#30 Bartholomew in the Garden

            Bartholomew could smell the soil the moment he stepped off his front step.  The garden was close to his house, but he never would have thought that he would smell it from his house.  It had rained just enough that morning to clear the air and allow, for a brief time, the essential smells of the earth to rise, reminding Bartholomew of this basic human experience – he lives on a planet.  It was one of those mornings that are so still one begins to perceive how active everything is. Smells rose in the air and the sounds of decay lay at his feet.  Songs came from the trees on the edge of the garden: cardinal songs, robin songs and wrens.  These songs were being answered by other song trees in the neighborhood.  Bartholomew could even taste the flowering birch trees nearby, although he did not know the origin of that sweet something on his tongue. 

            He set to work in the garden.  Weeds were popping their heads up, waiting to be decapitated, plucked from their home, scattered, trampled, exhausted and dismembered.  They seem to thrive on this treatment thought Bartholomew and chuckled to himself as he thought about what a violent hobby gardening is.  His goal this weekend was to hoe and pluck his victims throughout the whole garden, except Mr. McBardon's hedged plot.  Mr. McBardon had made it clear, several times, that he would maintain his own plot.  After weeding, Bartholomew hoped to cover the ground with mulch.  Uncle Jeffrey had dropped off a load the night before.

            After a few hours, Bartholomew decided to take a break and have some water.  He sat down on a stump, one of several in the break area of the garden, and pulled a cold steel bottle of water out of a small bag of sustenance he brought with him.  The sky was a bright blue, like only a spring sky can be, and there were just a few small whispy clouds here and there.  Bartholomew was happy as he sat there taking in the world around his garden.  He started to go down the list of things that were good in his life but stopped himself by saying, “Whatever,... life is just good.”

            “Wha?” Bartholomew heard someone say as a figure rose out of Mr.McBardon's hedge.

            “Mr. McBardon?!  How long have you been there?” asked a startled Bartholomew.

            “Huh?  Wha?  Oh, all morning. Just weeding.”

             Bartholomew thought for a moment about how he never saw Mr. McBardon working in the garden ever since the first day.  Mr. McBardon's “hedge” had grown tall enough that if he was weeding on his knees nobody would see him.  This is what Bartholomew assumed had happened.  Or else, Mr. McBardon had slept in his plot and was just waking up.

            “How's your plot doing?” asked Bartholomew.

            “Fine, just fine,” Mr. McBardon blurted out, as if to say, “No need for you to come over.  Stay there, everything is fine.”

            “I'm going to set up the sprinkler in a little while.  Would you like me to water your plot, too?” asked Bartholomew.

            “Uhm, uh, yeah, I guess that would be fine.  It's due.”

            Mr. McBardon gazed up at the blue sky and then quietly sank behind his hedge, back to his private world of weeding.

                                    *                      *                      *                      *

            Topping and Charlotte joined Bartholomew in the garden one day to tie up the tomato plants.  Uncle Jeffrey and Aunt Josephine had dropped off tomato cages the night before.  By that time, some of the plants were big enough that Bartholomew had his doubts about fitting these cages around the plants without breaking some branches.  The three worked together carefully dropping a cage down over the plant, pulling its branches through the wires and, where needed, tying the plant to the cage with torn sheets that Bartholomew's cat, Oliver, had ruined.

            They had successfully accomplished the procedure on three plants when Topping barked, “Damn!” as he snapped off a branch.

            “I hardly bent it!  Man, these babies just 'go,' don't they?”

            “It's okay.  I'm sure were all going to break a few toda...  Aggh!,” said Bartholomew as he snapped a branch, too.

           

            Charlotte laughed.  “I guess, I'm next.”

            The next few plants were saved from any harm.  Charlotte was enjoying watching Topping carefully protect the tomato branches as the cage came down and then surgically place the branches through the cage holes.  This was a side to Topping that Charlotte loved.  He could be so gentle, kind and thoughtful with his heart and his hands that she couldn't help but be in love with him.  Sometimes, when Topping was like this, Charlotte would imagine his kind hands touching her.  She found herself getting excited about being done with the gardening and arriving home to be alone with Topping... or maybe in the car on the way home... or maybe if Bartholomew would leave, they could be alone in the garden – outdoors.

