Chapter Thirty-Two

Johanna

January 1892, Amsterdam, Netherlands

“Was my papa a bad man?” Wil asked, the two of us alone in the otherwise empty train compartment.

I was so mired in nerves, I didn’t immediately answer. I was distracted by worries over Vincent’s first official show, our destination. Dear God, let him be well received.

“Mama!”

My breath hitched at the pinched look on Wil’s little face. “No, my sweet. Your papa was a great man.”

“Did somebody take him?”

“No, my sweet. He fell ill and died. He is in heaven.”

“Like Mevrouw Ballot?”

My boarder Mevrouw Ballot had become sick at the beginning of winter. She had gone into the hospital after New Year’s and passed away. Wil and I missed her. We adopted all her cats.

“Yes.”

“Can we send them letters?”

My son had seen me write to so many people, I wondered if someday he would be saying, All I remember about my mother is that she was always writing letters. “Not to heaven, no. I am sorry.”

He looked out at the platform, where moments ago, the police had taken away a drunkard. He pondered my words so hard, his little forehead wrinkled.

“Why don’t you draw me something?” I handed him a piece of paper and a stubby pencil from my bag.

He cast one last hopeful glance at the platform for further entertainment, then began drawing squiggly shapes and other doodles, half the lines running off the paper.

“Your uncle Vincent loved to draw. And paint too.”

“Did Papa paint?”

“No, my love. Your papa sold paintings.”

“I sell my painting!” Wil beamed with pride, his brilliant blue eyes shining as he pushed the scribbles toward me.

“All right.” I reached into my bag for a biscuit. “I will pay you one of these.”

“I want two!”

He rarely did anything without bargaining, from going to bed at night to washing his face in the morning. Since the skill was much needed in life, I didn’t discourage him.

He tasted his biscuit, then immediately offered it back to me. “Mama too.”

“Thank you, darling.” I took a pretend bite, chewed, then kissed his head.

“Was Grandfather a painter?”

“Your father’s father was a preacher,” I told him as the train whistled. We were leaving at last. “He taught people about God.”

“I forgot. Sorry, Mama.”

“That’s all right.” Not the first time we’d had this conversation, and probably not the last.

Many of his little friends had family nearby, grandparents, aunts and uncles on the same street, or sometimes even in the same house. They had cousins over to play every day. Since Wil didn’t have that, I did the next best thing and made sure that at least he learned about his father’s people. My mother, during our visits, made certain Wil learned about mine.