“Bernice told me about your… uhm… spells, Harry.”
“Is that the word she used?”
“No, but it’s what I gather from what she said.”
“And what, exactly, did she say?”
“That you ‘go into’ the murals, and people come alive inside the walls when you’re there, that you keep a journal.”
“Bet you think I’m nuts.”
“If we were all sane, and ordinary, this would be a pretty boring old world, don’t you think?” Buddy said.
“Harrumph!” Harry cleared his throat, wrestling himself out of his walker, getting behind it, then shuffling through the lane toward Willow Street. Buddy walked beside him.
I knew better than to press. They made their slow progress in silence, Harry breathing heavily and advancing haltingly, so I couldn’t help but realize how hard he had to work to continue his quest through the murals of Chemainus. That it was a ‘quest’ Buddy didn’t doubt, but I had no idea what he might have been looking for in the large-as-life scenes that were for him time-portals.
Sauntering along beside the old man, Buddy felt helpless. He wished there was something he could do to make the journey from Uptown to Old less arduous. But it couldn’t be quickened, so he did his best to match Harry’s laborious pace and appreciate the silence they shared, tottering on like weary mendicants.
Until they passed the Coastal Community Credit Union, heading into Waterwheel Square. Harry stopped then, manoeuvring his walker round so they faced the building’s north wall. It took a second or two for Buddy to comprehend, but there it was, Mural #1 – Steam Donkey at Work, just like Bernice had described it.
Like a tourist, awed by the humbling magnificence of the Sistine Chapel, I gawped at the painting.
“I bet she gave you that cockamamy line about blaming herself for my mural gazing,” Harry said. Buddy looked askance, surprised to find his escort eyeing him with a wry smile. “She’s just trying to grab the credit,” he accused, then laughed wheezily, like a worn-out bagpipe.
Buddy laughed too, but worried he’d have to dial 911 if Harry didn’t get over his fit.
“I know the men in that scene, and Charlie the horse, too,” he said when he’d somewhat recovered. “They’re all dead now, of course, but when I was a boy, they were bigger than life. Strong, honest, straight-shooting men, every one of ’em, including my dad.”
“Your father’s in that mural!”
“You bet,” Harry winked. “Look hard, and tell me if you can’t see a likeness between any of them handsome buggers and this old wreck, who can’t move an inch without a set of training wheels to keep him from tipping over.” He struck a noble pose, straightening up behind his walker, chin held high.
Buddy took a few steps toward the mural, studying it closely. He’d seen pictures of Harry as a younger man on the fireplace mantle at VORLand’s End. He conjured them up, looking for a match in the mural.
It wasn’t the guy running for his life from the rampaging log. He seemed too gaunt and swarthy to be Harry’s father. And the guy in the Breton cap seemed too angular and Nordic. That left, more by a process of elimination than identification, the guy in the fedora stripping wire off the steam donkey’s drum.
“That’s him!” Buddy pointed.
“Hah!” Harry cheered. “Didn’t think you’d be able to see the family likeness! Not between this wrinkled old gaffer,” he pointed emphatically at his own face, “compared to my dad in his prime.”
“Really! That’s your dad?”
“Damn rights,” Harry affirmed. “Been a logger all my life and a logger’s son.”
“But I thought your dad ran a dairy farm?”
“Yup. But he did a bit of logging, specially in the hard times, to keep food on the table.”
They continued their slow progress toward VORLand’s End, enveloped in the awkward lacuna that sometimes defines friendship. As they approached The Gateway to Old Chemainus, a rustic cedar arch framing the pathway through Waterwheel Park, a slice of ocean glistened in the distance at the foot of Maple Street.
Buddy had learned not to lead, but to join in conversations with Harry. He’s a decrepit snarly cat, that only lets you stroke him on his own terms. He bites and scratches if you intrude on his indifference.
They passed through the gate, then made their way cautiously down the hazardous grade toward Maple Lane, Harry concentrating on the placement of his feet, steadying himself with his walker. He won’t accept any help from me, Buddy realized. Harry was more afraid of that than anything that might happen if he stumbled and fell. Grimly determined, he grunted and clattered on.
“You’re a writer, eh?” he chuffed, as if his labours—the travails of Sisyphus in reverse—were of little or no consequence.
“Yes,” Buddy answered. “Well, journalist is probably a more accurate handle.”
“Harrumph!” Harry dismissed the quibble.
Next: Show and Tell