            As they were placing the next cage over a rather large plant, Bartholomew felt something bump up against his leg.  It was Hump-Pug, doing what Hump-Pug does – humping leg. 

            Topping laughed.

            “Not now Hump-Pug,” said Bartholomew.  “Get off!”

            Hump-Pug, of course, did not listen.  She humped and panted, “I have a lover, I know I do...”

            “What is that whining?” asked Topping.

            “Who knows,” said Bartholomew.  “She must live around here somewhere, she's been here a lot while I've been gardening.”

            “Ugh, she looks a mess,” said Charlotte.  “All those burrs and seeds in her coat.  Poor dog.”

            Exasperated, Bartholomew groaned, “We might as well stop.  She's not going to let us finish.  She will keep jumping on our legs until we leave.”

            “Wait a minute,” said Topping who ran to get another tomato cage.  He carefully took the largest cage and placed it over Hump-Pug and shoved its spikes into the ground.  “There, now she won't bug us,” Topping laughed mockingly.

            “How could you do that?” asked a distraught Charlotte.

            Topping laughed more while the little pug tried to first push over the cage and then to try and hump it.

            “God, the animal’s just out of control.  What a dumb dog.  Let's finish caging the tomatoes,” said Topping.

            This was the side of Topping that Charlotte did not like.  There are times when he can be insensitive to animals and people.  Charlotte liked that Topping had a sense of humor, but sometimes he laughed at the cruelest things.  Sometimes getting a job done was more important than the people, and small animals, around him.  She didn't understand this streak in him.  Without realizing it, she was no longer excited to get home.

            Hump-Pug did not seem to mind the confinement, and she eventually took the opportunity to take a quick nap.  In the meantime, Topping, Bartholomew and Charlotte caged all the tomato plants that needed it and tied up the larger ones.  They pulled the cage off of Hump-Pug and placed it in the middle of a patch of pole beans while the little pug awoke and jumped from leg to leg.

                                                                        *          *          *          *

            One hot and humid mid-summer day, Claire came by to help Bartholomew with some weeding and watering.  The garden had been producing greens for a couple of weeks and the other plants were growing tall.  The work was rather easy as the vegetables were now starting to crowd out the weeds.  Bartholomew enjoyed Claire's presence.  She was direct and he didn't have to assume anything about her.  He found this made it simple for him to share himself, too.

            “So, you are moving out of Ned's place?” asked Bartholomew.

            “Yeah.  At the end of the month,” said Claire.

            Bartholomew stopped weeding for a moment.  “I'm sorry to hear that,” he said.

            “It's okay.  It isn't going to work out.  I'm not sure why we got together in the first place...”  Claire stopped herself and looked at Bartholomew.  “Thanks.  I appreciate it.”

            “I just want you to know that Ned hasn't been blabbing stuff to me,” assured Bartholomew.  “In fact, I haven't seen him for quite awhile.  He seems too have decided to not come around.”

            “I'm sorry about that.  It's his choice, but obviously he feels uncomfortable with some of our shared friends.”

            “I wouldn't put too much of this on your splitting up.  Ned used to come over a lot but our relationship was always a bit awkward.  I really don't know what to do when he gets so quiet.  He can go the longest time without saying anything.”

            “Oh god, some of his pauses are so painful,” Claire said relieved that someone else had noticed this same quality about Ned.  She began to laugh.  “There was this one time I asked him where he wanted to go out to eat and he stared at me for two minutes without saying anything.  Two minutes!  There was a clock on the wall behind him and I actually timed it.  Two minutes!”

            “Whoa,” said Bartholomew.

            “How are things with The Nanny?” asked Claire.

            Bartholomew bent down and started weeding again.  “Things are... fine.”

