gone, we sometimes forgot who we were, and the fun just ran out of everything as though you’d punctured an auto tire.”
—Muse of the Hills: The Byzantium Colony, 1860–1956
BY BENNETT DAMMERS
SWEENEY WASN’T SURE whether it was the sense of death being uncomfortably near, their pleasure in being indoors on a cold and wintry evening or the Wentworths’ gratefulness in having new guests to relieve their own family dynamics, but they entered the warm dining room that night a strangely jovial and cheerful group, the children charming and helpful, the adults pleasantly tipsy from their cocktails before dinner.
“What shall we drink to?” Patch asked as they sat down at the big dining room table, lifting his wine glass and dipping it in Sweeney’s direction. “To new friends?”
“To new friends,” everyone intoned, lifting their glasses. As they drank, Britta and Gwinny brought in bowls of steaming linguine drenched with tomato vodka sauce and tender veal, and sprinkled with herbs. Sweeney realized that she hadn’t had anything to eat all day and she was ravenous. The smell of food was as intoxicating as the wine.
“And to old ones,” Patch added as they dug into the pasta. “We should also drink to old ones.”
“To old friends,” they said, and Patch winked at Ian.
Toby lifted his own glass. “And while we’re at it, here’s to acquaintances of a medium length of time who one says hello to on the street but would never invite over for dinner.”
“We haven’t drunk to people we don’t really like at all but have to be nice to because they’re family,” said Patch. “And boring distant relatives who you only see at weddings and funerals.”
“Yes,” said Ian Ball. “And please let’s drink to work chums who you see once a year at the Christmas party and whose wives you secretly fancy!”
They all laughed and Sweeney turned to look at Toby. He was grinning, his glass raised, his hair flopping over his forehead. Earlier, they had come back from their walk and stretched out on the sofa in the living room, warming their feet by the fire. He had rubbed her back and let her think out loud about Mary’s gravestone and she had felt peace overtake her. He had felt it, too, she knew he had, a simple, happy peace. Now, looking at him, she flushed deeply. Could it be that she and Toby . . .? That after all this time, she was finally ready for Toby, to find out what there might be between them besides the friendship? She looked away quickly, embarrassed.
“We saw everyone on our walk down to the cemetery,” Toby was telling them. “Sabina made them all go down and collect tree limbs to decorate her house with.”
“What did you think of them, Sweeney?” Britta asked her. “They can be overwhelming. The first time Patch brought me here, I felt like I’d been bowled over by a pack of dogs.”
“I liked them,” Sweeney said simply.
Patch said, “We’re lucky to have such good friends here,” and got up to pour the wine.
“Toby says you’re a painter,” Sweeney said to Patch. “I’ve always wished I could paint. Those who can’t do, teach, and all that.”
“I don’t paint much anymore,” Patch said. “But that’s one of my efforts up there.” He pointed to a landscape hanging on a wall of the dining room. “I realized early on that my talent didn’t hold a candle to my grandfather’s, but I did inherit his love for it.”
Sweeney studied the painting and saw that he was right. The landscape was technically correct, everything in proportion, the rolling hills and small farm almost photographically perfect. But there was something missing. It wasn’t the oft-mentioned passion—for Sweeney loved some paintings that she considered coolly dispassionate—but rather a sense of imaginative flight. The painting was no more than what it was, an exact likeness of a scene. It didn’t strive to make the viewer feel or imagine anything beyond it. It didn’t go for peace or loneliness or joy. It was uninformed by emotion and in that sense, it was an utter failure.
She wondered what to say that wouldn’t let on that she agreed with him, and settled on “I like the way you’ve done the farmer,” because she did.
Ian had been quiet during most of the evening, but now he said, “I’ve grown fascinated by the history of the colony since I’ve been here, Patch. Tell me about your grandfather. What was he like as a person?”
Patch didn’t say much about his grandfather,