The Bird Lover

On a mid-May morning, with the sun roosting on the lowest branch of a distant sycamore, Elvira Brandeis threw a knitted shawl around her shoulders and slid the patio door open.  She wandered out to where her birds were waiting.  Sparrows hovered on the tray of the empty feeder.  Doves pecked around its base.

“I’m coming,” she whispered.  “You know that.”

She lifted the lid of a large metal can and filled a scoop with seed. This she carried to the feeder, opened its plastic roof, and dumped the contents.

“Happy now?”

They were.   Six sparrows quickly shouldered onto the tray while several more fluttered in a nearby bush.  The doves strutted in small circles below, awaiting carelessly tossed seed.

For a long while she watched them, thinking how they were such welcome companions.

I’m so glad you don’t jabber like most of the residents at Villa St.Agatha.  This time of day an old woman like me wants to enjoy the serenity of a place like this—

A male voice startled her.  “You get special dispensation for that?”

Her gaze shifted from the feeder to the shaggy-haired man standing maybe twenty feet away on the asphalt path.  He was roughly her age, a bit taller and ramrod straight, not round-shouldered like her.  He wore a red cardigan with brown elbow patches and baggy blue pants.

“Yes, from Mother Teresa who loves birds as much as I.”

“She loves art, too, and lets me paint by the ponds,” the man said.  A smile was half-hidden in a forest of whiskers.

“You’re a resident here?” Elvira asked.  “I’ve never seen you at any of the meals in Jude Hall.”

“I’m not a very social creature, and I prefer my own cooking.”

Though the man did not stray onto her patio, she could see brown eyes twinkling.  She made a sudden decision.

“Join me.  I always have tea about now.”  She pointed at a round glass-topped table and two soft-cushioned chairs.  “The kettle’s on.  Do you take sugar and cream?”

The man nodded.  “Both.”

“I’ll be right back.  Enjoy the birds.”

When Elvira returned, she found him sitting in one of the chairs and staring at her birds.   She carried a silver tray with two porcelain cups already filled, a matching set of creamer and sugar bowl, and two silver teaspoons.  

“Wow!” The man said, holding a cup between his hands.  “Don’t know if a grungy old cuss like me deserves all this finery.  But thank you.”

“You’re unkempt, not grungy.  Your hair needs a trim, and that beard’s unattractive.”

“I’ve got clippers.  Just don’t use ‘em.  My clothes meet your approval?”

“Barely.”

“But you’re not frowning.”

“You’re my invited guest.”

The man shook his head like a wet dog come in from a storm.

“You’re too blunt to be a gentlewoman.”

“I’m direct, yes.  But forget my gender.”

“Can’t.  You’re a looker.”

“Me?  At my age?”

“Yep.  How old are you?

”Now who’s being blunt?”

“And curious.”

Elvira hesitated, then blurted, “Seventy.”

“You look fifty and much like Mary Martin.  Remember her?”

Elvira blushed.  “Yes.  Peter Pan.”

“I like your hair cut short like hers.  Pixieish.”

Elvira’s hand touched a lock near an ear.  “Thank you.”

“And your eyes are the softest egg shell blue.  Entrancing.”

“Stop . . . please.”

The man shook his head.  “Smile for me.”

Elvira felt the tightness around her mouth vanish as a slow smile warped the edges of her lips.

“Oh, that’s pretty.  You should model.”

“Huh?”

“I want to paint you.  Will you sit for me?”

“No, sir!  I don’t know you and . . . I’m not sure I want to.”

The man laid down his cup and stuck out his hand.  “I’m Duncan Purdy.”

Elvira gasped.  “A Purdy funded that beautiful convent where the nuns have rooms.  I’ve seen the bronze name plate.”

Duncan sighed.  “My sister became a nun here years ago when this all was St. Agatha’s Abbey.  She passed on a few years back.  I couldn’t do much for her when she was alive, but I came into some money and that hall’s dedicated to her memory.”

His hand hadn’t moved.  Elvira shook it.  

“I’m Elvira Brandeis.  I’ve lived here at the Villa three years.”

“Ah, you moved in about the time the Abbey became the Villa, a residence for seniors.”

“I guess.”

Elvira took her first sip of tea.  It was only warm now.  Her gaze darted from his face to the feeder and back.

“Do—do you live on the grounds?” she asked.

