Angels in the Snow (7 page)

Claire dreamed of Scott and Jeremy again. This time it was the old familiar beach scene with them just up ahead and her unable to catch up or make them aware of her presence. And once again she awoke with pounding heart and clenched fists—frustrated that she couldn’t even catch a glimpse of their faces. She got out of bed and though it was still quite early and very dark, she turned on lights and threw fresh wood on the fire. Michael watched her curiously but didn’t budge from his cozy bed by the hearth.

“It’s okay, Michael,” she said soothingly as she quietly closed the woodstove door. “You can’t help that you’ve linked yourself up with a madwoman. Don’t mind me. I think I’ll just work on my painting a little.” And so she returned to her easel and the third canvas she’d started during the last week. She was trying to capture the
misty light from their walk the previous day. She knew it would be a perfect backdrop for more angels—if they would only come to her again. She’d hoped to have that dream, the one where they lifted her up to fly. But instead she’d been frustrated by the old one, and it was still haunting her now. Perhaps she could lose herself and forget about it in the process of painting.

It took Michael’s nudge of reality to bring her back into the present. She paused long enough to let him out and fix them both a bit of breakfast. But then she went straight back to her work. This picture felt special somehow—as if it might actually capture the images of Scott and Jeremy. Of course, she knew the departed weren’t actually real angels—she’d gone to Sunday school and church long enough to know that. Angels were heavenly beings, created by God, who went as messengers and helpers and whatnot . . . while humans, once in heaven, were supposedly given heavenly bodies (although how could one really know for sure until that day came?) and were supposed to be somehow
different
from angels. Now what exactly that difference was, or how it looked, was a complete mystery to her. And so, if she wanted to imagine her deceased husband and son as angels, well, who on earth was going to argue with her about it?

It wasn’t until the late afternoon shadows came that she realized she had painted too long for them to take their daily walk. “I’m so sorry, Michael,” she said, glancing at the clock and setting her brush down. “We could still go out for a bit and stretch our legs.”

The snow was a dusky blue now, and when Claire looked to the eastern sky, she could see a nearly full
moon shining through the trees, casting its pearly shadow through their black silhouettes. She stood in awed amazement, wondering once again if she could feasibly capture this beautiful work of creation. Would it be possible to reflect this kind of magical twilight in the medium of mere paints and canvas? And even if she could, would the angels work with it? And was she absolutely crazy to go on painting these snowscapes with angels anyway? Who would ever be interested in such things? It was highly possible that she had become compulsively obsessed with something that everyone else would just laugh at or dismiss as too sweet and overly sentimental.

She picked up the stick that Michael had just dropped at her feet and tossed it across the snow again. Not that her angels were childish or cherublike by any means. No, with her impressionist style they came across as more mysterious and strong and active—in motion somehow. At least that’s how it seemed to her. But, she wondered as she impatiently waited for Michael to return with the stick again, what about what she’d painted today? Was it really what she thought it was? Was it all she hoped it would be? Who was she fooling anyway?

“Come on, boy!” she urged, heading back to the porch, stomping her boots as she opened the door.

She didn’t allow herself to view the painting until she fixed them both a good dinner and cleaned up afterwards. After making herself a cup of strong tea, she set a floor lamp next to her easel and turned the easel so it faced the easy chair. Then she situated herself comfortably in the chair and looked up, unsure of what she expected to see. The painting looked different in the cabin’s mellow
golden lamplight—more alive and real somehow, as if the faces contained expressions she hadn’t even painted there. She stared in silent wonder for a long while—until the tea in her cup grew as cold as the tears on her face. Then she slowly rose from the chair, turned off the light, and prepared for bed.

The next morning she didn’t look at the previous day’s painting. Promising herself to begin her twilight painting as soon as she finished her chores and took Michael for a short walk she set the haunting painting aside—in a dark corner where she could barely see it. Her reason for wanting to take an earlier walk was twofold (if the truth were to be known). Partly so she could be back in time to paint until evening when she might once again catch a glimpse of the moonlit scene, and partly in case she and Michael decided to walk further—to see where those footprints in the snow really went. She felt she owed it to herself—not to mention her sanity—to do so. But just as she was washing the last breakfast dish, the phone rang.

“I hear you got my dog over there again.”

“Hello, Rick.” She tried to make her voice sound cheerful and pleasant.

“Lucy’s been telling me you want to buy him.”

“That’s right.” Remembering Lucy’s warning, she tried not to sound overly eager.

“Well, I told Lucy that I ain’t too interested in selling him, but then she reminded me how my bill’s just a little overdue—” He made a shushing sound. “I know, Lucy. Just give me a minute, would you?”

“Are you at the store right now?”

“Yeah, and Lucy’s here acting like she’s some kind of dog broker or something, like she’s supposed to be handling all this for you.”

“Well, I told her to go ahead and make you an offer.”

“Like I said, I’m not real eager to sell Mike. He’s a good—”

“Gimme that phone, Rick.” It was Lucy’s voice now. “Okay, Claire, if you want, I’ll just handle this for you. You just give me the word, and I’ll strike a deal that everyone can be happy with.”

“Sure, Lucy. Do what you think is best. I just want to be certain I get to keep the dog, but I sure don’t want him to cost a fortune either. Not that he’s not worth it. Let’s see, I’m willing to go a hundred dollars to start with.”

“Nah, you’re right, he’s not worth much. I think thirty bucks is a right generous offer too.”

“Thirty?” Claire frowned. “I just said—”

“Now, I myself wouldn’t have given Rick a dollar for that old mutt.”

