The Thrushkeepers

By Wayne Wharton

Everyone in New York City knew the internationally renouwned artist.  Few, a very few knew the young female journalism student from Hofstra who was aboutg to interview him.  What was to be a short one-hour interview between Annie Swenson and LG Larkin would somehow unite the two in a six-month journay. Traveling the journey gave Annie the strength to revisit and confront a demon that had haunted her for over fourteen years.  LG too had carried a secret, his for over forty years.  His to keep or his to share with the world would rest in Annie's hands.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wayne Wharton
• Release date: Mar 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9798218356958

Book preview

Chapter One

The door opened, their contrasting worlds would merge with writer and artist navigating the same road. To heal hidden wounds from their past, both would need to rely on each other.

Weeks earlier, a long-distance call to the board of directors of the Larkin Foundation charged it with finding a writer to pen a story. The person chosen to tell the story would need to be not only qualified but also to have a personality that could easily establish rapport with everyone involved.

Rodger Cole, member of the Board, a Journalism Professor at Hofstra University, and the best friend of the foundation’s president recommended one of his graduate students, a young woman who had a degree in English from Northwestern and was his star pupil at Hofstra. The Board decided to have her interview LG Larkin, the president of the Larkin Foundation as a test of her suitability for the job.

Unaware of the true intent of the interview, the talented but slightly naïve young graduate student thought it to be part of a course requirement.

Biding her time as the man she was about to meet talked to a prospective art client in London, she sat nervously on the edge of an expensive leather couch, waiting for the interview.

Her eyes were drawn to the stately grandfather clock sitting in the far corner of the outer office. It wasn’t so much the beauty of the clock that caught her attention, it was the two big hands reminding her she was early for her scheduled appointment by about fifteen minutes or so. Handling and the occasional leafing through outdated magazines were of no help to make time go faster. However, it did somewhat relieve the mistake of arriving too soon for her 10:00 a.m. interview. Another peek, the old clock had only clicked its hands to 9:46 a.m.

As she waited for the next fourteen minutes of eternity to pass, over three hundred miles away a gentle old man sat on his balcony enjoying the rays of a new morning sun. He loved this time of day. Watching the dew rise on the mirror-like surface of a mountain lake gave him peace. In these parts, April and May mornings tended to be a little chilly. A hand-knitted afghan from one of the old man’s lady friends covered his legs as he sat eagerly awaiting breakfast.

At his advanced age, early eighties, and experiencing some medical problems, he spent most of his time in a wheelchair. With assistance from his attendant, Walter, he could stand and take a short walk every now and then. Although under doctor’s care and medical supervision, to his liking, he hadn’t yet been placed on any dietary restrictions. Even if he were, he had lived his entire life on his own terms, his own convictions, and come hell or high water, the ‘ole’ timer wasn’t about to change now just because a ‘wet behind the ears’ young doctor had told him to do so.

Taking full advantage of his approved list of acceptable foods, he began today with a hearty breakfast, some crisp well-done bacon, two eggs over easy, a side order of grits smothered in butter, and a piece of toast with homemade strawberry jam.

Not on the doctor’s approval list was the small shot of Jack Daniel’s that Walter added to his cup of black coffee every morning. Only the old man and his trusted attendant knew of the self-prescribed dietary supplement. After several years at the luxurious mountain nursing home, their supplementary dietary plan had remained both unchanged and confidential.

Walter, a young, part time graduate student, simply adored the old man. Almost a grandfather-grandson relationship had developed between the two. The respect and trust each had in the other had secured their little ‘Jack Daniel’ secret from the rest of the world.

How was your breakfast sir? the young man asked.

Pretty tasty if I must say so myself. Mighty fine cup of coffee this mornin’, Walter. Ya went and done yourself proud.

Thank you, Walter smiled. If you’re finished, I’ll take your tray.

One last little sip left, don’t want nothin goin’ to waste, now do we?

Guess not. Walter smiled.

Best it’s time you run my tray back downstairs. Before ya go, he pointed with a thin white walking stick, hand me my paper there, I’ll sit here and read for a bit ’til ya get back.

You behave yourself while I’m gone, hear me?

Well, Walter, he paused. What kinda trouble do you figure an eighty-four-year-old man sittin’ in a broken-down wheelchair can get into? He chuckled, shooing him away.

Yeah, I guess you are right. Anyways, what time are your Yankees playing today?

