NO MAN AN ISLE
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Chapter 7
The tallest lighthouse on the east coast still functioned, the distinctive black and white spiral paint making it identifiable to more visitors than any other. The setting of ponds and woods and the restored keeper's quarters, now a museum, created a popular stop for tourists as the number of cars in the parking lot attested. After climbing to the top with Erik and enjoying the view, Don found a secluded spot near the remains of the foundation of the original light, which had been destroyed during the War Between the States, from which to sketch. Erik roamed about with his camera. He wandered over to Don some time later. "Kurt and I are going over to the village and look around. Want to come with us?"
"Go ahead. I'll stay here and finish up my sketches."
Erik spent more time with his camera than planned; it was after one when he and Kurt returned to the lighthouse. Don was not where they had left him, nor did they see him among the people wandering about the grounds and in the museum. Erik climbed the tower again and leaned over the railing of the balcony below the light to shake his head at Kurt below.
The park ranger on duty was older, accustomed to unusual requests from visitors. "Sorry, I haven't seen him," he replied to Erik's description. "Wait a minute." One of the younger rangers was coming through the door. "Jerry, did you see a kid sitting out by the old foundation, sketching the tower?"
"You talking about a tow-headed kid with one arm?"
"That's he," cried Kurt, relieved.
"I think he walked over toward the Coast Guard station. I saw him talking to one of the men a while ago."
Outside, Kurt pointed to a small complex of buildings near the lighthouse. "Is that it?"
"No, that used to be navy. The station is about a half mile south."
"You know it?"
"Yeah. Used to come down here for the chief once in a while."
Near the stationhouse, they saw Don sitting on the sand sketching. Hunkered down on his heels, talking earnestly, was a young man in denims with a white-hat pushed far back on his head. Don looked up as they approached. "You found me."
"You had us worried."
"Sorry. I thought you'd know where to look. I found a great old house over there." The sketch he held out was of a decaying shingled cottage. Vines had crept over one end and dangled from the rafters of the collapsing roof. A gnarled oak framed it. "Shoot it for me, Erik, so I can get the coloration. And shoot the station, too." He remembered the man beside him. "Oh, sorry. Kurt, Erik, this is Dave O'Neal. He's stationed here. We got to talking and he missed chow, so can he eat with us? "
"Of course. Perhaps he can tell us where there's a shady spot."
"There's a place back in the woods I go sometime, sir. It's on the station, so there ain't nobody 'round. It's a good place fer a picnic."
They followed Dave to a small clearing under twisted oaks, within sight of the ocean. Erik snapped open the beach blanket and spread it over the leaf strewn moss, then bent to help Kurt open the old wicker picnic hamper. The sight of the hamper in this setting carried Kurt's thoughts back.
For a special treat during his childhood visits, his uncle occasionally packed a lunch in this same hamper before they walked across the dunes to the ocean. His uncle stood waist deep in the water to protect him from the vicious undertow that could form at any moment as Kurt splashed and paddled happily. When he became tired, his uncle would carry him from the water and towel him off, before they both flopped on this same blanket to enjoy the sandwiches and iced tea. The careful touch, too, of the old man's roughened hands as he gently spread sun-block on Kurt's tender skin. During the walk home, the sun dried them thoroughly. Kurt could feel his skin tightening under the remaining layer of salt. No shower ever felt so good as the warm one to remove the salt and sand after a day on the beach.
He jerked back to the present when Don passed him a plate.
"Dave was telling me about some of the wrecks on the beach," Don said eagerly as they began to eat. "His dad remembers when you could see German submarines sinking ships right off shore."
"Are you from near here?" Kurt asked.
Dave nodded. "Yes, sir. I've lived 'bout six mile down toward Hat'ras all my life, 'cepting fer boot camp. Family's been Guard most ferever. Course, things is changed a lot from how they used to be, but I guess I'll stay in."
"That's great, Dave. We live up by North Station," said Don. "You know where that is?"
"Sure." Dave looked closely at Erik. "Ain't you been to the station before, sir?"
"I used to come down once in a while for the chief. And drop the sir, I'm a white-hat like you."
A look of concern creased Dave's face. "You ain't the one most killed one of the guys 'bout a year ago?"
"That wasn't Erik, Dave," Don defended. "He's a great guy."
"I'm afraid he's right, Don. I'd hoped that was forgotten," Erik said quietly.
"A Mr. O'Neal made some shutters and stained the house for me not too long ago. Would he happen to be some of your family?" Kurt asked to relieve the tension.
Dave's face brightened. "My great uncle. I heard him say you was a good man. He don' usually have nothin' to do with people from offen the banks."
Kurt smiled. "He did excellent work. I'm depending on him when it needs doing again."
"I want to sketch one of those wrecks, if Dave will show me where to find one. You don't care, do you, Kurt?"
"I know where there's a good one, wreck of a schooner. The tide's low, so it'll be in sight. I'll show you after we eat iffin ..." he looked at Kurt, "you don't mind driving up the beach a-ways."
"Not at all. This is Don's day to see what he wishes."
