The Cat Between Page 13

  “But what about the artists who stayed in Europe? Well, many German artists like Caspar David Friedrich in his The Sea of Ice painted or presented in 1824, rejected the Italian ideal countryside in favour of more harsh subjects. Look at the jagged shards of ice—broken, overlapping—and the dull sky. Pretty bleak. Can be seen out my living room window.” Some of the students laughed. Gerry clicked to the next image.

  “A French painter named Camille Corot managed to combine realism with lyricism. Look at Peasants under the Trees at Dawn painted mid-nineteenth century. Look how loose the technique is. Everything is just as the watcher would have seen it: the light slanting from an open to a wooded area; the workers’ bodies just shape and colour; the tree spreading over the scene. It’s very humble really. Look at that goose standing to one side.” She paused.

  “Now we come to the Barbizon school, so named for a village south of Paris where artists would go to find the countryside. Jean-François Millet also painted peasants performing tasks. He was much admired for his truthfulness.

  “Another ‘realist’ who gets mixed reviews from art historians is Gustave Courbet. Look at Bonjour Monsieur Courbet, in which the artist is the central figure. I feel his choice to paint the three humans with such crisp clarity makes them appear ‘laid over’ the smudgy, rougher brushwork he used for the landscape behind them. Even the dog looks posed. But Courbet was popular in his lifetime and many painters emulated him.” Gerry presented another image.

  “If you can’t see what I mean, compare the Courbet with this one and the one after this. First Leibl’s Three Women in Church, in which the colours of the women’s dresses are only slightly different from those in the background. They are women at worship but they are also shapes beautifully tied into and contrasting with their surroundings. I like this painting very much. It is simple but that simplicity has been achieved through Leibl’s superlative technique. As is the case with the next.”

  Click. She heard sighs from the back of the room. “Last one. Rosa Bonheur was much admired for her depiction of animals, working animals such as these oxen in Plowing in Nivernais, exhibited mid-century.

  “So that’s an overview of realism in the nineteenth century. Any questions?” There weren’t any. “I think we’ll hear your thoughts on the topic next Tuesday, and Thursday as well, if necessary. If you haven’t yet read this section of the textbook, please read it this weekend and I think, instead of comparing and contrasting paintings from that period, for homework I’d like you to write two pages minimum on the historical context in which realist painters found themselves. In other words, prove or disprove that their art was a product of its time. Thank you. Have a nice weekend.”

  As they shuffled from the room, Gerry glanced out the windows along one side. Thick heavy snowflakes were dropping slowly out of the sky. She groaned. She foresaw a slow drive home. Again.

  She drove carefully and found Prudence waiting with her coat on. Gerry slid into the passenger seat. “Good practice for winter driving. No sudden movements and you should be fine.”

  Prudence got behind the wheel. “Good fat rascals, by the way. I ate both of them.”

  “Thank you. You were meant to. How’s everything?”

  To her surprise, Prudence sighed. “It’s the February blues, I guess. And I just got back from vacation! How come the shortest month seems the longest?”

  Gerry replied, “And it’s leap year, so it’s got twenty-nine days instead of twenty-eight.”

  Prudence changed the subject. “I walked over to Blaise’s today at lunch. Saw the cat. He’s walking around, stiffly. Great big scar on his side. The fur was shaven off, of course. Looks terrible.”

  “I’ll go over tomorrow,” Gerry decided.

  “Oh. And your friend phoned. J-L, he called himself.”

  “And?”

  “Said he’s got to work tomorrow in the day but has the evening off and would you like to go for a moonlight ski? Very romantic.”

  “It won’t be when I’m slipping and sliding all over the woods. It’ll be my first time, remember?”

  “Really?” Prudence asked, putting extra incredulity into her voice.

  Gerry lightly tapped her knee. “Miss Smartypants. My first time cross-country skiing. Anyway, if this snow keeps up there won’t be a moon to ski by.”

  They arrived in Prudence’s driveway uneventfully. “That was really good, Prudence. I didn’t have to correct anything. You can drive!” A pleased-looking Prudence waved goodbye and let herself into her house.

