I pulled the leather envelopes from my satchel and unrolled the canvas. “Tell me about this painting, Grandfather. I found it locked away and in two leather pouches.”
Grandfather leaned forward. For a moment, his eyes wandered over the painting. He reached a shaking hand forward and touched the canvas. “There was a view of the river from this house.”
I heard what he said, but I didn’t know what to make of it. “Why this one, Grandfather? There were so many paintings. Why did you hide this one?”
“I didn’t want it lost. Too much was lost. There, in that house, I lost … .” His head started to shake.
“What did you lose there? Do you want to tell me?”
“I told Esau.”
“Who?”
There was a frown when he looked at me. “Esau. Didn’t you know Esau?” The head tremor started again.
“Tell me.”
Grandfather sat back in his chair. “You are the one who writes?”
“I work for the Montgomery Advertiser. Remember? I write news stories for that paper.”
“Write this for your children … for your children and for Esau’s.”
For a moment he stared at me. I must have been frowning, wondering? He sat back and looked toward the garden. “The Moore brothers brought me a newspaper.”
That’s the way Grandfather began the story about the Hartsville House, the house with a view of the river.
I interrupted just one time. “The Moore brothers … do you mean Mama Stone’s cousins?”
He scowled. “You write for a newspaper. You take care of all that, those kind of things.”
I never interrupted him again.