She was ripping weeds from the field, reeking of sweat, spattered with mud, wearing a baggy threadbare shirt with some buttons missing from the cuffs and some baggy trousers tied at the waist with a fraying cord and a weathered pair of cowhide boots with holes at the toes, the morning that an elderly painter arrived at the farm, shuffling down the path at sunrise with a crate of supplies, dressed in a silk vest with silver buttons that shimmered in the light. Clara was immediately terrified of him. What he represented. After briefly chatting with her parents and offering her parents some coins for permission to paint the land, the painter set up an easel in the grass on the hill above the farm. She snuck glances at him while she worked. The fear she felt gradually faded, and then she felt only curiosity. At noon she tramped up the hill to bring him some biscuits with jam and butter, and she sat with him for a while, studying how he held the paintbrush, observing how he blended shades on the palette, analyzing how he layered color on the canvas, scrutinizing how he replicated light and shadow. Then suddenly the experience became overpowering and she was afraid the emotions would overwhelm her and without speaking a word she ran back down the hill to the farm, slipping into the abandoned shack out by the oak trees, sitting there alone in the dirt, hiding.
She hid in the shack until evening. She was watching the sunset through the doorway, wondering if the painter was gone yet, when she felt a jolt of terror, because there the painter had suddenly appeared, peering into the shack through the doorway.
“Just wanted to say goodbye and thanks for the biscuits,” Theodore said.
And then he fell silent, noticing the paintings nailed to the beams of the shack. Looking around the shack with an expression of astonishment, he stepped through the door. He glanced at her.
“You painted all of this?” Theodore said.
She hesitated.
“With what, your hands?” Theodore said.
She nodded.
“What is painting to you?” Theodore said.
She glanced down at the mud on her boots. She could feel loose strands of her hair fluttering in the breeze.
“Happiness,” Clara said.
He shuffled around the shack, carefully inspecting each of the paintings in the twilight. He grimaced. He frowned. He looked at her with a squint. Then he hobbled back to the doorway.
“I would like to make a proposal,” Theodore said.
He stood in the doorway, a silhouette against the sky.
“I have played many roles in this life, some of which would truly astound you. Now, however, I am a traveling artist. Today, I was here. Tonight, I am leaving. And if you would like, you can come with me. Tomorrow, you too could be a traveling artist. I would pay for your meals and your lodging and any supplies you would need for painting,” Theodore said.
She sat there for a moment just staring at him in shock.
“In exchange, you would need to promise not to speak too much. And perhaps to carry my luggage,” Theodore said.
She became aware that she was trembling.
“Okay,” Clara said.
A whippoorwill was warbling out in the dusk.
“I’ll come,” Clara said.