"The Enchanted Cottage" -- Part 7
Dinner with Mrs. Minnett.
Las Encantadas Estate, Erie, Pa., September 2006
"Would you like a little more wine, Brian?" Mrs. Minnett assumed the answer was yes and indicated that Mara refill his glass. "2002 was an excellent year."
Brian watched the wine splash into the glass, deeply crimson. It was the Las Encantadas Charlot, the wine from Mrs. Minnett's own vineyard, a dry red French hybrid that grew well in the uncharitable Erie climate. Brian had been surprised to find the shores of Lake Erie lined with acre after acre of grape vines, basking in the late summer sun, yielding a pungent vintage. But Brian was no wine connoisseur -- all he cared was that it was alcohol and there was plenty of it.
Justin was drinking water, as usual. He couldn't touch alcohol because it interacted with his medication and might touch off a seizure.
"There are some lovely parks in this area," said Mrs. Minnett. "Like Presque Isle. And Chautauqua is just over the line into New York. Justin can show you some very interesting places to explore, can't you, my dear?"
Justin nodded. "I... I'd be happy to, Mrs. Minnett."
"I didn't come here to sightsee," Brian said bluntly. "I have work to do." If Gardner ever bothers to send me any, he added silently.
"Of course, Brian," Mrs. Minnett said serenely. "How is your steak?"
"Perfect." And it was. A New York strip, tender and extremely rare. All the food was perfect. Mrs. Minnett had made certain of it.
"And your pasta, Major?" she asked the third guest, who was a vegetarian.
"Splendid, Abigail," said Major John Hillgrove. "Mara has outdone herself."
"I had a small hand in it, as well," Mrs. Minnett commented. "I'm not the cook Mara is, but I can saute capers without ruining them too badly. But we missed Justin in the kitchen today."
"I... I would have come up and helped, b... but I was b... b... busy," Justin lied. Every time he'd tried to do something in the cottage, Brian had ordered him out, saying that he got on his nerves.
"I'm sure you were, my dear," said Mrs. Minnett. "Getting settled in a new place is always such a aggravation. But Justin knows the cottage very well, Brian. When he first came here, he and his mother, Jennifer, stayed down there. How long has it been, my dear? My memory isn't what it was."
"Over th... three years," said Justin. "Hardly seems possible I've been here th... that long!"
"Three years!" Mrs. Minnett exclaimed. "I can't believe it, either!"
"Three years," Brian grumbled. "No wonder he's a fucking head case."
"What did you say, Brian?" Mrs. Minnett asked sharply.
Brian looked away. "Nothing. Can I have more wine?"
"Certainly." Mrs. Minnett nodded to Mara to refill Mr. Kinney's glass once again.
"If you will excuse me," said the Major. "I need to walk Harvey." The yellow Lab at his feet stood up at the mention of his name and wagged his thick tail.
Brian stood up, too. "Do you need any help?"
"Oh, no!" said the Major. "I know this place like the back of my hand. I ought to -- I've been living in the carriage house for over twenty years. I'm as much a fixture around here as Abigail's antiques. In fact, I'm quite an antique myself these days."
"Let me c... come, Major," said Justin, pushing back his chair. "I n... need some fresh air." He took the Major's elbow and they both went out through the double doors to the veranda.
Brian waited until the pair were out of sight. "How did it happen? The Major, I mean. He seems like a nice guy."
Mrs. Minnett regarded Brian evenly. "He is. He's my oldest and dearest friend. He was also my husband's best friend and the best man at our wedding. And Charlie's godfather."
Brian toyed with his glass. "And?"
"He lost his sight in Vietnam. It was towards the end of the war. A grenade explosion. He was in a Veterans Hospital for a long time."
Brian shuddered. "I noticed the burns on his face. That's a bitch."
"Yes," said Mrs. Minnett. "He needed skin grafts. And he needed a lot of psychological treatment, as well. He was a lost soul for a long time. Then my husband brought him here and moved him into the carriage house. It was difficult at first, but he found his place on the estate. Now John Hillgrove has one of the finest palates in the wine business."
"Palate? As in taste?"
"Yes. He's a wine taster. The Major is our quality control expert. He's also greatly in demand at many of the Great Lakes wineries in Pennsylvania, New York, and Ohio. He gives classes on selecting wines."
"So," Brian said skeptically. "Getting blown up in Vietnam was the gateway to a new and fascinating career, right?"
"No." Mrs. Minnett's gaze was steely. "It was a way for him to survive. To find a way to live. It hasn't been easy for him. But nothing in life is easy, Brian."
