Pioneer blood had made the natives into a race of determined individualists, as a glance at the map would confirm. There were places like Squunk Corners, Little Hope, Sawdust City, Chipmunk, and Ugley Gardens. Qwilleran belonged in this environment. He spelled his name with a QW, lived in a barn with two cats, sported an enormous pepper-and-salt moustache, and rode a recumbent bicycle which required him to pedal with feet elevated.
There were other characteristics in his favor. Being tall and well-built, he had a distinct aura of authority. Being a journalist, he had trained himself to listen. Strangers felt they could confide in him, air their dreams, relate their woes. He always listened sympathetically.
One of Qwilleran’s quirks was his desire for privacy.
He needed solitude for thinking, writing, and reading, and his converted barn was effectively secluded. Though within the city limits and not far from Main Street, it had acreage. It had once been a strip farm extending from Main Street to Trevelyan Road, which was a half-mile to the east. Paving was unknown in those days.
Now Main Street divided into northbound and southbound traffic lanes, called Park Circle. Around the rim were two churches, the courthouse, a majestic old public library, and the original Klingenschoen mansion, now functioning as a small theatre for stage productions. To the rear of the mansion was a four-stall carriage house with servants’ quarters upstairs. From there a rustic wagon trail wound its way through evergreen woods, ending in a barnyard.
The hundred-year-old apple barn rose like an ancient castle octagonal in design, four stories high, with a fieldstone foundation and siding of weathered shingles. Odd-shaped windows had been cut in the walls, reflecting the angled timbers that framed the interior.
The property to the east had been a thriving orchard until a mysterious blight struck the trees. Now it was reforested, and wild gardens attracted birds and butterflies.
On the last day of August Qwilleran walked down the old orchard lane to pick up his mail and newspaper on Trevelyan Road. On the site where the old farmhouse had burned down there was now a rustic contemporary building housing the Pickax Art Center. County residents attended classes there, viewed exhibitions, and in some cases rented studios. As Qwilleran passed it, he counted the cars in the parking lot. It looked as if they were having a good day.
The highway marked the city limits. Beyond it was farmland. He waved to a farmer chugging down the road on a tractor and the driver of a farm truck traveling in the opposite direction. His rural mailbox and a newspaper sleeve were mounted on posts alongside the pavement. There were few letters in the box; his fan mail went to the newspaper office, and official business and junk mail went to the law firm that represented the Klingenschoen Foundation.
A boy carrying a grocery sack was running toward him from the direction of the McBee farm. “Mr. Q! Mr. Q!” he shouted. It was the ten-year-old Culvert McBee. “I brought you something!”
Qwilleran hoped it was not turnips or parsnips from the McBee kitchen garden. “That’s very good of you, Culvert.”
The chubby boy was breathing hard after running. “I made something for you… I took a summer class… over there.” He jerked his head toward the art center and then handed over the sack.
“What is it?”
“Look inside.”
Qwilleran was dubious about knickknacks made for him by fond readers, and he peered into the sack with no great expectations. What he saw was a pad of paper stapled on a small board. The top sheet was computer printed with the well-known saying Thirty Days Hath September.
“It’s a calendar,” Culvert explained. “Every day you tear off a page and read what it says.”
The second page had the date (September 1) and the day (Tuesday) and a brief saying: Let sleeping dogs lie.
“Well! This is really something!” Qwilleran said with a good show of enthusiasm. He flipped through the pages and read: What’s good for the goose is good for the gander… You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink… A cat can look at a king. “Where did you get these sayings, Culvert?”
“At the library. They’re from all over the world.”
“They’re all about animals!”
“Yep.”
“Well, I certainly appreciate your thoughtfulness!”
“There’s a hole in the board. You can hang it on a nail.”
“I’ll do that: “
“I made one for my mom, too.”
“How are your parents? I haven’t seen them lately “
“Dad’s okay. Mom has a sore hand from using the computer.”
“How about the dogs?” Culvert had a shelter for old, unwanted dogs.
“Dolly died of old age and I buried her behind the shed. I painted her name on a stone. You can come and look at it if you want to. My aunt came and brought flowers.”
“That was nice of her. Are you ready to go back to school?”
“Yep.”
Then Qwilleran praised the calendar once more, and Culvert walked back to his farm on Base Line Road.
At the art center there was a familiar car parked on the lot, and Qwilleran went in to talk with his friend, Thornton Haggis. He was a retiree with a shock of white hair, now serving as interim manager until they could find a replacement for Beverly Forfar.
“Still holding the fort, I see,” Qwilleran said. “Has anyone heard from Bev?”
“No. After the turmoil she experienced here, I believe she was glad to wash her hands of our fair city.”
The former manager had written to Qwilleran, however, thanking him profusely for his farewell gift, little knowing it was something he had been trying to unload.
She had written, “It was so wonderful of you to arrange for me to have The Whiteness of White. It hangs in my apartment, where it is admired by everyone. You may be interested to know I have found a small job in Ann Arbor, Michigan, that could develop into something big.”
Qwilleran nodded. From what he knew of that city it had the right climate for an esoteric intaglio. He had won it in a raffle at the art center, simply because he was the only one who bought a chance. He bought several, using the alias of Ronald Frobnitz. As the winner he was trying to dispose of it discreetly without offending the artist who had donated it. Luckily Beverly Forfar was leaving Pickax forever, and she was happy to acquire an artwork valued at a thousand dollars.
In a postscript to her letter she had written, “If you are in touch with Professor Frobnitz in Japan, please thank him for his generosity. I’m sorry I didn’t meet him while he was in Pickax. On the telephone he sounded positively charming.”
Qwilleran asked Thornton, “Any good prospects for Beverly’s successor?”
“They’ve interviewed a few applicants but can’t seem to make a decision”
“You’re doing too good a job, Thorn. Why hire a manager when good old Thorn will do the work free?”
“Don’t think that hasn’t crossed my mind! After September thirtieth, I quit! Meanwhile we’re setting up the craft fair. Are you coming to the opening? I’ll have a few of my own things on exhibit”
“Are you doing something creative in tombstones?” Qwilleran asked lightly. Thornton was a retired stonecutter who had studied art history at one time.
“You can kid all you like,” he retorted, “but I felt the need for a manual hobby. I bought a lathe, and now I’m doing woodturning in my basement”
“That I’ve got to see!” Qwilleran said.
“Then come to the craft fair,” his friend said. “Bring money.”
When Qwilleran walked up the lane to the apple barn, he was approaching from the east. In its heyday it had been a drivethrough barn with huge doors east and west, large enough to admit a horse-drawn wagon loaded with apples. Now the huge openings had been filled in and equipped with human-size doors. On the east side there were handsome double doors flanked by glass panels. These were the front doors, opening into the foyer, although they were on the back of the building. The back door was, of course, on the front, opening into the kitchen. (This kind of anomaly was common in Moose County, where Pickax was referred to as Paradox) Twice the Pickax voters had vetoed a proposal to change the names of streets. “Old East Street” was west of “New West Street,” and there was confusion about “North Street East” and “South Street West” Only strangers were befuddled, however, and befuddling strangers was a local pastime.