pictures on the wall ...children and artists make us hold our breath in wonder

johnjgeddes (75)in #fiction-trail • 7 years ago

wonder consists of paying attention to life when all the rest of the world seems asleep to its beauties and truths

I looked at my grandmother as she sat propped up on pillows on her huge iron bed. I left the radio on to keep her company, but she called me in to turn it off.

“I’m sorry, Love, but that incessant noise is enough to drive me to drink.”

I puzzled over the expression and added gravely, “Uncle Henry drinks—a lot. When Dad went up to bed the other night he finished all the beer left on the table.”

Nan grimaced, “I always said the last drop in the bottle’s poison.”

Nanny’s sayings sometimes scared me and I quickly changed the topic.

“Can we look in the cedar chest today, Nan? Please?”

My grandmother began to cough and reached for the Kleenex box beside her. When she caught her breath, she motioned me toward her and reached out and tousled my hair. “Very well. You’ve been patient, haven’t you? Open up the chest and you’ll see a small wooden box—take it out and bring it here.”

I opened the chest and paused inhaling the fragrance of the cedar lining. The cigar box was partially buried under some linen but I fished it out and dutifully brought it to Nan’s bedside. She grasped the humidor and sat it on her lap and waited until I climbed up beside her before opening the lid.

Inside were sepia photographs of unfamiliar people, all of whom were frozen in formal poses and all exhibited the same serious expression on their faces as they stared straight ahead into the camera lens. Their eyes were so dark and fierce that I averted my gaze and nestled closer to my grandmother’s side.

“Black Irish, to be sure,” she murmured and smiled at the ridiculous formality of the dress and the stern faces of relatives, some of whose names even she had forgotten. “There’s a picture of Henry and Charles. That was taken at the barracks at the Exhibition grounds.” She flipped through the photographs and suddenly I reached out and stopped her hand. “Who’s this Nanny?”

The old woman smiled and shook her head. “He’s handsome, isn’t he? That’s Lou-Lou, your uncle— only sixteen there and too young for the War.” The photo revealed a handsome young dark-haired soldier with a cigarette jauntily hanging from his lip. Unlike the other photos, this one seemed so spontaneous and real it took my breath away.

“But Mom said Lou-Lou died in the War—that he was a sniper and was killed by a German machine gun. If he was too young, why did they let him go?”

“Why indeed, that is the question.” Nan looked away and daubed at her eyes with the balled-up Kleenex she clutched in her hand.

“Is it true what Mom says, that Lou-Lou’s boots could be heard stomping up the stairs in the house on Atkin Avenue?”

“Without a lie, it’s true. That house was haunted I swear.”

Again, Nan gazed off into the distance, an abstracted look on her face.

“I remember a hot August in 1918," she reminisced, "and I was sweltering in a fever in the back bedroom. All your aunts and uncles were huddled in that little room with me, afraid of the creaking joists. They were only young then—except for your Uncle John who was at work at the General Electric plant on Dufferin Street.

I had the Spanish flu and was burning up. I had been washing floors all that week for a family on Havelock Street, but that day I was so weak I couldn’t get out of bed. The children were so frightened that they closed the window and I was sweating and feverish in my bed. I kept crying out, ‘Won’t someone please open the window?’ but no one moved.

Then, suddenly, the knob of the bedroom door spun round and round madly and the door blew open and buried itself in the wall. It hit with such force that the knob was wedged behind the wooden lathes under the plaster and when your Uncle John came home later, it took him and Jock forever to put their feet on the wall and pull on that door for all they were worth just to free it.”

The story disturbed me. I swallowed hard. “Could it have been the wind, Nanny?”

“There wasn’t a breath of wind that day and the house locked up tighter than a drum. Your Uncle John, God rest his soul, went all around the house looking for an explanation but found nothing amiss.”

“Do you think perhaps it was Lou-Lou?”

My grandmother looked sharply at me. “Lou-Lou, you say? And what would be making you think that?” She looked off again into the distance and then softened for a moment and whispered in my ear, “You’re a good boy, Little One. You have the second regard—I told your Mom that right from the start. You’ve been gifted, my boy.”

“Am I like you, Nanny? Will I be able to read tea leaves too?”

She hesitated a moment before answering.

“Well, I don’t know if your Mom would be wanting me to fill your head with such idle notions.”

“Mom says people would be lined up around the block waiting for a reading. Did they pay you, Nan?”

“I never charged. Oh, the odd person would give me a few dollars and I’d go with Mrs. Franklin to play Bingo—I usually won.” She laughed and started to cough again.

Meg appeared in the doorway, a stern look on her face. “Now come along, Sonny Boy, your Nan needs her rest.”

Later that day, I crept back into Nanny’s room. I felt sorry for her, bed-ridden and all alone. I sat by her bed listening to her regular breathing. Suddenly, she opened her eyes and stared at me.

“Oh, it’s you, Child. Did you see them?”

“See what Nanny?”

“The pictures on the walls.” She motioned to a large white wall adjacent to her bed.

“Yesterday I saw clouds and grass—trees waving and men upside-down walking and making merry.”

“Why can’t I see the pictures, Nanny?”

“You’ve come too late in the day, Child. You need to come just before tea. I swear I’ll see the cat and the fiddle one day here upon my walls.”

I thought it marvelous and told Meg, my mother. She grew very stern. She threw up her hands and in desperation turned to my Dad.

“I’ve just about had it, Ross. Ma’s filling his head with all sorts of foolish notions. Why just the other day I caught her drawing the picture for him—you know, the one of the snake curled around the rose? No good’ll come of it, and that’s for sure.”

I was sorry I said anything, but I wanted to see the pictures. I made up my mind to visit Nanny at teatime the next day.

The following day was not propitious—there was a tempest of pouring rain and high wind with the house tossed like a ship on the ocean. It seemed fish faces were peering in at the windows and outside on the verandah, Nanny’s rocker was moving all by itself.

I visited with Nanny in her room, but no pictures appeared on the walls and the best Nanny could offer was to recite the names of all the lakes in Killarney.

But the following day was bright and sunny and I felt in high spirits. I wanted to be outside running and playing with my friends, but I promised myself I’d see the wall pictures and so just after teatime, I snuck up to visit Nanny in her room.

I crept in so as to not disturb her and crawled into bed beside her, waiting for her to wake up. The room was dark and still.

Suddenly, a sunbeam lit the heavy rose-colored curtains, illumining the window square. Hazy green trees and huge white clouds appeared on the wall, just as Nanny said they would.

I lay there watching the shimmering magic lantern show until it dimmed and disappeared. Then, I crawled out of the room and quietly descended the stairs. I never told my parents or anyone else what I saw that day—it was my secret—mine and Nan’s. I knew then that Nan’s other stories were true and she was right—I had the second regard.

A few months later Nan was hospitalized and passed away one rainy morning. The pictures on the wall were gone, never to be seen again.

It’s been years now but seems like only yesterday.

The fascination still remains but the images are now inside my brain.

What do they mean?

Well, you need to ask artists or sensitive children because most adults have either forgotten or never been initiated into the mystery.

But I still remember—I was one of those impressionable souls who grew up to be a writer.

I didn’t choose it—Life chooses her own to paint bright images on the cave of the psyche.

Occasionally though, some outliers are granted privileged glimpses of the beauty within, mostly old people, who suddenly find time to watch and dream and share in the visions of children.

And when that happens, there is magic—wondrous picture shows appear on the walls.