Mexico City glowed for Agnes -- called to her in her dreams like a lover, sultry and full of heat. Here, her mother had assured her, she could gain strength.
The frailty of her childhood had lingered into adulthood. Her parents blamed the New England winter and the rigor of college life for her exhaustion. They didn't know about the affair with Martin -- Professor Ellesby to them -- or how badly it had ended for her. They didn't know she was lovesick and soulsick and lost in her own head, sorting through memories of stolen passion and unrequited love. And they certainly didn't know that forcing her into this hot, bright, living city compounded her longing for something she couldn't quite name.
Her father John Barnham, New England's preeminent architect, and Mary Barnham, her socialite mother, returned to Boston, packed her things and forcibly relocated her with them in Mexico City.
For well over a year, John Barnham had overseen the construction of the first cathedral built since Mexico's revolution. Mary Barnham kept to her bed during the day, avoiding the oppressive heat and the news from Europe. At night, she proved to be the life of the party for the expatriate community. While war raged across Europe, and men died in the trenches, Mary Barnham drowned her misery in scotch and shallow encounters.
This was fine with Agnes. At night she attended the functions expected of the daughter of visiting dignitaries. But the days, oh the glorious days, she reveled in her solitude, lost and alone in a city of millions. Surely, here, she would compose the poem that haunted her dreams -- find the words to express the ache in her soul.
Agnes walked along the cobblestone streets which twisted and turned through the old city. She swung her leather satchel with her pens and paper in her left hand and skipped over the puddles from the morning's rain. Her thin, tanned legs kicked out the edge of her long white dress with each hop.
Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" played in her head, remembrances of the previous night's concert. Heat from the strong summer sun washed into her, filling her hollow places with warmth. A smile played across her lips, brief and bittersweet. Martin had loved Beethoven, the bastard. And so had his gaunt and pinched wife.
Perhaps today she'd find the inspiration that had eluded her since the frigid December afternoon she encountered Mrs. Martin Ellesby at the symphony.
She'd fled Wellesley then, reeling from shock and deep shame. What else could she do? The scandal would devastate her family.
In the end, her muse flew before the burning ridicule of her peers, ripping from her more than the sweet memories of Martin, of the innocence of her love, but also the joys of Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Walt Whitman.
Instead she found herself enfolded into the stoic propriety of her father's house, affirming his long-held bias toward women and education.
But here, with the long winter a painful but distant memory, she had no fear of meeting the knowing glances and judging stares of her mother's inner-circle. In Mexico she could lose herself in obscurity.
A myriad of people flowed through the city. The Europeans and Americans were easy to spot in their drab clothing and pinched faces. The Mexicans, comfortable in their city, wore bright colors, celebrating life. The dark, weather-worn faces greeted her each morning with smiles as she purchased fresh-picked melon, halved and dripping, the juicy meat exposed to the world, or thick-crusted bread and gloriously rich goat cheese for her mid-day repast.
A Spanish mission stood out amongst the mud-brick houses lined which the lane. Up ahead, growing against the startling blue sky, rose the new cathedral. She and her parents had been in Mexico City since May, and the cathedral's slow transformation had transfixed her. Despite her best intentions, and well-laid plans, she inevitably found herself drawn toward the spire rising over the belly of the city.
As she wound in and out of the streets, the growing spire winked in and out of view. Each time it came into view, a tightness crept into her belly. Only to subside again when the view became obscured by other, closer buildings.
Shame had overwhelmed Agnes since the encounter with that horrible, shrieking Mrs. Ellesby. . The hope that had been snuffed out inside her heart had given her something in return, a curse, it seemed, to seek answers. It drove her from sleep and haunted her waking pauses. Now the sight of that cathedral spire brought the feeling of expectation and dread.
Today she'd started south of the cathedral, to visit a woman she had heard made beautiful wooden rosaries. She thought of her childhood in St. Ignatius' school for girls in Connecticut. How the nuns had showed her the path to Jesus the Lord, through His Mother, Mary. She'd long since given up on the strictures and confinements of the Catholic church, but deep down, under the mousy brown hair, the glasses and the meekness, she felt the dread of the Christ.