  As Gerry drove home, she enjoyed the rhythm of the falling flakes of snow, lit up by her car headlights, coming at the windscreen, and, for some reason, thought of the fireflies that flashed among the trees and above the lawn at The Maples in summer. Could they be the subject of a backyard painting? When did fireflies get born, anyway? May? June?

  She slowed as she drove down the big hill. The village across the lake was less visible but even more magical through the falling snow. Of the four-legged hunters of a few nights ago, there was not a trace.

  14

  Gerry heated a can of ravioli and buttered two slices of crusty bread. She settled at the living room table with a sigh of pure joy. Outside it was still snowing, but she was safe in her cozy home, and her work—that is to say, the part that was regimented by others—was over. She pulled her various project piles closer and drew up a work schedule for her freelance work.

  Number one would always be Mug the Bug. She’d need to do five episodes over the weekend. “One tonight,” she murmured, “and one each day until Monday. I’ll do them with my morning coffee. Then I’ll know they’re done.” She scrunched the loose skin on the back of Bob’s neck. As usual, he ornamented the table. Little Jay, after zipping around the house like a crazy thing for an hour, had suddenly conked out on Gerry’s lap.

  “What if Mug met a kitten like Jay, Bob?” Bob blinked wisely. “Hm, I suppose you’re right,” Gerry concluded, remembering what Jay had done to a luckless spider that had been inhabiting a dark corner. “Still, Mug might be too small for the kitten to eat. What else, what else?” She looked outside. “A talking snowflake? Haven’t I already used that?” She noted it anyway. “Oh my gosh, I have to get going on the greeting cards. What’s the next holiday? Besides my birthday, of course.”

  She wrote down under cards: Mother’s Day and Father’s Day and felt her throat ache at the thought of her parents buried just a few hundred yards away in the little graveyard of St. Anne’s Church. “In the cold, cold ground,” she muttered; then, feeling the heat of the kitten on her lap, told herself firmly, “They’d want me to enjoy my life, not feel sad.”

  She fooled around with a few ideas for Mug giving cards to his parents. Okay, she thought, one Mug strip tomorrow and then the rest of the day on greeting cards. I should just make this a Mug the Bug weekend.

  She was already caught up for the art history class for the following week. “What am I going to bake for the drawing class next Wednesday?” she asked Bob. He stretched on his side, his four legs trembling with pleasure, then curled and dozed. “You’re no help,” she complained. She cuddled Jay to her chest, got up and retrieved her aunt’s recipe scrapbook.

  Jay, miffed at being woken, jumped down and toddled off to find Mother. Once Gerry was reseated, Min Min petitioned for her lap. She lifted him up. “Hello, my old friend. How are you?” Min Min started up his motorboat while Gerry selected her next baking project.

  She read the directions carefully. Very specific. She could do that. What was it Prudence said? Light hands with pastry, strong hands with bread. Not that she’d ever made bread. She set the recipe aside. Okay, now what?

  She had no private commissions pending, which was a bit worrying. She decided to run an ad. But was February the right month to run it in? Better ask Judith, who worked at the paper. She made a note on her calendar. What else?

  T
he view across the lake popped into her mind. The idea of creating fine art, almost from the moment she’d moved into The Maples, had been bothering her. Art for art’s sake, without any financial motive. Teaching the art history class had reinforced this craving.

  Make a list, her practical brain suggested. 1. Check your supplies. 2. Take photos of the scene. You’re not going to set up an easel by the side of the road in winter.

  Depositing Min Min on the table, she prepared her camera and looked through her sadly depleted collection of watercolours, acrylics and oils. Hah. She felt a visit to Montreal coming on. Which reminded her: when was that art auction, anyway? She yawned. If she made a coffee now, she’d be up all night. She made a tea instead and sketched, introducing a wary Mug the Bug to a curious Jay the kitten.

  Friday morning, she phoned Blaise, told him she’d bring lunch, and made two ham and Swiss on croissants. Then she worked until noon and headed over to visit Blaise and Graymalkin. Her friend had left his front door open and called out as she let herself in. “We’re in the kitchen.” She went through.