            “That didn't sound very convincing,” responded Claire.

            “Well, I don't know...I feel funny. I've never talked about my relationship with a woman with a woman before.  It seems odd.”

            “Go ahead,” encouraged Claire.  “I promise I won't bite...or laugh.”

            “Well, things are a little strange,” began Bartholomew.  “When we get together we have a great time.  We talk about everything and anything. We laugh and we talk about hard stuff and we do fun things...”

            “But...” added Claire.

            “But,” continued Bartholomew, “whenever we are...intimate...she always stops things at... second or third base.  We've... you know...touched all over... and made out and even spent the night together.  But we never go... all the way.  It's getting frustrating.”

            “Wow, do you feel like she really likes you?”

            Bartholomew winced at this question and tossed his weeds onto a pile.  “I think so.  She says so.”

            “A lot of people say a lot of things, Bartholomew.  Do you feel like she really cares about you?”

            “I think so.  I don't know. Sometimes I feel like she is trying to teach me something instead of being there with me.  Like she thinks someone else is supposed to be my lover.  She's just filling in until then.”

            “Ouch,” said Claire.

            “What do you mean?” asked Bartholomew.

            “Is that what you're feeling or what you think she's feeling?”

            Bartholomew thought for a moment.  “It's what I think she is thinking,... I think.”

            “Well, then, Ouch,” said Claire.

            “Yeah, ouch,” agreed Bartholomew.

            Claire bent down and picked a few weeds.  “So, what you gonna do?”

            Bartholomew stared off at the poplar trees, their leaves were dead still on this hot stifling day.  He wiped sweat from his brow and noticed a beetle scabbering across the soil.  “I don't know, what should I do?” he said looking to Claire.

            “Dump her,” said Claire without hesitation.

            “Really? Just dump her?”

            “Yes, dump her.  Or, well, end it.  If she's not really interested in you for herself, then why would you want to be with her?  Look, I don't know why Ned let me stay at his place so long.  Actually, I do know...it was the sex.  But we weren't good for each other.  If you're not good for each other, then don't be together.  Just end it and start finding someone else.”

            Bartholomew thought for a while.  Claire went back to weeding.  Eventually, Bartholomew's body moved to the green pepper plants and removed the unwanted quack grass and dandelions, but his mind stayed in the same place for the rest of the morning.  They finally took a water break and as they sat on the stumps in the garden, Bartholomew asked, “So, I don't have to try to make things work with The Nanny?”

            “Nope.  Not if it's not going to work.”

            “I don't have to...”

            “Bartholomew!” said Claire.  “Do you two have a verbal or written commitment to each other?”

            “No,” said Bartholomew as if following an order.

            “Is she pregnant?”

            “God, no!”

            “She's acting like she's not supposed to be your lover, right?”

            “Right,” answered Bartholomew.

            “You are frustrated in the relationship?”

            “Yes, I am,” said Bartholomew.

            “Then stop seeing her and move on,” Claire commanded, her eyes boring into Bartholomew's.

            His eyes, giving in to hers, bowed to the ground.  “You're right.  I should end it.  Wow!  That feels good to say out loud,” declared Bartholomew with a grin on his face.

            “Bartholomew, you are the one who gets to determine where your life is going.  You get to decide if you are enjoying it.  If you are not, you can change it. That's one thing I did learned from my spoken word classes,” said Claire.

                                                *          *          *          *

            Aunt Jospehine and Uncle Jeffrey stopped by the garden one morning with a trailer full of mulch.  Bartholomew was in the garden weeding and harvesting vegetables.

            “You gotta see this tomato – it's HUGE!” said Barthholomew holding up a red lumpy hand. 

            “Wow,” said Uncle Jeffrey.

            “That is quite large,” responded Aunt Josephine.

            “So, is this Wednesday night going to be our first harvest dinner?” asked Uncle Jeffrey.

            “Absolutely,” crowed Bartholomew.  “You guys coming?”