She was referring to the massive acreage of Villa St. Agatha which was bigger than most village parks with huge swaths of lawn, three ponds ringed by towering old willow trees, and a formal rose garden.  In a remote corner was a century-old cemetery where deceased nuns abided.  On nice days, Elvira hiked throughout this restful sanctuary.

“Do you know there is a small Jesuit monastery adjacent to the Villa?”

"Yes, to the east," Duncan said.  "I live in a cottage close to the connecting gate.”

“Where you propose to paint me?”

“Yes,” he laughed.  “Would you like to see it after we finish our tea?”

Elvira knew her smile was now glued on, but she replied as civilly as she could.  “Thank you, but not today.  I have errands.”

Though his eyes met hers, the twinkle faded.  He stood and nodded.

“Thank you, Elvira, for the tea.  I hope to see you again . . . soon.”

I wonder if you do Elvira thought when he strode down the path out of sight.

As she washed their two cups, and long afterwards, his whiskered face and twinkling eyes kept coming to mind.  Much later she took a long walk through the grounds.  When she came to the eastern perimeter, she peered through the gate.  

When she saw no sign of him, she sadly returned home.  Her birds, which encompassed the feeder, failed to dispel her funk.

#

May swept by and much of June before Elvira saw Duncan Purdy again.  

She had just emerged from beneath the long green tresses of a willow tree when she saw him painting at an easel quite close to the nearest pond.  He did not see her and she was glad she could observe him quietly.

He wore a brown thigh-length bib apron.  Several brushes, their tips all coated with paint, stuck out of the pocket near his waist.  He held an oval palette in one hand and a brush aloft in the other.  His gaze seemed to concentrate on the thick clump of water lilies in the pond.

She studied his profile for a long while.  A smile eased onto his half-hidden lips.

A feeling long unfamiliar stirred within Elvira.  She shuddered, then spoke.  “You seem pleased with your work.”

Duncan flinched and turned.   A toothy smile burst forth and his eyes sparkled.

“Elvira!  What a delightful surprise.  Come . . . come closer and see the canvas.  Yes, I am pleased with what I’ve done.”

Elvira hesitated for a moment, then strode toward the easel.  When she reached the painting, she stopped and studied it intently.  When she looked up, she was beaming.

“Duncan, this is marvelous!  You captured those blossoms perfectly and the light is . . . heavenly.”

Duncan dipped his head.  “Thank you.”  His eyes met hers.  “When it’s done, would you like it?”

Elvira gawked.  “You’d give that away . . . to me?”

Duncan laughed and stuck the brush he held into the pocket of his apron. But his gaze never left Elvira’s face.  

“Yes, on one condition.”

“Oh?”  She felt her heart quicken .  “Wh—what?”

“You model for my next one.”

Her eyes widened.  “Not—?”

Duncan grinned.  “Not at my place, but at yours.  By your birds.”

Elvira sighed.  “Yes.  Yes, I will.  I—I’d love to.”

#

Less than a week later the lily painting hung on her living room wall and she had finished modeling for Duncan.  She had only seen glimpses of herself on canvas.  After the second two-hour session, each preceded by tea on her patio, Duncan had tucked the canvas under his arm and toted it home three days ago.  She had not seen him since.

And she missed him.

During those sessions, Duncan talked openly as he painted, and Elvira had learned much about him.  He had painted most of his life (he was 73), but painting had always been a hobby.  He never sold any of his paintings, nor had any galleries ever sought him out.  Duncan made his living investing in stocks and real estate.  He had invested considerably in Villa St. Agnes when it went public.  Daytime he walked the grounds or painted.  Evenings he researched the stock market for the latest trends or read thrillers.  

Duncan was chatty but not vain.  He was curious and quite adept at asking just the right sort of questions.  Elvira seldom balked at anything he asked about her.

“You taught school where?  What grade?”

“I started at a one-room school house in Princeton where I grew up.  But I was eager to go to a bigger city like Peoria.  There I taught several years at an elementary school.  Second grade was my favorite.”

“Why?”

“Seven-year-olds are so precocious and love to learn.”

“But you didn’t stay there.”

“No, I fell in love with the principal and when he was offered a better-paying position in Oakdale, he asked me to marry him and move with him.  I did both . . . happily.”

“I’m betting you stayed happy many years.”

“I—I was very happy until he died four years ago.”

Duncan paused.  “I’m sorry for your loss, Elvira.”

“Thank you.”

Because tears were coming, she lowered her eyes.  When she looked up, he gave her a shy smile.

