Atop an Elephant

The boy was only a few bites into supper when his father whipped the door open in a flurry of excitement. The wind rallied past his father and danced through the small kitchen, sweeping his mother’s recipe cards up in a chaotic waltz.

“Soon now, my darling! I’m so close this time I can taste it!” Mr. Goodwin gasped, waving his journal like a winning lottery ticket.

“Ah, you can taste it?” Mrs. Goodwin snapped with steadfast disdain. “Perhaps it can warm you up too then. Shut that damn door, you fool of a man!”

Mr. Goodwin didn’t seem to hear her, leaving the door ajar to kneel beside his son. The boy leaned into his father’s hand when it ruffled his hair. Mr. Goodwin snatched the worst piece of meat from the boy’s chipped plate with a wink.

“Things’ll be changing Danny!” he said, proudly plopping his notebook beside the almost empty milk bottle, causing it to rattle. He hadn’t seen his father in days. He hadn’t seen him smile in weeks. It was an incredible smile. It took over every muscle of face, and lit up his eyes like fireworks.

With a scoff, Mrs. Goodwin slammed the door. Danny saw fireworks in her eyes too, but there was only anger behind the flame.

“Don’t tease the boy, Jack!” she snapped while gathering her cards from the dingy floor.

Mr. Goodwin rested his ink-stained fingertips on the small, black journal and stood.

“Oh I’m not. I have an appointment in the morning, and everything will change when I return!” he proclaimed, and knocked the notebook with his knuckles with a triumphant, “Haha!”

He was right. Everything did change...because he never returned. He’d saved a child from a runaway trolley, but there had been no one to save him. Danny’s mother shed no tears and started packing Danny’s things when the officer left.

“You will live with your uncle now. He will take you after the funeral.”

Danny’s uncle lived a full two day train ride from the room that held the last memory of his father. He was kind, but traveled often and made arrangements with the family next door for his absences. They welcomed him and rode their bikes with him to school, but Danny preferred to be alone.

He’d managed to save his father’s coat and with it, his journal. It was unimpressive to behold, yet held immeasurable value to Danny. Whispers of his father’s fingerprints inked the margins of the often shuffled pages. The black leather cover was faded and tattered, with a streak down the front from sliding in and out of Mr. Goodwin’s breast pocket. Danny read his father’s moods through the strokes on the page. He felt his whimsy in the wide, free scripts, determination in the tighter texts, and his brash humor in the heavier handed.

Danny would wrap himself in his father’s coat and sit on the floor against his bed, tracing his father’s handwriting with his finger. The inside cover simply read “All things for you, my son” in clear, brilliant black ink. The sharp strokes would soften with the wiped away tears that so often appeared on Danny’s fingertips. He would let the ink stain his skin, and miss his father terribly.

*****

College was merely months away when Danny’s mother died. He’d rarely seen her since moving to the countryside, and shed no tears for her. Feeling duty bound to attend, Danny returned to the city and lurked near the back of the reception. He listened to the strangers speak of his mother, knowing he was the only real stranger in the room. Danny pulled his own little black notebook from the breast pocket of his coat and recorded his musings.

“Excuse me….are you….are you Danny?” an unsteady voice pondered.

Danny looked up to see a man nervously curling a fedora.

“I’m sorry,” the man stammered, dropping his hat. “I’m Sid, Sid Pravet. I knew Jack...Mr. Goodwin, God rest him. You, you look like him is all, and then...well, then I saw your notebook and, well...are you Danny?”

“You knew my dad?” Danny blurted.

Sid’s nervousness fell away to a rapture of joy, nostalgia, and pride as he gazed upon Danny.

“Yes sir. He was my best friend. It’s so good to meet you.” Sid gushed and shook Danny’s hand.

Danny listened to Sid until the reception dwindled and Sid confessed, “Ya know, your mother did not like me. I felt strange about coming here, but I wanted to know if you’d be here. I have a box of your father’s journals.”

They quickly relocated to Sid’s modest one bedroom apartment. The couch pulled out and it was quickly decided that Danny would stay the weekend. There were a couple dozen notebooks in the box, and one set aside.

“That one is all about you.”

Boldly written on the first page:

“His name shall be Daniel, for the lions will kneel at his feet”

Danny felt his heart swell and eyes burn. His vision blurred as he read of the type of man his father hoped Danny would be, and the things and places he’d hoped they’d travel.

“And to India we’ll go, to solve the problems of the world atop an elephant…” his father had written in a free and wild script.

*****

Danny didn’t realize hours had passed until Sid appeared with a plate of reheated leftovers.

“It’s a little dry, sorry. I’m not much of a cook.” Sid chuckled as he placed the plate beside Danny and his journals. Then he took the worst piece and gave Danny a wink.

“My dad did that.” Danny remembered, with unsettling clarity.

“Did what?” Sid posed.

Danny recounted his last memory of his father. Sid listened with stoic attention, and was silent for a long moment after. Finally he spoke, “Yep, the day your father passed was supposed to be a great day. Back then there was an award, well, more of a finders fee really, for information on this reclusive artist...DeVry, something...I don’t remember. There was a rumor he’d died, but no one could confirm it. Your dad thought he’d found his daughter. He never told me her name though.”

