31

Chapter 31

I followed the Colonel. At the end of the hall, he turned left and entered a bedroom. He flipped on the light. What I saw absolutely amazed me. The small room was filled with beautiful oil paint canvases. Paintings of trees, rivers, mountains, old Victorian homes, paintings of night skies, still lifes, a collie dog, helicopters and battle fields, one painting of a beautiful woman sitting on a windswept beach. They were everywhere-leaning against the wall, hanging from wires, covering the single window, canvas against canvas overlapping canvas, floor to ceiling. There were paintings positioned on numerous easels about the room and even stacked on the floor twenty and thirty deep. Paint bottles of all sizes were scattered everywhere, precariously stacked on one another on boxes and the floor. Paint brushes and cans of turpentine lay on a small desk sitting against the far wall. The room smelled like the rich, dark scent of creation.
"Wow, Colonel. You...did you do these?"
"This is how you don't go crazy, Brody, when no one thinks you've got a prayer. Yeah. They're mine. Feel free. Look around."
I did. I carefully moved among the works of art, timidly at first, since I didn't know my boundaries as a visitor, then with a growing release, flipping through the stacks on the floor, taking in each one with hungry, admiring eyes.
"These are remarkable. I had no idea you painted."
"A little bit of a surprise, eh?  Look-e there," he pointed to one of the larger canvases hanging on the wall, still drying. "Recognize that fella?" It was clearly the likeness of Tikki. He continued, pointing out each painting and recounting the stories behind them, the muse in the colors and shapes, the stories, all of them poignant and often heartbreaking. "This little room is a lot like my diary, a memory book, you know. I never was good at talkin' about myself to others, but I talk a lot to these. We have history together. They always listen, never judge me and," he looked at me and snickered, "I don't even have to wear my pants when I come in here. It's my world. I can't even hear the freeway unless I try real hard."
I picked up a painting of a winter city scape, probably Chicago, and admired the thick brush strokes he had used to create the depth and almost palpable feeling of wind and drizzle.
"So, here's the deal. This here's what I need help with. I need you to deliver these to someone. I'd do it myself, but I ain't got no driver's license or a car, for that matter, and, even if I did, sittin' that long with my leg the way it is, well, it just wouldn't work. I understand if you say no. I sure would. But if you say yes, they need to go to a little town right outside Seattle. A woman--it's hard to call her that--a woman lives there. I want her to have these. We haven't spoken for twenty years. She's my daughter. I got nothin' to pay you; I just hope you'll do it out of the goodness of your heart. I know you got a good heart, Brody. You don't have to tell me today. These have been sittin' in this room for a long time. One more day or two shouldn't matter. Now, I'm sure you've got things to do today, so I'm going to let you out. Think it over. Let me know what you decide."
With that, he turned around, flipped off the light, and hobbled back down the hall to the living room, where he collapsed in a rocking chair. His eyes followed me to the back door. I hesitated before stepping outside.
"Don't forget your orange juice," he mumbled. Then he closed his eyes and kicked the footrest up.