            “We wouldn't miss it,” they responded in unison.

            Bartholomew went back to harvesting vegetables, carefully placing them in a fabric bag.  Uncle Jeffrey picked a snap pea off a plant and started to eat.  Aunt Josephine followed his lead and laughed as she bit into the crisp green shell.  They let Bartholomew harvest the vegetables – enjoy the fruits of his labor and his idea.   Aunt Josephine and Uncle Jeffrey emptied the mulch into a pile just off the curb.  Aunt Josephine had brought some of her special punch and invited Bartholomew to take a break. She poured out the punch into plastic cups, handed one to each of the men in her life and said, “Here's to Bartholomew and his garden.”  They raised their cups and clinked them together.  “Here, here,” said Uncle Jeffrey.

            Bartholomew downed his punch and held out his cup for more.  Aunt Josephine gladly obliged him with another cup full.

            “Seriously, Bartholomew,” said Aunt Josephine,  “you have done a great thing by making this garden.  Both Uncle Jeffrey and I have gotten to know your friends better and Mr. McBardon.  And... we just notice how happy you are.  It makes us very happy to see you this way, Bartholomew.  It has been a long time and I know that your parent's would be very proud of you.”  Aunt Josephine moved forward and hugged Bartholomew.

            “Yes,” added Uncle Jeffrey, “and you have provided us all with such a delicious outcome.  You really do have a green thumb.”

            Bartholomew blushed.

            “C'mon,” said Aunt Josephine, “let's go make some gespachio out of that huge tomato,” as she put her arm around Bartholomew's shoulders and guided him toward his house.  Uncle Jeffrey quickly ran over to Mr.McBardon's house to turn on the hose and water the garden while they cooked.  The sound of water squirted through the hose until it shot out of the sprinkler in a big arc moving slowly across the garden.  Uncle Jeffrey almost caught up with them when they heard a scream.

            “Agggh!” yelled Mr. McBardon who suddenly sprung up from behind his hedge.  The sprinkler pelted him with water as he jumped through the hedge and hobbled as quickly as he could to his house.  All the while making duck-like noises and running his hands through his wet hair: “mah, mah, mah, mah...”  He disappeared into his door.  Uncle Jeffrey and Bartholomew laughed.  Aunt Josephine looked at them sternly, but then she couldn't help herself and they all laughed as they went to Bartholomew's little house to make some soup.

___________________________________________________________

Bartholomew in the Garden is the 30th story in The Book of Bartholomew. The story is written and illustrated by Mark Granlund.

Bartholomew spends some time in the garden on different days with different people doing different activities and talking about different things. 

#27 Topping Paints a Peugeot

            Topping liked the smell of his Uncle Cy's car painting shop.  It was an old building where one's nose is smothered with an old musty smell of crumbling mortar and the modern chemical smell of sprayed paint.  He knew of no other place that seemed so clean and at the same time so grungy. 

            Topping had already washed Bartholomew's 1974 Peugeot and removed any wax or grease from its surface.  He was about to scuff the pink and white paint so the old paint could receive the new.  Once he started this step, there was no turning back, he would have to paint Bartholomew's car no matter what.   Topping's hand shook a little, as he placed the scuffing pad on the surface.  He took a deep breath.  He waited.  Did he really know what he was doing?  This job was far beyond anything he had done up to this point.  What if he failed?  He could always paint it white with a pink stripe again, he knew he could do that much, at least.  Topping's hand started to move, ruining the smooth slick finish.  The die was cast.  