Danny knew her name. It was the last thing his father had written in the journal Danny had traced over 1,000 times. Her name was Bertha Wexley.

*****

Danny left Sid’s place early Monday morning, cradling his box of notebooks in his arms. He had never been to an art museum or even had any interest to go, but the curiosity couldn’t be shaken and he soon found himself wandering through the galleries of the only museum in town. He assumed that his father’s footsteps had also echoed off these walls in the days before he died, and he couldn’t help but smile as he meandered through the exhibits. Danny didn’t really know what he was looking for, which must have been obvious as a volunteer eventually took notice.

She told him they had one DeVry and took him to it.

“There was some ruckus about it awhile back,” she shared, “but I don’t know much else. It’s more of Hazel’s thing. I’ll send her over if I see her,” and she disappeared.

Danny stood before the massive painting. It must have been eight feet wide and six feet tall. He couldn’t really explain what it was. The rich textures and vibrant colors seemed to swirl off the canvas, burrow into his soul, and gently cradle the sorrows within. He felt an odd sense of calm, sadness, and relief.

“It’s incredibly moving, isn’t it?” a voice Danny assumed was Hazel’s interrupted his peace.

“Yes,” he mustered. “You must be Hazel?”

“I am. Been here for 30 years.” she bragged, beaming with pride.

Danny nodded and looked around. He couldn’t imagine working in a place like this at all, let alone for 30 years. It was clearly the right place for Hazel though.

“Can you tell me what the ruckus awhile back about this guy was?” he asked casually with a vague gesture to the painting.

“Oh yes,” Hazel began with a sigh. “Mr. DeVry was an eccentric old man who would only sell through his broker, who was also an old man. Well, his broker passed away almost 20 years ago. He was scheduled to deliver the next painting a week after he died, and no one has been able to find the painting. It’s assumed Mr. DeVry has passed on as well by now.”

“Didn’t the broker have family? Or records?” Danny posed.

“He had a daughter, but she was….well, she wasn’t helpful. He had records of everything he’d sold, but nothing to identify DeVry. There’s even a reward for information leading to the recovery of the final painting.”

Danny gave a casual nod and asked how much the reward was.

“Oh, I believe it’s up to $20,000 now.” Hazel answered before apologetically excusing herself to scold some children running through the gallery.

Danny took a brand new little black notebook out of his front breast pocket. In bold, determined script, he wrote “Bertha Wexley” on the first page.

*****

Sarah loved her job. She’d been with Mrs. Wexley many years now, and had regular flirtations with the milkman. She expected him to be behind the knock on the door that morning, but instead found Danny.

“You want to talk...to Mrs. Wexley??” she repeated back to him in obvious confusion.

Shaking her head in disbelief, she took him to a small room where a woman in her 70’s sat at a table. She was working on a large, complicated looking puzzle.

“This man is Mr. Danny Goodwin. He’d like to speak with you about Mr. Wexley.” Sara said.

The woman did not turn to them, but she acknowledged the request with a quiet chuckle and a shrug.

“Good luck.” said Sara, leaving the door open as she left.

Danny sat across from Mrs. Wexley. She poured a cup of tea and slid it toward him. Danny did not like tea, but sipped it anyway. The old woman chuckled again, and he knew she knew he didn’t like tea.

“I don’t want much or your time ma’am. I was wondering what you could tell me about DeVry?”

The woman looked up toward him, but never made eye contact. With great effort replied, “H…..He...HhhhhhEnr...rrrryyy….sss, sss, …..sssOld th thhhhhhhemm.”

Suddenly Hazel’s comments and Sara’s confusion made sense. He watched her effortlessly work through her half completed puzzle at a slow, steady pace.

“Ma’am, does it hurt you to speak?”

Mrs. Wexley slowly shook her head without looking away from the puzzle.

“Would you permit me to come by for a few hours a day to talk more? I’d like to learn all I can.”

This briefly brought Mrs. Wexley’s eyes to Danny’s. She smiled broadly and nodded.

*****

Within weeks, Danny was back at the museum, waiting for Hazel.

“You may not remember me,” he told her, “but you will after today. I have found the lost DeVry.”

*****

College was just a couple weeks away by the time Danny found himself back at the train station. His suitcase was bigger now with plenty of space for all the journals. It even had a hidden pocket for his $20,000. No one had asked for the whole story, and Danny liked holding the secret.

“It would make a good story.” he mumbled with a self-affirming nod.

He’d tucked his ticket into one of his father’s journals, and thumbed through it while he awaited his train. One page made him stop, and every muscle of his face smile. He opened his suitcase, pulled out a new journal, and confidently wrote:

Atop an Elephant

By Jack and Danny Goodwin

“All things with you Dad”

With ink-stained fingers, Danny took his things to the ticket master.

“Excuse me,” Danny beamed. “Who would I speak to about passage to India?”