The anger and righteousness which threatened her, the judgment that would be meted out to her one day.
She purchased a rather plain rosewood rosary with tiny veins of pink swimming through the creamy wood -- each bead linked to its brother with a hand worked bit of silver. She slipped the rosary over her head, felt the heavy silver crucifix nestle between her breasts.
The square in front of the cathedral bustled with a mid-day crowd larger than normal. The benches surrounding the fountains where she usually ate her lunch held gawkers and photographers, quite a few more than normally lunched here. The usually quiet murmur of the city had been replaced by a rising cacophony. Shouting erupted near the cathedral. Obviously something of note had drawn these people here.
She craned her neck above the crowd as best she could, but nothing out of the ordinary struck her. A small, rotund local, poncho and sombrero brightly colored, pushed past her, his mandolin clutched in his fat little hand. The usual " excúseme" she received in such situations did not appear.
"Hmmmph," she sniffed, wrinkling her nose. "Rude and odiferous."
Then an ancient woman, dressed from head to toe in black, shawl wrapped over her thin graying hair, stumbled forward, nearly knocking Agnes to the ground. Agnes spun around, confused. The crowd swelled, and more and more people began to push toward the cathedral.
Agnes, tall and thin, moved along the edge of the crowd, like a small twig rolling along the crashing waves. Just as she felt she would fall under the swelling onslaught of bodies, a firm hand appeared, an offering in the growing madness. She took the hand and found herself lifted out of the tide of bodies and raised onto one of the tall, flat tables that surrounded one of the ministerial buildings like barriers.
The hand belonged to a man, an Anglo, by all signs.
He stood above the crowd, his clothing disheveled and his fingers stained yellow from nicotine. Agnes looked up into his face, strong chin covered in a thick black beard. Several curly locks flowed down the sides of his face, escaping the twisting braid which lay across the back of his neck. She stared into his piercing gray eyes, marveling at the gold flecks that seemed to draw the light around her, focusing her attention into the depth and concern.
"Are you quite alright?" he asked, still holding onto her hand.
The breath caught in her throat. Something in his touch, in the splash of blue that lay across his left cheek, and the seriousness of his gaze broke something inside her. She giggled. Not a demure, proper little laugh, but an outright trill of released tension and pent-up annoyance that escaped her like the effervescent bubbles in a fine champagne.
Bemusement painted his features.
"I'm fine, thanks to you." She smiled at him, feeling the muscles in her face tugging upward.
She looked down at her hand, still clasped in his. His eyes followed, and he released her suddenly, a rosy flush creeping up through unkempt whiskers.
Agnes noticed then, his left hand held a palette. To his left, facing the cathedral stood an easel.
"Oh, you're a painter?" she asked.
"Yes, I pretend to be," he said, nodding his head slightly.
She looked at the painting. The brush strokes were quite delicate, the colors blending pleasantly. The starkness of the cathedral's spire shone against the inexplicably chartreuse sky. "It is lovely."
He blinked at her for a moment. "You think so? You don't find the sky off-putting?"
"I find it a wonderful compliment to the gold and tan of the cathedral."
His blush deepened. "Most people find my color choices too unrealistic, unnatural."
"Most people are boors."
They stood in silence then, looking at one another in wonder.
"Quite a day, eh?" he said, finally.
She turned to see the square awash in a human sea. The crowd moved in a great swirling circle out one end of the square and back in the other, all revolving around the nearly completed cathedral. "What is happening?"
"Oh, haven't you heard?" he asked. "They've had a visitation."
"A what?"
"Apparently a young boy fell. He had been delivering supplies to those who worked at the top of the scaffolding. He would have most assuredly died from his injuries, but the foreman, a burly Romanian fellow, began yelling for the men around him to fetch a doctor. Then, out of the sky a lady descended. She came in a cloak of roses, alighted near the boy's cracked and bleeding form. The men fell to their knees, making the sign of the cross. The chant went up, spreading through the city, Virgen de Guadalupe. "
She turned, taking in the scene, watching the swell of humanity surge forward, hearing the murmuring of the prayers and the chants. How had she missed this washing through the city? "And you were here when it happened?"