            It took a while to properly scuff every corner and nook on the car.  When he was done he took another deep breath.  He felt like he hadn't breathed during the whole process.  He wiped the car down again and then tacked it clean.  Topping was becoming intimately familiar with the surface of the Peugeot.  He noticed a few small dents he had never noticed before.  The key holes had small shallow scratches around them and on the chrome.  The corner of one door was ever so slightly bent, leaving a crack in the old paint surface.   As he scuffed, it became obvious where the sealcoat had worn away, leaving a slight dulling that was erased as his pad circled over it again and again.  His fingertips could feel the bleached out paint, the surfaces made ragged from excessive heat.  His body was melding over the rocker panels and the sidewalls.  The Peugeot was slowly but surely being absorbed into Topping’s very being.  Soon they would begin to communicate-- the car whispering to the young man what he had missed, where he had not scuffed enough, where to place the seems of the masks, and eventually, most importantly of all, how it wanted to be painted.  Topping knew the final product was not up to Bartholomew.  It was not even up to Topping.  The car was in charge.  It was only up to Topping to listen or ignore – and he didn't know how to ignore.

            After a little more work on the dents and dings, Topping taped all of the chrome and trim.  He then covered the windshield, windows, grill and lights with paper and taped the edges down.  He was ready to apply the base color of the car.  He loaded his spray gun with the green paint and began the mechanical and rhythmic back and forth spraying motion.   

            He came home well after midnight, had some leftovers from the refrigerator and headed to bed.  Charlotte did not wake.  Topping's sleep was fitful as images of the design waged war in his head.  He was up for good before the alarm went off.  He got out of bed, had a quick breakfast and headed back to the shop. 

            Topping arrived just as Uncle Cy was turning on the lights.  Uncle Cy spent some time looking over Topping’s paint job.  He nodded his head in approval.  This gave Topping a little extra spring in his step for the rest of the morning.  He went to a table at the back of the shop, grabbed some masking paper, pulled off part of the backing and headed to the hood of the Peugeot.  He carefully secured the first sheet onto the car.  There could be no wrinkles.  His hands could feel the sheet adhere to the surface below it, inch by inch, centimeter by centimeter.  Not a wrinkle.  If he sensed a possible wrinkle starting, he would pull the paper back slightly, caress it to the surface and seduce it into place.  The paper had no chance to object, it wouldn't dare.  This dance went on for a long time.  Upon loving the last sheet into place, Topping stepped back and realized he was sweating, exhausted and hungry.  He could now leave the Peugeot in this state until the next step: drawing the design right onto the car.

            He went home for lunch and to take a nap.  He woke up about the time Charlotte got home from work.  

Charlotte by Justin Terlecki

            “Where were you last night?” Charlotte asked, obviously a little mad.

            “I was at the shop, working on the Peug..., on Bartholomew's car.”

            “It would have been nice to get a call or something.”

            “I'm sorry, I was just into it and didn't notice the time passing,” apologized Topping.

            “I don't like it when the only clue I had that you were even here last night was your cereal bowl in the sink,” said Charlotte as she hung up her coat.

            “I'm sorry, I just had the car on my mind and I wanted to get right back at it this morning,” Topping said as he moved to the kitchen to get something to eat.

            “Are you making supper?”

            Topping, not having even thought about what he was doing, stammered,, “Uh...uh...”

             “Oh never mind,” Charlotte groaned.

            Topping pulled out some leftovers, enough for him and Charlotte, and threw them in the microwave.  He grabbed a couple of glasses, some leftover salad and placed it all on the table.  The microwave beeped.  “I have some food ready, if you want,” yelled Bartholomew Topping back to Charlotte who had retreated to the bedroom.  No response.

            Topping sat down at the card table and started to eat.  He was almost done when Charlotte arrived.  She sat down roughly in her folding chair and then picked at the now-cold food.  They ate in silence.  Topping finished his food, took his plate and bowl to the dishwasher and then served himself some ice cream.  “Want some?” he asked.  No response.  Topping sighed.

            After they were done eating, Charlotte asked, “Are you going back tonight?”

            “I was thinking of it,” he said.  No response.

            “Look, I'm really worried about this job.  It's the biggest one I've ever done and I'm changing the design on the fly...”

            “You're changing the design?!  You spent two months working on that design!  And now you're changing it?  Does Bartholomew even know?  Never mind Bartholomew, you spent how many nights working on that design instead of hanging out with me, and now you're changing it?  Boy, that makes me feel good!”

