Whistlers Grandfather

Arlin Savoi had known that the paint brush he had found in his grandfather’s attic felt “strange” when he picked it up from the box of ancient art supplies. As he held it, a picture formed in his mind: a portrait of an old man. Seemingly without volition he stepped over to an easel sitting by the dusty window. On the easel a blank canvas was lit by shafts of early morning sunlight, dust motes dancing in the beams. By the easel was a small table with scattered paint pots on it. Opening the pots he mixed colors almost at random until he had a hew that resembled true skin… human skin. Dipping the brush, he set bristle to canvas.

Hours passed as Arlin painted, his mind in a fugue. When at last the fog lifted from his mind the morning sun was well past its zenith. As compulsion faded from his mind, he set the brush down. Shaking his exhausted arm, Arlin looked at he painting he had wrought. On the canvas was a portrait of an elderly man. The painting reminded him of his now deceased grandfather. Like it could be his brother, or possibly his father. Reaching out a tentative finger to touch the wrinkled face, Arlin jerked back. The ancient man in the painting had smiled at him. Arlin stumbled back, tripping over an old crate of books to land sprawling on his backside. As he looked up, the old man stepped from the painting onto the attic floor, the rickety boards creaking beneath his feet. As Arlin stared dumbfounded, mouth agape, the elderly man reached out a wrinkled hand to help him up. “Hello great great grandson,” the old man said.

Arlin scrambled back on his elbows and feet, his back meeting a stack of boxes. Scrabbling for purchase, Arlin jerked to his feet. “What..? Who…? How…?” he stammered.

“Relax Arlin,” the old man rasped. “I’m your great great grandfather on your dad’s side, Jedediah Savoi. I won’t hurt you.”

“But, … what the hell?” Great great grandfather? Was it possible?

The old man held up a finger in a stopping motion. “Hold 0n, I’ve got a couple of questions of my own. First, what year is it?”

“It’s 1978,” Arlin said.

“Hmm…, seventy years. Crap. Last I recall it was 1908 when I was trapped. Guess that makes me about a hundred forty-five now. Eat your heart out Methuselah.” The old man laughed.

“Trapped? Trapped how? You were… where?… for seventy years? And, how are you here?”

“Hold on a sec Sonny. I said I had a couple of questions.”

His heart beginning to settle a bit from it’s frantic pounding as he decided the old man wasn’t going to hurt him, Arlin wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. “What’s your other question?” he asked.

“Do you have any coffee?”

”Coffee? Really?” Arlin was dumbstruck.

“Yes, coffee. You know, they make it by grinding beans and running hot water over them. I’m a tad parched. Didn’t get a chance to have a drink before my…, nap. I could really use me a cup. You do still have coffee, don’t you?” the old man said, a hopeful look in his eyes.

Deciding that he wasn’t going to get answers up here in this dusty old attic, Arlin took in a breath. “Sure. Follow me,” he said, turning to the folding ladder down to the second floor.

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For part II, check the following link: