The Rockwell Piece: A Tale of the Arts Department

1961

Rockwell straightened on his stool with a slight squeak of the loose bolt, swiping a Crisco-tempered crumb from his white cotton shirt and grinning like the pie had been catfish and Wonder Bread from the Galilean shores. He consulted the Nehi clock above the flattop.

“Ah, well,” Rockwell sighed, with euphoric alacrity.

The gangly owner was at his elbow in a lickety second, spidery palms spread on the scarred formica before the diner, sweat and alarm condensing on his homely mug. “Something wrong with the pie, Sir? Danged Linda has a heavy hand with the cinnamon, told her over and ov—“

Rockwell raised a hand, now invoking a Mosaic silence. “You tell your Linda I have never had a finer slice of apple pie in my long and misbegotten life. You tell her she’s doing the Lord’s work. And here’s a little donation for the plate…”

“No, sir,” the owner stated resolutely. “It’s an honor just having you grace my counter. I seen your work, and I just have to say it’s you serving the glory of God.”

Rockwell deposited two quarters next to his squeaky plate. “For Linda, then. Your name, sir?”

“Bill,” the horsey man stammered.

“Bill, I’ve traveled the width and breadth of this nation, met the real Americans, the God-fearing folk in towns like yours who keep the light of faith and honor alive. And might I say, I don’t know I’ve ever seen a community that exemplifies the principles and values of our great land like Spring Prairie.” Rockwell nodded toward the sacred wording of the sign posted at the entrance, black on once-white in solid extra-bold, 150-point san serif letters. “This, my friend, is America, and it inspires me. Good day, now, and you give your Linda my love.”

It was waiting for Bill the next dawn – wrapped in the sports section of yesterday’s Carbondale paper, in a cheap pine frame from the general store down the block – best the artist likely could do on such short notice. The only paint in town was at Foster’s Hardware two doors down, and spread a bit thick for landscapes or fruit bowls, but the sketch was perfect, down to Foster sweeping his sidewalk and the old farmers on the bench in front of the corn elevator and the sign that had greeted Bill and his pop’s and his pop’s customers for nearly 80 years.

Bill almost missed the signed note scrawled in the white space of an appliance ad. “There must be no place for parasites who draw their sustenance from society without giving anything in return.”

2024

“Tom, you sure you couldn’t use a driving buddy?” Assistant Professor Cooper implored as the pair entered the cavernous faculty parking garage. “I got nothing going on for the next couple of days.”

Professor Thomas Skillruud, Fine Arts, specialty American Realism, pivoted toward the towering young sculptor. “You think I can’t function among the masses. You forget that mob scene at the American Primitivism Symposium last month. Who knew the animal rights folk could be so, so…immobile? But I still landed my presentation on natural pigments without a glitch.”

“And then we had to search every inch of McCormick Place after you decided you had to have a cranberry scone,” Ethan noted. “Look, Tom, I tried to find this Spring Prairie online, and I came up with zip. If you can’t find it, you should probably shouldn’t go there, especially in Southern Illinois, especially during hunting season. You could wind up disjointed in somebody’s garage freezer.”

Tom aimed his Lexus fob into the gloom, and elicited a hearty double beep from the deck above. He turned from his colleague and strode briskly down the ramp.

“Tom,” Ethan called diplomatically, “This way.”

**

“We got pie,” the lanky redhead informed Tom with a mouth-only smile he’d concluded to be a regional folkway. Along, seemingly, with a poor grasp of geography. The GPS and OnStar had thrice been completely confounded by local directions, and once nearly delivered him into something Professor Skillruud could only describe as a new state of matter existing somewhere between lake and post-apocalyptic wasteland.

Fortuitously, the Illinois atlas his auto carrier had given him as sort of quaint jest was still in the spare tire well, and soon he was back on the county roads and eventually found his way to a cracked vinyl booth in Spring Prairie proper.

He wondered if the sheer lack of interstate infrastructure had simply proven economically inviable for the scone people. “You know,” Tom murmured. “I haven’t had lingonberry—“

“Apple pie,” the owner amended.

