Read Online Orchard by Larry Watson - Free Book Online
Authors: Larry Watson
Tags: Fiction
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my story to be only the one you paint.” Then again, the sound may not have been laughter at all but merely rain against the glass.
The father’s lessons
were not lost on the son. As soon as his art began to find favor with the buying public, Weaver never let pass an opportunity to make a sale. He placed most of his work with the Lear Gallery in Chicago, and though Edmund Lear could get top prices for Ned Weaver originals, Weaver eventually opened his own small gallery in Door County. Here Weaver sold the miniature watercolors that Edmund did not care for, as well as the work of a few local artists whose landscapes appealed to tourists.
Not a single work of art by Ned Weaver was on display in the Weaver home, and his paintings and drawings stayed in the studio only until they were complete. Once they were signed, they were for sale, and if they weren’t fit for the market, Weaver destroyed them.
Weaver kept for himself only the images of Sonja House, and these he stored in a trunk in the studio. No one else knew of the existence or location of these works, though Weaver always meant to tell Ed Lear about them. He meant to.
11
From the kitchen window she saw him coming out of the barn, and she smiled when he stopped to sneeze twice, because she always did the same thing when she stepped out into the sunlight.
She couldn’t watch him long, however, because her hands were in the soapy water with that sharp paring knife that had once sliced her thumb when she was not paying attention to the task at hand.
Why was he now walking backward, lurching away from the open barn door? Was he gazing back at the site of some mischief? She didn’t like either of the children playing in the barn, but she finally gave up trying to keep them out. Instead, she made these rules: They could bring their playthings into the barn, but they could not play with anything they found there. And they could not enter Buck’s stall.
Spring and early summer had been unusually hot, and the county was overdue for rain. Farmers and orchardists both feared for their crops, and the resort owners worried that tourists would cancel or cut short their vacations—why travel north and pay to stay in cottages that were hotter than city houses?
Sonja disliked the heat, and when she could escape it no other way, she tried to imagine herself in surroundings unlike those pressing in on her. On days as stifling as these, she thought back to the winters of her childhood when icy gales blew down from the Norwegian Sea and snow as fine-grained as salt could pelt you even from a blue sky. John sat down heavily in the path between the house and the barn, and Sonja recalled how when her father walked back and forth from the house to the boat shed his boots kicked up powdery clouds of snow like the dry puff of dust that rose just now from her son’s rump.
Was it this memory of her father? Was it Sonja’s wish to leave this moment when the morning was already so warm she felt as though she were wrapped in a membrane of her own sweat? Or was it nothing more than her concern for that paring knife hiding in the dishwater that made her miss the exact moment when her son flopped onto his back and began to convulse, thrashing against the ground so violently it seemed as if his intent was to raise a cloud of dust dense enough to conceal him during this embarrassing episode?
The dog arrived at John’s twitching body before Sonja did, but Sandy, usually as placid and even-tempered as a pet could be, was plainly agitated at the sight of the boy and began to bark excitedly. Sonja felt as if she had to quiet Sandy as well as care for her son, but then she stopped herself just as she was about to shush the dog—what if John thought she was telling him he should be quiet, and at that moment she wanted nothing more fiercely than for her son to speak to her. No, he didn’t even have to speak—he could cry out, wail, he could make any sound other than that faint gurgling at the
The father’s lessons
were not lost on the son. As soon as his art began to find favor with the buying public, Weaver never let pass an opportunity to make a sale. He placed most of his work with the Lear Gallery in Chicago, and though Edmund Lear could get top prices for Ned Weaver originals, Weaver eventually opened his own small gallery in Door County. Here Weaver sold the miniature watercolors that Edmund did not care for, as well as the work of a few local artists whose landscapes appealed to tourists.
Not a single work of art by Ned Weaver was on display in the Weaver home, and his paintings and drawings stayed in the studio only until they were complete. Once they were signed, they were for sale, and if they weren’t fit for the market, Weaver destroyed them.
Weaver kept for himself only the images of Sonja House, and these he stored in a trunk in the studio. No one else knew of the existence or location of these works, though Weaver always meant to tell Ed Lear about them. He meant to.
11
From the kitchen window she saw him coming out of the barn, and she smiled when he stopped to sneeze twice, because she always did the same thing when she stepped out into the sunlight.
She couldn’t watch him long, however, because her hands were in the soapy water with that sharp paring knife that had once sliced her thumb when she was not paying attention to the task at hand.
Why was he now walking backward, lurching away from the open barn door? Was he gazing back at the site of some mischief? She didn’t like either of the children playing in the barn, but she finally gave up trying to keep them out. Instead, she made these rules: They could bring their playthings into the barn, but they could not play with anything they found there. And they could not enter Buck’s stall.
Spring and early summer had been unusually hot, and the county was overdue for rain. Farmers and orchardists both feared for their crops, and the resort owners worried that tourists would cancel or cut short their vacations—why travel north and pay to stay in cottages that were hotter than city houses?
Sonja disliked the heat, and when she could escape it no other way, she tried to imagine herself in surroundings unlike those pressing in on her. On days as stifling as these, she thought back to the winters of her childhood when icy gales blew down from the Norwegian Sea and snow as fine-grained as salt could pelt you even from a blue sky. John sat down heavily in the path between the house and the barn, and Sonja recalled how when her father walked back and forth from the house to the boat shed his boots kicked up powdery clouds of snow like the dry puff of dust that rose just now from her son’s rump.
Was it this memory of her father? Was it Sonja’s wish to leave this moment when the morning was already so warm she felt as though she were wrapped in a membrane of her own sweat? Or was it nothing more than her concern for that paring knife hiding in the dishwater that made her miss the exact moment when her son flopped onto his back and began to convulse, thrashing against the ground so violently it seemed as if his intent was to raise a cloud of dust dense enough to conceal him during this embarrassing episode?
The dog arrived at John’s twitching body before Sonja did, but Sandy, usually as placid and even-tempered as a pet could be, was plainly agitated at the sight of the boy and began to bark excitedly. Sonja felt as if she had to quiet Sandy as well as care for her son, but then she stopped herself just as she was about to shush the dog—what if John thought she was telling him he should be quiet, and at that moment she wanted nothing more fiercely than for her son to speak to her. No, he didn’t even have to speak—he could cry out, wail, he could make any sound other than that faint gurgling at the
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