“That’s just our town retard, don’t mind him, he’s harmless,” Sam Cleary commented offhandedly. “Every town’s got one weirdo, right?” he let the steering wheel spin in his fingers. His passenger followed the willowy figure, turning his head around as Sam navigated a corner. “Over here’s one of our parks, the original one, and this beautiful structure before you is old St. Rose, which sits unused since they built a new one on the edge of town,” Sam’s tour continued as he ignored Arun Namarari’s inquiry. “Ah, here it is, Mr. Namarari, the Old Mill Culture Center,” he nodded and pulled into a parking space. The two exited Sam’s Lexus and stood under the shade of a magnificent elm, its trunk spreading wide, its varied limbs twisting and stretching in all directions creating a canopy of shade unrivaled.
“This tree!” Mr. Namarari gushed, “It’s a work of art!”
“Yes, the Old Mill Tree, almost as famous as the mill itself. Nearly 200 years old, I’m told. And here,” he raised his arms like a game show model, “is the mill, built in 1843. Operated until 1924, then shut down and abandoned until just six years ago.”
“That’s when the anonymous donor stepped in, I’m guessing,” Mr. Namarari interrupted.
“Yep, fourteen-million-dollar behest with the oddest conditions,” Sam spoke with the authority conferred upon the mayor of a town about to break through. “The mill must remain a center for the arts, especially painting. The board must include at least one local schoolteacher, and the gift specified that Ms. Phillipa Nightly or her designated successor must be the director.”
“And a Mr.-” Namarari fumbled through a stave of papers, “I’ve got it here somewhere,” he located the page and stabbed it with his confident brown finger,” Mr. Easton of People’s Bank and Trust oversees all of this.”
“Correct,” Sam agreed.
“And who is Ms. Nightly?”
“That’s where the weirdness comes in. She’s a very nice, kooky woman who taught art at Mill Cross High School for forty years. Kind of a hippy. Long, wild hair, flowing dresses, giant pink glasses. Never married, no children, no family here. Keeps to herself. But after she retired, she just stayed on in her little cottage downstream,” he pointed beyond the giant mill and its historic red structure hanging over the compact cliffs of the Shawnee River. The building rose five stories and pure white water cascaded down the cliffs below it with a mild, pleasant roar that complemented the bucolic scene. “No one knows why she was so named.”
“So, this available land is…”
“On the other side of the mill. We can walk around and see it now. I think it’s the perfect spot for you to build your hotel. Folks can simply walk over to the mill, the shops, and Water Street where Fiddler’s restaurant and the historical society are located.”
“I do confess a soft spot for culture. I believe many of life’s truths live in great art,” Namarari declared.
As the two trudged across the front of the mill, Mr. Namarari noticed the strange man Sam had earlier and insensitively termed “retarded” sitting on a park bench in Mill Cross Park. “There’s that man again,” he nodded. “There’s something fascinating about him, something I can’t quite put my finger on. What’s his story?”
“Oh, pay him no mind, really. He’s lived here his whole life. Something went wrong when he was born. He’s not right in the head, you know. No fingers on his left hand, no skills, no job. I guess he lives off his mom’s government checks. She died a few years ago.”
“If he’s special needs, why isn’t he being cared for in an institution or by family?” Namarari tried not to stare across the street, but he sensed something captivating in this hapless person. “What’s his name?”
“I don’t really know how he manages on his own. Everyone calls him Kenny, but he prefers to be called Kenneth. Funny, he can’t even pronounce his own name. Calls himself Kennef.”
“And you say he’s harmless?”
“I think so. There’s been some reports about him staring at kids on the school playground and at the pool, you know, kind of lurking. I suppose some people are creeped out by how he just walks around town all the time. How strangely he acts. Not much eye contact. Can’t drive a car and can’t balance on a bicycle. Always smiles though.”
Suddenly Kenny noticed Sam and the stranger across the street and waved enthusiastically as if they were long lost relatives come to take him home from summer camp.
Mr. Namarari cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “You don’t think he’s a…?”
“No, I don’t believe so. Some police reports over the years. People sayin’ he was peeping in their windows or following their kids, but nothing ever comes of it.”
In fact, Sam remembered the local police files were chock full of Kenny Events, which was the name of an actual file on the chief’s computer. Someone had accused Kenny of killing their dachshund. Another once found Kenny sitting in their flower garden. When they approached him, he mumbled something about “Give her a knee”. Last summer some schoolgirls claimed he chased them to the Flavor Shack ice cream shop although the owner later confessed that Kenny had prepaid for ice cream cones and simply wanted to treat them. He had been blamed for power outages, strange noises on the Shawnee Trails, and stolen packages from front porches.