"If I wanted platitudes, I'd open a fucking fortune cookie." Brian drained his wine glass. "Excuse my language."
"You've asked about the Major," she said. "But you haven't asked me anything about Justin. I thought you'd be curious, especially since he's living in the cottage with you."
"About that..." Brian paused. It was obvious the woman felt sorry for the kid. "It isn't working out. To be blunt, the kid drives me up a wall. He creeps around the place, trying to be quiet, but that just makes him more annoying. He drops everything he picks up. And he can't answer a simple question without sputtering and blubbering for ten solid minutes! It's hard enough trying to deal with being here and all the other crap without having a babbling idiot underfoot in a small space!"
Mrs. Minnett swirled her wine in the glass pensively before sipping it. "Is that how you see Justin? As a babbling idiot?"
Brian shrugged. It sounded harsh, but he had to be honest. He was always honest, even when it hurt. "I call it as I see it."
"Perhaps you'd like to see something else." Mrs. Minnett got up and left the room, returning a few minutes later. She was carrying a leather portfolio. She set it down on an empty spot on the long table and unzipped it. "You might want to take a look at these."
Brian rolled his eyes, but he looked. They were mainly pencil sketches, but also some pastels and watercolors. Portraits of a dark, laughing girl, a blonde woman, a child. A study of a denim jacket hanging on a closet door. Some books leaning on a shelf. Boys playing football. Another boy diving into a pool.
"What am I looking at?" Brian asked.
"Are they good?" Mrs. Minnett questioned.
"I don't know," said Brian. "I'm no art critic."
"But you're a visual man," she replied. "You're in advertising. You deal in imagery. You know what works and what doesn't. So tell me -- are these good? Do they show talent?"
Brian picked up one of the portraits of the dark girl. Her eyes were warm and direct. The shading of her face, the tendrils of her hair -- she was a real person. She was alive in this drawing.
"Yes," said Brian. "They're good."
"Would you hire this person at your agency?"
Brian considered. "I guess so." He looked at the sketches again. "Yes, I would. They show talent. Creativity. They make a direct connection with the viewer."
Mrs. Minnett straightened the drawings and zipped up the leather portfolio. "These are Justin's work."
Brian was shocked. "That kid did these?"
"Yes. Before he was injured Justin was a very promising artist. He'd been accepted at the Pittsburgh Institute of Fine Art and they only take a few out of hundreds of applicants."
Brian sat back in his chair, dumbfounded. "I didn't know."
"You didn't bother to ask," said Mrs. Minnett.
Brian was sorry he'd finished his wine. But now he wanted -- needed -- something stronger. "What happened to him?"
"He was being harassed at his school, but he didn't tell his parents because he was afraid of their reaction if they learned he was gay. The only person he confided in was his friend, Daphne. She's the young girl in the drawings. They attended his prom together. The boys who'd been bullying him got drunk and decided to 'deal' with him once and for all. Justin went out to the parking garage to get his mother's car and they were waiting for him. The beat him severely. One of the young men had a baseball bat."
"Jesus!" Brian felt a chill go through him.
"Justin was in a coma for weeks and sustained extensive damage to his brain. When he came out of it, he had to learn to walk and talk and perform simple functions all over again. His memory was also badly affected, which was probably a blessing. He couldn't remember most of the previous year, including the attack."
"I hope they put the fucking bastards away!" Brian said, his fists clenched.
"They did," said Mrs. Minnett. "Justin's friend testified at the trial about what had been happening to him at St. James Academy, proving the assault was premeditated. But getting justice wasn't enough to put his life back the way it was. He was in a rehabilitation center for over a year -- you might know something about those, Brian. While he was there his parents divorced and his mother had to go to work. She was having a difficult time dealing with his issues, not to mention the cost of his treatment. I heard about Justin's case from PFLAG and offered him a place here."
Mrs. Minnett paused, watching Brian's face. Yes, she thought, he's still a beautiful man -- if you bother to look for it.
"When Justin arrived at Las Encantadas," she continued. "He was a sullen, sick, and very damaged young man. He regularly had seizures and his entire right side was only semi-functional. That was the hardest thing for him -- he could no longer hold a pencil to draw. He still can't control his hand well, although it's better than it was. And his general movement has greatly improved -- at first he could barely make it across the lawn and now he walks all over the estate. He doesn't move quickly or easily, but he manages. But the worst loss is of his talent. He'll never be what he was meant to be -- an artist. That has been taken from him forever."
"Shit," Brian whispered.
