The hundred-year-old apple barn rose like an ancient castle – octagonal in design, four stories high, with a fieldstone foundation and siding of weathered shingles. Odd-shaped windows had been cut in the walls, reflecting the angled timbers that framed the interior.
The property to the east had been a thriving orchard until a mysterious blight struck the trees. Now it was reforested, and wild gardens attracted birds and butterflies.
On the last day of August Qwilleran walked down the old orchard lane to pick up his mail and newspaper on Trevelyan Road. On the site where the old farmhouse had burned down there was now a rustic contemporary building housing the Pickax Art Center. County residents attended classes there, viewed exhibitions, and – in some cases – rented studios. As Qwilleran passed it, he counted the cars in the parking lot. It looked as if they were having a good day.
The highway marked the city limits. Beyond it was farmland. He waved to a farmer chugging down the road on a tractor and the driver of a farm truck traveling in the opposite direction. His rural mailbox and a newspaper sleeve were mounted on posts alongside the pavement. There were few letters in the box; his fan mail went to the newspaper office, and official business and junk mail went to the law firm that represented the Klingenschoen Foundation.
A boy carrying a grocery sack was running toward him from the direction of the McBee farm. “Mr. Q! Mr. Q!” he shouted. It was the ten-year-old Culvert McBee. “I brought you something!”
Qwilleran hoped it was not turnips or parsnips from the McBee kitchen garden. “That’s very good of you, Culvert.”
The chubby boy was breathing hard after running. “I made something for you… I took a summer class… over there.” He jerked his head toward the art center and then handed over the sack.
“What is it?”
“Look inside.”
Qwilleran was dubious about knickknacks made for him by fond readers, and he peered into the sack with no great expectations. What he saw was a pad of paper stapled on a small board. The top sheet was computer printed with the well-known saying Thirty Days Hath September.
“It’s a calendar,” Culvert explained. “Every day you tear off a page and read what it says.”
The second page had the date (September 1) and the day (Tuesday) and a brief saying: Let sleeping dogs lie.
“Well! This is really something!” Qwilleran said with a good show of enthusiasm. He flipped through the pages and read: What’s good for the goose is good for the gander… You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink… A cat can look at a king. “Where did you get these sayings, Culvert?”
“At the library. They’re from all over the world.”
“They’re all about animals!”
“Yep.”
“Well, I certainly appreciate your thoughtfulness!”
“There’s a hole in the board. You can hang it on a nail.”
“I’ll do that: “
“I made one for my mom, too.”
“How are your parents? I haven’t seen them lately “
“Dad’s okay. Mom has a sore hand from using the computer.”
“How about the dogs?” Culvert had a shelter for old, unwanted dogs.
“Dolly died of old age and I buried her behind the shed. I painted her name on a stone. You can come and look at it if you want to. My aunt came and brought flowers.”
“That was nice of her. Are you ready to go back to school?”
“Yep.”
Then Qwilleran praised the calendar once more, and Culvert walked back to his farm on Base Line Road.
At the art center there was a familiar car parked on the lot, and Qwilleran went in to talk with his friend, Thornton Haggis. He was a retiree with a shock of white hair, now serving as interim manager until they could find a replacement for Beverly Forfar.
“Still holding the fort, I see,” Qwilleran said. “Has anyone heard from Bev?”
“No. After the turmoil she experienced here, I believe she was glad to wash her hands of our fair city.”
The former manager had written to Qwilleran, however, thanking him profusely for his farewell gift, little knowing it was something he had been trying to unload.
She had written, “It was so wonderful of you to arrange for me to have The Whiteness of White. It hangs in my apartment, where it is admired by everyone. You may be interested to know I have found a small job in Ann Arbor, Michigan, that could develop into something big.”
Qwilleran nodded. From what he knew of that city it had the right climate for an esoteric intaglio. He had won it in a raffle at the art center, simply because he was the only one who bought a chance. He bought several, using the alias of Ronald Frobnitz. As the winner he was trying to dispose of it discreetly without offending the artist who had donated it. Luckily Beverly Forfar was leaving Pickax forever, and she was happy to acquire an artwork valued at a thousand dollars.
In a postscript to her letter she had written, “If you are in touch with Professor Frobnitz in Japan, please thank him for his generosity. I’m sorry I didn’t meet him while he was in Pickax. On the telephone he sounded positively charming.”
