Then in sheer exhaustion, she stoked her dwindling fire and allowed herself a short nap before she returned once again to her unsettling creation. She worked until dusk this time and, lamenting the loss of good light, turned the easel toward the wall (still afraid to really look) and fixed herself a bowl of undercooked oatmeal for dinner. She knew her eyes were too tired to keep painting anymore tonight, especially if she didn’t want to sacrifice the quality of her work – assuming there was any quality. And so she simply sat in the easy chair and closed her burning eyes, wondering how in the world she would ever be able to survive this soul-wrenching loneliness. It was odd though, while she had definitely felt the pain of loss, she hadn’t really noticed the loneliness so much before. In fact, her solitude had been somewhat welcome when she’d first come to the cabin. But somewhere along the line, something in these circumstances had changed. Maybe it was her.
Just then, she heard a scratching sound followed by a sharp bark.
“Mike!” she cried, leaping from her chair and dropping the quilt to the floor. Sure enough, when she flung open the door, there was the dog all covered with snow. She told him to come, and, as he gave himself a shake, she ran for the towel, happily drying him off by the fire.
“Oh, what on earth are you doing out in this horrible weather, you silly old dog?” Then she hugged him, and he wagged his tail. “I’ll bet you’re hungry.” She quickly found his dishes and filled them with food and water. She set them before him, watching with pleasure as he hungrily devoured every bite. She knew she should contact Rick. But she didn’t have his phone number. And besides, it was dark out, and she wasn’t eager to see him standing on her doorstep tonight. It would have to wait until morning. In the meantime, she would simply enjoy this unexpected visit from her dear old friend.
Having Mike (or Michael as she had decided to call him) made it easier to go to bed that night. It was such a comfort to hear the dog’s even breathing as he slept by the warmth of the fire. But before she drifted to sleep she prayed. First she thanked God for returning Michael to her, and then she asked that she might somehow keep him for good this time. She knew it was a long shot but figured she had nothing to lose.
The next morning she awoke early, refreshed by a good night’s sleep. She couldn’t actually remember if she’d dreamt of angels again or not, but she was heartened to see her friend Michael still sleeping peacefully by the fire. But his head popped up as soon as he heard her footsteps. Soon his tail was thumping against the planks of the wood floor, and she knew he was waiting to be let out. She watched him make his way down the porch and into the snow, his limp barely noticeable now. She knew she had to make some kind of an attempt to reach Rick today, but she was in no hurry. And once again she prayed that God would somehow allow her to keep Michael.
After breakfast, she went over to yesterday’s canvas and hesitantly turned the easel around, allowing the morning light to wash across it. She felt her hand go to her mouth as she gasped in wonder. Had she really painted
that?
She moved closer and, narrowing her eyes, studied it carefully. Incredible! There amidst the trees and snowy background she’d painted a few days back were several – what would she call them – celestial beings? No, they were simply angels. And they were artfully tucked here and there, almost so that you wouldn’t notice. Some angels were partially hidden behind trees, some translucently visible in the foreground. But each angel was painted in varying shades of white – in fact the entire picture was little more than shades of white upon white. If you squinted, it looked like little more than a snowstorm. But if you looked closely, the angels were clearly there. It was amazing, really. She closed her eyes and shook her head sharply, then looked again – almost thinking she’d imagined this whole thing or was dreaming again.
“Did I really paint that?” she said aloud, drawing the attention of Michael who walked over and looked up with canine curiosity. She turned to him. “What do you think, boy?”
His tail wagged as if to give approval, although Claire knew he was simply responding to her voice. And then she began to laugh. “Oh, man, Jeannie’s going to think I’ve gone totally off the deep end.” She went to put on the coffee. “First of all, I’m talking not just to myself but to a dog as well. And next off, I’ve started to not only believe in angels but to paint pictures of them too.”
She took her coffee mug back over to the painting, ready to look again, to see if it was really as good as she’d first thought. Perhaps she wasn’t really seeing things as they were – another symptom of insanity. But this time she liked the painting even more. Of course, this alone should have disturbed her since she didn’t usually like her finished work at all. And despite the opinions and approval of others, she was always her worst critic. “Maybe I am losing it, Michael,” she said, taking a sip of hot coffee. “But I really think God’s sending me angels to help me through this – this thing.” She reached down and patted his head. “And if I’m smart I’ll keep this little bit of information to myself. But I honestly think you might be an angel too.”
