Free Spirit Lost by Nancy Thayer Page A

R.I. But it was sturdy, and John unpacked some of his paints and brushes and set them on that. There was also, in the corner, a heavy old humidifier. It was useless, but as a surface it was something , so John stacked some jars and bottles and tinson it. He put his bare canvases and sketch pads along one wall of the attic, and the ones he had been working on during the week he ranged along the back of the attic, so that they were the first things he saw when he came up the stairs. They were not great, but they were passable. Nice scenes that a tourist might pay a few bucks for. This was not what he wanted to do, but it was a step away from microwave ovens.
    He found on the floor by his stool the large sketch pad he had been working on the previous Sunday. He flipped through it, then sat thinking. He roamed around the attic for a while, fiddling with the lights; until an electrician showed up, he would have to make do with what lighting he could rig up himself. So he began to fasten the 100-watt bulbs he had bought during the week into the extra hanging sockets that existed at random around the attic. The result was not elegant but bright. It would do till the electrician came.
    At some point during the week he had thrown his wool vest up into the attic. Now he remembered why. He dug into the pocket of the vest and found three gull feathers, white tipped with gray; one scallop shell, unbroken, the ridges peach colored, the channels white as snow; one shriveled rose hip, still vividly red. He arranged these carelessly against the rough gray-and-white plaid wool of his vest and began to work. He wanted to capture the different textures of soft feather, fragile shell, dimpled fruit, and their similarities: their delicate curving textured reality. He made some sketches on his pad, then set up his easel and began to work on a large canvas. The barbs of the feathers grew from the shaft with the minute perfection of cat’s teeth; he remembered he must look for a kitten for Willy. Then he grew lost in his work.
    It was dark outside when he gave up for the day. John sat down on his stool, his arms hanging at his side, considering his work. It was almost half-finished. The penciled outlines were there, and the beginnings of color. He was delighted. And tired, tired in a pleasant, fulfilled way, like a runner who has reached his destination. After a while he rose and went around the attic turning off the light bulbs one by one until the only light remaining was the one hanging over the stairs that was reached from the bottom of the stairs by the pull chain. Now he realized how very quiet the house had become. There were no sounds of Willy fixing dinner, no sounds of music. There came over him the sensation that he was alone in the house now, that Willy had gone out for some reason—to buy groceries? But he felt that she was gone. He was physically exhausted from painting for so long, and he was content. It was dark outside now, and the wind wascoming up, rattling the windows.
    John stood for a moment, looking out the window toward the harbor, before he realized what he was really looking for. Then he made a gruff noise in his throat, a sort of snort of laughter at himself. He’d been halfway expecting to see some kind of hallucination in the window again, for he had been working very hard. But there was nothing there now. He shook his head at his foolishness and went down the stairs, pulling the chain to switch off the last light.
    At the bottom of the stairs he paused. The house was quiet, but in the attic there was a persistent thumping now that he hadn’t noticed before. A gentle knocking noise.
    Without turning on the light, he went back up into the attic. He stood a moment, listening. Again he wondered if there were creatures in the wall. He really must see about that cat. It sounded as if something wounded were trying to get in. He moved toward the window cautiously, trying to locate the direction of the pattering. There was