They packed the few remains in the hamper and returned to the Jeep, Dave driving at Kurt's insistence. He had a moment's worry as Dave turned off the highway and drove to the water's edge without shifting to four-wheel drive, but the tires sang on the packed sand. Dave drove around a small dune and braked. "There she is." He pointed to the ribs and keel sticking up from the rim of the surf.
"Fantastic!" Don walked closely as he could to the remains of the once proud schooner, selecting a spot from which to sketch.
Dave recounted the story of the ship while Don worked, finally looking up at the sun. "Don, if you're 'bout done, I 'spect I'd best be gettin' on. I got the mid tonight, and I gotta get some sleep before."
"Oh, sure."
"I'm sorry. I just assumed that you had the time when you offered to bring us down here," Kurt apologized.
"I don' care long as I get a little sleep. It's been good being with youall and I really liked the eats."
"We appreciate all you've done."
"Wasn't nothin'."
A few hundred yards beyond the end of the new bridge over Oregon Inlet, Erik suddenly slowed and turned the Jeep onto a narrow side road, stopping on the broken pavement of a small parking area at the water's edge where once the ferry boat had loaded. They watched the first of the head boats make the perilous journey through the inlet. Several of the decaying pilings outlining the old ferry slip were crowned by a large ungainly birds of nondescript color.
Don got out of the Jeep followed by Kurt. They walked as close as possible to the water's edge staring at the low-slung bodies, the elongated S curve of the neck, the heavy wattles dangling below a long bill. "What are they?" Don asked pointing to the closest.
"Brown pelicans," Kurt answered.
"I thought pelicans were in hot places like Florida or somewhere."
"This as far north as they generally get, but you've got to remember, this is a sub-tropic area. One of the rivers just across the sound is named Alligator River, so there are alligators, too, though you'd probably have to get into the swampy areas on the other side to see one."
"No, thanks!" He looked at the pelican on a piling almost close enough to touch, yet the bird seemed unperturbed by their presence. "How come they aren't scared of us?"
"A lot of people try to feed them, so they aren't really that afraid of humans, but they're here because the boats sometime spill a few fish when they're offloading. That way the pelican gets a meal without having to work for it."
"Oh. Wait a minute." Don returned from the Jeep with his sketchpad. The rapid movements of his pencil soon captured a remarkable likeness of the scene. After stopping at the Bodie Island lighthouse for Don to make a quick sketch and Erik to take a shot of it, they continued on homeward.
The week following, Don spent much of his time working from the sketches. Kurt noticed that he had become tense and, on occasion, short in his answers. When Don snapped at him during lunch, he asked, "Is something wrong?"
"I'm sorry, Kurt. I wish I hadn't promised to do that painting. I feel so pressured."
"Take it easy. Pretend you're doing it for fun."
"I can't. I wanted to do the ones I did for you and Erik. I just don't care that much about this one. Could I have a place in the library to work now?"
"I'm glad you want to come down. Where do you want to set up?"
"By those doors nearest the gallery, if that's okay. The light's good there and I'll be out of the way."
Searching the attic, Kurt found an old rug to protect the floor and a small table to hold the brushes and paints. With the companionship of Kurt and Erik, Don seemed to relax.
Kurt picked through the canvasses Don had brought down. The lighthouse was blocked out in recognizable form. "This looks as if it will turn out well, as does this," he pointed to another on which Don had sketched the old shingled cottage.
"I think it's going to be the best, but getting all those colors right is going to be a real pain. I'm glad Erik took that picture of it."
Erik came in early Friday afternoon, a large grocery bag clutched in one arm. Don was wiping down the kitchen cabinets. "Hi. You going to cook something special?"
"Yeah. Now get out of here, pest. I like to be alone when I'm cooking."
"What is it?"
"You'll find out at dinner. Scram."
Don went back to his painting. As he worked, he could hear Erik banging around in the kitchen. Occasional swearing came through clearly. Later a tantalizing aroma wafted through the house. Don sniffed the air hungrily, then went to set the table. When he and Kurt were seated, Erik brought a platter of steaming rice and then a covered tureen to the table.
"Smells wonderful." Kurt said.
"I think you'll like it." Erik lifted the cover.
"What is it?" Don asked.
"Stroganoff. It's one of the things I cook well."
Don remembered the one restaurant in which he'd washed dishes for a short time that was a cut above the greasy spoons where he usually found employment. "Where 're the noodles?"
"Bitch, bitch, bitch. What do you know about it, Shorty?"
"I worked in a restaurant once that had it. They always served it on noodles.'
"I hate noodles," Erik growled. "Besides, it's better over rice."
Kurt and Erik heaped their plates, while Don settled for a scant spoonful of each, then tasted it cautiously. His eyes widened. He reached for the platter and heaped his plate also.
Erik winked at Kurt, then said," I didn't think you liked stroganoff without noodles."
"It's darn good. Better than any I ever had before." He dug in.
After dinner Don went back to his painting, leaving Kurt and Erik to their practice and reading. By the time Erik was ready to return to the station Sunday night, the lighthouse was well toward completion.
