No. 89

The Scene Painter

Mrs. Quinn

908 E Jefferson

Louisville, Kentucky

Advent 1940

Dear Mrs. Quinn,

O Come, O Come, Emanuel. Pray God this letter is forwarded as I think you have probably moved on to the nursing home by now.

Did you take along with you the letters of our dear Miss Minnie, our Win?

Well, even if you did not have time to learn about her, the horses in Kanona or the dreams of Charles Brother, I will go ahead and conclude our correspondence for my own health is failing as it should. It is now my turn to turn in my keys.

So concludes the batch of letters that Minnie brought with her to the farm house in Lafayette, Indiana, for to find the courage to burn, in order for her to cooperate with her sister's side of seeing things, but instead Win and the sister were thrown off by my arrival, then by the tornado, which killed her sister, tossed my car, threw a nail into her arm, making it green, requiring amputation, but not (Hello, Jesus) disrupting the hat box of the King and Company general store, which held the letters about the horses in Kanona, about her early life, and of how she was first thrown, how she threw herself into the arms of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

She still wanted to burn the letters, but with her being shipped off the hospital, they were now in my care, now they were in the arms of a stranger, who at this time still did not or could not find the courage to admit what I had come to the farm to do.

The dead sister, I'm now convinced, had no knowledge of Julien Lafayette's other life, of me or of his children. So I still was attached to me being the great alto star who was made a sensation by the theatre organist husband, who was buried with one of the many names he used, a character in a play when on the run or, when convenient, allowed him to write another check out to himself.

I had no intention of staying on that farm, but I sure was hell bent on staying in the past. The farmhouse was half destroyed with no power, no automobile, or friends, no nothing, really, but a poverty that was oddly familiar, for the grand view of the open, rich fields that were beautiful and helpful to me because they reminded me that I had nothing to do with it. They were not my making; they were not my responsibility.  There, wanting to be a grain of wheat, I found hope that I could become less.

I eventually had to tell Win that I was once the daughter of a wealthy attorney, who used my father's last bit of money for our immortality: to set up our home and careers, the wardrobes and the hats, matching luggage, and the fine instruments and nannies, depleted for Julien's creative efforts, schemes and scenes, and gambling. I was a daughter who believed in the royalty my first husband, Julien Lafayette, a true descendant of the General Marquise de Lafayette, only he could never tell anyone of this distinction because he was a liar, cheat, thief, gambler, performer, prisoner, bigamist, conductor, musician, director, architect, scene painter – but all of them the same escape artist rolled into one tall, dashing runner.

Turns out we had a lot in common, the alto and the scene painter, as God’s pursuit was pressing down on both of us, in His timing, causing His drama and painting His scenes, and for me to get married yet again to a strong performing man, for me to fail at that bond, too, for me to fail yet again at not looking straight at his brutishness because I wanted to use it for protection, never thinking it could be hurt me. For me now, stuck in Indiana, still angry over it all, ready for the dumping of Win’s testimonial or whatever she was trying to let Stewart know about, whatever and no matter; it had nothing to do with me. How upset I was that I could not get answers about Julien.

But I could not do it. I could not burn them. I had burned enough. For the wrong things.

There for a long time I stood, staring at the flames, thinking of Abraham. Yes, I told Win that while she was gone, I would burn the letters for her. What did it matter to me? I was supposed to be gone by now.

The sheriff spotted my fire. He came round to me to remind me of the auction. I told him I was working on my exit but was waiting for Win. Just burning some old letters. He saw them in my hand and left me there to get to it.

While I waited for her to come back, I saw more of the farm, taking in the view there. Maybe she would not return. Maybe I fell for it again, that hope in a person. Better to hope in the Lord, someone said to me, and I prayed that she would come back. I prayed for her arm to heal. I prayed hard that she not be in pain.

Finally, I walked into town and found a ride to a priest, who listened to me and walked me through confession, face in front of face, and I saw him disappear, the priest, for my Father was now before me, nodding that I could now, in truth, take care of someone. I could tend to Win even though my own children had broken away from me, for the fragmentation that befell me when Julien left us, when I did not believe in us, and when my second husband roughed us up, and when I fell into my cigarettes, ignoring the gift it was when he also left us.

A few weeks after my turning into something with a heart, Win came back. The day before, I received a visit from the priest. He told me that Win was coming home. He wanted to ask me directly, "What is she coming home to?"

I said, "Nothing here. I hired a truck and driver. He will tow the car. The tires are fine, but the top is crushed. I packed everything I could fit into it. She can come with me to Chicago. I will stay there long enough to pay off my employer. Then, I hope, if Win agrees, I will go with her to her home in Iowa. I will see her fit and pretty until her final days, God willing."

The next day, I saw Win and her driver coming down the long driveway, I walked out to greet them. Win got out of the car. I took her bags. Paid the driver with cash. This surprised Win.

“We have many things to discuss, Win,” and I kissed her. Told her I met with her priest. That he wanted to see her before she decided anything.

 Win asked, "Where did you get that money? Why did you stay all this time? How did you get along with no power?"

When we entered the house, I opened a can of beans and we shared them, cold. I asked about her medicines and her routines for wound care. Asked her if we could sit by the fire outside and talk it over, what I came there to do.

As we sat there, I asked her to listen and when I stopped talking to please forgive me.

She said “I didn’t know that Julien was in so much trouble. He was always good to my sister. But now I’m confused about more of it.”

Then, I told her about the suitcase filled with cash. The one I found in the barn. How it was in his old suitcase, the set was a matching one and I had the other pieces at home, and I could prove it to her, if she would please travel with me to Chicago.

Told her that I had to work for my old boss long enough to pay off the damage to his car. There might be enough in the suitcase, I wasn't sure, because I didn't know these kinds of things. To count the money felt wrong without Win’s permission. I wanted to wait for Win to do it with me. To understand if perhaps it belonged to her sister and not Julien, if we could ever find that out.

Win said her sister never mentioned the cash and believed she never knew of it because she needed it, awfully bad. And she said her sister never went into that side of the barn for all the ways Julien stacked up obsolete parts and old things so carelessly. Now it was coming to us a confidence that the money was Julien’s, or money that belonged to someone who would be looking for it.

Win asked me if I had told the priest about the money. I said I wanted to talk to her, first.

She said, "I did not know it was there. Show it to me."

I led her to the room where I was sleeping and opened the suitcase. She immediately turned and walked out the house and went straight to the fire pit.

There we sat for a long time. I waited for Win to make up her mind.

The priest came the next day and took us to the police station for a hand over. First, the priest went in alone. Then he came out to get us both. I told the detectives everything that your husband told me about Julien, the names he used before, and the old theaters he worked for. I know for sure now, Mrs. Quinn, how happy this letter will make you for this resolution.

And now you know, Mrs. Quinn, there you have it: how your husband played his part in my rescue, how Win came to live with me, or I with her, and how we now hobble to get each other to Mass, to put things in right order, with Christ in us, to live in us, and playing our part, however short.

--Laura Lafayette

Copyright 2025 Christine Friesel