That Smile

That Smile  (Reprised)

She winked at me as I walked by. Was the wink only my imagination? Was the young woman actually flirting with me? I glanced back. There– again. The wink stopped me short; I had to find out.
Her face was only a portrait on canvas, but I couldn’t escape her enigmatic smile. She beckoned to me, called out to me, haunted me. The gentle curve of the lips. The slight upturn at the corners of her mouth. The pixie’s twinkle in her eye. She reached out to possess me.
When we first met, she was forgotten and ignored, covered with a light coating of dust, hidden away in a far, dark corner of the decrepit old thrift store on 3rd and Main. The portrait was of a woman, near forty. Her face was unremarkable, but to me, strikingly beautiful. A white crocheted scarf corralled a wild herd of golden curls. Thick tresses spilled across her shoulders and onto her breasts, which hid in modesty behind a black drape. The woman wore no jewelry, her beauty its own adornment.
I lifted the lady out of her hiding place and blew on the painting to remove the thin coating of dust. No good, the dust clung to the canvas like wheat flour to a carpet. Reaching behind me, I snatched a T-shirt off its hanger and gently brushed the dust from her face. Again– a wink? Have I lost my mind?
I placed my treasure under my arm and proceeded to the checkout counter. The cashier gave me a strange look. Does she suspect I’m tempted to cheat on my dear Beverly? The heat of embarrassment rose into my cheeks.
“Sir, are you sure you want this portrait? This is a rather amateurish painting.”
“Do you know who the artist is?”
“An older man. He lived here in town, I believe. At least the piece belonged to him. The family brought this portrait by when he passed away. They were not familiar with the woman. The old man called her Katie. The family wasn’t sure who painted it. Their father wasn’t an artist.”
“Apparently the painting has sat here a while.”
“Yes, as you can tell by the dust. You’re the first person to find it in some time. Funny thing ...”
“What is?”
“I’ve worked here for many years. A few other customers purchased this painting, but for some reason, the lady always returns to us. We usually find her in the donation bin.”
“There’s something about this painting– the model, something .... Her smile reminds me of my wife.”
“Smile, Sir? Well, if you say so. They say the beauty in a piece of art is in the eye of the beholder.”

My sweet wife Beverly:
You and I shared forty-two years of marital bliss. You’ve been gone now for twelve years. Your infectious giggle still echoes in my ears. I still sense the warmth of your body next to mine at night, the soft, gentle breathing in my ear. Forty-two years of ups and downs, good times, and bad, and the absolute bliss of being together.
Then one morning, you forgot to wake up. God in heaven, I miss you.
Forgive me, Beverly. My life must go on. I’ve found a new love. For the last three years, Katie is always with me. Her tumbling curls and haunting smile maintain their vigil over me from the chair next to mine. Her eyes follow me; she makes my day less of a grind. At night she visits me in my dreams. I sense the warmth of her body next to mine, her soft breathing in my ear. And when I am down or depressed, her giggling laugh—so much like yours, Beverly—lifts me back out of the mire. Katie with the golden locks, my constant companion.
We spend hours talking together, sharing life’s experiences. She told me she once sang in dance halls, performing for cowboys as they tossed coins onto the stage. I am in the audience as she stands behind the footlights, her golden curls bouncing, her voice sweet, like a songbird.
I tried to explain to her how I used to work in an aircraft factory, assembling wing components. She has never seen an airplane or experienced flight. Many precious hours passed between us as I explained the joys of flying to her. Not having flown since my sight dimmed, my only regret is not being able to take her up with me.

To Rachel and Randy, my beloved children;
The doctors tell me only days remain, two weeks at the most. My affairs must be put in order before I leave, to once again be with my Beverly. Everything I possess, I leave to you. Yes, you’ll fight over what little I leave. Families always do.
Only one thing I ask of you. Take care of my Katie– the painting you hate so much. You say it’s ugly, and I’m crazy for talking to her. You call me senile, demented. Don’t deny it; I’m not deaf. But I forgive you. You’ve never witnessed her flirtatious wink, her laughter, her infectious smile. Never experienced the warmth, the comfort, the love she gives. This is your loss, my children. Someday I hope you’ll understand.
When I’m gone, return Katie to the thrift store on the corner of 3rd and Main. That’s where she and I first met. Someone else needs her. Just slip her into the donation bin. No need for an explanation– the old ladies who run the place will understand.
They’re expecting her.