I’ve told this story before, but now that I’m officially ancient, that’s what ancients do, so here goes. I also think it bears repeating because it is a great example of what true friendship really is. Or perhaps isn’t.

Some years ago, two or our dearest friends wanted to come to Maine for a visit. It’s amazing how popular one becomes when one moves to Maine. Lots of long lost friends think it’s a great idea to come on up to say ‘Hi!’ and stay a while. I don’t blame them; Maine does have that sort of pull. Anyway, these pals wanted to come up from Virginia, and we agreed because we like them very much. I’ll call them Dot and Norb because those are their names.

We decided that one day during their visit, we’d head to Camden for all Camden has to offer, and we found a great and well-known restaurant for lunch and managed to snag a table. As we ruminated over the menu, Dot looked up and suddenly said, “Hey, isn’t that Andrew Wyeth walking through?” I looked up and for sure, there he was, the great, great artist, walking to a table just like any plain old unfamous mortal would. He was not with wife Betsy but with Helga, his close friend and subject of over two hundred and sixty paintings no one knew about, even Betsy. Wow! Helga didn’t quite look like the paintings of her from way back, but then I don’t much look like how I looked even two years ago. That however is another story and one I prefer to ignore.

As Mr. Wyeth slowly strolled to his table with Helga, my pal Dot began to leap to her feet saying, “I’m gonna get his autograph!” I got a death grip on her shoulder, shoved her back into her chair and said “No, you are NOT. Leave the man in peace. We Mainers (I’m not officially a Mainer, but whatever) do not annoy famous people who come here or live here. Leave him be, Dot!” My pal slumped back into her chair, melting into a major sulk. I felt triumphant and was pleased I’d been able to do a favor for one of my favorite artists since, well since he got very famous.

We sat and ate and chatted and finally Dot came out of her petulance and was her enjoyable self again. I eventually said what I’m saying a lot more often lately, “Hey, I gotta go to the loo. I’ll be right back. Guard my purse,” and off I went. Innocently, not even considering the upcoming, lurking betrayal.

I did what I had to do and walked back to my table. Dot’s chair was empty. With my blood slowly turning cold I turned and looked across the dining area toward the Helga/Andrew table. There she was. Dot. Dorothy. Dothy. My (former) closest and dearest friend. Was she standing at the Wyeth lunch table? No. She was sitting at it, right between Andrew and his very good friend, Helga. And the part that was the hardest to bear, Andrew Wyeth was actually holding Dot’s hand. Holding her hand! In one of the hands that held his egg tempura for his paintings. Or maybe it was his other hand that held the dry brush, but nonetheless, my double-crossing, now ex pal Dot was clutching Andrew Wyeth’s hand and what was worse, he was clutching hers, and what was even worse, he was grinning. So was Helga. I was not.

Now it was my turn to slump into my chair and sulk. How could she do that? Dot finally sauntered back to our table waving a scrap of paper, not only with Mr. Wyeth’s signature but a few words of kindness, too. I said, as icily as I could manage, “So — where did you find paper and pen?” Dot answered with utmost cheerfulness, “Oh, you were gone so I took it from your purse.” My mouth went dry and I flashed to Jack the
Ripper. I said “Aha.” But I said it meaningfully.

As we later walked to our car, she told me she’d approached his table, apologized for bothering them, said she was a hick from Oklahoma (she actually is) and they’d had a wonderful and warm chat. Wyeth had invited her to sit with them, and she’d had the gall to actually do it.

How much can actually happen during a short visit to the lady’s? Apparently lots. I saw Wyeth’s van outside the restaurant I knew was his from the stacks of canvases in the back, so bent down and got a stone out from under his tire. As we so-called friends strolled around Camden, later on Wyeth drove by, Helga at the wheel, I waved maniacally and he waved back, but not at me, of course.

So Dot gets the Wyeth autograph and warm personal note on my paper with my pen. I get a small rock. Well, I’ve been ever so cordial and sweet to my old (ex) pal Dot in subsequent years, but she will never know the dark, dark thoughts I harbor in my heart for my old former friend, Dot Iscariot.

LC Van Savage is a Brunswick writer.