Still, and as much as she hated to, she knew she needed to make an attempt to reach Rick. Finally, she decided to just get it over with and dialed information, but was informed that his number was unlisted. She decided to call Lucy at the store and see if she might know something more.
“Yeah, Rick got your number from me the other day, but he didn’t bother to leave me his number for you.” Lucy cleared her throat. “He’s not the friendliest guy around, if you didn’t notice.”
“Well, he picked up his dog the other day, but late last night he came back.”
“Rick?” Old Lucy let out a hoot. “Why, he’s a married man – still, I wouldn’t put it past – ”
“No, no. Not Rick. The
dog
came back.”
“Oh, well, that’s not so bad. But still, that’s a nuisance now, isn’t it? Rick ought to be fined for letting his animals run wild like that.”
“I don’t really mind. I mean I like the dog, a lot. I honestly wish Rick would let me buy the dog from him.”
“Well, why don’t you then?”
“I offered, but he didn’t seem too interested.”
Lucy made a noise that sounded like
harrumph.
“Well, from what I’ve heard, that man has more dogs than a body needs, and his own family hardly has food on the table. Fact is, he’s run up his bill at the store again.”
Claire sighed. “Well, if you see him, would you tell him I’m willing to pay good money for this dog?”
“
Good
money?” Lucy laughed. “You sure you want me saying it just like that? Don’t you know he’s bound to take advantage of you?”
“Well, say it however you think best. You’re the businesswoman, Lucy.”
“That’s absolutely right, honey. You leave it all up to me and I’ll have that man paying you to keep his dog.”
“Oh, I don’t want that – ”
“Well, one way or another, you just trust me, and I think we can work this thing out just fine.”
“Thanks, Lucy.”
“By the way, how’s your painting coming along these days?”
“Actually, I think I’ve made a real breakthrough.”
“Well, good for you, honey. You keep it up now.”
Claire hung up the phone feeling slightly more optimistic. She knew Lucy would be a better match against someone like Rick than herself, but she still wasn’t too sure he’d be willing to part with his “good ol’ dog” as he’d put it. Although, now that she thought about it, she’d given up awfully easily. She knew Lucy wouldn’t give in like that.
Claire got out the other snowscape now, the second one she’d painted, the one with beams of sunlight filtering through the trees. With trembling hands, she set it on the easel and stepped back. But before she picked up a brush, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, attempting to remember the vivid angel dream from the previous night. And then she prayed that God would guide her hands, and her heart, and she began.
It was after two o’clock by the time she paused. She felt Michael’s nose pressing against the back of her calf, as if to gently get her attention. She sighed and stepped back, glancing down at the dog. “I’ll bet you need to go out again.” He wagged his tail. Noticing hunger pains, she grabbed an apple and a chunk of cheese; the latter she shared with Michael, then she got her coat and hat and headed out the door.
“I think you could use a little exercise today,” she said, heading toward the road. “Not too much, mind you, but just enough to keep that leg getting stronger.” They walked slowly down the trail; it was still slightly packed from yesterday’s trek, although a fresh layer of snow softened her previous tracks. The sun was trying to break through a thin veneer of fog that hung suspended through the trees like a transparent fluffy quilt, resulting in a soft, gentle sort of light – almost heavenly. It would be the perfect backdrop for her next painting! She paused now and again, allowing Michael a chance to rest his leg as she tried to memorize the scene before her. Would she be able to capture that kind of mysterious light, that downy softness? She played with various ideas for technique while she walked, praying once again that God would continue to lead her along this intriguing artist’s journey she seemed to be on.
She went as far as the dead tree, curious whether or not she’d see those two sets of tracks today. But spying no fresh tracks, she decided to turn back. “I think this is far enough for you, Michael.” She felt a keen sense of disappointment as they walked back. She had so wanted to see those tracks again, for as much as they disturbed and frightened her, they also gave her a strange sense of hope. Oh, she knew they couldn’t
really
be angels – at least not likely – because angels surely wouldn’t go tramping through the woods in snow boots. And she knew it wasn’t
really
Scott and Jeremy – despite her wild imaginings. For that was impossible and ridiculous, a little insane even. But something inside her, something she dared not consciously consider let alone acknowledge, still longed for a miracle.
7
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 334 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.