“Rustle me a slice, then,” Tom grinned jovially. He glanced down at the seemingly vintage line drawing at the bottom of the laminated menu and then out the diner’s plate glass window. “Interesting artwork. Is this the town?” 

The owner seemed to tense at some subdermal level. “As it was in 1963, the year Oswald got shot. We had a string of bad luck that year. Summer flood, then a tornado touched down right in the middle of the business district. Had to totally rebuild. Luckily, we’re a pitch-in sort of community.” The redhead tapped the menu. “Fella did this picture said we inspired him, that we were America. Guess he musta inspired us, too.”

It took a second. “Was this, by any chance, Rockwell?”

Now, the owner stepped back, and analyzed the stranger with one raised brow. “That why you’re here? Mr. Rockwell?”

Tom weighed some sort of contrivance, but the unearthing of a lost Normal Rockwell (if on first blush a lesser one) seemed the only reason one might set a course for Spring Prairie. “You’ve got me, I suppose. Is this a reproduction of the original?”

The redhead frowned. “You a lawyer? Mr. Rockwell did this specifically for us – we kept the note, just in case one of you people came around. We figure it’s our right to put it on the menu and stuff.”

“No, no,” Tom assured the owner. “Do you know an Anita Renssellear?”

“I know Renssellears. Tractor dealer. His girl, right? Went off to college. How you know her?”

“Ms. Rensselear – well, her boyfriend -- told me about the Rockwell. Said there’s a museum to the great man here in town. In my view, Rockwell was the epitome of modern American values and sensibilities.”

The owner used context clues to summon a broad, genuine grin. “A great man indeed. He sat right over there, at the counter – my grandpa gave him a piece of that same apple pie you’re about to enjoy, and story is, Mr. Rockwell went right back to his motel and did the drawing you see right there. Well, we had to change a few things for the public, you know?”

And he winked. Tom winked back. When with Romans…

**

The mayor came calling the next morning. Mayor Linda. She insisted.

“William tells me you’d like to see the Rockwell,” the ancient but hearty-looking Clairol brunette smiled in that folksy Southern Illinois manner Tom had come to appreciate over pie and an unusually interrogatory motel check-in. “Let’s get us some of William’s famous biscuits and gravy.”

“I’m usually a toast-and-grapefruit sort,” Tom informed Mayor Linda, loafer wedged against the inside of the Room 5 door, tugging his pants up with one hand. “But if they’re famous…”

“Settled. I can drive, or you wanna follow?”

“The latter, please.” Professor Skillruud pushed the beaten green door shut and worked the tagged key until something clicked and his effects were secured.

**

“You sure about this?” the Rockwell expert rumbled. Ethan knew he’d be suspicious hearing from Frank Cooper’s gay professor kid after nearly 10 years, but the guy’d always put the prospect of a big score ahead of old grudges and bigotries, even the dogma that had made him one of Nebraska’s wealthiest online underground dealers.

“Positive. Would’ve been maybe the early ‘60s. Ever heard of a place called Prairie Springs, Illinois?”

The line hissed for a second. “Hah. Weird. I got a regular customer there. Sounds like a little turd of a town.”

“Actually, your kind of place, I suspect,” Ethan said. “You ever sold any Rockwell?”

“Few letters, autographed copies of some of his publications,” the Rockwell aficionado said. “Pop bid on a corncob pipe he left behind at some California college, but it got too rich for his blood. So, this guy’s name, dude with the painting…”

“Sketch.”

“The fuck ever. His name by any chance Bill?”

“You keep sales records?” Associate Professor Cooper mused.

“Strictly off book. But the numbfuck’s shipping address is a Bill’s Diner in, guess where? Turdtown. What in hell’s your angle here? Cause they may be my customers, but these are some crazy fucks that make other crazy fucks look sane.”

“Just the kind of fucks, er, folks I need,” Ethan assured him, glancing at the knee-high corn across the road and the homemade campaign billboard in its midst sporting a poorly painted orange man who looked like a rejected Jeff Dunham prop.