One o’clock sharp, Walter! Shaking his head in disbelief, he added. Playing those damn Red Sox again. They done went and beat our butts two straight games now. Ya best make sure to get me up after my mornin’ nap, don’t wanna be missin’ my game.

Yes sir, got it. I will get you up around noon. Is that right?

Right as rain, Walter. Ya know, young fella, if we don’t win today, I just might have to up and fire ya.

I am not worried. You can’t fire me. He offered a victory grin. You fire me, who’s going to fix your morning coffee? Both grinned.

Got yourself a point there, Walter. The old man gave him a confidential wink. Maybe I will keep you around a bit longer.

Walter gathered up the tray and napkins. The old man turned his wheelchair back toward the morning sun.

Back in New York the grandfather clock ticks seemed to be getting louder with every passing moment, tempting the young woman to take another look. Only another five minutes or so had passed.

Damn!  Why did I arrive so early? She scolded herself. Oh well, ‘better to be early than late’, her aunt had always told her. Nervous and in uncharted territory, she took a deep breath to relax, pushed back to a more comfortable position on the couch and gathered herself for her first career interview.

Being raised by her aunt in upstate New York had taught the young woman the value of time management. Even as far back as elementary school, she had always prided herself for being punctual, but somehow today, maybe a little too punctual.

All was now well; she had calmed herself. Besides, the brand-new outfit and shoes from Target, the trip to the hair salon, and the pep talk from her roommate, along with pursuing a master’s degree in journalism was more than enough to prove herself worthy of interviewing one of the richest and well-known men in America.

Time to stop thinking so much and remember what her journalism professor had taught her. Relax, keep calm, and most importantly, stay positive throughout the entire interview.

At 9:45 a.m. when she had arrived, the grandfather clock was her worst enemy. Now, 9:55 a.m., it slowly was becoming her best friend.

In anticipation of her appointment, her small frame scooched forward on the leather couch, the door opened and an attractive well-dressed woman, in her early fifties and most likely the office secretary, approached and introduced herself.

Hi, I’m Rosie, The attractive middle-aged woman extended her ha es, came the answer. Annie Swenson, I have a 10 o’clock meeting nd. You must be Annie?

Y with Mr. Larkin. Both women’s eyes drawn to the seven-foot handcrafted Amish grandfather clock in the corner.

Got here a little early, I’m afraid. The young woman pointed to her nemesis in the corner.

No worries... early bird gets the worm, came an easing reply.

Sensing a need for some added calmness, the older woman decided to remain for a moment.

Swenson? I’m guessing Norwegian, she offered an icebreaker.

Gee, what gave it away? Annie tossed her light blonde hair and pointed to her deep blue eyes.

Both smiled at the obvious, Rosie’s hand across her lips. Sorry, that was sort of dumb, wasn’t it?

They smiled again, the first of many to come.

Sorry, Rosie, I didn’t catch your last name.

How rude of me, she paused, thinking of something cute to match Annie’s request.

She pointed to her red hair and displayed a freckled face. I’ll make it easy for you... last name Fitzpatrick. Any guesses?

Ah, Irish, maybe? More smiles

Thinking back on her very own first interview many, many years earlier, the older woman said, don’t be nervous. Everything will be just fine. He’s quite the gentleman, promise.

Sensing it was probably a good time for a well-needed ‘break the ice’ talk, she patted the back of Annie’s hand, adding, Not to worry, LG’s the last person on earth with a big ego. Cute dress, Saks?

I wish... Target. It’s ‘Saks’ for young girls with no money.

Rosie smiled. How was traffic?

Not too bad today. About twenty minutes or so. The usual, I guess. Got to remember, it is New York. Could have been an hour. Never know in the Big Apple, do you?

Rosie had one of those smiles, infectious from start to finish. It was somewhat like a chalkboard eraser, after one or two swipes, it wiped out any fears that the young writer may have had.

He’s just finishing up on a phone call, shouldn’t be long.

This is the first time I have ever interviewed anyone as important as Mr. Larkin. Any suggestions?

Nope, just be yourself. Rosie paused. Oh, one other thing, make sure you don’t call him Mr. Larkin. Just call him LG, everyone does, remember, LG, ok?

Got it, what does LG stand for?

Don’t really know. Never came up. Something from his boyhood days, I think. He doesn’t talk about it much.

Any secret tips, Rosie?

Nay, her hand waving Annie’s fears away, he’s a real pussy cat. I’ve known him for quite a while, I don't recall him ever giving very many interviews. He’s probably just as nervous as you are. You are a lucky young lady. Talking with LG is like talking with a best friend.