“But, Lucy—”

“Well, Rick’s standing here holding up five fingers in front of my nose and saying ‘fifty.’”

“Fifty is fine!” Claire said with excitement. “I’ll gladly pay—”

“Claire says she won’t go over forty, Rick. How old’s that dog anyhow?”

“Lucy!” yelled Claire. “I’ll pay fifty!”

“Four years old, you say.” Lucy made a tsk-tsk sound. “Why, ain’t that about half a lifetime for a mutt?”

“Please, Lucy!” Claire looked down at Michael hopefully.

“Okay, Rick, Claire has agreed to forty-five. But that’s her final offer.”

“Lucy!”

“All right, honey. It’s all settled. Forty-five it is. That’ll just cover Rick’s bill and that pack of cigarettes he’s pocketing right now. The dog is yours—you can settle up with me later.”

“Thanks, Lucy.” Claire felt slightly weak. “But I’d be happy to give him fifty.”

“You drive a hard bargain, honey, but Rick is holding at forty-five.”

Claire’s hand was shaking as she set down her cell phone. “That woman!” Then she turned to the dog. “Michael, you really belong to me now!”

The sun shone down brightly as they set out for their walk that morning. Its warmth made the snow soften and melt, sinking down into itself. This also made for easier walking and distinct footprints. But when they reached the tree, she found no new sets of footprints—only faded mushy ones from days before.

“Oh, well,” she said as she turned around. “I have enough to be thankful for today.” She patted Michael’s head. “You belong to me now.”

She spent the afternoon trying to recapture the mood and colors of the twilight evening and moon from the night before. It felt odd to be using such dark colors on the canvas this time—lots of blue and black. And she didn’t really like it. Finally, late in the afternoon, she stopped, realizing that this was her chance to go see it again. She bundled up and then carried a kitchen chair out onto the porch, settling herself in to witness the spectacle unfold.
As she watched the shadows grow longer, the dusky blue of the snow, and finally the now full moon appear, it occurred to her that the colors here were quite similar to Van Gogh’s
Starry Night
. She waited a while longer until a few stars appeared and thought perhaps that was what the scene was missing. Then, chilled from the cold, she and Michael went back inside where she fixed their dinner with golden stars still dancing in her head.

And then she painted. Late into the night, she worked, thinking (or just hoping) that she was finally getting it. Whatever
it
was. But it was three in the morning by the time she quit, falling exhausted into her bed with her clothes still on.

The phone awakened her, and groggily she answered, afraid it might be Rick having changed his mind and now demanding that she return his dog to him. But instead it was Jeannie.

“Hi, kiddo; I thought it was about time for a check-up call. How’s it going?”

“Okay.” Claire yawned and pulled the quilt around her as she threw some sticks onto the embers.

“So, how’s the painting coming along?”

“Pretty good, actually.” Claire brightened, still not fully awake, but ready to tell Jeannie about her breakthrough. “You see, I got this dog named Michael—he’s kind of like my angel, you know. Hey, isn’t Michael an angel name? Like the one who protects or something? Or maybe that’s Gabriel. Anyway, this guy’s name is Michael.” She walked over and opened the door to let the dog out.

“Well, good,” Jeannie paused. “That sounds real good. But what about the painting?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Jeannie. I’ve been able to paint again. I mean, ever since Michael came, I’ve been painting. First I thought I was just painting snow—everything was just white-white-white. Then I saw these angels—well, not actually saw them, I guess. But I dreamt them, and it felt real. And I thought, hey, those snowscapes just need some angels thrown in.”

“Snowscapes? Angels?” Jeannie sounded skeptical.

“Oh, don’t worry, they’re not like cherubs or something you’d hang on your Christmas tree. And if you squint your eyes you almost can’t see them—”

“Uh, what else have you done, Claire?”

“You mean besides angels?”

“Yeah. What else you got cooking?”

“Nothing really. Just angels. It’s like I can’t paint anything but angels and snow right now. I know it sounds weird, but I think it’s a real breakthrough.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I can hear that sound in your voice, Jeannie.” Claire took in a quick breath. “It’s like you think I’m going wacko or something. And I have to admit I’ve had these same concerns myself—I mean especially when I started relating to how Vincent cut off his ear and everything—”

“Claire!”

“I’m sorry, Jeannie. I don’t mean to sound crazy. And really, I’m just fine, really I am. I think this angel thing all started when I first saw those footprints in the snow. I mean they look exactly like Scott and Jeremy’s, and
I keep thinking maybe they’re out here—just walking around in the—”

“That does it, Claire. I’m coming out.”

“But you don’t need—”

“Yes, I do. I need to do an ear count on you. And I don’t even care what day it is.”

“What day is it?”

“Oh, you poor thing. You don’t even know what day it is? Why, it’s Thanksgiving, of course.”

“Thanksgiving?” Claire considered this.

“Yes. And I’m coming out. I’ll even bring a turkey. And maybe some friends too. You ready for company?”

“Uh, well . . .” Claire looked around the small cabin, at herself still dressed in her rumpled clothes from the day before. “Yeah, sure. If you really want to—”

“I’ll see you around two then. Don’t do anything foolish before I get there.”

Claire hung up the phone feeling slightly stunned. And she’d forgotten to warn Jeannie about the snow on the roads. She went to let Michael back inside and looked around. Fortunately, yesterday’s sun had melted it down some, and it looked to be doing the same today. But was it really Thanksgiving? She scratched her head. How had she missed that? Maybe she really was going crazy. Oh, well, they always say you’re the last one to find out.