The Fifth Avenue Artists Society Read Online Free PDF Page A

father was noticeably absent, his place behind Mother’s right shoulder an appropriate blotch of bright sunlight.
    â€œIt’s October third,” Franklin said, interrupting my study of the photo. I smiled at his random revelation, not sure why it mattered. “Grandpa James’s birthday,” he reminded, then shrugged, eyes fixed to the flames.
    â€œSomeone has to tell the story,” I said, remembering at last. I’d forgotten in the chaos of the evening. Growing up, Father always told the tale of his father, the fearless Civil War hero. Even though we were required to listen back then, I was captivated. I could still see my father’s face, round brown eyes dancing as he sat in front of the fireplace talking about the fierce man who raised him. My sisters had never really cared about our history, but Franklin and I always had, begging our parents to tell us more.
    â€œAll right,” Mother said, and grinned at me, likely relieved to find that I seemed livened by the distraction.
    Rubbing her eyes, she straightened up against the longue, patted Franklin’s leg, and reached for my hand. “It all began in’49 . . . when your grandparents, who’d been living in a large brick home on five acres in the city, decided they wanted to sell it. At the time, the city had just started construction on a big park right in front of their home and they’d grown tired of the noise and commotion, so your grandfather sold the house and land for three thousand dollars and moved the family to the Bronx. Back then, this was country. You could hear wild geese calling and crickets in the summertime, and your grandfather knew that he’d build a home here . . . a country retreat, he called it.” Franklin made a noise of amused disagreement. Today, the quiet call of geese overhead had been replaced by the whir of the trolley flying by every hour, the distant clanging from the iron factory, and the commotion of a thousand commuters hustling to the train station or to the ferry dock along the canal. “So, all was quiet and lovely, and everyone was happy . . . until Lincoln’s call to arms.” Franklin elbowed my mother and she smiled, nodding for him to continue. He crossed the room, plucked an armchair from the corner, and set it down in front of the blue and white Wedgwood tiles lining the hearth, in the exact spot where Father used to sit.
    â€œHe was a brave man. A man of another era,” Franklin started, echoing Father’s words. He paused for a moment and then proceeded. “He went to war honored to serve and came back from Gettysburg without a scratch . . . carrying that blasted creeper vine.” Franklin gestured toward the front of the house. “Sometimes I wonder what possessed him . . . why he’d take the effort to dig up a vine from the battlefield and bring it all the way back home.” I laughed, imagining the grandfather I’d never known digging while bullets flew around his head.
    â€œLikely because it reminded him of himself—strong and nearly impossible to kill,” I said, and Mother grinned.
    â€œI imagine he wanted to remember what he’d seen sacrificed.”
    Franklin cleared his throat, and straightened in his seat. “Nevertheless, he came back, but just for a two-week furlough. And then he went off to Georgia, where he died valiantly during the battle of Peach Tree Creek. Captain Bundy’s report said that he’d been shot nine times, three through the heart.” Franklin brought his hand to his chest as he said it, palm resting on the corduroy vest. “He died in true Loftin family fashion . . . stubbornly. His strength was his heart, his determination. It took three bullets to kill him.” Frank looked down at his hands, then up at me, eyes boring into mine. “We have to remember that we, too, are Loftins, and though our hearts may fracture, they will not falter. No one will stamp us out.”