“You should have been a lawyer,” she said.  “I feel like a witness in a courtroom.”

“A good one,” he responded.  His eyes glimmered.

It was the end of the third day without his presence and she was washing the few dishes she’d used for her small meals.  She avoided eating at Jude Hall because she feared she might miss him if he came by.

“Did I tell him too much about myself?” she asked her reflection in the kitchen window.  She shook her head.  “No, there’s not much to tell.  I’m a widow, a retired teacher, and a grandma.  I read, I walk, and I—“

There was a knock on the glass patio door.  Elvira turned from the sink and looked.  

“It’s him!” she gasped and tore off her apron.  Then she rushed to the door and opened it.

“Duncan, it’s dusk and don’t you—?”

He smiled and stepped into her chambers clutching a bundled square object.

“I wanted, no needed, to see you, Elvira.   I finished the painting.”

Elvira clapped her hands and skipped toward him.

“Show me!  Please!”

Duncan’s fingers tore away the cloth binding.  He spun the painting around and thrust it toward her.

Elvira’s gaze fled to the canvas and a moment later her jaw dropped.

Duncan’s smile vanished.  “You don’t like it.”

She stared at the painting as tears rolled down her cheeks.

“That was me fifty years ago,” she whispered.

“You were lovely.  Still are.”

“Liar.”

“No, you are,” Duncan roared.  Clutching the edge of canvas, he shook it in her face.  “Why can’t you accept my praise, Elvira.  It’s the truth.  And I paint . . . what I see.  Would you have me redo this?”

Elvira shook her head slowly and brushed the tears away.

“What color is her . . . my . . . face?  It’s not pink.”

“Magenta.  My favorite color.”

“And those birds flapping their wings on my hat brim look like doves, but they’re blue-black.”

Duncan merely nodded, but his smile was back.  “Sooo . . . do you like it?”  He handed it to her.

Elvira held the painting to her bosom and raised her eyes to his.

“My tears don’t tell you?”  Her smile was tentative.  “Wh—what will you do with this?”

Duncan reached out and took the picture from her.  For a brief moment their fingers touched and Elvira’s heart thumped in delight.

“Oh, she stays with me.  In my home.”

Elvira’s face flushed.  “Ohh . . . but that’s me so many years ago, a woman you never met.”

“A beauty then and just as lovely now.”

She trembled with embarrassment as her eyes darted around the room.

“Ohhh . . . this is the first time you’ve been inside my place.. You haven’t seen where I hung The Lily Pond.  Please tell me what you think.”  She pointed to a wall where the painting hung.

Duncan gave her a neon smile.  “Perfect!  I can’t think of a finer setting.  I’m honored.”

Duncan looked around Elvira’s parlor, first at the overstuffed chair she’d pointed at which had lace doilies on each arm.  It faced a love seat with a crocheted shawl spread across its back.  A well-polished coffee table was carefully centered between the chair and sofa.  Across the room beneath the lily painting perched a brown upright piano and bench on an Oriental rug.

“Nice, Elvira.  Much as I imagined your place to be.”

Elvira’s cheeks burned.

“I—I’m a terrible hostess,” Elvira said..  “Please sit.  That chair,” she pointed, “is very comfortable.  The sofa not so much.  I’d like to celebrate your finishing my—my painting, but I drink so seldom there’s nothing to offer.  No, wait!“ She stumbled toward her small kitchen.  “I have a bottle of wine.”

Moments later she returned with a dark green bottle and two wine glasses.

“It’s . . . uh . . . Prosecco, not champagne but bubbly.  Will that do?”  

Duncan laughed.  “Beautifully.  Let me open it.”

She did.

He filled their glasses and lifted his.  “To you, Elvira.  That painting would not exist without you.”

She sipped, wondering if it was the wine or his compliment which now flushed her cheeks.

Duncan finished first and laid his glass on the table.  Their eyes met. His sparkled.

“I would like to paint you at dusk, Elvira.  Will you pose again for me?”

Her heart pounded. “Why?”

“Because you are a lovely woman, and I would like to add to my collection.”

She stared at him.  Even with whiskers, his face seemed alight with tenderness.  

“Yes, Duncan.”  A smile burst upon her lips.  “Come tomorrow evening early for dinner, and afterwards we—you’ll—paint.”

“Wonderful!”  Duncan grabbed the bottle and refilled their glasses.  “To us,” he said lifting his.

“Oh, yes, to us!”