“You were right,” Susan said. “The view’s great from the other side of the road.”

Jimmy Duncan watched her approach, the sun behind her and the wind riffling her hair. She fiddled with her camera a moment, then plopped down beside him on the grassy hillside. To their left, loomed a wall of black forest; jungle birds screamed and chattered in the trees. To the right, beyond the rented Jeep, a line of ragged mountains marched away into the blue distance.

“How do you know this place?” she asked. “You never said anything about all this.”

“I don’t know the whole country. Just this area.”

She grinned. “And I thought you’d told me all your secrets.”

When he didn’t reply, Susan’s voice turned soft. “This has something to do with the accident, doesn’t it?”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because I know you. The look on your face.”

Jimmy sighed. “That was a long time ago.”

“So?”

“Besides”—he plucked a blade of grass, examined it, twirled it between a thumb and forefinger before the wind took it—“I’m not even sure you’d call it an accident.”

“What would you call it?”

…

“A miracle,” the cop said.

Jimmy turned his head toward the voice. Not his eyes, just his head. His eyes were bandaged tight. “What’d you say?”

“I said it was a miracle. That car of yours was squashed so flat we thought you was too. You’re one lucky fool.”

Jimmy groaned. He didn’t feel lucky. He felt blind, and nauseated, and achy. From somewhere down the hall, he heard the sad rattle of a cart as patients were brought their lunch trays.

“The other driver?” Jimmy asked.

“Not even a bruise. Them 18-wheelers are built like tanks.” Jimmy heard a rasping sound, and realized the cop was scratching his chin. “Want some advice, kid? That truck’s company owns a thousand stores, and we got three witnesses say it ran the light. Sue ’em, settle for a couple million, and move to Hawaii. Beaches, sunsets, girls in grass skirts.”

“What if you can’t see them?” Jimmy asked.

“Yeah, well, that could be a problem.” The cop cleared his throat. “Catch you later.”

Which was a lie. The cop didn’t return. The doctor, however, did. Along with a parade of nurses and orderlies and even a few lawyers. But no friends, and no family. Jimmy didn’t have any of those.

He didn’t even have a home. For the past two months, since the layoff from the warehouse in East Texas, he’d been on the road. Footloose, but not fancy-free. His savings were gone now. He’d hoped to sell some of his paintings, but that notion had suffered the same fate as most of his other ideas. In San Francisco he’d heard about an art colony near Vancouver and headed north. Why not? He’d never seen Canada. Then, in Oregon, a truck had failed to stop for a red light. What had stopped was his tour of the Northwest.

Broke, alone, homeless, blind. Even his artwork was gone, destroyed in the crash. He didn’t know what hospital he was in, or who was paying for his treatment. Uncle Sam, probably.

He almost wished he hadn’t been thrown clear, wished he’d been squashed as flat as his 10-year-old Civic. Easier for everybody.

But life went on.

As if proving that, Jimmy soon learned to ID the hospital staff from their voices. He had little choice; his hearing was one of the few senses he had left. He wondered if he’d ever see anything again.

“Pressure on the optic nerve, plus a scratched cornea,” the doc said. “A specialist is coming in. We’ll know more then.”

Three specialists and two surgeries later, Jimmy was told he would regain his sight. Two months from now, maybe less.

His body was another matter. Multiple head and back injuries, partial paralysis. He could move his neck and his left arm, but only slightly. Otherwise, zip. Each day he was lifted into a wheelchair beside his bed, and each day he wondered why the wheelchair. Did they think he was going someplace? He was left to sit there a couple hours, and then they swung him back into his bed, like a sack of feed. Day after day.

And then he met Maria. She came one morning like a fuzzy dream while he was in the chair and whispered in his ear. He turned his head in the direction of her voice. Many people had spoken to him during his stay, but this was the first whisper. It had a Spanish accent.

“The weendow,” she said. “You must make it to the weendow.” And squeezed his hand. Then she was gone.

A nurse told him later who the woman was. Maria Renaldo, from the fifth floor. A small lady, mid-80s. She loved to talk with patients. No one knew whether her goodwill visits accomplished much, but since she was harmless the hospital allowed her free access.

Fiction: The Outside World The Saturday Evening Post

These are my favorite windows applications.

By the Fire – Walter Humphrey

By The Fire
Walter Humphrey
January 27, 1934

This was the last of seven Post covers by artist Walter Humphrey from 1921 through 1934. Although he was known for his beautiful paintings of the colonial era, his Post illustrations show more modern topics, such as his 1923 covers of a boy practicing his putting and a young lady speeding in her roadster. This cozy cover of man and best friend by the fire makes me want to build a fire and veg out.

Snowy Night – E.M. Jackson

Snowy Night
E.M. Jackson
January 5, 1929

This lady is also warming herself by the fire while the weather outside is frightful. Her lovely fringed shawl is a treat. Artist E.M. Jackson did nearly fifty-eight covers for the Post and Country Gentleman, often with an architectural feature such as this beautiful window. There was a reason for that: the artist graduated from Georgia Tech with a degree in architecture.

Rain and Melting Snow – George Hughes

Rain and Melting Snow
George Hughes
January 31, 1959

The people looking out this window regret that it is NOT snowing. Instead of the ten-inch base with an anticipated two inches of new powder, the thermometer took a turn for the warmer, melting the snow instead of adding to it. Artist George Hughes was a big name in Saturday Evening Post covers, doing 115 great ones. If you’re into skiing history, another big name was Austrian skier, Sig Buchmayr. He’s the dark-haired man in the red sweater among the would-be skiers here.

Birdtalk – Gyo Fujikawa

Birdtalk
Gyo Fujikawa
January 6, 1962

Is the budgie in the cage longing to be out or is the wren out in the winter weather thinking that cozy cage looks good? Well, the grass is always greener…even if it is covered with snow. In spite of her Japanese name, Gyo Fujikawa (1908-1998) was an American artist well known for children’s book illustrations and one lovely Saturday Evening Post cover. Another claim to fame: she was the artist behind the adorable round-faced Eskimo child on Eskimo Pies (which sounds darn good right now, even if it is cold outside). When this cover ran in 1962, Post editors noted that the original had been stolen. I haven’t been able to find out if it was ever recovered, so if anyone out there knows, e-mail me! (d.denny@satevepost.org). And yes, reprints are available at www.curtispublishing.com.

Snow Birds – Charles A. MacLellan

Snow Birds
Charles A. MacLellan
March 6, 1926

In spite of the fact that artist Charles A. MacLellan did over fifty colorful covers for The Saturday Evening Post between 1912 and 1936, I can find virtually no information on him. Until someone kindly enlightens me about this artist, I’ll just enjoy covers like this pretty lady making sure the snow birds have enough to eat. If you have a question on a Post cover, drop me an e-mail or comment below.

Classic Covers: A Window on Winter The Saturday Evening Post