  There they were: the cat on the old man’s lap in the reclining chair in the kitchen. Gerry kissed Blaise and set out their lunch. She looked at Graymalkin. Last time she’d seen him had been at the vet’s more than two weeks ago, when he’d been near death. Now, except for the absence of fur on his left side and the incision, which ran from his spine and disappeared under his belly, he looked as usual.

  “Hello, Gray,” she said softly and let him sniff her fingers. He licked them. “Ham and cheese,” she laughed. “I packed a little container for him if he’s allowed.”

  “Of course he’s allowed.” Blaise gestured expansively. “Here today and gone tomorrow. Let him have it.” The cat jumped carefully onto the floor near the little container of food.

  “It must still hurt,” Gerry commented, handing Blaise his sandwich.

  “It’s good it’s winter,” Blaise agreed. “He doesn’t want to go out so much. I had Cathy close the door of the bedroom with the hole in the ceiling. Have to get that fixed before the squirrels start coming into the house.”

  “And the hole in the attic. I bet the cat was keeping them out of there. Tea?”

  Blaise nodded, so Gerry put the kettle on. They chatted about this and that and when she saw he was tiring, she left.

  She went home, got her wallet and car keys and her camera, and drove to the nearest sporting goods store, where she purchased a pair of cross-country ski boots. As she drove back along the river road towards Lovering, she decided today was the day she’d cross the ice bridge.

  When she got to the ferry landing, she turned, paid the man sheltering in the trailer there and drove onto the ice. The road had been plowed and was marked with old Christmas trees, stuck in the snowdrifts either side. The sun had come out so she got out her camera and stopped halfway to take some beautiful shots up and down the river. Then she continued across to the little town where she remembered getting french fries so many times with her parents, but in the summer, when they could cross the river by ferry. Drenched in vinegar and salted, the fries were as good as she remembered. I should do this more often, she said to herself as she drove back to the Lovering side. And wasn’t there supposed to be an awesome gourmet food store near the monastery where the stinky cheese came from? A summer outing by ferry, she promised herself.

  When she passed the viewpoint for her proposed wolf painting, she stopped again and took a few photos, returning home where she produced not one but two Mother’s Day cards.

  “I’m on a roll, cats,” she congratulated herself as she fed them their suppers and made herself a coffee. It was a new flavour: Belgian chocolate. She smacked her lips. “Just what I wanted.” She ate some cookies and nuts and went back to work.

  She had sketched Mug, an almost invisible speck on the page, handing his equally tiny mother a huge pompom of a flower and was pondering the text for the card when the phone rang. “I’ve got pizza,” the male voice at the other end of the line stated.

  “I’ll be right over,” Gerry replied. Grabbing her new boots and the rest of her ski equipment as best she could, she arrived at Jean-Louis’s door in a confusion of skies, poles, and leaping husky.

  J-L laughed. “Just leave the equipment outside. I’ll show you how to bundle them for carrying later. Right now, we have hot pizza.” He’d ordered the meat lovers’ and it smelled wonderful. “Fuel for the skiing,” he said through a greasy mouthful. “Beer?”

  Gerry, trying not to feed all her pizza to Harriet, swallowed and wiped her mouth. She shook her head. “Not a fan. Too yeasty.” He handed her a can of pop. “How are things on the mountain? Did you happen to hear if that boy ran away?”

  J-L looked at her for a moment. “Ah yes, you know him. Well, according to him, he hadn’t run away. According to him, he was doing wildlife research. A teacher confirmed it.” He took a swig from his beer.

  Harriet rested her head on Gerry’s knees and she felt drool seep through her pants’ leg. “Research. Yes. So he told me. Wait a minute. You talked to his teacher?”

  J-L gave her a blank stare. “No. Of course not. Someone in management at the mountain told me.”

  Remembering the bag of drugs she’d found in her local woods, Gerry was suddenly appalled at the idea that the boy might somehow be mixed up in drug dealing.

  “What? What did you just think of?” J-L asked curiously.