Thanks, I think I needed that.

You’re very welcome, Annie. Nice meeting you, hope all goes well.

The little girl part of Annie couldn’t help but admire the woman’s wardrobe, probably Gucci.  She was sure of that. The writer part of Annie, always interested in detail, watched, and took mental notes of how the woman moved, noticing her makeup, the manicured nails, and the several small but eloquent pieces of jewelry, all exuding subtle hints of wealth. She wondered how the woman could afford such things on a secretary’s salary, probably a well-off family or perhaps a rich husband. Maybe over the years she had even worked her way up through the company to the top secretarial job.

In unison with the sound of the grandfather clock striking ten and the office door opening, any thoughts of failure faded.

You look great! You’ll be just fine. Rosie reassured her.

Being a young graduate student working on her master’s degree in journalism and preparing to interview one of the most noted and celebrated artists in America would be a daunting task, one that would require no mistakes. The hours of research and practices in front of her bedroom mirror were about to be tested.

She entered to see a tall, handsome man, probably early fifties or so, casually dressed in a pair of tan Dockers, a run-of-mill short sleeve summer shirt, and a pair of well-worn sandals. No big ego here, she thought. So far, so good.

The man looked nothing even close to the long pony-tailed, John Lennon bifocal and pierced ear artist she had anticipated. To be honest, he looked more like her Uncle Max back in Albany than he did John Lennon.

Pointing to a chair in front of his desk, Please, have a seat. You must be Annie. Rodger has told me so much about you. I don’t normally do interviews, so bear with me, if you don’t mind.

Neither he, the famous artist, nor she, the aspiring journalist knew it at the time, but the door she had just passed through would open and close for both many times over during the next several months.

Putting the thoughts of Uncle Max and John Lennon aside, she began.

Thank you so very much for the interview, Mr. Larkin.

Tapping his finger over his lips, Let’s try that once again, Annie, if you don’t mind, he laughed.

Oops, sorry... LG. Rosie told me, I forgot.

No problem, Annie, it happens a lot when people first meet me. I just like LG a lot better if that’s ok?

Of course, it was okay, she thought. He’s the person who was on the cover of TIME Magazine, not me. He can be called anything he wants. If everyone in New York, from the mayor to the downtown cabbies, called him LG. Why shouldn’t she?

Thanks again for the interview, I’ll try not to keep you.

Don't thank me, Annie. The person you need to thank is Rodger. He’s the one responsible for our meeting. He’s been my friend for over thirty years now and I trust his judgment implicitly. Says you’re his best student and are going to be an outstanding writer someday, so when he asked me, I could hardly say no, now could I? You don’t think he was fibbing me, do you?

I certainly hope not. She, her notepad, and sharpened pencil in hand, was ready to take notes.

Since I'm sort of new at this, Annie, where would you like to begin? he asked.

Well, first, thanks again for the interview. I know how valuable your time must be, I’ll try not to be too long.

Nonsense, take as long as you like. Ask anything you want and what’s most important, don’t get too overwhelmed or impressed with what you’ve seen so far. Trust me, Annie, it’s all for show.

Calling LG Larkin, a child prodigy would be an understatement. As early as ten years old, teachers, family and friends had all recognized his special gift. The beauty of what he could do was light years away from what others, of any age, could only dream of doing. In the matter of a few hours, LG, his pencils, chalk, or artist brushes in hand, would bring to life a young deer grazing in a pasture or an old man quietly smoking a corn cob pipe on a country farm porch, both to be frozen in time, both enjoyed for generations to come.

LG was quite unique from other child geniuses. While most prodigies are obsessed with hours on end of one repetitive behavior, he fit quite a different mold, still a little boy who loved his baseball and childhood games with his small friends. To them, he was just another one of the guys who could really smack the crap out of a baseball. His artwork was cool, but secondary to what really mattered, fun!

During his teenage years and even before high school graduation, over twenty noted art schools had already offered him full scholarships. He accepted and settled in at the prestigious New York School of Art. Year after year he excelled, receiving critical acclaim from teachers and art critics around the country.

Annie’s two or three weeks of research had only provided her with what most people already knew. Nothing of glaring interest or any hidden secrets stood out. Feeling a lot more comfortable in his presence and with all her softball questions answered, the rising young journalist had summoned enough courage to pry a little deeper into the private life of the man who rarely gave interviews.

