Chasing Eternity by Diann Ducharme

Author:Diann Ducharme
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FICTION/Coming of Age
Publisher: Diversion Books
Published: 2012-05-24T00:00:00+00:00

As he walked down the road toward the hotel, he passed another two-story home, similar to the hotel and the post office, but a hand-painted sign above the door read “Dunleavey’s Market.”

He saw in the window two paintings, and as he neared he saw that one of the paintings was of a small, stone cottage similar to Aisling’s. Another featured waving, brown fields, stretching to the sea, the colors earthy and the moods careful, somber. He couldn’t make out the signature of the artist at the bottom right of the paintings.

Ryan thought he could use some painkillers for his throbbing face, so he ventured through the market’s front door, a bell tinkling his arrival.

An elderly man sat in a rocking chair near the door, next to an old-fashioned cash register. He nodded to Ryan, then continued rocking. The tiny market bore a few wire shelves with boxed cake mixes, jars of jam, drums of salt, canned fruits and vegetables, and lots of candy, and a refrigerated case contained some triangles of orange cheese and two glass bottles of milk. Ryan didn’t see any painkillers.

“Do you have anything that will help with pain?” Ryan asked the old man. “Aspirin, maybe?”

The man cracked a gummy smile. “I got some poteen under the counter here.” “No, thanks, I can’t drink that stuff,” laughed Ryan, a hand on the door knob. “Those paintings in the window. They’re beautiful.”

The man turned to the canvases in the window and squinted, as if trying to figure out what Ryan was talking about.

“Aye, those were painted by Old Pat Michael Dunleavey. This was his shop, so it was. He passed on about two years ago,” the man said. “He’s got a few paintings here in the back, all of ‘em for sale. You want to see ‘em?” “Sure,” said Ryan. The wake wasn’t due to start for another couple of hours.

The old man took his time getting up from the chair. Then he slowly hobbled with a cane toward the back of the building. He opened a door and led Ryan into a room with many large windows. The sunlight shone directly on an easel that was still set up near one of the windows. A canvas was propped on the easel, the beginnings of the gray water of the harbor visible in the sun. Tubes of paint and a container of brushes still rested on the floor, as if the artist were due back at any moment.

But perhaps most surprising was the fact that the room was filled with hundreds of paintings, some framed but most still unframed canvases. The walls were covered with paintings of the sea, of the harbor, of islanders and tourists and animals. They were all done in the same mystical style.

“He was prolific, I see,” said Ryan.

“He didn’t sell too much, it’s plain to see. No one on the island wanted a picture of something they saw every day. But he was dear to us, was Old Pat Michael. Well, take your time in lookin’.

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