"Finish up the one of the station this week, Don, and we'll take it down next Saturday. I want to see her reaction to it, too." Erik said.
"Okay, but you may wish you hadn't."
Don attended to small chores each morning and spent the rest of his time painting. Though he was often in the room, Kurt took care not to disturb his concentration. The boy's sunny disposition remained, despite the intensity of his work.
Don sighed, dropped the brush in the jar, and stepped back. "What do you think?"
Kurt commented cautiously on the painting of the station. He could see that it lacked something that had been present even in the first painting Don had given to the chief.
When Erik came in, he was more enthusiastic. "The lighthouse is really good."
"What about the station?"
"It isn't nearly as good as that one." Erik pointed to the painting over the mantel.
"Come on. You know they're the same."
Erik remained adamant. "No way. There's a difference. I can't tell you what, but there's something in the one you did for Kurt that's not in this one."
"If you say so."
"Yeah, and tomorrow you can go get paid for part of your work."
"Only if she likes it."
"You might carry the one of the lighthouse as well," Kurt suggested. "If she doesn't care for the one of the station, she may like it."
Don climbed the steps of the cottage and rang the bell. "Is Mrs. Smythe in?" He had not expected a house that looked as if it belonged in town, nor the maid who answered.
"Who's calling, please?"
"Don, ugh... Don Warner."
The maid disappeared into the recesses of the cottage and within a few moments Mrs. Smythe walked expectantly towards the door, greeting Don as she came. "Mr. Warner, how nice. You have something for me?"
"The painting. Would you like to come out and see it?"
"Oh, I see you have the gentlemen with you who were in the framing shop. Do get your work and ask them to join us."
Don beckoned; Kurt and Erik brought the paintings in with them.
"Please have a seat, gentlemen. I wish to see what this young man has brought. Place them against the sofa and let me see them from a distance first." She looked at the paintings from across the room then moved closer. "I like the painting of the Coast Guard station," her cool tone made Don's heart sink, "but I must have the one of the lighthouse. I know it's been done to death, but your approach is different from the other paintings of it I've seen. As for the station, there was something about the painting I saw in the shop which isn't present in this one. Can you tell me what it is?"
Don blushed. "I ... I'm not sure."
"Oh, come, young man. I speak plainly and I expect you to do the same."
"The other one was for Kurt. It was special."
She frowned in thought for a moment. "I believe I see. To be fair, I must tell you that you should approach each painting you do as though it were for someone special to you. I know that will make the work harder to part with, but it will make it that much more attractive to the buyer."
"I'm sorry, ma'am."
"Don't be. I'm saying this to help you. You have a natural gift which you must expand and I'll look forward to seeing your work again. You've done such a nice job of the lighthouse that I am willing to offer you what I suggested for the one of the station and if you can bring that one up to the same standard, I'll want it also. Is that satisfactory?"
"Yes, ma'am."
On the way back home, Kurt laid his hand on Don's shoulder. "Don't feel bad about having to do the station over. She took one and she's still interested. But I could see what she was talking about while you were working on it."
"She's right. I guess I knew it all along."
"Then I hope you'll do the one of the station over with all of the feeling that you can put into it for that reason. If you ever get your work on the market, you won't be likely to get as much until you've established a reputation. Be happy that you've found someone who wants to encourage you."
After they had eaten, Don set the rejected work on the easel and sat studying it. From time to time, he looked at the one over the mantel then back.
"Can you correct it, or are you going to do it over?" Kurt asked.
"I was trying to decide which would be easier. I think I can correct it. It's worth a try, anyway." He picked up a brush and began to soften areas of the paint with turps, using a palette knife to scrape away portions. After some time, he put down the tool and went to look over Erik's shoulder as he practiced the Pepping preludes.
"Since you're not doing anything constructive, what about a cup of coffee? I'll bet Kurt would like one, too." Erik hinted.
Don returned with the steaming mugs.
"You're not going to do anything more with the painting?" Kurt asked as Don picked up a book.
"Not until tomorrow. The areas I scraped need to dry some."
Before dawn, thunder rolled, blinding flashes filled the room, rain pounded the roof above his head. Shaken, Don pulled the covers over his head and lay curled in a ball until the storm passed out to sea. Unable to go back to sleep, he pulled on shorts and a T-shirt and walked through the silent house to the kitchen. Once the coffeemaker was on and the electric kettle set to heat water for Kurt's tea, he painted for a couple of hours before he heard Erik moving about.
Late in the afternoon, Don stepped back from the easel. "What do you think of it now?"
"You've got it," Erik said.
"It does look like your work now. I have to say that it still doesn't compare in every respect with the one over the mantel, but I think Mrs. Smythe will be pleased. Now that you've got it done, why don't you relax for a while?" Kurt suggested.
"There are several more I want to do."
"Suit yourself, but take it easy. There's no reason to drive yourself as you've been doing."
As Don had let not let his painting interfere with the things he did about the house and garden, he seemed constantly engaged in one project or another.
"I guess. I'll let this dry and if you'll take me down about Wednesday I can get rid of it and slow down."
To be continued...
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Posted: 07/25/08