October on the Hudson

“We move onto Lot #6. Next up is the famous oil painting October on the Hudson by Francis A. Silva. We start the bidding on this work at 700,000.00 dollars. $700,000, $750,000, 756,000, 760,000...760,000 I have. 762,000, 765,000 on the far right. 770,000 in the back. I’ve got two bidders in the room. 800,000 on the aisle. I’m afraid 790,000 won’t cut it Sharee. 820,000 can I say? 800,000 I’ve got. 820,000. I’ve got 830,00 on the aisle. Ladies bid….I’ve got 860,000 thank you very much. 900,000 on the aisle. Madam, it’s against you now...900,000. 950,000 thank you. 950,000 is the bid. We’ve got 950,000. That’s 950,000 thousand dollars. Oh, 960,000 on the left corner. This is very interesting a new contender. Madam, I’ll offer you 965,000 will you take it? Ah yes, 965,000. aisle? Far corner? 970,000. Yes, 970,000. 970,000... far corner can we go to 973? No? 973? Are you sure 973? 970,000 is the current price. Madam? 975,000 now 975,000. 980,000? Can we? No? No more? 980,000 it is...the longer you spend buying it, the longer you’ll spend enjoying it, Harry Dalmeny told me so.”

Laughter fills the room.

“Aisle seat? One million dollars to our aisle seat bidder. Anyone else in the room...may buy or bid...but now...I sell to you Sir on the aisle for one million. Final sale..one million” the gavel strikes quick, “Thank you.”

With the eight-minute bidding war now over, the release of tension in the room is now gone. All that is left is Francis Silva frowning down upon his work.

***

“Francis be careful. You always scare me of toppling into the water. Your jesting my love might one day come at a cost,” a soft smile spreads across Margaret’s face as her white-gloved hand reaches Francis’ cheek, “I adore you.”

“And I to you,” Francis quickly stands up splaying his arms out like a cross. His legs widen to the sides of the rowboat. He takes in a deep breath. “This...all of this! The gradations of light shining down on us in early morn’ atop the bounty of water surrounding us. It’s our garden, Margaret. The sea. The waves. The seagulls. The glistening sun rays atop the small ripples of water. I could live on this rowboat with you and your parasol forever.”

“Forever?” Margaret whispers.

Quickly, Francis bends to one knee, the boat rocking back and forth, he smiles while steading it amongst the waves. He pulls a gold metal band from his pocket.

“Francis…” Margaret’s eyes start to swell with tears of joy. “Oh my...I can’t believe it.”

“Believe it, darling. It’s you, me and the sea….forever,” Francis grasps Margaret’s hand gently and places the ring upon her finger. “Forever Margaret, be my wife? My world, my shimmering light upon the sea, marry me?”

“Yes!” she replies confidently. She stands, leaning forward to grasp her fiance. Their bodies start to embrace as the rowboat tips. They fall into the water laughing. The lace white parasol is picked up by the wind and blows high into the air, tossing and turning with the breeze, flying south of Hook Mountain State Park past Upper Nyak heading across the Hudson River toward Sleepy Hollow.

“I’ll get it for you my love” Francis starts to swim after the parasol.

“Thank you, my love, my light, my hero!” Margaret giggles still treading water by the rowboat. Margaret knows this is all for show. That Francis like her has no sight of the parasol which is miles away by now.

Margaret looks up at the shore of Hook Mountain State Park, she will have to get back into the rowboat. She isn’t able to swim the length to shore in her now-soaked attire. She pushes her soggy auburn ringlets out of her face. Her crochet shawl is wound around her right arm. Her bonnet is hanging off her head gathering water in the cap. Margaret feels a tug at her leg and then one at her bonnet. “Francis is that you? I dare say…” as Margaret turns around she notes she is alone. “Francis?”

He is nowhere in sight.

"Ahhhh!!!" A flock of ravens bursts out of an Appalachian oak-hickory causing Margaret to scream. Another hard tug comes at her right leg. "Help!!!" She shouts as she kicks her legs and lunges forward to grasp the rowboat. Both legs began to burn from multiple piercings striking deep into her knees. The pain multiplies as several scratches drag slowly down her legs towards her ankles, ripping apart her flesh. The water around her begins to change into a burgundy red. Her bonnet yanks back hard snapping her chin towards the air. The strings on her bonnet tighten, digging into her neck. Her hands slip from the side of the rowboat falling back into the water.

“Fran-” her scream cuts short as water creeps into the sides of her mouth. Her body is now paralyzed. She can no longer scream, or use her strength to fight. Her mind, muted to the world, wishes her eyes to beg for mercy from the sky, as a quick force tugs one final time at the bonnet strings pulling her beneath the water.

***

“Margaret? Margaret!!!” Francis yells as he swims back to the empty rowboat. Where on earth did she go? Francis wonders. He jumps into the rowboat surveying Hook Mountain Shoreline, he doesn’t see any signs of human life.

“Margaret!!!! Where are you?” He shouts into the air. He looks out into the water for any sign. Nothing. Inside the rowboat he sees the gold band sitting on the bench. Did she place it there before leaving?

***

Francis frantically knocks at the main entrance to Brooklyn Tower a boarding house for single women in New York. Samantha Bridges the boarding director answers the door. "Francis, you knock like death at my door."

“Is Margaret here? I need to get up to her room,” Francis is already pushing past Samantha in a hurry, racing up the wooden stairs.

“Another surprise you are leaving for her? She’s not come back. I thought she was out with you? The painting is beautiful. Lucky girl.”

