The Hall of Portraits

I remember the first time I met Mrs. Ryan, when I was ten years old. My mother sent me to help
her out, not knowing she had all the help she needed.

The path to her door felt like walking the Appalachian that first time, a long, hard journey. But
making it to the door seemed less like the end of a trek than the beginning of a new, frightening battle
with an old fear. Her door had one of those big, old brass lion's head knockers, it was a deep, rich oak,
and it looked giant to my ten-year-old eyes.

But when Mrs. Ryan opened that door, I didn't feel nearly as scared. She wasn't very old, maybe
56 or 57, and if it wasn't for the slightest of crow's feet on the sides of her deep brown eyes, she
could've passed for my mother's age, 32 at the time. Her long black hair had slight touches of salt in it,
and she had on a sundress that brightened up everything nicely, but not as much as her luminous smile.

"Oh, hello, dear, you're Lainie's daughter from next door, aren't you?" Her voice sang with the
cinnamon tartness of a Jamaican accent.

I smiled. "Yes, ma'am, how did you know?"

"Sweetie, I'm no shut-in, 'spite what everyone thinks. Oh, look at me, making you stand there,
come in, child, come in." She stood aside and I walked in.

All around me was the most beautiful art I've ever seen, and all these years later, I still haven't
seen its equal. Considering my job, that's saying something, if I may be so immodest.

There were seascapes that I now know are views from a beach at Montego Bay, portraits of
beautiful bodies that were artfully nude, but at the time, I had to stifle immature laughter, but what
caught my eye the most were the pictures that started behind the front door and wind their way up the
staircase.

The first three were photographed, and they were of a newborn child, a boy who had a smile on
his face even at birth, with closed eyes, skin the color of smooth mocha, like he was carried here by
stork instead of brought into the world the usual way.

Next was that same child, a year older, sitting on a rocking horse, his light brown hair at
shoulder length, this time a huge, bright-eyed smile for the camera. After that was another portrait, a
cricket bat in his chubby two-year-old hands, and I had to blink to make sure I didn't hear him laugh
out loud, he looked so happy.

But the next portrait was a painted one, done in pain-staking pointillism, as was the next one,
and the one after, and, I had to assume at the moment, were all of the rest of the sixteen.

I told Mrs. Ryan, as best as I could, what little I knew of pointillism at the time (called it "the
little dot painting," if I recall right). She smiled, told me the word and exactly what it meant, and I
asked her who the boy was.

The smile she had a second before didn't leave, but the eyes dimmed some. "That's Robert," she
said, pride and sorrow showing on her face. "He's my son. He's back in Jamaica, with his father."

So many of my friends were divorced, I just took it for granted that that's what she meant.

This is the way many days of that spring passed by. Mrs. Ryan would call my mother, asking
her to send me over to help with one errand or another, and I'd go. I finally stopped expecting to do any
actual work about a week into this, as all we did was sit down at the kitchen table, have some Earl Grey
and talk, laugh and draw.

Mrs. Ryan taught me more art in those times than I learned in all my art classes ever. We'd pore
through her big, thick art books, and she'd show me the techniques of the masters, from Da Vinci and
Van Gogh, through Monet and Picasso, Moses and Dali, up to Warhol and most everyone from before
and after.

I got to the point where I frustrated my art teacher more than once my fifth-grade year when I
corrected her, something teachers just hate.

There was a stretch of about a month when Mrs. Ryan didn't call, and I didn't see her, either,
and I got a little concerned. I asked my mother if she heard from her. "No, honey, but I'm sure she's
OK. Maybe she's just busy."

Finally, she called one day, and I could've had puppies I was so happy. I rushed over, so glad to
see Mrs. Ryan, expecting to see her brilliant smile again. I pulled that ring in the lion's mouth and
rapped it hard against the door three times.

And when the door opened, there stood a stranger in my friend's house. Her face was sullen, her
hair, usually immaculate, was frazzled out in all different directions, and there was no bright sundress,
just an old pair of paint-splattered sweatpants and an oversize, similarly stained T-shirt.

"Hello, dear," the stranger with Mrs. Ryan's face said, "come on in."

Reluctantly, I did, asking, "Are you OK, Mrs. Ryan?"

"Fine, dear, fine, just under the weather. Come see what I've been working on."

While I was still a little scared, I really wanted to see it, so I followed, but I followed several
steps behind.

She led me to the top of the stairs, past the painted portraits of Robert, then through a door to a
room that was all windows on the left, and there sat an easel covered in a sheet. Gently, she lifted the
sheet.

And it was another picture of Robert. Sure, he had a slight goatee and dreadlocks, but there was
no doubt who that smiling young man was. Again, the portrait was done in pointillism. It was only now
that I began to worry about Mrs. Ryan.

"How did you do this without Robert being here?," I asked, turning around. She was staring out
one of the windows, and continued to do so as she answered.