But Sam also knew there was another Kenny. Summer Bledsoe helped him count out the correct change at Hawkins’ Market every Friday and claimed his eyes were soulful. Nancy Simmons bragged about how he raked her leaves, shoveled her walkway, and carried her garbage and recyclables to the curb every week, adjusting beautifully for his lack of digits. Mercy Roberts, in the depths of her despair after her boyfriend Aiden died from an overdose of Fentanyl, told her mother Kenny’s smile and wave as she drove past him on Dearborn Avenue every day was sometimes the only reason she didn’t accelerate into the Shawnee River and end it all. Sometimes Kenny found cookies or brownies at his apartment doorstep, sometimes cards and notes of encouragement, and once, a hand-knit sweater. Other times he found threatening notes taped to his apartment door. People often crossed the street to avoid him and warned their children to give him wide berth as he rambled about town. Locals wondered endlessly about who he could be talking to on his mobile phone as he marched around the village, wildly gesticulating, sometimes gleeful, sometimes serious. They puzzled over his frequent trips to People’s Bank and Trust; his deposits teller Andrea Cummings could not discuss. And what about all those large packages that came to and departed from his apartment? But they were most enthralled by his visits to the Old Mill Culture Center, where he often stood like a statue before the works on display, his right index finger on his chin, totally absorbed by what he saw. Sometimes his trance was broken by tears that crept like gentle rain down his face. Patrons occasionally complained about his odor or the potato chips that trailed out of his pockets. Sure, he smudged the walls with his sticky fingertips, and, yes, he sometimes cut in front of other patrons so he could see a piece up close, always too close, his eyes bulging behind his thick black glasses. Perhaps Phillipa Nightly couldn’t bring herself to caution him, admonish him, banish him. She had known Kenny for so long and secretly fretted for him every day. Maybe, instead of two, there were many Kenny’s. Either way, no one truly knew him.
“I said, is the town council with us?” Mr. Namarari repeated, snapping Sam from his revelry.
“Oh, yes. Sorry. Too many things on my mind. Yes, they are anxious to seal the deal and break ground. We have big plans. Exhibitions of today’s best artists, retrospectives of major works, workshops, demonstrations, classes. We want the art world to come here, stay here, put us on the map.”
“This is a delightful little town. I must confess. I’ll have a formal proposal to you in a month,” Namarari assured Sam but continued to gaze into the park at this solitary man, this enigmatic figure who seemed to be drawing in the air with his right index finger, his arm swooping and swooshing under another splendid elm tree.
“I’m sorry, but would you introduce me to Kenny?” Namarari asked.
“Seriously?” Sam queried. “Alright, if you insist, but he rarely makes any sense.”
The two men galloped across the street, dodging an Amazon truck and a yellow Corvette with the top down, a bald middle-aged man grimacing in the sun from behind his Ray Bans.
“Hey, Kenny, how are you?” Sam greeted the slight man in painter’s pants and a gray tee shirt that looked vintage but not in a fashionable way.
“Dappling sunspots,” Kenny uttered.
“What’s that?” Sam seemed irritated but nonplused.
“Sunspots, dancing,” Kenny seemed to be in a secret conversation.
“This is Mr. Namarari. He wants to build a hotel here so more people can come to the Culture Center. That’s if we can prove we can attract enough people. How about that?” Sam smiled like a parent coaxing a reluctant child to eat broccoli.
“Good to meet you, Kenneth,” Namarari offered his hand and, dubiously, Kenny shook it.
“Culture Center?” Kenny asked, his eyes fighting the sun as it filtered through the August leaves. “I like the Culture Center,” he smiled. “Momma’s idea.”
“Excuse me?” Namarari quizzed.
“Momma’s idea. Share with the world,” Kenny spoke enigmatically.
“Now, Kenny,” Sam grew flustered. “We’ve talked about this. Your Momma is gone. But she looks down on you from heaven. Remember what Father Timmerman said?”
“What was your Momma’s idea, Kenneth? I’d love to know,” Namarari importuned Kenny, who stared at the ground then moved his head back and forth as if denying an accusation. “They wouldn’t understand,” the words slipped out like lethal gas, and he clenched to stop himself.
“Understand what? You can tell me,” Namarari implored Kenny.
Kenny straightened his back and pressed his lips together, his jaw set. Sam stood before him flummoxed, Namarari with anticipation of he didn’t know what, but he believed a significant moment was imminent, looming. Then, having made a decision fraught with anxiety, Kenny rose and whispered, “This way.”