            “No,...I...Agghhh!” said Topping.  “I'm just trying to do a good job!  It could lead to more work. I want Bartholomew to be happy....”

            “Fine, make Bartholomew happy.  In the meantime you're making me unhappy.”  Charlotte stood up and went to the bedroom.

            Topping put on his shoes and got ready to go to the shop.  But then he thought maybe he should stay home and do something with Charlotte.  He certainly didn't feel like doing that now.  Topping sat perplexed.  In the end, he knew he wanted to be working on the car, so he left and went to the shop.  He was hoping Uncle Cy would still be there so he could talk with him about Charlotte, but he was already gone.

            Topping went to the Peugeot and ran his hand over the masked surface.  It felt good to him.  The next step was to draw the design on it.  Now he wasn't feeling like doing that either.  Topping sat down perplexed.  But he figured he was already at the shop, so he might as well get some work done.  He found a pencil on the table and held it between his fingers.  It felt right.  He walked to his partner, the Peugeot, and began to discuss with his eyes how to start drawing the design.   When the time was right, and no sooner, he placed the graphite on the paper and drew a large arc.  It was wrong.  He started again.  This was better, but still wrong.  He drew a third time, this one felt right.  He continued.  He worked for several hours getting every line in just the right place.  If he felt inside himself that a line was not right, he would do it again and again until there was peace inside him. 

            Topping stepped back to assess his work.  Faint lines played over the surface of the Peugeot.  His design felt happy.  That made Topping happy.  He went to the table and picked up his cell phone and called Charlotte.  “Hi Honey.  Yeah, I'm coming home now.  No.  I just wanted to let you know.  Okay, I'll see you soon.”  Before turning out the lights and going home, Topping took one more look at his work.  It felt good.

            The next morning, Topping walked into the stall where he was painting the Peugeot to find a big note stuck on the car.  “What the hell are you doing?  Uncle Cy.”  Topping laughed.  He was sure Uncle Cy must think he is crazy.  It certainly was not your typical flame job he was painting.  It is definitely the first one of its kind in this shop.

            Topping grabbed an Xacto knife and headed to the car.  He sobered himself up by breathing deeply.  When he exhaled he bent over the hood to begin the next step.  After having drawn the design on the masking paper, Topping now had to cut away the areas of the mask that he didn't need.  This meant cutting through the paper and not into the painted surface below.  It takes concentration.  If Topping were to cut the painted surface it would show, even after he painted it.  The tip of the blade pierced the paper.  Toppings fingers could feel the blade tap the surface below.  He stopped and then slowly but firmly pulled the blade through the surface of the paper toward himself.  He had to cut all the way to the next line without stopping.  Sure and consistent, Topping carved away the first shape of paper.  He tugged at its edges and pulled the paper, like taffy, up and away from the car.  The first piece of masking was removed.  Now Topping had to do this many times over, always making sure that he was only cutting through the layer of paper.  Several hours later he was done with the first stage of removing the mask.  Next he had to paint where he had cut away, but Topping felt exhausted from concentrating so hard.  He thought that he had not cut into the car's surface at all.  Time would tell.  Topping grabbed a ginger ale out of a small refrigerator, took a swig and then put his feet up to rest.  He couldn't remember the last time he had concentrated that hard for that long.  He decided to have lunch.

            It’s hard to imagine that using a roller to paint a car is a good idea, but that is what Topping had to do next.  He very carefully used a small paint roller to leave an ultra thin layer of bright red paint in the areas where he had removed the masking material.  If the paint felt too thick he would wipe it off and start again. He would keep correcting it until it felt right.  After finishing that layer of paint, he went back to cutting away some of the mask.  Once enough mask was gone he added another layer of paint.  Topping stopped and called Charlotte to tell her he would soon be home.  Charlotte was a bit cold toward him.  He didn't care.  Topping was so exhausted he just wanted to go home and sleep.  Which he did, even though Charlotte wanted to stay up together and watch a movie.

