Read Online The Last Family by John Ramsey Miller - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Ramsey Miller
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hell good is it gonna do unloaded? Just like your mama. Sayin’ fool stuff.”
Paul shook his head. “Thanks.”
“Worth a fortune, too, I’d wager. I’m just loaning it to you. Give me your word you’ll keep it with you. And that you’ll bring it back to me … personally.”
Paul stood and the two men embraced. “I’ll be back, Uncle Aaron.”
“With the kids? Bring ’em to see me before I die.”
“We’ll see.”
The old man wiped his weathered eyes on the back of his sleeve. “I ever tell you how much you’ve meant to me all these years?”
“No, Uncle Aaron, you never have.”
The old man slapped his nephew’s shoulder. “And I ain’t about to start now. Trim down that fool mustache, you look like a cattle rustler.”
Paul finished his coffee with a swallow and stood. He leaned the cane against the wall. “I’ll pick this up on the way out.”
“Suit yourself,” Aaron said, waving his nephew away with a flick of his ancient wrist. “You always do.”
6
L AURA M ASTERSON STOOD AT THE FAR SIDE OF THE BALLROOM where couples had once turned in elegant circles beneath a crystal chandelier imported from France. In this very room smooth-faced boys in dress gray bowed to giggling girls in sweeping hoop skirts, and string quartets played sweet waltzes. Meanwhile a nation divided against itself prepared to trade minié balls and cannon shot. This room had served as a hospice where yellow-fever victims had lain on mats, ministered to by a parish priest and women in white linen. Laura was surrounded by old ghosts, but she stared straight through them as she critiqued her latest painting.
She was leaning against the jamb of the tall pocket doors that were open to the home’s wide hallway, called a gallery. From fifty feet away the face on the canvas looked as detailed as a Vermeer, while up close it was all tiny swirls, short slashes, and dots of oil. The face in thepainting was partially destroyed, or partially incomplete, the right eye missing, plucked from the angry socket by an all but angelic vulture. She sipped her coffee and contemplated the image. In her mind the face, like all of her images, was a thing of beauty, but as one critic had said, her figures were “disturbing visages that haunt the viewer while seducing them.”
“This one won’t be seducing anyone,” she said to the coffee. She was far from pleased with the image, but that was true of all of her paintings. If she was pleased, she might lose the edge, whatever that was. She had no idea where her gift—though she would never call it that—came from. She had never shown any more talent at art than friends who were involved in painting. She had come to it late, but it had consumed her with a passion that she had never dreamed possible. The brushes seemed to know what they were after. There was a surety of line and, as her mind commanded, her hand followed. Before she had discovered these images trapped inside her mind, she had been another person altogether. She had been called the Anne Rice of oils, and it had less to do with their shared hometown than with their perspective.
She thought of the reviews from her last show, which her daughter had insisted on reading aloud at the breakfast table. “The subjects get in close, mesmerize, and then tear you to pieces,” Roger Wold had written in the Times-Picayune.… “They are images of angels … modern martyrs … exciting to some for that very reason. Classically erotic.… This is art that may just turn on you as time passes.” Some people wanted art to move them, and if the work could keep moving them as time passed, all the better. That was worth money, and the flow of money allowed Laura to live in a house built in 1840 and paint in a ballroom where Jefferson Davis had once danced and refrain from dipping into her principal.
This particular painting was of Paul Masterson as he existed in her heart. Physically wounded, emotionally terrified, alone and packed
Paul shook his head. “Thanks.”
“Worth a fortune, too, I’d wager. I’m just loaning it to you. Give me your word you’ll keep it with you. And that you’ll bring it back to me … personally.”
Paul stood and the two men embraced. “I’ll be back, Uncle Aaron.”
“With the kids? Bring ’em to see me before I die.”
“We’ll see.”
The old man wiped his weathered eyes on the back of his sleeve. “I ever tell you how much you’ve meant to me all these years?”
“No, Uncle Aaron, you never have.”
The old man slapped his nephew’s shoulder. “And I ain’t about to start now. Trim down that fool mustache, you look like a cattle rustler.”
Paul finished his coffee with a swallow and stood. He leaned the cane against the wall. “I’ll pick this up on the way out.”
“Suit yourself,” Aaron said, waving his nephew away with a flick of his ancient wrist. “You always do.”
6
L AURA M ASTERSON STOOD AT THE FAR SIDE OF THE BALLROOM where couples had once turned in elegant circles beneath a crystal chandelier imported from France. In this very room smooth-faced boys in dress gray bowed to giggling girls in sweeping hoop skirts, and string quartets played sweet waltzes. Meanwhile a nation divided against itself prepared to trade minié balls and cannon shot. This room had served as a hospice where yellow-fever victims had lain on mats, ministered to by a parish priest and women in white linen. Laura was surrounded by old ghosts, but she stared straight through them as she critiqued her latest painting.
She was leaning against the jamb of the tall pocket doors that were open to the home’s wide hallway, called a gallery. From fifty feet away the face on the canvas looked as detailed as a Vermeer, while up close it was all tiny swirls, short slashes, and dots of oil. The face in thepainting was partially destroyed, or partially incomplete, the right eye missing, plucked from the angry socket by an all but angelic vulture. She sipped her coffee and contemplated the image. In her mind the face, like all of her images, was a thing of beauty, but as one critic had said, her figures were “disturbing visages that haunt the viewer while seducing them.”
“This one won’t be seducing anyone,” she said to the coffee. She was far from pleased with the image, but that was true of all of her paintings. If she was pleased, she might lose the edge, whatever that was. She had no idea where her gift—though she would never call it that—came from. She had never shown any more talent at art than friends who were involved in painting. She had come to it late, but it had consumed her with a passion that she had never dreamed possible. The brushes seemed to know what they were after. There was a surety of line and, as her mind commanded, her hand followed. Before she had discovered these images trapped inside her mind, she had been another person altogether. She had been called the Anne Rice of oils, and it had less to do with their shared hometown than with their perspective.
She thought of the reviews from her last show, which her daughter had insisted on reading aloud at the breakfast table. “The subjects get in close, mesmerize, and then tear you to pieces,” Roger Wold had written in the Times-Picayune.… “They are images of angels … modern martyrs … exciting to some for that very reason. Classically erotic.… This is art that may just turn on you as time passes.” Some people wanted art to move them, and if the work could keep moving them as time passed, all the better. That was worth money, and the flow of money allowed Laura to live in a house built in 1840 and paint in a ballroom where Jefferson Davis had once danced and refrain from dipping into her principal.
This particular painting was of Paul Masterson as he existed in her heart. Physically wounded, emotionally terrified, alone and packed
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