He shook his head, a wry smile slipping from his face. "Alas, no. I was at a coffee shop arguing politics with a rival of mine when the word spread. The bastard came and went, his camera capturing what events he could. I had to dash to my room and get my canvas."
She cocked her head to the side. "Your friend captured this on film, and you decide to capture it on canvas?"
"Yes, I know," he said. "Wholly inadequate to the event, but it is what I know to do."
"I think it captures the scene splendidly."
They stood together, watching the crowd slowly converge on the cathedral.
"Do you mind?" he asked. "My paints are drying out, and I can't afford to waste them."
"No, please. Continue." She waved her hand toward the cathedral. "If you don't mind me watching."
He smiled. "It would please me to have a woman as fair as you watching me paint." He turned toward the canvas, knelt and lifted a small jar of paint from a valise at his feet. He used a small silver blade to daub out a bit of yellow onto the board and mixed it with the paint already there. Once satisfied with the consistency, he carefully scraped the remaining paint from the instrument and replaced the stopper into the jar. He pulled a brush from the valise and stood. He stuck the fine hairs of the brush into his mouth, twisting it a half turn as he extracted it, creating a fine point. Then he tipped the brush into the bright yellow and turned toward the canvas. With a deep sigh, he slowly drew the brush upward from the uneven spire, creating a splash of light which erupted from the center of an empty square.
She watched him, mesmerized by his creation -- admiring the deftness of his strokes, the surety in his hand. The emergence of something from nothing, a miracle of creation in oil and fiber-- it stirred something within her.
And with that, her muse burst forth.
"Like the sundering of a lover's embrace
The lady erupted over the crowd
Leaving the body hale
And the spirit renewed."
She stumbled as the words trailed off, the sky a spiral of chartreuse and gold. She felt his strong hands catch her, heard his voice through a cottony wall of murmured prayers. "Oh, my fair one," she thought he said. Then the world went black.
This city's drab winter threatened what little of her muse remained. And the drab people in their drab clothes did the same.
Agnes grieved for Mexico City in the months after they left. She missed the bright colors, the bright people, the lavish meals and high ritual.
Naturally, her mother had been sleeping when the painter brought her home. Her father was working. The housekeeper had not thought to ask the young man his name. The physician called it heat exhaustion and she kept to the shade for three days, but those days had been glorious, her pen moving over page after page, some deep part of her triggered by the remnants of visitation or the firm hands or the mad, swirling sky of the painting. For the rest of the summer, Agnes wandered the plazas and cafes around the cathedral hoping to find him, perhaps to thank him for bringing her home, perhaps to thank him for finding her muse. She didn't know for sure. Regardless, he was nowhere to be found.
When summer ended, she returned to Boston with her parents but did not return to college. Her father insisted that she take a year to think through her choices, given her early withdrawal and poor marks at Wellesley. Autumn in New England bled into a winter in New York, the close of the War to End All Wars punctuating the season with relief.
"Champagne, Miss?"
Agnes turned to the server with his tray of fluted glasses, smiled and shook her head. "No, thank you."
He moved on and she watched him go, then watched the crowded room, eyes moving over the gowns and tuxedoes as New York's upper crust mingled with the intellectuals. Her father had insisted she attend though she would've preferred remaining in Boston for the holiday.
She stood at the edge of the party now, listening to a string quartet playing Mozart. A few couples danced. Most split off to gather in small groups, clusters of men and clusters of women scattered about the ballroom.
Agnes walked the room, picking up bits of conversation. The widespread devastation in Europe, the latest Chaplin film, the new Nash 681 touring car on the streets. Nothing here for her.
A voice rose above the others and she gravitated towards it for some reason that she could not fully grasp.
"Russia," the voice said, "is just the beginning." She moved towards it. "Certainly it's not perfect. But the idea is there. By God, I hope they pull it off. I hope it spreads like a fire. We could all use some idealism that works for a change."
Agnes reached the edge of the conversation. She saw a plain suit, dark hands, but a small knot of men obscured the speaker's face.
"Not 'by God' if your Marx is correct about religion."
"Being the opiate of the masses, Father Reynolds?" the voice asked. "Mark my words, inside thirty years cinema will replace it as such."
