Widow’s Walk

Chapter 19

“Renee! Renee!” Jim’s voice, distant and agitated, pierced the screen of Renee’s open bedroom window.

She called out to him.

“Jim!”

“Renee!” returned Jim’s voice. It came from the direction of the church.

She ran towards the church, her bare feet quickly becoming sore from pounding on the cement sidewalks and asphalt roads between their home and the church.

“Jim!” she cried out to him. Then, he was gone.

“Renee!”

His voice, still distant, now came from the woods beyond the edge of town leading down to the river. She followed it, running into the woods, scratching her feet on stones and twigs, falling once, finding herself moving ever more slowly on weighted legs. She called out again into the darkness.

“Jim!” she called out again. Still, no answer.

When she got to where the river should have been, there was no river. Instead, there was a large stone building built in the classical style. She saw a long flight of steps leading up to a portico containing several Corinthian columns and large wooden doors. She ran up the stairs. When she got to the top the doors, on their own, opened wide.

She darted in … she didn’t know how or why, but she was certain that he was in this building. She found herself in a rotunda of what appeared to be a museum. She was aware of paintings on the walls, but paid no attention to them. Her attention was drawn to a hallway directly across from her on the other side of the rotunda.

She walked towards the hallway. The floor was bare and cold on her feet sending a chill throughout her body. She squinted trying to see what was at the end of the hallway, but it disappeared into the dimness.

She slowly walked down the hallway.

“Jim!” she called into the blackness.

Room by room she looked into the darkness and called out Jim’s name, and received no response. Fear and doom began to overtake her. She couldn’t breathe. She so wanted to wake up from this nightmare. Then, from down the endless hallway on her left, she heard it.

“Renee.”

It was spoken softly and evenly this time.

“Renee,” he repeated.

She followed the sound of Jim’s voice to a room several paces ahead on her left. Unlike all of the other rooms, this one was lit. She entered slowly, cautiously. Something told her that this was a room to be wary of, a room that could destroy both her and Jim.

She could see immediately that it was a room of wealth and beauty. It was a gallery. On the walls were masters’ paintings of all types and from all periods—modern, abstract, Impressionist, Cubist, Baroque, Renaissance.

But the far wall was unlike the others. It had only one large painting. It was wall to wall and almost floor to ceiling. It was simple and uncluttered in its beauty—a peaceful meadow with waist high golden grass, and a hazy orange, setting sun illuminating the near horizon’s spotted clouds in hues of orange, yellow, purple and red in an otherwise blue sky. It was an awe-inspiring scene, its size adding to its magnificence and allowing it to dominate this room of masterpieces.

Renee, at first almost blinded by the room’s lights and exquisite contents, hadn’t immediately seen him standing before the large painting.

“Jim!” she cried.

She moved towards him to hold him and be held by him. Something—she didn’t know what—stopped her.

“Renee,” he said softly. He smiled at her. He then moved back towards the painting and placed the right side of his body into the canvas. Or at least it looked like he did. He moved his right arm back and forth. As he did so Renee could see the grass in the painting move with it.

He’s, he’s in the painting, she thought. That can’t be. But there he was, before her eyes. Or was he? He looked back at her. Still smiling, with an almost childlike joy, he said to her, “See?”

“Jim, no. Please come home with me,” she pleaded. She didn’t know where this was going, but she knew that if he left her now, he would be gone forever. She tried again to go to him, but she still couldn’t move.

Jim looked back into the painting. Then he looked back at her again.

“Renee. See?”

“Jim, no!” she sobbed.

He turned his face away and began to turn his body towards the painting.

Renee folded her hands and bowed her head. “Oh God, don’t let him go in,” she prayed frantically. “Please stop him. Please.”

Jim took another step into the painting. Suddenly, his left hand was being held and pulled on, keeping him half in and half out. Renee looked up. She saw a man dressed in the white vestments and miter of the Pope holding Jim’s hand firmly. The look on Jim’s face was neither happy nor sad, joyful nor angry. It was just curious.

The Pope turned and looked at Renee. She looked at his face. It wasn’t John Paul II. It was Father Ray. As they just looked at each other, she heard footsteps on the marble floor coming from her right. Moving ever so slowly towards the painting was her father.

The scene before her was surreal. But she didn’t have time to try to figure it out. The only thing on her mind was to save Jim.

“Please! Father Ray! Pull him out! Bring him back!” she pleaded. “Please Daddy! Please help!”

“I do what I can,” Father Ray said as he strained against the pull of the magnificent meadow. “I do what I can.”

“We do what we can,” her father echoed.

Renee shot up in her bed. She was in a cold sweat and her eyes were filled with tears. The image of Ray and her father looking sorrowfully at her remained seared in her mind.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please.”