**

“The biscuits and gravy must be five-star,” Tom remarked as Mayor Linda jangled the Bill’s Café bell. The counter was full, and only a single back booth with a “Reserved” sign was available. Her Honor nudged past a 50/50 clot of scarecrow-scrawny and belt-busting fellows with a cumulative collection of tattooed glyphs and icons largely undecipherable to the professor. The group stared at the Amazonian mayor and the middle-aged academic with predatory curiosity, and Tom tipped his head warily as he skirted the throng. The mayor seemed as at-sea as Professor Skillruud.

“They’re not that great,” she grunted, scanning the room. “William!”

The harried restaurateur deposited two platters of drowned biscuits and sausage before what resembled a biker movie extra and an incongruous companion in a short-sleeved white nylon shirt and tie. Tom decided at that instant on multi-grain toast and poached eggs, if such a thing existed here.

“The hell’s this?” Spring Prairie’s elder stateswoman demanded quietly, scanning the motley roomful.

“Dunno,” William stammered. “They were here when I opened up, and they just been hanging around for hours. I’m kinda scared to ask ‘em to leave.”

“No, don’t raise suspicion.”

“Suspicion—?“ Tom began.

“William, I’ve talked to the professor here, and I think he’s our kind of folks,” the mayor whispered, breaking into a smile Tom actually found more disconcerting than Mayor Linda’s standard Easter Island visage. “Tom, you’d describe yourself as a patriotic fella, right?”

The professor smiled uncertainly. “Sure?”

“And you are a Christian?”

“Episcopalian.” Mayor Linda’s equine grin faltered. “I mean, yes, Christian, of course. Why is that--?”

She turned to William. “He drove all the way down here by himself to see the Rockwell, and I think anybody with that kind of dedication deserves a showing. Don’t you?”

By himself, Tom pondered.

“Sure thing,” William finally responded. “Professor, want some coffee or biscuits before the museum tour?”

“Ah, thank you, no,” said Tom, who was still feeling yesterday’s cup. “We’re going right now?”

“Professor Skillruud,” Mayor Linda declared, “you’re there.”

**

The dining room fell silent as Mayor Linda escorted Tom around the counter, then the morning crowd erupted into disgruntled outrage.

“Nobody said nothin’ about any advance viewings,” a sasquatch in a red cap and Gadsden-flagged yellow tee squeaked, rising from the front booth. “What’s he, some dealer or somethin’?”

Mayor Linda peered across the room. “The hell you talking about? Professor? This way.”

“Ain’t right,” Bigfoot MAGA sulked, sinking back onto the bench.

“Hold up,” Tom said as she led him through the kitchen to a red door labeled “Private.” “What did that man mean? You haven’t told anyone else about the Rockwell, have you?”

“Probably a drunk goose hunter,” the mayor dismissed, unlocking the door and pulling a tarnished gold chain just within. “You’re the only one we’ve told, ‘less the Rennsellear girl put it out on the Facebook or whatever. Careful, now – you look a little wobbly.”

Tom could not argue that, but the thought of his name in tight serif print in American Art Journal propelled him down precariously groaning wooden steps. At the base, Mayor Linda slapped at the concrete wall in search of a switch, and a bank of fluorescents flickered randomly on. The cellar was essentially bare, save two framed pieces on the opposite wall and a shadowed curtain that flapped at Tom’s now damp back.

Mayor Linda extended an arm, and Tom ventured toward The Rockwell. A single overhead sconce illuminated the sketch, and he held his breath as he studied the town portrait in its exquisite detail.

Professor Skillruud’s trained eye honed in on several elements that had been altered for its commercialization. He unfolded his reading glasses to study a scribbling on a placard affixed to the front door of a once-spiffy Bill’s Café.

“No Coloreds, Jews, Catholics, or Salesmen,” Tom recited as ice crystals formed in his already-delicate gut.

“Say amen,” Mayor Linda declared. The professor turned slowly toward her, only to spot the wall-sized “curtain” behind her. The rakishly tilted black cross, resplendent on a scarlet field, looked like its legs had been broken to accommodate the musty space.

“Mother of God--!” Tom began, before the door at the top of the stairs burst open, and he heard what sounded like the Pamplona Bull-Capades. William protested weakly above the clatter, and a breakfast service of rednecks and outliers spilled into the spartan gallery.