The group laughed. Even Agnes stifled a chuckle. The heads moved and she nearly didn't recognize him with his neatly trimmed beard and his short curly hair. The eyes and smile gave him away. He looked up at her, surprise registering on his face. "Miss Barnham?"
She took a step back, a sudden heat rising to her cheeks.
"Miss Agnes Barnham?" He stepped toward her, nodding to the priest. "Please excuse me, Father Reynolds."
"Ah," she said, "So I see you've turned up again." She smiled and offered her hand. "Mister...?"
"Schonfeld," he said. "Jacob." He grinned. "What a nice surprise."
"Indeed," she said, recovering. "You quite vanished, you know."
"Mysterious of me, yes? Unfortunately, my visa ran out rather...unexpectedly." His eyes smiled. "But I'm glad you looked for me."
She snorted. "You flatter yourself, Mr. Schonfeld. I merely wanted to thank you for returning me home safe and sound."
"Ah," he said. "That's all?"
She nodded, eyes tracking the waiter with his bobbing tray of glasses. She needed a drink. Quickly. "How's the painting?"
He shrugged. "It passes the time suitably. Annoys the parents adequately. And the poetry?"
She felt her cheeks grow even hotter, remembering that spontaneous stanza so many months before. "Poetry?" The waiter dodged by. Her hand snaked out and grabbed a drink as he passed.
"It's quite good," he said. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the last issue of the New England Poet. It had been only out two weeks; how could he possibly know? Her knees went to water. Then she remembered the rest of the poem, scribbled out furiously in a cafe near the cathedral in the weeks that followed.
No, she thought. Not this; anything but this. Involuntarily, she started looking for an escape route.
"I was hoping," he said, as he opened the digest to a dog-eared page, "that you would grace me with an autograph."
Those flecks of gold in his eyes danced with amusement. She swallowed. "How in the world did you -- "
He interrupted. "Actually, it really is quite good. Especially this bit." His finger traced a path down the text and he cleared his throat:
"Arms strong to save and eyes to pierce
A smudge of sky on olive cheek
The Virgin's Son in Mexico my
Lost soul to seek."
He looked up from reading. "I've never been in a poem before."
That trapped feeling of embarrassment took on sharpness that spilled over into her voice. "Again, you flatter yourself."
He held out the digest and a pen. "As a Marxist and a Jew I was terribly offended," he continued, grinning. "But as a man, I was quite captivated."
She took the pen, scribbled a few words across the page and handed it back to him.
He read it and laughed. "'You're an ass, Affectionately, Agnes Barnham.'" He bowed his head. "Thank you."
She curtsied and tried not to look smug. "You're quite welcome."
He shifted now to stand beside her. "So what brings you out tonight?"
"Why, Mr. Schonfeld," she said, "haven't you heard it's New Year's Eve?"
"Not for me. Again, Jewish."
"So perhaps the real question is what brings you out tonight."
"Why, my calling of course."
"To embarrass young women with your own pomposity?"
His sudden laugh tingled down her spine. He cocked his head. "That's an added benefit. But actually, the ideological potential for embarrassing the folks is astounding."
She didn't want to ask but had to. The coincidence weighed on her. "And the poem?"
"Ah. That." He started looking around the room. "That was quite a happy accident. I have a friend who spends a lot of time down at the library reading up on strange occurrences, fanciful events, lights in the sky and what-not. We'd been talking about the visitation in Mexico City, he did a bit of looking and your poem got clipped."
"I find that highly unlikely. It came out, not two weeks ago."
"It is his work," he said. "He's here tonight. You can ask him."
"Sounds like a bit of a crank to me."
"Ah, but a well-connected crank to be sure. He's here as the guest of Theodore Dreiser." He took her elbow and warmth fled out as his fingers brushed her skin. "You'll love him. Full of all kinds of amazing information. Besides, he's actually responsible for me finding you."
She raised her eyebrows. "Mr. Schonfeld, you seem to be mistaken. I found you. Twice now."
