Read Online The Bones of Old Carlisle by Kevin E Meredith - Free Book Online

was one of the last people Arrowroot expected to see
on the Promenade. But there he was, sitting in a wheelchair, painting.
And on the canvas before him, Journeyman had scratched out, with a
trembling hand, the rough contours of a bride, in a white sheath
dress, the great green peaks of Steeple Mountain behind her.
“Well, Hurk, looks like this day’s brought out everyone,”
Arrowroot said, sidling up to Journeyman to get a better look at his
creation. The wedding girl seemed to be an afterthought, painted
abruptly in front of the mountain, its green foliage here and there
still poking through her dress. Her skin was light brown, hair black.
Her face was still blank and her hands were just two shaky brown
smears.
Journeyman continued to squint at the canvas, as if he’d just
noticed the bride there himself.
Finally, he looked up at Arrowroot, squinted some more and, after
a few rasping breaths, recognized him. “You take,” he began, his voice
a gravelly mess. “You take. You take. You take too much credit for
things.”
“I do, you know,” Arrowroot admitted. “It’s one of my worst
habits.”
“Karmak. Kar, Kar, Karmak. That was my doing. That was all my
doing.”
“You know about that?” Arrowroot inquired. “We upgraded it all in
February. You like your new water bill?”
“I know all about it,” Journeyman spat, and he moved his hand
toward Arrowroot as if he were trying to swat him away. “I read it all
in, in, in the paper. I read about it. You up there, you never said a
word about the people, the people. About the people who did the first.
Karmak. The early work.”
“Oh, I did, Herkie. You know I did. You, Bertie, Mr. Olson, you
were all in my statement. They just didn’t take that part down. You
know how the Herald is. They never tell the whole story.”
Journeyman looked down at his palette, dabbing at the white with
a shaky brush and mumbling something to himself.
“That’s a beautiful painting,” Arrowroot observed.
“Doctor. Doctor. Doctor told me,” Journeyman began. “He told
Francine. I might last to summer. Been laid up. They took my foot.
They took my foot.” Journeyman grunted and raised his right leg to
show that there was nothing past the cuff of his gray denim pants. “So
I said, ‘I’m not gone. I’m not gone yet.’ This isn’t a painting. It’s
a vision. There’s so much beauty. I can see it. I can see it. I’m not
gone.”
“Truer words, Herk. Truer words.”
Journeyman leaned forward, studying his work.
“So tell me, Hercules,” Arrowroot began.
“What?”
“So who’s that a picture of? Who’s the bride you’re painting?”
“She’s just someone. Stood where you’re standing, just stood,”
Journeyman said, then he paused and drew a breath. “She asked me. She
asked me. Who ate your foot?” Journeyman hunched over and started to
shake. Arrowroot put his hand on the old man’s shoulder before he
realized Journeyman was just laughing.
“Well, what’d you say back?”
“I told her Mul, Muller, Molron. I told her the damn doctor ate
my foot.”
Journeyman laughed again, and the wind gusted and blew the canvas
off the easel. Arrowroot grabbed it, but too late. An impression of
the light brown oval where the wedding girl’s face belonged had been
planted on Journeyman’s dark forehead
“So where is she now?” Arrowroot asked, returning the painting to
its easel.
“Probably the inn,” said Journeyman, gesturing toward the Eden
Hotel. “That’s where I told her to go.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Journeyman echoed, making a few jagged corrective strokes
to the dress.
“Yes, Herk,” Arrowroot repeated, “why’d you tell her to go to the
hotel?”
“I told her to paint,” Journeyman said. “She said she wanted my
happ, my happ, my happiness. So I said ‘go on and go paint, see if
that does you.’ But she had no brushes, nor paints and such, like a
nature person. So I said go on to the hotel, Miss,