“Being around art really increases my appetite,” Isbel Monwith said, pushing a piece of lettuce around on her salad plate.

They were sitting in the cafe at the art museum, Isbel dressed in a cream colored pantsuit and an earth toned scarf and Ginny in a navy blue pair of pants and a red cotton sweater.

That morning as she dressed Ginny remembered that it was the Fourth of July, so she asked her aide to put out clothes that were red, white or blue.

“Which color?” her aide asked, standing in front of Ginny’s closet as Ginny transferred from the bed to her wheelchair.

“Red, white or blue,” Ginny replied evenly, used to repetition. It seemed she was always repeating instructions to someone, making her wonder if any of her aides ever remembered anything that was said. The turnaround of help didn’t help either.

The aide sighed and looked at Ginny. “You tell me – red , white or blue?”

“I mean anything red white or blue would do. Maybe one red item and one white. Or one blue and one red. Or-”

“Look,” the aide said. “I’m tired. I’ve been working since 6 a.m. and been on my feet all that time.” She stared at Ginny’s wheelchair. “I work hard. Just tell me what color you want.”

So Ginny rolled toward the closet and the first thing she saw was the navy pants and the red sweater and she chose those.

Now as she sat at lunch with Isbel, she wished she had picked out a scarf as well. Her outfit seemed dull next to Isbel’s. And Isbel’s conversation wasn’t cheering her up one bit.

Isbel continued on, without waiting for a response, apparently used to being greeted with silence. “When we first met, I admit I was a bit – hesitant – to be interviewed by you, with the wheelchair and all. You’re just so brave.”

“Brave?” Ginny asked, biting into her burger.

“Getting here all by yourself and all.”

Ginny blinked this time. The interview, she thought to herself, just do the interview and get this over with. She reached for her notepad and pen and scanned the questions she jotted down for Isbel last night.

Isbel was a local crafter who ran a store called “The Quintessential Quilt”. She gave arts and crafts classes on ceramics, quilting, tile painting and crocheting to the locals, but what made her worthy of a Lifestyle piece was that she also collected and sold antique pieces of handcrafted works, some dating as far back as the Civil War.

Ginny had to admit to herself that all of this made Isbel sound like an interesting person, so meeting her was a bit of a disappointment.

“So, Isbel, where do you find the items in your store?” she asked.

Isbel sighed. “Flea markets sometimes. People bring things in or call. You’d be surprised at what they have in their attics. And garage sales are amazing.” She leaned toward Ginny. “I was at one last week and there was a quilt there that was made back in the early 1900’s and was never used – hung on the wall. So it’s in great shape. I sold it in two days.”

“Do you remember the first piece you bought for the store?”

“I bought an item on ebay actually,” Isbel replied. “A piece of pottery dating back to the Depression period. And when I received it, there was a crack on it and I almost sent it back. But I thought why not put it out? The store was new and I was holding a quilting class that morning. Three of the ladies were interested in it, even though it had a crack and I knew right then and there that I had a market for these things.” She waved her fork in the air. “To put it mildly. I can’t keep enough items in the store. I have lists of items people are looking for.”

Ginny nodded and jotted down notes. The interview went on for about ten more minutes and she had enough information, so she finished her burger while Isbel talked about a few items she bought that morning at a garage sale.

“There was this painting,” she said. “So unusual. And then to meet you.”

Ginny looked at her. “What do you mean?”

“It’s a portrait of a young girl in a wheelchair. Not recent, but from back in the 20’s maybe. She’s probably about eight years old and wearing a white dress that looks like a wedding gown cut down for a child. Next to her is a woman dressed as a flapper, with her hair bobbed and her eyebrows shaved- they did that back then and then penciled them in- and she’s in a dance move.” Isbel leaned forward. “Apparently they were sisters. The woman who sold me the painting said it was her grandmother and her younger sister. Such an odd portrait. I’m not sure anyone will want it, but -well since I happened to meet you, maybe you’d be interested.”

“Why?”

“Well, the girl is in a wheelchair and – “

“No, I don’t think so,” Ginny said. She started to push away from the table. “I really have to get going.”

“I’m sorry. Did I offend you?” Isbel asked and then, without waiting for a reply, said “Of course you understand, don’t you, that I didn’t mean anything by what I said. After all, it’s such a coincidence to find that odd painting and then be interviewed by you in a wheelchair.”

Ginny sat there, wondering if she should say that what she found odd about the whole thing is that Isbel was so uncomfortable with wheelchairs that she kept using the word ‘odd’. But before she could say anything, Isbel’s cell phone rang and she held her her index finger.

“Just a minute,” she said and said “Hello” into the receiver.

Ginny turned and rolled away from the table, glad for the chance to get away. She made her way out the front door of the museum and was about to roll down the street toward her car when she overheard Isbel behind her calling out.

“Ginny!” she said, jogging up to her slightly out of breath. “I wanted to show you the portrait. It’s right in my car here.”

“Really, Isbel, I don’t-”

“Over here,” Isbel said, leading her to a white BMW parked in the firezone in front of the museum. She leaned over the trunk and unlocked it, lifting the door to reveal a pile of boxes containing pottery and afghans. On top of one of the boxes rested the 10 x 12 portrait. Isbel handed it to Ginny wordlessly.

The portrait showed exactly what Isbel described – a young girl in a white dress seated in a wheelchair. Next to her was her sister, dressed as a flapper, and dancing. The girl’s wheelchair faced her sister and Ginny couldn’t see the expression on the young girl’s face, but her sister was portrayed in a full frontal view as she cavorted. It was an odd portrait, but not because of the presence of the wheelchair, Ginny thought. The flapper’s features were clearly exaggerated while her sister in the wheelchair sat off to the side and just watched. It made the girl in the wheelchair look like an afterthought and was not like a portrait of her at all.

“I’d like you to have it,” Isbel said in a rush of words. She looked a bit surprised at her own burst of generosity and added “For free.”

“Well,” Ginny said, nodding, aghast at the idea of looking at the portrait for a minute longer, much less for an extended period of time.. “Well. I’m – speechless.”

“It’s a good way for you to remember our interview and lunch together. And I hope if you’re ever near my store you’ll drop in,” Isbel said, shutting the trunk with a bang. “Bye bye now.”

Ginny smiled and, placing the portrait on her lap, started to roll toward her car. Isbel pulled away, waving while she watched.

And in that moment, Ginny had a thought. She turned to a passing college student and asked “Can you take a picture for me?” Pulling out her camera phone, she handed it to the student.

She dropped the portrait on the ground. Then she popped a wheelie on it, taking direct aim at the flapper’s face and listening as the canvas tore. Once again she popped a wheelie and this time she motioned to the student to take a picture. She lifted the ripped canvas up off the ground.

Only the girl in the wheelchair remained, staring over at the torn canvas where her sister had been. But now it looked as if she was contemplating her own life rather than focusing on her sister’s flamboyant one.

Ginny smiled as she took back her camera phone. Then she rolled home, knowing that she could hang up the portrait now.

Copyright 2008 Ruth Harrigan