He shrugged. "Believe what you will." Then he patted the pocket with the concealed journal. "'Miss Agnes Barnham,'" he quoted from memory, "'daughter of preeminent architect John Barnham, currently makes her home in Boston, Massachusetts, with her family and her cat, Hezekiah. This is her first professional publication.'"
He smiled at her, slipped his hand into his pocket and withdrew it. A single train ticket to Boston. "I was leaving tomorrow."
She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it. She felt something odd moving from her stomach toward her throat, as if she'd swallowed a moth that now wanted out.
He put the ticket away. "Still," he said, "it's a hell of a coincidence."
She blinked. "You're telling me that you were coming to Boston tomorrow to find me?"
"Yes," he said.
"Why?"
He cleared his throat, looking around the room at everything but her. "Well. That's a damned good question."
"And?"
Jacob shrugged. "I think it was the poem. I'd never felt so...Messianic...before."
Agnes felt a giggle rise but fought it down. She wanted to be annoyed. "So it's really his fault, then," she said.
"Whose?"
"This friend of yours who spends his days in the library studying poems about unexplained phenomena."
"Oh, not just poems. Newspapers, magazines, the works. But yes. His fault." He grinned and offered her his arm. "Do you think," he asked, "that all of these coincidences are...coincidental?"
She rolled her eyes, letting him steer her through the crowd. "Are all Marxists this funny, or are you an exciting new prototype?"
"Just the Jewish ones," he said. "Let's meet my friend."
Agnes couldn't help but smile. "Let's," she said. "I'm really quite cross with him."
They navigated the room in silence now. With his free hand he waved to a group of men huddled in the corner. "There he is."
A tall, heavy-set man wearing a gray tweed suit who seemed out of place laughed loudly. He looked a bit like Teddy Roosevelt, Agnes thought. He swept off his glasses and rubbed them clean with a cloth. "-- and I suspect only four or five people will actually pick it up," the man was saying.
"Going on about that again?" Jacob asked as they approached. "Charles Fort, may I present to you Miss Agnes Barnham."
"Ah," Fort said. "The Mystery Poetess of Boston I've heard so much about."
"Nantucket, originally," she said, extending her hand. "Mr. Fort. A pleasure to meet you." He took her hand, squeezed it.
"Nantucket?" Jacob asked. "Really?"
She nodded slightly. "Born and raised." She turned to Fort. "So what were you going on about?"
"His book," said another of the men. "And he'd best stop, considering the limb I've climbed out on for him."
Fort released her hand. "I told you, Dreiser, you needn't bother."
A bespectacled man with a greasy comb-over and wide lips inserted himself between them, taking her hand. "Miss Barnham."
"Mr. Dreiser," she said, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. The fingers of his other hand lingered a bit long on her wrist. She gently pulled away, craning her neck to see around Dreiser. "What's it called?"
He stepped aside. "The Book of the Damned."
"Fantastical or spiritual?" she asked.
"Neither, actually," Fort said. "Or perhaps both, I suppose."
"Fort here chases down the unusual and extraordinary," Dreiser said.
"Yes, Mr. Schonfeld told me as much," Agnes said. "Do tell me a bit about it."
Fort's smile widened. "I'd be happy to, Miss Barnham. What strikes your fancy? Strange markings on meteorites that have fallen from the sky? Artifacts found within rocks? A rain of fishes in a cornfield?"
Agnes shrugged. "Anything, really. Just tell me the most amazing thing you've seen."
Dreiser laughed. The others in the group chuckled as well, except Jacob. Jacob stared at her, a strange look on his face. Charles Fort blushed.
"Fort here hasn't actually seen any of the amazing things in his book," Dreiser said, clapping the man on the back. "He gathers them up from the library."
"Not so, Dreiser," Fort said. "I've seen the most amazing of the amazing."
"Pray tell," Agnes said.
Fort put his hand on her shoulder, turning Agnes slightly. "Do you see the piano there?"
She nodded. The group became quiet.
"Are you watching carefully?"
She nodded again, squinting intently.
"Now...move just to the left. The woman there, in the blue dress? Do you see her?"
"Yes." She was a short middle-aged woman talking with a group of matrons. She glanced over, smiled and gave a subdued wave.
