“Not in a line,” Rose said.
Daniel kept his finger against the church wall. “All the other flowers go in a line.”
“These are for Martin. His daughter asked for a bunch.”
It was Saturday afternoon. By evening the entrance had to be clear for Sunday’s service. Rose had yellow paint on one thumb and a small packet of dried flowers in her apron. She had promised to match their color.
Daniel stood on the short ladder. Below him, Martin’s face was still wet. He had painted the mouth straight, as it was in the photograph. Rose was pleased about that. It did not mean she would let him choose the flowers too.
The day before, Daniel had shown her a wall of smiling chalk faces.
People carrying boxes of food. People folding coats. Martin near the end, with his hands empty. The picture Rose had brought showed him holding a chair with one leg missing. His daughter had given permission for the portrait, and for the repaired furniture he had left the hall to stay in use.
“People see this wall when they come in,” Daniel had told her. “It should welcome them.”
“People saw Martin when they came in too.”
“Was he always that gloomy?”
“Sometimes he was worse.”
Daniel had laughed before he realized she meant it.
His previous poster showed volunteers after a long afternoon. Three people complained it made the church look miserable. This time he had promised himself that everybody would smile.
He painted a smiling Martin on a spare board. The eyes and cheeks were easy. Rose could see they were shapes Daniel had used before.
She mixed yellow paint and let him work. When he asked her to help with the mouth, she said he knew how to paint a smile.
He put the board beside the photograph.
“It looks pleasant,” he said.
It looked like a man who wanted to sell Rose something.
“Did you know him well?” Daniel asked.
“We were neighbors. His wife died before my husband. We both lived alone.”
“Did he come over for supper?”
“Never.”
Daniel waited. She had made Martin sound like a poor choice for a welcoming wall.
“My back step broke,” she said. “I couldn’t afford a new one. One morning I heard hammering. He’d brought a plank from his shed.”
“He fixed it?”
“Yes. I asked him in afterward. He wouldn’t come. So I took two cups of tea outside and sat on the step with him.”
“Did he cheer up?”
“He drank his tea.”
Daniel looked at the photograph again.
Rose wanted that man here. Not a kinder man she’d invented after his death. Not a face that made him easier company.
Daniel took another board. This time he followed the uneven hair and the heavy line above Martin’s eyes. The work took longer. Rose washed her brushes rather than standing over him.
Amir came in with a dustpan and stopped beside the two boards.
“There he is,” he said, pointing at the second. “Are you putting the chair in?”
“I hadn’t decided.”
“He brought that one back with the leg replaced. We used it until the seat split.”
Amir went to fetch another chair. A lighter piece of wood filled a gap in its back.
“He fixed this too,” Amir said. “His daughter asked us to keep using it. I’ll put it out Sunday.”
Daniel had asked Rose to hold the photograph where he could see it from the ladder. He changed Martin’s chalk hands to hands gripping the chair rail. He left the missing leg in the painted chair; the picture showed him at work, before the repair was done.
Now, on Saturday, the face and chair were finished. Only the flowers remained.
Rose took one dried yellow flower from the packet and held it against the wall.
“These grew by their gate,” she said. “Martin’s daughter picked this last summer.”
“If the bunch is too wide, it’ll touch the coats,” Daniel said.
She looked at the nearby volunteer’s painted coat. There was room below it, but Daniel had laid out an even border along the whole wall.
“I can put them lower.”
“That will break the line.”
“Yes.”
Amir passed between them carrying folded tables. He needed the entrance open, not a verdict on flowers.
Daniel stepped down. Rose waited while he looked at the wall from the door.
“Put them lower,” he said at last. “Keep them clear of the coats.”
She painted the bunch. It leaned a little to one side. She didn’t straighten it.
On Sunday, Martin’s daughter arrived before the service, clutching her handbag. Rose was still taking off her coat. Daniel stood near the mural, ready to explain the chair.
The daughter stopped at the straight mouth.
“He hated being told to smile,” she said.
Daniel nodded. She moved closer to the flowers.
“You remembered our gate.”
“Rose painted them.” He pointed her across the hall.
The daughter came to Rose and touched her paint-stained thumb.
“I picked those on his last good afternoon,” she said.
Rose hadn’t known that. They stood together while people came through the door. One admired the wall. Another walked past without looking.
Amir carried out the chair with the repaired back and placed it under Martin’s portrait.
“Is that for looking at?” Daniel asked.
“No.”
An older visitor paused near the entrance to catch her breath. Amir moved the chair closer. She sat, put her bag at her feet, and looked up at the yellow flowers.
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