“What the hell’s the deal?” the largest and stupidest-looking and thus the presumed leader bellowed. “I deadheaded ’cross four states to get here, and this asshole gets a jump on shit?”

It took Tom a second. “I have absolutely no idea—“

“Auction means auction,” a compact man in a Stetson proclaimed with the rectitude of Patrick Henry channeling Gloria Allred.

“Auction?!” Mayor Linda yelped. “Just what in the fudge is goin’ on here?”

Compact Cowboy waved a battered smartphone. “The fuckin’ Rockwell piece.”

A ruffled William appeared at the rail above, shaking a bony finger at the far wall. “Some asshole texted half the collectors in the Midwest!” he panted. “Said we were havin’ some kind of auction at 9 sharp. Said we were sellin’ the Rockwell to the highest bidder. With the autograph.”

Tom had had no idea Norman Rockwell drew such a, well, eclectic following. He then tore his eyes from the flag draping the stairway wall. The frame next to the Rockwell sketch contained a vintage refrigerator ad with a signed missive. It was all wrong, Professor Skillruud realized immediately.

“Gentlemen,” Tom quavered. “I think we’ve all been misled. This isn’t a Rockwell. Beyond the style issues and the amateurish strokes and shading, this is patently not Rockwell’s signature…”

“Amateurish!” Don’t Tread on Sasquatch hollered. “What kind of woke pussy horseshit is this? How’d this (Tom failed to recognize the term) get in here?”

A huge man in shades and a hoodie from the Ted Kaczynski Collection stepped forward. “I seen this shit before! Bitch is tryin’ to get the bidding up.” A meaty paw grabbed Tom by the shirtfront. “Lemme show this commie the door, and we can get down to business.”

“There is no business!” Mayor Linda wailed as her guest was propelled up the wooden stairs, nearly knocking William over the rail.

“I’m an academic!” Tom sputtered as he was dragged through the now-vacant diner and out onto the slotted tarmac beyond.

“Tom,” Ethan sighed as he flipped his hood back and signaled to the Camry at the opposite curb. “We gotta work on your alpha swagger.”

**

“The other one,” Ethan chided gently as they hit 51 north.

“What?” Tom murmured, draining the strawberry YooHoo his colleague had provided. Professor Aboud, art history, trailed in Tom’s recovered Lexus.

“Wrong Rockwell. I don’t know what this Rennsellear woman or her boyfriend were up to…”

“I’m happy now I failed him,” Professor Skillruud sulked.

“Or maybe we do know. George Lincoln Rockwell took a brief pass at art, but certainly not inspired by the esteemed Norman. He’d been cut loose by the military for his rabid antisemitism and racism, and he attended Brooklyn’s esteemed Pratt Institute of Art. Chose a different path, though – started the American Nazi Party, and you can see, it went over big. George called Hitler ‘the white savior of the Twentieth Century,’ which is probably why the Saturday Evening Post opted for the other guy.

“Haven’t you heard nothing good ever happens after midnight, or in Southern Illinois without an armed escort? Which of course I didn’t have. But I know a guy who knows quite a few Nazis. Well, Nazi fanboys. Nobody more incompetently better to cover an extraction operation. Let me show you something.” He handed his iPhone to a YooHoo-sedated Tom.

“When the rising emperor of U.S. white supremacy graced this forgotten hole in the road, it struck a permanent chord of pride and, indeed, reverence, among the town folk. So when a flood and a tornado ravaged nearly all of Prairie Springs with the exception of the diner the Great Rockwell’d enshrined, it was as a sign. We checked, and Prairie Springs is outside most commercial flight paths. But the town fathers did not anticipate Google Earth. Which I used to find the god-forsaken place, and which told me maybe you could use a road buddy.

“It’s not a standard municipal layout. No town square or circle. Town hall in the dead center of everything, with four main streets like spokes around it. And the houses – instead of being spread all over the landscape, they’re concentrated on four dead-end streets that turn to the right off each of the main arteries. Look familiar?”

Tom gawped at the aerial shot and the iconic symbol Prairie Spring had erected in the wake of destruction. He waggled his depleted Yoo-Hoo. “You have another of these?”