not merely your own thought?”

“I
know
this isn’t my thought!” Jolie said abruptly. “I don’t like her! I never did, and I think she’s been a bad influence on Peter! I think she’s toyed with him! I don’t think she’s a good woman!”

Once again surprise showed in Camrose’s eyes. “That’s pretty strong,” he remarked. “But at least it means that helping her isn’t something you’d do out of your own natural impulses. So you really think it’s of God, Jolie?”

Jolie shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “That’s what I’ve come to ask you about. Do I just quit my job and announce that I’m there to help her? She’d probably throw me out.”

“She might. She’s capable of it.” He grinned wryly. “She’s practically thrown me out every time I tried to visit with her, but she’s really a very frightened woman. She’s always been able to handle everything, but now she’s feeling something she can’t handle. Anybody would be afraid under her circumstances. Her whole life has suddenly gone awry.” He thought for a moment, then said, “Peter’s afraid she’ll commit suicide.”

“I know.”

“He told you?”

“Not in so many words, but the way he’s talked about his fears, I know that’s what he’s thinking. Do you think it’s possible?”

“I think it is, Jolie. Here’s a woman who’s always been
able to control herself, her life, and her circumstances. She could even control people. Now she’s helpless. Everything she’s always wanted to do, she’s done, but now all that’s changed. I don’t know where that could lead, but I think she feels trapped with no way out.”