In Agreement
BY K.A. POLZIN
No one knew why, several years ago, restoration stopped at the Cavendish estate. We thought maybe they’d run out of money. Why else would they halt the work when it was so close to completion? Regardless, there it had sat, going to seed, with the unused building supplies left out in the weather.
And no one could explain it when, one day, papier-mâché animals began appearing, first along the oval driveway, then upon the once-manicured lawns, which had grown weedy, and brown in patches. It seemed like we would find new animals – a giraffe, or a horse, or two raccoons – each time we drove past, coming home from work or heading into town to shop.
When, not long after, the old arch-top front door was painted yellow with purple polka dots, we were all mystified. Soon, an outside wall was purple and polka-dotted as well. Perhaps it was squatters, someone said, art school dropouts.
Then one of us spotted him: an old man in coveralls, adding polka dots to a gable. He seemed spry for his age, hanging off a ladder while dipping his brush into a can of purple paint.
“Hallo!” they called to him, but he didn’t seem to hear.
He was living there, it seemed. Someone, at long last, had bought the place. But what were his intentions? We wondered if we should say or do something. But what? After all, it wasn’t kids or druggies, just some elderly gentleman with, we assumed, nothing better to do.
Meanwhile, more polka dots appeared. Then strings of yellow lights from the manor to the surrounding oak trees. We had to admit, driving by, that it looked festive at night, as if there were a party going on. But except for the old man, no one was ever spotted on the property. We were certainly never invited there.
Some of us began taking a longer route home just to check on his progress, if it was progress. Within a few weeks, the painting was complete, the estate now looking like a whimsical playground or, some said, a funhouse. Either way, inappropriate, we thought, given its grand history.
There was a zoo’s worth of animals now – polka-dotted, striped, and Day-Glo-ed. When someone made an official complaint, we all tsk-ed, though we were secretly relieved that action had been taken. But we were surprised by the reply that came from City Hall: Ugliness is not a public nuisance. Neighbors who paint their houses in distasteful colors or display unusual yard ornaments are not public nuisance violators.
I suppose we’d hoped the city would do something, anything. We didn’t like the feeling the whole affair gave us: that we weren’t in control, that anyone could do anything. We felt, at the very least, that the old man should explain himself – what he was up to and why.
When, one night, someone – kids, we assumed – took a bat to the papier-mâché animals, leaving pieces of torsos, and loose legs and heads, strewn about the lawn, we all said it was a shame, but privately, we felt it made a kind of sense. The old man had shut us out, hadn’t sought our counsel, we weren’t invested, as they say today. It was only natural that there’d be resentment.
Within a few days, new animals began to appear in the driveway and on the lawns, replacing the damaged ones. The old man, it seemed, was going to carry on as before, and without any explanation. We were disappointed, but not surprised.
He also seemed unfazed after someone tossed a bucket of paint onto an outside wall of the Cavendish. It resembled the old color, the color of the Cavendish as we remembered it. Someone was sending a message. But, as before, the old man painted and polka-dotted over it, put things his way again.
In the stores and restaurants, in our homes and workplaces, we talked about the old man. As much as he frustrated us, we had to admire him, his perseverance. But enough was enough, we said. We can’t go on like this.
In the end, yes, someone went too far. We all thought so. A fire was excessive. What was needed was a scalpel, not a sledgehammer. It was sad to drive by and see the damage. And the old man’s death, we agreed, was unfortunate. Everything could’ve been different.
But I’d be lying if I said anyone missed him. Well, perhaps his family, if he had any, though nobody came to claim the body, such as it was.
As for us, we organized a Clean-up Day at the Cavendish, where we hauled away the charred furniture and spruced up the grounds, made them better than they’d looked in years. We asked the city to repair the roof and give the old place a coat of paint, get it looking the way it was before all this started. The way it should always be.
Now we drive by and feel a sense of pride, of community spirit. Each of us thinks, We did that. It feels good when people work together with a common goal and really accomplish something. Everyone agrees on that.