"I...got a picture a little while ago."

I still had no reason to doubt her, especially when I saw her wipe a silent tear away.

A movement caught my peripheral vision, but I thought nothing of it.

The next day, Mrs. Ryan called again. I fought the urge to tell my mother to tell her I was sick,
as I was still a little freaked, and went anyway.

I'm glad I did, because the Mrs. Ryan I knew had returned, a beautiful green-and-gold sundress
and hair back in order, just like the world should've been.

We sat at the table, drawing a robin who just happened to stick around long enough to commit
to memory, when I asked the question I had to ask, one that bothered me since the day before.

"Why don't you just blow up the pictures Robert sends you? I mean, the portraits are beautiful,
don't get me wrong, but..."

"Wouldn't it just be easier that way?," Mrs. Ryan finished for me. Again, her smile was the
faceplate for eyes that showed mixed emotions.

"Sometimes, love isn't easy, my dear," she finished, and it sure sounded final, but you know
how final is with eleven-year-olds. It doesn't exist yet.

"What do you mean by that?"

It was then that Mrs. Ryan showed the first sign of temper I'd ever seen from her. She slammed
her drawing down and glared at me. "Now, listen here, missy, and you listen good," in a dead even tone
she said this, a finger shaking in my face, "you're young yet, and the world hasn't yet shown you its bad
side. There's some things you don't question. You just do. If that means it isn't easy, so be it."

She closed her eyes, shaking a little as if she just exploded in anger rather than the rolling boil
she just gave me.

"I'll see you later, Mrs...Hey! Who are you?"

I started walking toward the young man standing in the hallway, who turned and walked off just
as I turned and starting speaking. I set off after him, ignoring Mrs. Ryan yelling not to chase after him.

Up the stairs he went, taking them two at a time, not running, but not walking, either. I stepped
up a little quicker than usual. He was up the steps and reached his hand toward the door, but stopped
himself, as if unsure how a doorknob worked.

I heard Mrs. Ryan's footsteps behind me. I stopped, shocked when I realized who I was looking
at.

"Robert!," I called out, "When did you get here? Mrs. Ryan, why didn't you..."

"Hush up, girl!," she snapped, and I did. She turned and smiled at Robert, saying, "I'll get that,
for you, baby." She opened the door, he smiled at her, and walked in. After she reclosed the door, she
turned, smile gone, and pointed down the steps and out the door, and that was my cue to leave.

It was weeks before I got another call to see Mrs. Ryan. I couldn't figure what I did wrong, and I
hoped to find out on this day.

Before I even had the ring in the lion knocker in my hand, the door opened. Mrs. Ryan nodded
me in, not saying a word. Still in silence, I followed her to the kitchen. There was no paper, no pencils,
nothing, just two cups of tea on the table. We sat down.

"It was just after Robert turned two," she began without preamble, "and we went back to
Jamaica, my husband Jonathon, Robert, and myself. We were there to visit our parents, and two days
after we got there, we went out on Jon's parents' boat on Montego Bay. The sea was a little choppy, but
nothing to worry about, I knew Jon's daddy was born with a wheel in his hand.

"It was a bright, clear day, a little windy. We were moving along at a slow clip, and"--her voice
broke--"we hit a good-size wave, shook us all up some. It took us a little to realize someone had gone
over."

She studied her tea cup, both hands gripping it like it was what held her to earth, sobbed once,
and continued.

"It was Robert. Him being the smallest, it was enough of a bump to send him out. Jon jumped in
blindly to find him, but it was no use." Her eyes met mine, and the tears made my heart hurt.

"They found him a day later. Jon got so upset at himself, he went driving off, driving off too
fast," shaking her head, then slumping it, "they told me he didn't know what hit him."

I was in tears now, but Mrs. Ryan had a small smile on her face through the sobs. "Then, one
day about three months after he was gone, I saw him again. He sat on the bottom step, smiled at me,
like he never left. So, I painted his portrait, and he stuck around.

"It gave me the strength to keep going, because there were times I felt like joining my boys. I
think somebody was thinking, 'This woman needs a little push, get her painting again.' So, they let
Robert stay around, and I kept painting his picture, every year around his birthday, and he grew.

"I never told anyone, obviously, 'cause they'd throw me in the nuthatch, but I guess since you've
seen him, too, I'm safe, right?"

Wiping tears away, I nodded.

And I kept her secret.

Now, here I am, years later, an art critic and part-time artist myself, looking at my first attempt
at pointillism. It's a family portrait, of the family that inspired me to join the art world.

There's Mrs. Ryan, strong and proud, smiling as I remember her almost always doing. There's
Jonathon, reunited with his family, pride in his eyes, and not smiling. Mrs. Ryan said he couldn't smile
for a camera without looking like a goof, at least he thought so.

And there's Robert, at 17, as I saw him that day, the only time I saw him.

Maybe it will bring them around my house.

It worked once, you know.