"I would say so," Mrs. Minnett replied. "Shit, indeed."
***
Las Encantadas Estate, Erie, Pa., September 2006
"Would you like a little more wine, Brian?" Mrs. Minnett assumed the answer was yes and indicated that Mara refill his glass. "2002 was an excellent year."
Brian watched the wine splash into the glass, deeply crimson. It was the Las Encantadas Charlot, the wine from Mrs. Minnett's own vineyard, a dry red French hybrid that grew well in the uncharitable Erie climate. Brian had been surprised to find the shores of Lake Erie lined with acre after acre of grape vines, basking in the late summer sun, yielding a pungent vintage. But Brian was no wine connoisseur -- all he cared was that it was alcohol and there was plenty of it.
Justin was drinking water, as usual. He couldn't touch alcohol because it interacted with his medication and might touch off a seizure.
"There are some lovely parks in this area," said Mrs. Minnett. "Like Presque Isle. And Chautauqua is just over the line into New York. Justin can show you some very interesting places to explore, can't you, my dear?"
Justin nodded. "I... I'd be happy to, Mrs. Minnett."
"I didn't come here to sightsee," Brian said bluntly. "I have work to do." If Gardner ever bothers to send me any, he added silently.
"Of course, Brian," Mrs. Minnett said serenely. "How is your steak?"
"Perfect." And it was. A New York strip, tender and extremely rare. All the food was perfect. Mrs. Minnett had made certain of it.
"And your pasta, Major?" she asked the third guest, who was a vegetarian.
"Splendid, Abigail," said Major John Hillgrove. "Mara has outdone herself."
"I had a small hand in it, as well," Mrs. Minnett commented. "I'm not the cook Mara is, but I can saute capers without ruining them too badly. But we missed Justin in the kitchen today."
"I... I would have come up and helped, b... but I was b... b... busy," Justin lied. Every time he'd tried to do something in the cottage, Brian had ordered him out, saying that he got on his nerves.
"I'm sure you were, my dear," said Mrs. Minnett. "Getting settled in a new place is always such a aggravation. But Justin knows the cottage very well, Brian. When he first came here, he and his mother, Jennifer, stayed down there. How long has it been, my dear? My memory isn't what it was."
"Over th... three years," said Justin. "Hardly seems possible I've been here th... that long!"
"Three years!" Mrs. Minnett exclaimed. "I can't believe it, either!"
"Three years," Brian grumbled. "No wonder he's a fucking head case."
"What did you say, Brian?" Mrs. Minnett asked sharply.
Brian looked away. "Nothing. Can I have more wine?"
"Certainly." Mrs. Minnett nodded to Mara to refill Mr. Kinney's glass once again.
"If you will excuse me," said the Major. "I need to walk Harvey." The yellow Lab at his feet stood up at the mention of his name and wagged his thick tail.
Brian stood up, too. "Do you need any help?"
"Oh, no!" said the Major. "I know this place like the back of my hand. I ought to -- I've been living in the carriage house for over twenty years. I'm as much a fixture around here as Abigail's antiques. In fact, I'm quite an antique myself these days."
"Let me c... come, Major," said Justin, pushing back his chair. "I n... need some fresh air." He took the Major's elbow and they both went out through the double doors to the veranda.
Brian waited until the pair were out of sight. "How did it happen? The Major, I mean. He seems like a nice guy."
Mrs. Minnett regarded Brian evenly. "He is. He's my oldest and dearest friend. He was also my husband's best friend and the best man at our wedding. And Charlie's godfather."
Brian toyed with his glass. "And?"
"He lost his sight in Vietnam. It was towards the end of the war. A grenade explosion. He was in a Veterans Hospital for a long time."
Brian shuddered. "I noticed the burns on his face. That's a bitch."
"Yes," said Mrs. Minnett. "He needed skin grafts. And he needed a lot of psychological treatment, as well. He was a lost soul for a long time. Then my husband brought him here and moved him into the carriage house. It was difficult at first, but he found his place on the estate. Now John Hillgrove has one of the finest palates in the wine business."
"Palate? As in taste?"
"Yes. He's a wine taster. The Major is our quality control expert. He's also greatly in demand at many of the Great Lakes wineries in Pennsylvania, New York, and Ohio. He gives classes on selecting wines."
"So," Brian said skeptically. "Getting blown up in Vietnam was the gateway to a new and fascinating career, right?"
"No." Mrs. Minnett's gaze was steely. "It was a way for him to survive. To find a way to live. It hasn't been easy for him. But nothing in life is easy, Brian."
