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The winds whispered their chorus of change over Edward's land. The tiny sprouts of spring, which had brought him hope, transformed into the hearty plants of early summer. No longer was imagination required to look toward their fruitful promise. Now, mere observation was the only necessity to comprehend their abundant harvest. Already, the drab sparsely-filled plates of winter were becoming populated with the leafy vibrant greens of the lettuces. Bright stocks of orange dressed as carrots and later earthy clumps of culinary gold, in the form of potatoes, would grace the plates as well.
Edward bent to affectionately pat the potato plant now in a reassuring gesture. The soft dense mounds of fluffy potatoes beaten with milk and butter danced in his memory, so tantalizingly close to his taste buds but just far enough removed to provide no pleasure. How many times had he left spoonfuls of the potatoes laced in undulating meaty gravy on his plate, as he stood to leave the table at home in California? If only he had been able to devise some sort of storage system, to borrow from the excesses of the past for the wants of today!
He was, by no means, starving though Germany's submarine warfare had sunk thousands of tons of food and supplies since those cold months of February and they aimed to starve the whole of Britain. Edward knew that others were starving, though, their pride prevented them from asking neighbors for help. The embers of aggression, which had been stoked to a massive roar as his comrades and friends were towed down around him by the never ending barrage of bullets, kindled hot again at the thought of their starvation. His grip tightened into a fist of defiance to smash through the enemy line.
Under his too firm grasp, the tender leaves of the potato plant snapped and spewed its watery lifeblood onto his arm. He stared at his arm, seeing not the dirt and remnants of a broken plant but the spattered blood and mud of the trench. The muskiness of the dampened ground and soaked canvas choked his nostrils.
“Edward, help!”
“Edward, help me!”
Agonizing cries tore into him with more ferocity than the metal of bullets could muster.
“Stop! Stop!” he said aloud, dissolving the memories into the early morning light of an English June day. Seeing the potato plant still in his grasp, he tossed it aside and pushed away the memories.
The terror by day and the nightmares by night, though never absolved of, hounded him more often lately. He felt as if he were retreating in his progress to return to normalcy. In fact, the nightmares had become so frequent that he hastened along the completion of preparing the house to a livable standard so that Agnes, whom he was certain was aware of their frequency but was too polite to say anything, would no longer be witness to them.
And so he settled not peaceably, but uneasily, into the house that had summoned him into its story. He had committed himself to the house as he had volunteered for the war, not because he desired to but because he felt he must. In both cases, Edward saw no decision.
As Martin predicted, the war had officially become his when the United States declared war two months ago in April. Already thousands of men were training to march into France, the way that he had two years before. In the trenches he feared for the men he lived with there, but this was secondary to his own survival. For the first time now, though, he began to feel as Agnes surely must. No man he grew-up with was guaranteed to be unharmed by the war. No one in Edward's life was any longer immune to the savage beast of struggle and destruction. This realization could account for the recent terror attacks his memories waged against him. Yes, that must be it. He took satisfaction in attributing a logical reason to his difficulties. But, even if they were explained, that did not change the pain.
And so the seasons changed, the plants grew, and the war broadened. Information was coming from the east that Russia seemed to be in the midst of revolution, much as Ireland fought for its own government in the west. The world spun in a tumultuous loop and Edward wondered if it would go asunder. Yet, for all the change that did occur, that which he desired most to alter remained the same.
George and John still fought on the frontiers of France. Their letters arrived only intermittently. On more than one occasion, Agnes had been certain something horrible had happened only to be relieved at the delivery of a letter the next day. She would quickly remember that considerable time had passed since the letter had been written and something terrible could indeed have happened, which would renew the whole process, sending her into a dither. The wounds of battle remained as well. Martin's laughter intensified during his especially bitter periods, Edward had come to notice. His own hearing, which had been steadily improving, began to stagnate around mid-May and he began to fear his ear had reached its full healing potential.
Leaving the garden behind now and entering his home, he wiped the mud of the garden against the coarse mat at the front door. He sank into the leather chair he had moved beside the fireplace and looked to the painting.
“And you,” he said aloud to the painted lady now, “you remain unchanged, as well.” Behind her enigmatic face, he had been unable to find out anything further. He had spent hours scouring through piles of papers desperately seeking the elusive Mr. Lefront but he, like the painting, was unrelenting in helping frayed Edward.
He had been avoiding his more intimate discussions with her, since the nightmares flared back up again. He felt ridiculous at the realization but he was terrified at what she would speak to him, as if she had the power to condemn his soul for what she revealed in her reflection of it.
Feeling suddenly claustrophobic in her presence, he exited the room nearly as quickly as he had entered. Back on went the mud-caked boots. Out the door he burst and hurried down the lane. He was undecided on whether he would visit Martin or Agnes and allowed his feet to carry him to the doorstep of the school building. His boots thudded noisily against the steps at his ascent. As he stepped through the door, he saw Agnes with her back to him as she cleared the blackboard from the day's lesson. Hearing him, she turned,
“Oh Edward, hello. I thought one of the children had left something.”
