Chapter Six
When we told my father, his first question was, “Is she gettin’ paid for it?”
“In respect for her worth as an artist. Did you ever put a value on that, Melville?” Grandfather asked him. “Respect?”
“Yeah, I tried buyin’ some groceries with it, but they wouldn’t sell,” Daddy said dryly.
Grandfather shook his head. “If you look down on everyone and everything but the almighty dollar, Melville, you’ll eventually break your neck.”
“Little late for those sorts of lessons, Father. You’re takin’ off work to visit the art gallery?”
“There’s nothing urgent pending, Melville. You can come along and take pride in your daughter’s work.”
“I got the Pendletons comin’ to meet in the mornin’. I want to get that delivery cost to North Carolina reduced. It doesn’t fit the model I created.”
“You created? That ratio has been there since you were twelve,” Grandfather said.
“It’s gotta be fixed,” Daddy insisted. “Last I checked, we’re not a charity.”
“Whatever,” Grandfather said. “We’re leaving at eight thirty if you change your mind.”
He didn’t, but Grandfather didn’t say another word about it.
I was too excited to care as well. Once we got to the dock at Bar Harbor, it only took about five or six minutes to arrive at the Doyle Art Gallery, which occupied a whole building.
It was a much less costly imitation of the famous Building of the Arts because of its four large columns and steps to the portico and main entrance.
I used to dream about this, and now the dream had come true.
Mommy would surely have been even prouder of me than Grandfather.
I couldn’t help feeling guilty being so happy.
“You’re thinking about your mother, aren’t you?” Grandfather asked. I nodded. He put his arm around my shoulder to give me a hug. “She’s with us. Just like your grandmother,” he said.
We started for the building. Eddie Doyle himself was awaiting me at the main entrance.
He was an elderly man with a full gray beard and bushy eyebrows, but his kelly green eyes resembled the eyes of a man half his age because of their bright, eager look.
He was stout and smiled a Santa Claus smile the moment he saw me.
“Talented and beautiful,” he said. “Mr. Baxter. How are you?”
“I’m good,” Grandfather said. “Shall we take a look?”
“Absolutely. Let me take you in,” he said.
We entered the first room of the gallery. All the paintings were of famous people in Maine’s history. I had read up on the gallery and knew it had separate rooms for types of paintings, two for impressionistic and abstract and four devoted to realism, as well as a large room for sculptures.
My painting hung between the two front rooms. It was very prominent.
Mr. Doyle had put it in a bigger, more impressive gilded frame.
Below it were two other landscapes of the Maine coastline.
Both were breathtaking because of the way the colors enriched the almost photographic scenery.
The ocean gave the illusion of moving. It was impossible to look at them and not feel as if you were there.
Although I had the honor of being featured, looking at the other two paintings, I could see how much I had to learn.
“Whose works are these?” I asked Mr. Doyle.
“That’s Kyle Wyman’s work. He’s going to be our artist in residence this year. By the way, he chose your painting.”
“He did?”
“Yes. Since he was chosen to be our artist in residence, we thought he should be the one to choose the best amateur painting. Every successful artist was an amateur at one time,” he said, smiling. “Kyle has a painting of a Maine seashore hanging in the Maine State House in Augusta.”
He leaned toward me to whisper.
“I want your help working to keep him here longer. You know how these creative people have no patience when it comes to settling down anywhere.”
“Matisse did in France and…”
“I’m talking about the new generation of young, restless men especially,” he said. “I’m sure you’re not like that.”
Maybe I am, I thought, but just smiled.
“Be happy to meet him and try when he comes,” I said.
He handed me Kyle’s brochure.
“He studied in France at the école des Beaux-Arts, and many other places, too,” I told Grandfather.
I knew he didn’t know what that meant, but he raised his eyebrows. “Talent recognizes talent,” he said.
A surge of excitement passed through me. The world grew just a little bit bigger. I would get to know an internationally famous artist. And, more important, he would know me!
After we toured the gallery, Grandfather took me to lunch at the Bee Hive, a very elegant sandwich shop. So many people worked in Bar Harbor now. All the good restaurants looked crowded, not that I had spent as much time here as I wanted to spend.
Grandfather talked a lot more than usual about the family business. “I know your father tells you very little, except when he wants to brag about something he has done.”
“Mommy told me things, but Daddy always believed I’d go off, get married, and have nothing to do with it.”
“Yeah, well, he doesn’t know you as well as I do,” he said.