"That woman is my wife, Annie Fort, and she is the most amazing thing I've ever seen." He chuckled and dropped his hand from her shoulder to glance back at his friend. "What do you think of that, Dreiser?"
"Fort, you devil, I'm speechless," Dreiser said.
"And that," Charles Fort said to the group, "is the second most amazing thing I've ever seen."
The conversation moved on around her but Agnes couldn't hear anything. It was as if someone had stuffed cotton into her ears. The music faded. The voices drifted and the room slowed down. She watched as Jacob talked with his friends, watched his hands move, watched his eyes move. Light came from him and suddenly he seemed very much the same larger than life figure that stood against the sky in her memories of that plaza in Mexico City.
Maybe, she thought, visitations happen every day. She opened her mouth to say so, to somehow add something to all of the words she could no longer hear. Then Agnes realized suddenly that Jacob's eyes were fixed on hers, his lips forming a surprised and nervous smile, his hands limp at his sides with no further point to make.
A quiet miracle rustled but refused quite yet to be born.
On a rather dreary Friday evening in late May, the phone rang unexpectedly. Her father answered, grumpily thrusting the phone toward her after a few minutes of listening. "Some editor." He screwed his face into a twist, as if he smelled something foul. "Wants to talk to you about your poem."
They'd never phoned before; usually corresponded by mail. Agnes accepted the phone, took a quiet breath and held one hand against her breast. "This is Agnes Barnham."
A familiar voice, tinny and distant, filled her ear. "Miss Barnham, lovely to hear your voice."
She glanced at her father, one hand covering the phone, eyebrows raised.
Mr. Barnham rolled his eyes and shambled out of the parlor, mumbling.
Agnes grinned. "Mr. Schonfeld, how nice of you to call. You're buying poetry these days?"
"Listen, I haven't much time," he said. His words tumbled fast. "Do you fancy snakes?"
"Not so much," she said. She paused, waiting for him to continue but he didn't. "Why do you ask?"
She heard other voices in the background, equally excited. She heard Jacob's muffled voice as his hand covered the receiver. "Please, can you keep it down? I'm on the line with Boston here." Clearer now as he answered her question: "A chap up in Maine rang Fort to say there's been a snake-fall near Portland. Would you like to see it?"
She wasn't sure she'd heard correctly. "A what?"
"A snake-fall. A rain of snakes. Would you like to see it with me?"
She looked around to make sure no one was in earshot. "Where are you?"
More voices. "Oh. I'm in New York. But I'm leaving in a few minutes and wondered if I could swing by and pick you up."
Formality slipped her mind. "Jacob, you're over two hundred miles away. Portland is at least another hundred miles from here." Her mouth wanted to smile. She fought it back as if somehow he'd be able to hear it in her voice. "You're just going to swing by?"
He seemed embarrassed now. "Well, only if you want to see it."
"Mr. Schonfeld," she said in her sweetest voice, "you're either batty or drunk or both."
He ignored her comment. "I should hit Boston easily by morning. Shall I pick you up at eight?"
She thought for a moment. "Oh, I should think eight-thirty at the earliest. At the train station, please."
"At the train station?"
"It's easier that way. Trust me."
"I'll see you then," he said and rang off.
Agnes stood for a moment, holding the phone in her hands. A snake-fall in Maine. For a moment she wondered if this was some odd courtship she'd happened across, then wondered if calling it a courtship presumed too much and wondered exactly why some part of her felt afraid and hopeful all at once as memories of his eyes, his hands, his mouth flashed silently past.
Last, she wondered what lie she'd tell her father about tomorrow.
The field of snakes stretched on and on before them. Agnes poked at one with her foot, ready to jump back if it moved. It didn't; it seemed all the snakes were dead. "You do this often?"
Jacob looked up from unloading the Model T. He smiled, pulling out a collapsible chair. "When I can." He unfolded the chair and steadied it.
Agnes shielded her eyes from the late morning sun. "This must explain why there is no Mrs. Schonfeld."
He laughed. The sound of it still made her feel warm. "I suppose it does." He unfolded a second chair and set it up near -- but not too near -- the other. Then he worked the easel free.