            The next morning Uncle Cy walked into the stall while Topping was removing more mask. 

           

            “Is this really the design you wanted? I thought I saw something quite different before,” asked Uncle Cy.

            “Yeah, well, I'm kinda winging the design a little.  I just felt like he needed a little more than just flames...and the car wants more,” Topping said a little sheepishly.

            Uncle Cy shook his head and smiled.  He was not questioning Topping’s sanity, he recognized an addiction he was all too familiar with.  Uncle Cy reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a blade.  “Where do you want me to start?”

            Topping smiled and directed Uncle Cy as to what needed to be cut away and what needed to stay.  Uncle Cy pulled a pencil from behind his ear and marked an “x” on all the pieces that needed to be removed and began to carefully cut away the mask.  Both of them worked the morning together and then Uncle Cy took Topping to a sandwich shop and bought him lunch.  At about four o'clock, Topping finished up for the day.  He felt right.  Somehow, he felt a couple years older.

            Topping went home and started cooking dinner for Charlotte – pancakes with sausage and eggs.  It was about all he knew how to cook.  He set the table.  He even set napkins at the table.  He wanted to impress Charlotte.  When Charlotte arrived home she was surprised and touched by Topping’s thoughfulness.  After dinner, they made love and fell to sleep in each other's arms.  Topping knew, no matter how old he got, life didn't get any better than this. 

            The next day, Friday, Topping was painting on his own as Uncle Cy had other jobs to do.  The day was as slow as a slug.  It seemed to take Topping forever to do each step.  By lunch it was as if it should have been dinner time.  After lunch, Topping worked steadily but still felt like he wasn't making any headway.  He lost track of time and when he reached a break point it was almost nine o'clock at night.  “Oh shit,” he said as he finally thought of Charlotte.  She didn't answer the phone.  Topping wrapped up as quickly as he could but he was going to take the weekend off and needed to do some extra cleaning.  He didn't get home until ten.  Charlotte was not home.

               Around midnight Charlotte woke Topping as she climbed into bed.  “Hi,” he said.  Charlotte said nothing and went to sleep.  The rest of the weekend was about the same, a little chilly, not much fun and not what either of them wanted.

            The next week, Topping painted the car every day.  He called Charlotte each afternoon and tried to be home early – mostly he was.  The last couple of days he had to do some small detail work with an airbrush then sealcoat it.  Come Saturday morning, the morning they were going to plant the garden, Topping had to wax and buff the car.  It wasn't much to do, but he was going to be late to the garden.  He had told Bartholomew that he would help him build the garden and he felt that he should be there from the start.  But he had also promised Bartholomew his car.  So Topping decided to finish the car and be late for the gardening.

            Around ten in the morning, Topping finished.  He stepped back to take it in.  It was beautiful.     Every detail felt right.  Standing there, Topping sensed how intimate he had become with this car.  He was aware of every inch of its surface, every dimple, every dent.  He knew the trim as well as he knew the back of his hand.  The partnership between them was keen on his senses.  His fingertips could still feel her.  Her smell was familiar.  Her sight now pulsed with an energy that radiated from her into Topping and then through his hands back onto her skin.  She was transformed into a more true state of herself, a car that would be truly pleasing to Bartholomew. (unclear here)  

            Topping quickly cleaned her interior and opened the garage door.  He lovingly inserted the key into her and turned her on.  She purred.  She felt right.  He pulled out of the garage and drove to the garden.  His window rolled down, the sun shining through the trees and the radio on, Topping knew life didn't get any better than this.

____________________________________________________________

Topping Paints a Peugeot is the 27th story in The Book of Bartholomew. The story is written by Mark Granlund and illustrated by Todd Balthazor.

Topping finally gets to paint Bartholomew’s 1974 Peugeot at Uncle Cy’s shop.  Charlotte worries Topping has fallen in love with the car and he’s changed the design without telling Bartholomew.  Will anyone be happy?