I was a little puzzled about what he meant, but before I could ask, Aunt Frances arrived.
“I thought you said you couldn’t make it,” Grandfather said.
“I switched shifts with someone. Saw your painting,” she told me as she sat. “Very nice. I ran in and out to see it before I got here. Are you going to pursue a career in art?” she asked with Daddy’s exact disapproving tone.
“Yes, Aunt Frances. I’m going to attend the College of the Atlantic.”
“Oh. So your father will be supporting you for some time,” Aunt Frances quipped, and looked at the menu.
“First, he’s not the one supporting her, and where did you get that sarcastic, nasty tone? Not from me or your mother,” Grandfather said.
I wanted to say it was inherited, but I bit my tongue.
“I just speak the truth, Father. It’s part of my profession. We don’t tell patients what they want to hear, only what they must hear.”
“Lisa isn’t a patient,” he said.
Aunt Frances shrugged. “What are you having? I think the honey burger is outstanding,” she said.
I laughed to myself, remembering how Mommy used to call her Olive Oyl, Popeye’s cartoon wife, because of her figure and how fickle and nasty she could be. I think she once mentioned that to Grandfather, who had thought it was funny and perfect.
After our food was brought to the table, Aunt Frances said she was surprised at Grandfather taking a whole workday off.
“Not like you, Father. Thinking about retiring?”
“Hardly,” Grandfather said. “Our business, with the good people we employ, can practically run itself.”
“My brother doesn’t think so.”
“Most people work to live; your brother lives to work.”
Aunt Frances laughed.
Grandfather looked at me and then leaned toward her. “Maybe some of that should rub off on you. My guess is you just didn’t take your assignment today.”
“That’s not true,” she said, in a tone that convinced me it was.
I had just begun eating when Grandfather’s boat skipper appeared in the restaurant doorway and searched the room.
“Grandfather,” I said, nodding toward the door.
The skipper saw us and rushed to our table. Grandfather greeted him. “What’s up, Murphy?”
“Just had a message over the radio. The Fuller boats were involved in a bad accident.”
“And?”
“Bret Fuller’s son was untangling a net and got crushed.”
Grandfather stood. “And?”
“He’s being rushed to the hospital.”
“Oh, maybe I’ll get some work,” Aunt Frances said.
I know I was screaming at her. My mouth was wide open, but I couldn’t hear any sound.
“Take us to the hospital,” Grandfather told Murphy. He looked down at Aunt Frances. “You take care of the bill,” he ordered.
She looked like he had asked her to commit suicide. He put his arm around me and we walked out of the restaurant.
I was still shivering when we got into the car. Grandfather held my hand.
“Let’s not think the worst,” he said. “He was brought to the hospital. He’ll be all right.”
I tried to smile with hope and closed my eyes until we arrived at the hospital. Jamie’s mother and father and his sister were in the lobby. Some of the other fishermen were there as well. Everyone turned when we walked in. Grandfather went right to Jamie’s parents.
“We’re waiting for the doctor,” his mother said, and looked at me.
She suddenly reached out to pull me to her.
We hugged. Everyone was quiet. Jamie’s father started to describe the accident to Grandfather.
The doctor appeared in the doorway and nodded at Jamie’s father and mother and his sister.
They quickly went in and I stepped back, more terrified than I was when I had gotten dizzy and fell in my art class.
Everyone was quiet again. Grandfather stood beside me with his hand on my shoulder. One of the fishermen turned to him and asked, “Didn’t you lose someone in a storm, Mr. Baxter?”
“Hurricane Edna. My mother’s first cousin. We named Melville after him,” he replied.
I looked up at him. Mommy’s tragedy loomed in my mind again. I was surprised no one had mentioned this after that had happened.
“No one ever told me that, Grandfather.”
“Some things we avoid talking about,” Grandfather said. “It keeps the tragedy alive when you do.”
I hope we won’t be talking about Jamie years from now, I thought.
Minutes seemed like hours, but finally Jamie’s parents appeared. Everyone rose and gathered around them.
“He’s suffered a severe leg fracture,” his father began. “They need to operate and put some rods in to keep his bone intact. He had crushed ribs, but they’re going to be okay. They’re going to operate in a few hours. He had some internal bleeding, of course, so… so…”
Jamie’s mother put her arm around his father. He took a deep breath. His sister was crying, but silently.
“So, he’s still what they call critical. We’re going back in, but we won’t have news for a number of hours. Best you all go back to doing what you do,” he said.