Once at his grave, Vincent realized he had more fans now then he’d had when he was “alive.” He’d become a cult figure, a personality, even though no one knew him. All they knew was that he’d come out about his sexuality at a time when few musicians had, and fans celebrated his integrity, as well as his one and only hit song, although no one recognized him now. Vincent wore his black cap pulled down and kept his eyes lowered when anyone passed by. His admirers hadn’t vandalized his headstone, as Jim Morrison fanatics had, with graffitied messages and spilled bottles of alcohol. Instead, Vincent’s fans left candles that glowed in the gloaming, and white roses tied in bouquets with red ribbon; he beheld scores of love notes, more than he could count, some left out in the wind and the rain for weeks or months. People still fell in love with him, stirred by his words and his story, even though he’d been presumed dead for sixty years. His grave was a pilgrimage site for those who believed they’d been cursed in love and saw their own plight reflected in Vincent’s famed song. He collected the letters left on his empty tomb, which he read while sitting on a bench. Vincent wore reading glasses now, which galled him. He was old, but he remembered how young men’s blood burned when he read the notes from his grave. I am ruined by love, someone had scrawled in blood. I’m still trying even though I’m burned to ash, wrote another, quoting from the song Vincent produced when he was lovestruck and confused about his fate.
William’s name had been added beside his own on the gravestone, and Vincent’s fans had noticed the addition and had begun to bring flowers for William as well. Somehow it had gotten out that irises had been William’s favorite, and people often left stems of purple or yellow or ice-white blooms, named for the messenger of the gods who could travel freely back and forth to the underworld. When Iris wished to deliver a message, she could become a shape-shifter and take on the form of someone known to the mortal. Know me, accept me, hear what I have to tell you.
On this evening, Vincent wore the black overcoat given to him by William on the last Valentine’s Day they had spent together. They were romantics who believed in love. The coat was meant to replace one Vincent had worn as a younger man and he adored this new, cashmere version. He kept his hands in his pockets, for the truth was he had a tremor in his hands that gave away his age. By the end of the evening, he seemed to have acquired a dog, or rather, the dog had acquired him, following at a distance at first, then side by side when Vincent shortened his usual long strides so the dog could catch up. They were an unlikely duo. This dog was the opposite of Harry, the German shepherd dog of Vincent’s youth, a dignified creature who had lived out his last years on the porch of the Owens house on Magnolia Street after Vincent disappeared, leaving his post only to follow Franny’s husband as he attended to his rounds, the last physician in town to make house calls.
The stray dog was a comic mix involving a corgi and half a dozen other breeds, a clown who jumped up on gravestones during their walk in the cemetery. Vincent decided to call the stray Dodger, in praise of his ability to have clearly lived for so long on the streets of Paris without being run over. Soon enough, Dodger wouldn’t leave his side, and Vincent wondered if William had sent his new companion to him to make certain he wasn’t alone.
When Vincent returned to the house, he went to bed in the chilly, elegant guest room with Dodger beside him on the crisp linen sheets, snuffling and stretched out as if he’d always lived a privileged existence. It was in those early morning hours that Jet came to Vincent in a dream, so real and present she took his breath away. She was young and beautiful, with her choppy black hair and her black eyebrows shaped like wings, wearing jeans and a black sweater. Vincent and his sisters had been able to communicate without speech when they were young.
Dear boy, she said in his dream. It’s time. In her hands she held a map, one it was impossible for Vincent to read. It’s a treasure map, Jet told him just before he woke. When they find the lock, you have the key.
At breakfast the next morning, Agnes Durant had forsaken wearing one of her sleek black dresses, and simply appeared in a bathrobe. She’d come down early to tell Vincent about his sister’s death, having received a phone call from one of her cousins in New York. As it turned out, there was no need for her to inform Vincent of his loss. He already knew. He’d woken in tears from his dream, aware that his sister was gone. The world already seemed darker without her. Vincent wept black tears that morning, overwhelmed by Jet’s passing. Agnes merely bowed her head in sympathy, then poured them two cups of Courage Tea, which they both needed. When Vincent steadied himself, he told Agnes about his dream, how beautiful Jet had been, just as she’d been that first summer when they’d gone to visit their aunt Isabelle in Massachusetts and discovered who they were. What was the treasure he was meant to find? What was the key? Agnes poured more tea and considered.