Kenny trotted through the park, the other men following close behind, the land developer in his custom suit and Italian silk tie, his Ferragamo’s digging at his heels, and the mayor in khakis and a polo, his stomach flopped over and jiggling. They moved down Water Street and turned onto Dearborn Avenue, drenched in the midday heat, their shirts glued to their backs. Kenny approached a three-story structure with dirty white siding and assorted bushes growing like Picasso subjects all along the front. He approached a sun-faded gnome in the mulch and lifted it to reveal a key. “Unit 1A,” Kenny held up the key proudly and the three crowded into the dingy vestibule. Kenny unlocked the door on his immediate left and opened it, and his audience followed him inside.
Before them everywhere, on every inch of pale wall, sitting on easels, lined up against furniture, sometimes in stacks of three or four, they drank in Kenny’s paintings, a panoply of bold, striking color, slashes of paint, fastidious strokes, smooth touches, images of real life reimagined, redefined, reinvented. Gardens, fields, weathered buildings, bridges, children at play, women and men at work, at leisure, the Old Mill Tree, St. Rose, and the park all radiated around the room. The visitors moved in circles like explorers who had discovered a new land, incredulous. Sam’s mouth may have fallen open. He might have gasped. Mr. Namarari slid around the room reaching out, almost touching these rare artifacts, these excavated treasures.
“My work,” Kenny gestured, sweeping his arms open with love.
Namarari then fixated on one painting and grasped it in his hands. “Kenneth, I’ve seen something like this before, haven’t I?”
“Series of the Old Mill,” he replied, “just like haystacks.”
“Yes, yes, like Monet. I saw one in the National Gallery of Modern Art in New Delhi, didn’t I Kenneth? And another at the Modern in Paris?”
“I guess,” Kenny demurred.
“You’re K.P. Rampling, aren’t you? You are very famous indeed,” Namarari grew flummoxed and a bit breathless. He moved to the kitchen which overlooked an enclosed patio and a small garden overhung by a pergola ladened with clematis where he spotted an easel and a table covered with paints and brushes, paints and brushes also populating the kitchen sink and counter, paint tubes, drop cloths, more brushes scattered about, color splashed everywhere. On the table he spied envelopes and package piles and checks for thousands of dollars paid to Kenneth Paul Rampling.
“What’s happening?” Sam stood dumbfounded, “What does this mean?”
“Mr. Rampling here is a rockstar in the art world. He’s a mysterious genius whose paintings sell for $20,000, $50,000 or more a pop, sometimes millions. Every museum in the world longs for his work. No one knows anything about him,” Namarari explained, looking to Kenny for confirmation, but he simply shrugged.
They stood in awkward silence for a moment. Then the developer explicated. “This was all your mother’s doing, wasn’t it? To protect you. To save you from the world after she died.” Kenny hung his head as if ashamed. “She found you an agent and arranged everything. She used the profits from your work to set up investments and a trust. Who helped her, Kenny? She must have had help from someone who knew about art.”
Namarari pondered. “The Culture Center director, of course.”
“Phillipa Nightly?’” Sam questioned.
“It fits. She was Kenneth’s, Mr. Rampling’s, art teacher. She saw his potential, his gift. The two women planned it together. They set up a life for him in perpetuity. It all makes sense.” Namarari smiled in self-congratulations. He glanced again all around him at brilliant painting after brilliant painting, at the shelves lined with books about DaVinci, Goya, and Van Dyke. Michelangelo, Velasquez, Renoir, and Rembrandt, Cezanne, and Van Gogh were all there, imbuing the space with their spirits, watching over him, guiding him to mastery. Namarari could feel their ghosts as he studied the canvases, the foils of paint, the turpentine, the drawings and false starts, the squiggles and master strokes.
Sam began to glow with the excitement of this fortuitous discovery. The possibilities for the Culture Center, for the town, were limitless.
“Kenny, why didn’t you tell anyone about this, about your gift? This will change your whole life, buddy.”
“No, it won’t. The deal’s off,” Namarari blurted out. “It would be cruel to do that to him. I can’t let the world subsume him. And it would. We do that to great artists. We celebrate them, then try to own them. We objectify them, exploit them, and ruin them. I’ll play no part in that.” They all stood in pregnant silence until Namarari finished his declaration, “And if you have a conscience, Mayor Cleary, you won’t either.” He turned to exit the apartment but looked over his shoulder and cooed, “It was a pleasure to meet the real you, K.P. Rampling,” and strode away.