“Hello,” he said. Hearing so short a greeting troubled her and her worry set in almost instantly.
“There's not been news has there? Something's happened?”
“Oh no, everything is fine,” he said, realizing that she had misinterpreted his preoccupation.
“Well, do you need anything?” she asked, trying to determine the purpose of his visit.
“No, I don't think so,” he said.
At least, nothing you can give me.
“Well, please, sit down. I'll just be a few minutes. Then, perhaps, we can walk beside the ducks. Their nests, my students tell me, are brimming with eggs.”
“Fine, fine,” he said, still distracted. He sat in one of the desks, feeling like he had walked into a world that had shrunk. His knees bent awkwardly and pushed against the wood. Agnes seemed always to be attempting to fit Edward into a world he'd outgrown. In her pity for him, she sought ways of simplifying life. He supposed it was the teacher in her, searching for ways to make the world accessible for those that grasped at it.
“Nice of you to stop by,” she said, as she continued clearing the board. “I would have been gone already, but the students insisted upon showing me their pictures.”
“Their pictures?” he asked, intrigued at the word.
“Well, I use the word rather loosely. I am sure that they would pale in comparison to the many great works that you have studied.” She had turned to him, to ensure that the conversation was not made more difficult for him. As she looked at him now, she seemed on the verge of discovering the truth about the portrait. But no, how could she? His nerves were shaken by sustained nights of poor quality of sleep and paranoia had set in.
He nodded politely, not trusting himself to speak on the subject lest he should give something away. His silence was soon broken, though, in response to what she said now.
“There was one particular painting that used to capture me. I felt as though I had a connection with the painting, but I'm sure that must sound silly.”
“A connection?” he asked, sitting straighter and in so doing, bumping his knee against the child-sized desk.
“Yes, well a kinship or something. It's difficult to describe.”
“Where did you see this painting?” he asked, feeling like a dog begging for a treat.
“Oh, in one of the surrounding houses. Mother had a friend that had married well, like your mother I suppose. Not that Mother married poorly! She chose love over riches. Not that your mother does not love your father!” She added these last points in quickly to avoid offense but Edward, concentrating only on details of the painting and feeling he might at last have discovered his trail of breadcrumbs, urged her on.
“Of course, of course. Tell me more, though.”
Agnes misinterpreted his request and supplied him with a complete tale of visiting the woman's house, of the food she had served, and the many details of her furnishings. Edward chided himself for asking so broad a question. In his earnest for information without rousing suspicion, he had allowed himself to fall victim to Agnes's loneliness and penchant for long conversations. They seemed longer as of late, since he was no longer living with her and she attempted to fit every piece of information since last they'd seen each other into each visit. Edward wondered if, perhaps, it would have been better just to move back in with her. These long conversations caused his ear to ache by the end of them. But no, he had moved out with her best interest at heart so that the horrid hands of the nightmares would not dig their claws into her as well. He felt a twinge of guilt, as he realized now that he had not been concentrating on all she was saying. She really was amiable company, but he wanted information and after months of getting nowhere he could nearly smell the clues at the end of the speech. The end seemed triumphantly in sight, as she said,
“But, those days were long ago. Everything has been sold since then.”
“Do you know to whom?”
She looked at him queerly, a tiny frown creasing the area between her eyebrows.
“I suppose it could be in the houses all over the country now, the contents I mean. But, why do you ask? You have the most peculiar look that has come over you.”
“Oh, I was only thinking that if the painting meant so much to you, perhaps, I could find it and you could be reunited.”
Agnes let out a little drop of laughter, like a teapot that has been poured too quickly and missed its mark of the teacup.
“Reunion? You speak as though the painting were a person. You Americans really can be rather funny,” she said and slapped him playfully on the back.
“Yes, I suppose so,” he said calmly though the hairs at the back of his neck had not sat back down since he realized the painting could have been sold to his house. 1909 was not so far removed and yet it was far enough away that Agnes would have been a young girl. But, she said her mother had been there and hadn't his aunt died when they were younger? He really should have listened better. But wait, no, that didn't matter. The painting was sold sometime after Agnes visited and there was no reason at all that it had to occur in the same year. In fact, it made more sense that she had visited before 1909.
“Agnes?” he said.
“Yes, Edward?” The traces of her laughter disappeared from the corners of her lips, as she noticed how serious his expression had become.
“As you said, it was very long ago but do you by chance remember the name of your mother's friend?”
“Remember her name? Oh, so that you can trace her for the painting?”
He nodded and her face lit-up at the idea of a treasure hunt.
“Oh, what was it? What was it? Brown, no, that was the name of our neighbors before John was born.”
Her voice quivered ever so slightly, as she mentioned her brother's name. They had not heard from him for nearly two months now.
“No, wait, I know what it was. It was foreign, French I think.”
Edward's neck tingled in anticipation.
“La, Lu, Le, Le— Lefront!” she said, looking delighted with herself and sending a cold chill of excitement rushing over Edward.