Before continuing, Annie had noticed something she thought to be a little strange. Other than one large, framed sketch on the wall over his desk, it was odd that his office was void of any other artwork. Such a renowned artist displaying only one piece of artwork seemed slightly weird, to say the least. Why no paintings? And why just that piece? What relevance did it have, she thought. Should she even go there, of course she should, it was an interview after all.

Pointing at the sketch, she asked, Is that one of yours?

He turned towards the wall behind him. Why, yes, it is, Annie. It’s an enlarged copy of one of my first sketches. It wasn’t until several years later that I decided to also make it a painting.

Do you still have the painting? I’d like to see it.

Yes and no. It’s now hanging in the New York Museum of Art. I donated it to them years ago. To be honest with you Annie, of all my works, this sketch has the most meaning and is by far my favorite work.

Appreciating Annie’s genuine interest, he continued.

Like most visitors, I’m sure that in the back of your mind you’re wondering why I only have one piece of art hanging on the wall. Right?

Ah, well, yes. Since you put it that way. That’s exactly what I was wondering.

It’s ok, I get that a lot and I always give the same answer. I tell everyone it’s like having children. You can have a whole house full of kids and you’re supposed to love them all the same. Good in theory, but if we’re truthful to ourselves, you, and I both know there’s always that special little one who’s your favorite. Isn’t that right? Pointing to the sketch, he added, This is mine.

Nodding her head in agreement that the analogy made sense to her, she asked, What type of bird is that?

Pretty observant, Annie. Most people don’t ask that. It’s called a Northern Thrush, very common to the East coast.

Wanting more, if you don’t mind me asking, how long ago did you draw it?

I think I was twelve or so, maybe, not really sure.

Twelve? Are you telling me that you drew that sketch at the age of twelve? That is incredible!

Yeah, sometime around then, twelve or thirteen, maybe. He thought the question of little significance.

Boy, God sure blessed you with an amazing talent. she threw in an obvious compliment.

In one way or another, He blesses each of us, don’t you think? Sometimes, it just takes us a little longer to realize it. Some find it earlier than others, but if we’re patient, we all find it eventually, don’t we?

So true. How many pieces of artwork have you done?

Gee whiz, Annie, I’ve been painting and sketching for over forty years, he paused. Somewhere close to a thousand or so, I’m guessing.

Wow, that sure is a lot of artwork. How did you ever find the time?

He thought for a moment. It’s sort of like love, I guess. When you’re in love with someone or something, time becomes your friend, not your enemy, doesn’t it?

I guess it does. She agreed and changed the subject. Are you originally from New York?

No, I grew up in Maryland. Came here in the early sixties. Been here ever since. You?"

Albany, upstate girl.

After thirty minutes of the usual questions a young journalist student would ask, LG thought it time to take Annie’s writing skills to a new level. He rose and walked to a large picture window overlooking Fifth Avenue.

Come. Before you go, I’d like to show you something.  He motioned for her to join him by the window.

Annie immediately joined him, leaving her notepad and pencil on the desk.

Looking down from the fifteenth floor, he pointed to the street below.

Look, down there, Annie. That’s a whole big world going by every second, every hour. How many stories do you think it holds in a twenty-four-hour day?"

A sheepish shrug, she answered, Thousands, I guess. Why?

Of all those thousands, let’s see if we can find just one. Take another peek. Find one story down there and tell me what you see.

No idea where this was heading, she played along.

Take your time. He walked away.

Following his lead, she leaned forward, shielded her eyes from the morning sun and tried to locate something or someone of interest.

After a few seconds or so, she turned back.

So, tell me what you saw, he said.

The usual. A very crowded Fifth Avenue, lots of cars, lots of people walking about. Same ‘ole’ New York I see every day. I did catch a glimpse of an old lady getting into a cab, probably taking a trip somewhere, I guess. How’s that?

Not bad. Let’s give it another go.

Still a little confused, she agreed.

This may sound a little odd, Annie, but I want you to look again and tell me what you see. This time, close your eyes.

Close my eyes? That’s a little crazy, she thought. I know he’s famous, but that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, giving him a look of disbelief. How could she possibly see anything with her eyes closed?

Caught completely off guard, You want me to look with my eyes closed, I’m not sure I understand what you mean. I won’t be able to see anything.

Oh, I think you will, Annie, trust me! He paused. "This time, keeping your eyes closed, tell me a story. Find that little old lady in your mind again. Find that cab, where’s she going? Why’s she going? What’s happening? What’s going to happen? How’s your story begin? How’s