Francis runs up the stairs and opens her room for rent. He sees the painting standing upon the easel he brought in last night. Her engagement gift, waiting for her. It’s of the Hudson River at dusk, with pink and purple hues in the October sky. Two prominent white sailboats contrast the sky and sea creating his best oil Luminist painting to date. Now, this painting stands center stage as if it’s mocking him. Where is she? Why did she leave the ring? What’s happening?

***

“Excuse me, Sir. Just trying to pass,” the width of Madam Flesock's petticoat beneath the mint green gown forces Francis' off the cobblestone, his heel squishing into the muddied grass. Francis stumbles forward and slams into her, his breath smelling strongly of bourbon. She grasps her pearls, gasps shocked at his appearance and is mortified to be seen near him.

"Let's go Morroco" Madam Flesock tugs at the khaki-colored Klein poodle who is starting to growl and bare teeth towards Francis. Madam Flesock hastens her pace click-clacking her heels across the cobblestone as she frantically moves forward. "You've saved Mommy Morrocco. Good boy! I dare say Margaret didn't deserve whatever he did to her. Ahh, terrible....murderer. Hopefully, the man our town hired from London, Smerlong....Shermonk....Sherlock will be able to solve the crime. He's guilty alright."

***

The oar splashes hard into the frigid night water. He furiously rows down the Hudson until he reaches Tappan Zee. “Give her back to me! Take anything else but give her back to me!” Francis stands up in the rowboat and the water calms. The air stops moving, the night sounds freeze. All is still and quiet.

“She loved me. She was wonderful. I want her back. I’ll do anything,” Francis pleads. “I’ve painted a thousand paintings of you. I’ve adorned you. People hang my paintings in their homes. There are pictures of you in the museums. I’ve held you on high but now you betray me and take my only value. I’ll never paint you again. I’ll never help others yearn for you. You don’t bring peace….you bring sorrow, pain, and misery.”

The sky burst with rain. Thunder cracks loudly all around. Lightning tears the sky. The Hudson becomes rough with waves and bitter winds. Francis sits down in his rowboat and paddles forward down the Hudson. “I’ll trade you. You’ll see. You’ll take the bargain.”

He pulls the boat off near Tarrytown. He rings out his suit of the rain and walks up the road toward town. He enters a saloon. A calico cat hisses at his feet. Francis kicks the cat center jaw and it slams against a table leg. The other patrons look at him with slight disgust as his soggy shoes walk across the room. He eyeballs a young gal out on the street, her shoeshine operation halted by the rain. She sits cold and shivering. He walks outside to greet her. “Hello, young lady. I’m Francis. You look like you could use a hot drink and a meal, come with me.” She stands smiling and walks into the saloon with him.

“Let’s get you a drink first and then leave here for food. What’s your name?” He smiles and pulls out a chair for her in the corner of the room.

“I’m Robin. Thank you, sir. This means so much. My mom is sick and I haven’t got any money for food or drink. None to spare since she needs medicine. God bless you!” she sits down happily in the chair. She takes off her hat. Her blond hair ripples down her back. Her piercing green eyes fill with naive gratitude.

Francis orders two double whiskey hot toddies. He hands one to young Robin and rests the other untouched next to him. As Robin explains to Francis how her father ran out on the family, leaving just Robin and the mother to fend for themselves, Francis knows he chose well. As soon as she finishes the first drink Francis calmly but quickly switches the glasses so that Robin can complete round two without notice or care. As her words begin to slur, Francis offers up the idea of dinner. The two walk happily out of the saloon. The rain is still hammering down.

“Give me your hand Robin. I’ll take you to my rowboat and from there I’ll take us downriver to the best restaurant you’ll ever find.” He holds out his hand for Robin to grasp as they leave the street lights and head down the dirt, now a muddy path, towards the boat. He places Robin at the front, rows them both offshore and downriver.

“Are we getting close?” She shouts above the rain. “It’s awfully cold out here.”

“Just a little further,” he robotically explains.

He sets down one of the oars and stands up grasping the other like a baseball bat. As he steadies his grip, she starts to turn around noticing the boat is no longer moving. Francis nervously swings the oar with all his might. The oar smacks Robin’s nose and cracks it wide open, blood gushing out. The force of the oar against her face knocks her left eye out of the socket, her lower jaw is broken. Her body slumps down into the boat within a matter of seconds. Francis shutters. He starts to whimper and then snaps out of it.

“Look what you’ve made me do! This is your fault. I’ve brought you a sacrifice. A trade.” Francis picks up Robin’s lifeless body and tosses her over the edge of the boat. “Take her and return to me my Margaret.”

The waves begin to swell. The water picks up in speed. The rowboat turns in circles. The rain pounds down harder and harder. Thunder splits so loud, Francis feels as if it’s right at his ear, deafening him perhaps for life. His boat is moving at a high rate of speed and has landed past Manhattan down at Gravesend Bay.

“Give her back to me,” Francis whispers while lying down inside the rowboat. “I did what you asked.” Francis starts to cry, his body shaking from the cold emptiness in his heart. He pulls the boat up to Coney Island Beach, the sun is starting to rise, orange light shines over the horizon bringing a calm peace to the ocean. Francis scurries out of the boat, grasping the beach sand ravenously between his palms. He lays on the beach, sprawled out on his belly with his cheek upon the sand, gasping in big breaths of air. His suit is torn. His face has a bruise across his left cheek. His wrists ache from swinging the oar. His body is frozen and stiff.

For the next several days Francis just can’t seem to shake his cough, the pneumonia increases in strength. He sits inside looking out his window at the sea. He paints the Hudson in dark colors, depicting the storm from the night before. Each painting tries to capture the horror of that night. Each version he paints, he tosses on the floor. There are over eighty paintings scattered across the room, oil paint splattered on the floor, walls, and window.