"If I wanted platitudes, I'd open a fucking fortune cookie." Brian drained his wine glass. "Excuse my language."
"You've asked about the Major," she said. "But you haven't asked me anything about Justin. I thought you'd be curious, especially since he's living in the cottage with you."
"About that..." Brian paused. It was obvious the woman felt sorry for the kid. "It isn't working out. To be blunt, the kid drives me up a wall. He creeps around the place, trying to be quiet, but that just makes him more annoying. He drops everything he picks up. And he can't answer a simple question without sputtering and blubbering for ten solid minutes! It's hard enough trying to deal with being here and all the other crap without having a babbling idiot underfoot in a small space!"
Mrs. Minnett swirled her wine in the glass pensively before sipping it. "Is that how you see Justin? As a babbling idiot?"
Brian shrugged. It sounded harsh, but he had to be honest. He was always honest, even when it hurt. "I call it as I see it."
"Perhaps you'd like to see something else." Mrs. Minnett got up and left the room, returning a few minutes later. She was carrying a leather portfolio. She set it down on an empty spot on the long table and unzipped it. "You might want to take a look at these."
Brian rolled his eyes, but he looked. They were mainly pencil sketches, but also some pastels and watercolors. Portraits of a dark, laughing girl, a blonde woman, a child. A study of a denim jacket hanging on a closet door. Some books leaning on a shelf. Boys playing football. Another boy diving into a pool.
"What am I looking at?" Brian asked.
"Are they good?" Mrs. Minnett questioned.
"I don't know," said Brian. "I'm no art critic."
"But you're a visual man," she replied. "You're in advertising. You deal in imagery. You know what works and what doesn't. So tell me -- are these good? Do they show talent?"
Brian picked up one of the portraits of the dark girl. Her eyes were warm and direct. The shading of her face, the tendrils of her hair -- she was a real person. She was alive in this drawing.
"Yes," said Brian. "They're good."
"Would you hire this person at your agency?"
Brian considered. "I guess so." He looked at the sketches again. "Yes, I would. They show talent. Creativity. They make a direct connection with the viewer."
Mrs. Minnett straightened the drawings and zipped up the leather portfolio. "These are Justin's work."
Brian was shocked. "That kid did these?"
"Yes. Before he was injured Justin was a very promising artist. He'd been accepted at the Pittsburgh Institute of Fine Art and they only take a few out of hundreds of applicants."
Brian sat back in his chair, dumbfounded. "I didn't know."
"You didn't bother to ask," said Mrs. Minnett.
Brian was sorry he'd finished his wine. But now he wanted -- needed -- something stronger. "What happened to him?"
"He was being harassed at his school, but he didn't tell his parents because he was afraid of their reaction if they learned he was gay. The only person he confided in was his friend, Daphne. She's the young girl in the drawings. They attended his prom together. The boys who'd been bullying him got drunk and decided to 'deal' with him once and for all. Justin went out to the parking garage to get his mother's car and they were waiting for him. The beat him severely. One of the young men had a baseball bat."
"Jesus!" Brian felt a chill go through him.
"Justin was in a coma for weeks and sustained extensive damage to his brain. When he came out of it, he had to learn to walk and talk and perform simple functions all over again. His memory was also badly affected, which was probably a blessing. He couldn't remember most of the previous year, including the attack."
"I hope they put the fucking bastards away!" Brian said, his fists clenched.
"They did," said Mrs. Minnett. "Justin's friend testified at the trial about what had been happening to him at St. James Academy, proving the assault was premeditated. But getting justice wasn't enough to put his life back the way it was. He was in a rehabilitation center for over a year -- you might know something about those, Brian. While he was there his parents divorced and his mother had to go to work. She was having a difficult time dealing with his issues, not to mention the cost of his treatment. I heard about Justin's case from PFLAG and offered him a place here."
Mrs. Minnett paused, watching Brian's face. Yes, she thought, he's still a beautiful man -- if you bother to look for it.
"When Justin arrived at Las Encantadas," she continued. "He was a sullen, sick, and very damaged young man. He regularly had seizures and his entire right side was only semi-functional. That was the hardest thing for him -- he could no longer hold a pencil to draw. He still can't control his hand well, although it's better than it was. And his general movement has greatly improved -- at first he could barely make it across the lawn and now he walks all over the estate. He doesn't move quickly or easily, but he manages. But the worst loss is of his talent. He'll never be what he was meant to be -- an artist. That has been taken from him forever."
"Shit," Brian whispered.
"I would say so," Mrs. Minnett replied. "Shit, indeed."
***