She sharpened her pencil while Jacob set up his easel and squeezed paint onto his palette. She sat down and drew her notepad from her satchel. She scribbled:
Caught up, cast down in a courtship of snakes
A carpet of corpses unmoving, unliving
Untethered at last from past mistakes
Free from the unloving and unforgiving.
She lined it out and stole a glance at Jacob. His eyes flashed merriment and his mouth twitched into a grin. She fell back into the last several hours and returned his smile.
The jostling of the car and the easiness of his voice had drawn her out. They'd talked about everything. Movies and music. Last week's vote in the House to approve the new amendment, the one that would finally expand America's democracy to her and millions of other women. ("If we're going to drink to that," he had said, "We'd better do it quickly.") Eliot, Frost, Van Gogh, Marx, Sanger, and the surprising popularity of Fort's book -- they moved from subject to subject, eventually settling into their childhoods, their fears, their frustrations and even a bit of their dreams.
His brush darted now from palette to canvas, his eyes wandering over the field.
After an hour of more random scribbling, more random lines to somehow capture this time, she looked up at him. "Why do you do this again?"
He glanced at her, his brush never losing its stroke. "Bored so soon?"
She chuckled. "Not bored. Curious."
He smiled, his white teeth gleaming in the light. "It awes me. I like how that feels. So I paint that feeling."
"You do this a lot?"
"What? Lure young women into fields of dead snakes?"
Now her chuckle became a laugh. "No. Paint oddities."
His brows furrowed. "Not oddities, Agnes. Unexplained and unexpected wonders." For a moment, he paused, his brush hanging in the dead space between paint and painting. Then he remembered her question. "I paint what I see."
She looked at the field of dead snakes. "But always after the fact? You'd said in Mexico City that you'd arrived after the visitation. And these -- " she waved at the snakes -- "they fell yesterday...maybe even the day before."
"I'm usually appallingly late to miracles," he said.
"Usually? So you've been on time before?"
"Once or twice."
"Only twice?"
Their eyes met. Something danced in his. "Three times, now that I think about it."
She raised her eyebrows. "What were they? Strange lights in the sky? People vanishing and reappearing?"
"No. Missed all of those." He went back to painting.
"Are you going to tell me?"
"Maybe later," he said. "For now, my paints are drying."
She rolled her eyes. "I've heard that one before."
He didn't answer. After a few minutes, she pushed herself back in the chair, lowered her hat, and closed her eyes.
It was late afternoon when she awoke. The sun had vanished, dark clouds spreading across the sky.
"And the lady awakens," Jacob said. "I think we're going to have muddy roads home if we don't pack it up soon."
Agnes stood and stretched. "Did you finish your painting?"
He nodded, standing himself. "I did. Just now."
She took a step closer to him. "May I see it?"
Jacob blushed and stammered. "I...I'm not sure you'd -- "
"Oh, don't be silly." She walked around the easel to stand by him. Her mouth opened and shut and she looked from the canvas to him and back.
It was the most beautiful painting she had ever seen. A stunning girl stretched out, asleep in a collapsible chair, her hair cascading from beneath an off-kilter hat. She followed the line of the neck, the curve of the breasts, the sleek, coltish grace of the legs. The girl's feet rested on the shore of an ocean of rainbow-speckled serpents while overhead, a sky colored by a thousand dreams swirled and twisted like a silk canopy above.
Agnes did not know what else to say. "You've been painting me."
He turned to face her, shuffling his feet slightly. "I did."
"But why?"
"I paint what I see."
And suddenly it struck her. Three times, he had said earlier, and she realized now that those had been the only three miracles she'd been on time for, herself. Mexico City. New York. Now here.
"Is it okay?" he asked her.
The sky above rumbled and opened. Something bounced off her shoulder but she ignored it. Dark shapes fell into the field, thudding softly as they bounced off the car.
Her eyes searched his. She didn't know what to say so she did the only thing that came to mind. Throwing herself into his arms, she kissed him and kept on kissing him while frogs fell around them. Beneath their feet, the ground hopped and croaked, rolling like a living sea. Overhead, the sky turned a shade of ochre that neither paint nor poem could capture.
The End