  “Oh, well, I don’t think I told you, but I found drugs up in the woods.” His expression didn’t change. “In a bag in a tree.” She sipped her ginger ale. She finished rather lamely. “I’m worried about the boy. That’s all.”

  “I heard about that,” he said slowly. “About the drugs.”

  “How?”

  “Prudence must have told me when I phoned and left the message.”

  Gerry wiped her mouth, thinking, it’s not like Prudence to blab.

  J-L snapped at the dog. “Harriet, that’s enough. Sit! Gerry, you shouldn’t feed her. She’ll beg all the time. Anyway, turns out the boy, who’s from Iran, by the way, is supposed to be learning engineering but has also been studying environmental science. So he was on the mountain looking for wolf, coyote or coywolf tracks.” He shrugged. “That’s his story.” He mused, “The coywolf: neither one thing nor the other.”

  “You told me before. But you don’t believe him?”

  “You want to split the last slice?” Gerry nodded. “You know, the truth is a funny thing. People tell part of it and feel virtuous enough to make you believe them.”

  “You’re pretty suspicious.”

  “Not of you, Gerry.”

  She blushed, trying to think if she’d told any partial truths lately. She decided she hadn’t. She raised her last pizza crust and looked at J-L. He grinned and nodded. She threw it at Harriet, who’d been sitting nicely since J-L had so ordered her and smiled at J-L. “What you see is what you get. We ski?”

  After they got the boots on and the unfamiliar feel of their hard soles had enticed Gerry to try an impromptu tap dance on the cottage’s hard wood floor that had entertained at least Harriet, they went outside. “I have a trail out the back here. No need to go on the road.”

  The ski boots fit easily into the bindings and the poles were grasped just the way you’d expect. Gerry was poised expectantly when J-L said, “Wait, wait. Do you have any wax?”

  Gerry’s baffled look was his response. He took off his skis and, telling her to do the same, went back into the house.

  Gerry crouched, fumbling with the bindings. What had been easy to step into was harder to undo especially when an affectionate dog was licking your face and inviting you to play. J-L came outside to find Gerry, skis still attached, rolling on the ground laughing as Harriet alternately pounced and retreated. “Oh my God. Children, children, time to ski. You know what? Just stay there.” He knelt in the snow and took
a small tube out of his pocket.

  “What’s that?” Gerry laughed. “Industrial-sized lip-balm?”

  “This, mademoiselle, is ski wax, for those so old-fashioned as to still be using wooden skis. Lucky I have some. You get all sorts on the mountain.” He brushed snow off the bottoms of Gerry’s skis and rolled wax on. Then he hauled her to her feet. Then he hugged her. “Petite peste,” Gerry thought she heard him mutter.

  As they stood, ready to go, the full moon came out from behind a cloud. The night was still and quiet except for the odd car going by behind them and the distant sound of a snowmobile up in the woods. “Remember one thing,” he said. “If you can skate, you can cross-country ski. Can you skate?”

  “Actually, yes, I can, rather well in fact,” said Gerry, as she took a tentative step.

  “So don’t step. Slide, as if you were on ice. I’ll go first.” He quickly swooshed through the fresh fluffy snow and passed through an opening in a stone wall into the open field beyond. She realized that the track they were taking must have been made by the snowmobile parked at the side of his house. Packed down, then covered in a few inches of fluffy snow, the trail the machine had made was really good.

  Gerry followed slowly and when she got to the wall, shuffled through the gap. J-L quickly skied across the field and Gerry tried to copy his arm motions. She fell down. He returned. “Don’t worry about the arms. Get the legs right first. I’ll go next to you for a bit so you can see.” He held the poles tucked under his arms and propelled himself forward using just leg power. “See?” he called from the end of the field. “Like skating.”

  She gamely tried the same trick but over she went again. Harriet, who thought it was all a game, bounded over and pounced on Gerry’s chest. “Oof! Get off, dog!” Gerry scrabbled a bit before she figured how to stand up with long sticks strapped to her feet. She waved. “Okay, I’m coming.” This time, using the poles for balance, she crossed the field successfully.