Paula Goodlett - Grantville Gazette 46

"Cool?" Tipton said.

"Yeah, I mean, it's not what I was expecting."

"You didn't see it while he was painting it? Or give him any suggestions?"

She shook her head. "Daddy said he was a master artist, so, you know. I thought it would look like one of those paintings in the books they have at the library."

"What were you expecting the painting to look like?"

She frowned, turned to Elaine, and started to speak before noticing the books, one of which lay open on the table. "Oh, hang on," she said, and started flipping through pages. She stopped at last, turned the book toward Tipton, and said, "Sorta like this, I guess."

Tipton gaped.

Elaine moved over to look at the picture and her eyes widened. "Oh, my!" she said.

Daniel leaned forward. It was a painting by French Romantic artist Eugene Delacroix of a woman lounging on a bed that was hung with luxurious drapes. She wore silk stockings-and nothing more. He shrugged. "It's beautiful, yes," he said. "But a bit dull, don't you think? A bit lifeless?" He looked up at Elaine, who was holding her hand over her mouth.

Tipton looked at Elaine. "Is he serious?"

"What?" Barnes said. "What is it?" He stepped away from the wall and looked at the book, before exploding. "What? What in hell ? For Pete's sake, Mikayla! What on earth has gotten into you?"

"It's pretty!" she said, slouching into a pout.

"It's pornography!"

"Actually-" Elaine started.

"You stay the hell out of it!" Barnes shouted.

"Now, that's enough," Tipton said, putting up his hands to silence them. "Look, Mikayla, I apologize for being indelicate, but I need to know right now. Did you pose in the nude for Mr. Block?"

Mikayla's face puckered in disgust. "No, sir."

"What were you wearing?"

She looked at her father, who stood there with his arms crossed and his face beet red.

Daniel felt like chuckling as he looked at the man's burning cheeks, wondering what pigment would do them justice on canvas. It reminded him of one of those up-time cartoon videos Benjamin and Stefan liked watching, where steam rolled out of a man's ears.

"Answer him!" Barnes said.

"A bikini," she whispered.

"For God's sake, why ?" her father asked.

Mikayla shrugged. "I don't know. I found it in the dresser where mom keeps her old clothes. I guess it was hers when she was younger. I tried it on and. . I mean, it was a little big on me, but it looked nice. And then I got to thinking about home, you know, about West Virginia, how I missed the pool at Grandma and Grandpa Furbee's, where Carla and Brad and me and the rest of the kids used to swim. I got a little homesick, I guess, and then I decided that was what I wanted to wear for the sitting. To, like, remind me of home."

Yes, exactly! Daniel wanted to say, but he kept silent. Couldn't they understand what Mikayla was really saying? Couldn't they see? These up-timers were smart in many, many ways, but so many of them lacked any sense of symbolism. When she had removed her robe and stood there in her bikini, he understood immediately what Mikayla was trying to say. He could see it in her eyes. She wasn't trying to be lascivious or lewd or a "slut," as the up-timers might say. No. The bikini represented that last bit of connection to the world that she had left behind, a life that had been ripped away from her. She would never say it out loud, probably didn't know how to say it, but she felt vulnerable and. . naked in this new world that she had been forced to live in. And Daniel had painted her that way. Couldn't they see?

Tipton nodded. "And at any time, did you ever take the bikini off while you were there?"

"No, sir!"

"I don't care whether my daughter was naked or not," Barnes said. "I want this son of a bitch placed under-"

"Now, you stop right there!" Tipton said, stepping toward Barnes. "I've heard enough out of you. If you don't like this painting, fine. You've destroyed it, so that's done. As far as I can see, there's been no crime committed here. Next time you want to commission a portrait, be a little more specific about what you're looking for-from the artist and from your girl. Now, you go on home, and let this be an end to it."

Barnes stood there, seemingly shocked that Tipton had the nerve to go against his wishes. Then he said, "But I paid him for a painting! I want my money back!"

Tipton shook his head. "It looks to me like Block did the work you paid him for, even if it wasn't what you were expecting. Of course, you can always take him to court if you don't mind seeing this painting displayed in public."

Barnes shook his head vigorously. "Like hell!"

"Well, all right then." Tipton opened the door and called for Schultz, asking him to escort the Barneses out.

The door closed, and they were all quiet for a moment.

"Mrs. O'Meara," Tipton said, "I thank you for your time, and I apologize for Barnes shouting at you like that."

"Oh, don't worry about that. I've been shouted at a time or two before." She shook Tipton's hand, patting it before releasing it. "Daniel? I'd like to talk to you about this more, when you have time? We might want to have a chat about up-timers' attitudes about nudity, for starters."

"Of course," Daniel said, noticing the smile she and Tipton exchanged as she left.

"Mr. Block," Tipton said, when they were alone again, "let me ask you. Why not just do, you know, the usual kind of portrait?"

"Because in your timeline, there is no record that I ever existed. For a painter, there is nothing worse. It's as if every brush stroke I ever made was condemned as mediocre. Uninteresting. Every portrait, lacking in power and life. I left no mark on your world. I cannot bear that thought." He smiled toward the painting. "Now? Well, perhaps now, I won't have to."

"Can you fix it?"

"No. But I can paint others. Many others."

Tipton smiled. "Have that conversation with Mrs. O'Meara first."

"Yes, of course," Daniel said.

Tipton helped Daniel cover the painting again and walked him to the reception area.

Clyde stood as they entered. "Is everything all right?"

Tipton said, "I consider this matter closed. Give your mother my regards. She's one tough lady."

Clyde smiled. "That she is."

The pair walked back to the house through the darkness in silence, Clyde allowing Daniel his thoughts. So deep was his concentration that he was amazed when they reached the door to the house. "How on earth did we get here so quickly?"

Clyde chuckled. "Had to keep you from wandering in front of wagons twice ."

Daniel was about to explain the plans he'd made for his next painting when Clyde opened the door and they heard wailing.

It was Benjamin, his son.

Both men rushed into the living room, afraid of what they'd find.

Little Benjamin clung to his mother, sobbing.

"Sofia?" Daniel said.

She shook her head. "Poor boy. His friend, Bethany Anne, isn't allowed to play with him anymore."

"He's not hurt, though?" Clyde said.

"No, no, nothing like that. But Bethany's mother Stacey wouldn't even let him in her yard. Yelled at him that his father was a-" she looked down at her son and mouthed the word, "pervert."

Daniel growled. "That awful woman. What right does she have?"

Daniel turned angrily toward the door, but Clyde stopped him. " Noooo. No sir. There is nothing to be gained by that."

"But-"

"Yes, I know. And you may be completely right, but going over and yelling at her isn't going to do anything but get the police on my mother's doorstep for a second time in one day, and I know you don't want that again."

Daniel flushed, remembering how much trouble he had already brought-however unintentionally-to Frau Rice's home. No, he did not want to risk that.